“Yeah?”

“Jake Redman?”

“So?”

“I’m Barlow, Tom Barlow.” He wiped his palms on his thighs. “They call me Slim.”

The way he said it, Jake was sure the kid expected the name to be recognized…shuddered over. He decided the whiskey wasn’t good enough for a third drink. He dropped some money on the bar, making sure his hands were well clear of his guns.

“There a place where a man can get a steak in this town?” Jake asked the bartender.

“Down to Grody’s.” The man moved cautiously out of range. “We don’t want any trouble in here.” Jake gave him a long, cool look. “I’m not giving you any.”

“I’m talking to you, Redman.” Barlow spread his legs and let his hand hover over the butt of his gun. A mean-looking scar ran across the back of his hand from his index finger to his wrist. He wore his holster high, a single rig with the leather worn smooth at the buckle. It paid to notice details.

Easy, moving no more than was necessary, Jake met his eyes. “Something you want to say?”

“You got a reputation for being fast. Heard you took out Freemont in Tombstone.”

Jake turned fully. As he moved, the swinging door flew back. At least one of the saloon’s customers had decided to move to safer ground. The kid was packing a.44 Colt, its black rubber grip well tended. Jake didn’t doubt there were notches in it. Barlow looked like the type who would take pride in killing.

“You heard right.”

Barlow’s fingers curled and uncurled. Two men playing poker in the corner let their hands lie to watch and made a companionable bet on the higher-stakes game in front of them. “I’m faster. Faster than Freemont. Faster than you. I run this town.”

Jake glanced around the saloon, then back into Barlow’s dark, edgy eyes. “Congratulations.” He would have walked away, but Barlow shifted to block him. The move had Jake narrowing his eyes. The look came into them, the hard, flat look that made a smart man give way. “Cut your teeth on somebody else. I want a steak and a bed.”