Caleb heard the mutterings, too, but he already knew what was going on. He had known since the back of his neck had tightened in an age-old warning of danger and he had spun around to see trouble closing in on his friends. If Eddy had been well, Caleb simply would have walked over to act as an unofficial referee, ensuring that the kid’s friends didn’t interfere with whatever happened between the old lawman and the young outlaw.

But Eddy wasn’t well. He was injured and Johnny Slater knew it. Eddy knew it, too. He had a choice — he could let Rose be insulted or he could try to draw his pistol with his injured right hand. He might attempt a left-handed draw, even though the gun butt was facing the wrong way. No matter which hand, he quite likely would die before the gun barrel cleared the holster.

«No!» Rose said urgently. She stepped in front of Eddy, turning her back on the young tough who had insulted her. «You can’t even hold a fork, much less a gun!»

Before Rose finished speaking, Caleb’s big hand closed on Johnny Slater’s shoulder, spinning him around.

«You’ve got a bad mouth, kid. Folks around Denver are tired of listening to it. Now you can apologize to Mrs. Sorenson and drag your freight out of town or you can go for one of those fancy guns you’re wearing.»

Surprise turned to dismay when Johnny measured the dark promise in Caleb’s eyes. It was one thing to yell across twenty feet of crowded room at an injured man who could barely draw a gun. It was another to face a man belt buckle to belt buckle, a man who was neither injured nor afraid, a man who didn’t give a damn about Kid Slater’s reputation as a gunman with a fast draw and a vicious older brother to back him up.