Travers finally released Cal, but the blond man didn’t stand up right away. Travers grabbed the purple napkin from the silver tray, and used it to wipe his hands clean before dropping it on Cal’s head.

“You should get cleaned up,” he murmured, staring at the bleeding man with flat, passionless eyes. “I expect Mr. Houndstooth will be waiting for you. Oh, and Calhoun?” He waited for Cal to straighten and look at him before continuing. “Not a word to Houndstooth.” He pulled a linen handkerchief from his back pocket with a flourish. He used it to pick up the piece of Cal’s ear that still lay on the windowsill; then, he wrapped the ear up with quick, delicate motions, and dropped it into his breast pocket.

Cal’s eyes were locked on the pocket that had half of his ear in it. “Yes, Mr. Travers, sir.”

“Very good.” Travers turned and left the room without another word. Cal stared after him, clutching the purple napkin to what was left of his ear. After a minute or two, he swore under his breath. He left the room, still pressing the napkin to the side of his face. Houndstooth was waiting for him.

Chapter 6

THE HARRIET INN was the only bar in the slim mile between the Gate and the Gulf with its own pond. All the hoppers that came through town stopped there sooner or later to enjoy the excellent service and the brutal atmosphere. The darts were sharp and the drinks were strong. Cal and Houndstooth arrived together, and, without speaking to each other, they spread themselves out at a low, scarred table. They ordered the first round, and several mugs of beer arrived well before anyone else did.

Houndstooth lit a long, slim, black cigar, and blew a stream of smoke at Cal, who chewed his toothpick as though it had wronged him.

“So,” Houndstooth said. “You quit?”

“I got all the smoke I needed ten years ago.” Cal smiled around his toothpick. The smile did not extend beyond the corners of his lips.

Houndstooth ashed his cigar directly onto the tabletop. He stayed at the Harriet Inn as frequently as any other hopper, but he felt no affection for the place. It was only ten years old, and it still smelled to him of smoke and burning hops. It rested on the grave of his old ranch: Travers had used the land to build the Harriet Inn, so that anyone too drunk to get home from the Harriet had a place to lose the remainder of their money.

“You know,” Cal said in a conversational tone, “if I didn’t need the money to pay off Travers, I’d just as soon kill you.”