Thirteen
Tyler, Diller, and McNalley took seats in the empty saloon on four rough-hewn oak chairs surrounding a round pine table. Hank went to the bar. He returned with a whiskey bottle and four glasses on a serving tray. He poured them each a shot and set the bottle on the table.
The chief constable had pulled his own mug of beer from the tap behind the bar before he took his seat. He sat, sipping the beer, his dark eyes angry, calling for murder over the rim of the foam-topped glass.
Tyler noted the ‘closed’ sign hung over the door that led to the street, and the heavy, floor-length curtains covering the windows.
The curtains were the color of blood that had dried in the noonday sun. Hank lit a gas lamp. The flame made the room glow with a warmth that wasn’t present among the four me
