The place stank of whiskey, sweat and smoke. But Jake figured he didn’t smell too pretty himself. He’d ridden hard from New Mexico, and he would have ridden straight through to Lone Bluff except he’d wanted to rest his horse and fill his own stomach with something other than the jerky in his saddlebags. Saloons always looked better at night, and this one was no exception. Its bar was grimy from hundreds of hands and elbows, dulled by spilled drinks, scarred by match tips The floor was nothing but hard-packed dirt that had absorbed its share of whiskey and blood. He’d been in worse, Jake reflected, wondering if he should allow himself the luxury of rolling a cigarette now or wait until after a meal.

He could buy more tobacco if he had a yearning for another. There was a month’s pay in his pocket. And he’d be damned if he’d ever ride cattle again. That was a life for the young and stupid-or maybe just the stupid.

When his money ran low he could always take a job riding shotgun on the stage through Indian country. The line was always looking for a man who was handy with a gun, and it was better than riding at the back end of a steer. It was the middle of 1875 and the easterners were still coming-looking for gold and land, following dreams. Some of them stopped in the Arizona Territory on their way to California because they ran out of money or energy or time.

Their hard luck, Jake thought as he downed his second whiskey. He’d been born here, and he still didn’t figure it was the most hospitable place on the map. It was hot and hard and stingy. It suited him just fine. “Redman?”

Jake lifted his eyes to the dingy glass behind the bar. He saw the man behind him. Young, wiry and edgy. His brown hat was tipped down low over his eyes, and sweat glistened on his neck. Jake nearly sighed. He knew the type too well. The kind that went out of his way looking for trouble. The kind that didn’t know that if you hung around long enough it found you, anyway.