For some time after Tyler Cabe left, Janice Dirker found herself thinking about him. About how he carried himself, the way he spoke, that unflappable honesty that was the earmark, it seemed, of who and what he was. She found herself thinking about these things and knowing that he excited her. Excited some part of her that had lain long dormant like a volcano just biding its time until it would erupt.
Tyler Cabe was a free-spirit.
He seemed to be entirely unconventional. Had no true respect for money or position, for authority or cultural values. He lived as he chose, said what he pleased to whom he pleased. He was a rogue element. Seemed to have more in common with the red man than the white. Maybe this is what excited her. He was so different than the other men she’d known. Now, her husband Jackson, was completely the opposite. He had bearing, had station, had unshakable confidence. But he was stiff and unyielding and emotions seemed to be a foreign thing to him. Mere malfunctions of character, rather than compliments to it. For though Jackson was a good man who invariably did the right thing at the right time, he was cold. Terribly cold and methodical.
And Tyler Cabe?
Anything but. He was tough and trail-weary, had ridden the backside of society for far too long. He was surely lacking in refinement or social graces, but what he lacked there he surely made up in warmth and humanity. He was warm and friendly and wore his emotions proudly. He had depth and sincerity and compassion. He was everything Jackson wasn’t and was not afraid to be so. Her father would have despised him. And although Jackson was a Yankee, he was exactly the sort of man her father would have paired her with-a man of dignity, resolve, and bearing. His idea of what a man should be. And Cabe? Her father would have instantly dismissed him as “hill-trash”.
Cabe, however, was not the most outwardly handsome of men.
He was tall and lanky, powerful without being manifestly muscular. His face was weathered from hard-living and hard riding, set with draws and hollows, lined by experience. Then there were those scars across his face. He would have been a menacing character had it not been for those beautifully sad green eyes that offset the rest and gave him a pained, melancholy look.
There was no doubt in Janice’s mind that she was attracted to him.
Maybe it was the hotel and the staff and daily drudgery of keeping things running. Jackson was part of that, she supposed. Just another reminder of toil and unhappiness…and perhaps all these things combined is what made Tyler Cabe seem so fresh, so exciting. For he was, if anything, the image of a pirate from her teenage fantasies-a scoundrel, a libertine, a wolf in a world of sheep and dogs.
These were the things Janice mulled over that windy evening when the giant came through the door.
Maybe giant wasn’t entirely applicable, but there was no getting around the fact that her visitor was closer to seven-feet than six. He was dressed in a shaggy buffalo coat that was just as ragged and worn as the hide of a mangy grizzly. Crossed bandoleers of brass cartridges were belted over his chest. A big Colt Dragoon pistol hung at the crotch of his fringed deerskin pants. His face was hard, his eyes like unblinking iron, a steel gray beard hung down to his chest.
Janice felt her insides go to jelly. She begin to quiver at the sight of him. “May…may I help you?” she managed.
He stepped forward, casting a shadow over her. His belts were set with knives and pistols. He took off his hat and his head was just as bald as wind-polished stone. He tapped the ledger with the barrel of a shotgun.
“Surely,” he said. “And evenin’ to ye, ma’am. Name’s Clay, Elijah Clay. I’m a lookin’ fer the squeeze of shit what killed m’ boy.”
Janice just stared dumbly.
He looked around, nodded. “Ye happen to know the whereabouts of some Arkansas trash name of Tyler Cabe? I’m gunnin’ fer this yellow-livered, dog-rapin’, greasy squirt of hogfuck and I don’t plan on leavin’ till I get him.”
Janice wanted to lie, but deception was not among her natural rhythms. And this man…well, you didn’t dare lie to him. “He’s not in, I’m afraid. He…he just left about a half-hour ago. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”
“Didn’t, eh?” Clay sighed and shook his head. “That’s probably fer the best, I reckon. Ye got yerself a fine place here, ma’am. Just fine. And with all due respects to ye and yer fine establishment, I wouldn’t want to a-dirty it up none with the likes of Tyler Cabe and spill that goatpiss he calls blood here, there, and everywheres. When I git him and I surely will git him, I’ll take that drip of shit outside and carve him like a rutting buck. Use his goddamn ball sack fer a tobaccy pouch. Yes, sir.”
Janice was speechless.
“Ye figure ye can tell him I stopped by, ma’am?” Clay said, oddly cordial for a monster. “Tell him I been here and I’ll be back and have no earthly intention of leaving until his scalp’s a-dangling from m’ belt.” Clay slapped the sodbuster hat back on his head, turned and made for the door. Hand on the brass knob, he paused and touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”
And then he was gone.