Both men laughed at that one.
Tucking his flask into his pocket, Doc straightened up and extended his hand. “I need to make arrangements for wrapping up my practice before leaving town. If I don’t see you before I leave, I’ll try to look in on you the next time I visit.”
“Sure thing, Doc. I’ll make sure to keep the whiskey out of reach.”
After one last grin, Holliday turned and strode out of the Busted Flush. His steps were just as sure as a man who’d never had a drop of liquor pass his lips. Caleb still had no clue how Doc managed to stay upright after drinking the same amount it would take to drop a buffalo.
Caleb leaned back against his bar and rested both elbows on its edge. He could see the front door as well as the narrow front window, which had been so recently cleaned. He didn’t recognize the men outside right away. After studying their faces for more than a second, Caleb remembered them just fine.
“Hank, where’s the shotgun?”
The barkeep snapped to attention while still holding the newspaper in his hands. “Huh?”
“The shotgun. I need it.”
As he spoke, Caleb was stepping up to the window so be could get a better look outside. He could still only spot three of Weeks’s hired guns but didn’t have much faith in that being the final number.
When Hank brought the shotgun out from its spot behind the bar, the few regulars in there weren’t rattled by the sight of the weapon. The remaining customers were too wrapped up in their games to worry about much else.
“What’s the matter, Caleb?” Hank asked as he stepped up beside him.
Without taking his eyes off of the street, Caleb stepped even closer to the window. The moment he did, he regretted it. As soon as he was within a few inches of the glass, the men across the street started walking forward. Each of them had their eyes fixed upon the Flush as they reached into their long coats.
Too anxious to answer Hank’s question, Caleb snatched the shotgun from Hank’s hands. He expected to see the gunmen take similar weapons from beneath their coats, but was even more shaken when he saw what they were packing.
Instead of pistols or shotguns, two of the men carried bottles with rags stuffed into them. The third man stepped ahead of the others, gripping a brick in each hand. Before Caleb could do much of anything, those bricks were already being flung toward the window.
Caleb dropped to the floor. The only part of Hank that he could grab was the barkeep’s belt, but that was enough for him to be able to drag Hank down along with him. Both men hit the floor as the first brick smashed through plate glass.
The sound of breaking glass filled the saloon and was quickly followed by the thump of a brick pounding against the bar. A second brick crashed through the remains of the window, sailed over the bar, and made short work of the rectangular mirror that hung lengthwise behind a shelf of liquor bottles.
Caleb winced at the sound of more breaking glass. With his body pressed against the floor, he could feel the patter of broken shards raining down onto him. Just outside the window, heavy steps thumped against the boardwalk.
[29]
Throughout the saloon, folks were shouting or stumbling over each other to get away from the window.
The gunman who’d tossed the bricks stepped aside while fishing a smaller bottle from his pocket. The other two jumped in front of the window, carrying full-sized bottles in their hands. The man at the front of that group extended his free arm and scraped a match along a nearby post and touched the little flame to the end of the rag sticking out of his bottle. After lighting the rag in the other man’s bottle, he flicked away the match and cocked his arm back.
The Flush’s window was nothing more than an open space with a few rows of stubborn glass that looked more like jagged teeth. Aiming for a spot in between those teeth, the first man prepared to toss his bottle into the saloon. Before he could complete the throw, he saw Caleb stand up, bring a shotgun to his shoulder, and pull his trigger.
The weapon exploded in a thunderous, smoky roar. Hot lead spewed from the barrel, shattering the bottle in midair while also tearing off a good portion of the hand that held it.
Before the man realized he’d been hit, alcohol from his own bottle sprayed across him, and sparks from his fiery rag set the alcohol on his clothes to burning. With blood still spraying through the air behind his mutilated hand, he was soon engulfed in crackling flames.
Still holding his own bottle at the ready, the second gunman watched in wide-eyed horror as his partner began a stumbling, frantic dance to try and put out the fire that consumed him. When he turned and saw Caleb standing there with shotgun in hand, he tossed his own bottle straight at him.
Caleb gritted his teeth and emptied the shotgun’s second barrel while ducking out of the bottle’s path. Although he heard a bit of glass chipping, he knew he’d missed his target.
“Son of a bitch!” Caleb shouted as the bottle slammed against the wall no more than a few feet away.
He could hear the roar of a fire and could feel its heat on his face. The next thing Caleb felt was himself being roughly hauled from his feet.
“Get the hell away from there!” Hank shouted as he grabbed Caleb’s arm and pulled him back.
Caleb stumbled backward and soon found himself landing hard on his rump. Even as a good amount of air was knocked from his lungs, he was still opening the shotgun and pulling out the spent shells. “Everybody clear out!” he shouted.
Saying those words at that time was less necessary than telling a bird to flap its wings when it flew. Once the front window had shattered, practically everyone had jumped to their feet. By this time, there was already a stampede for the side door with Thirsty leading the charge.
Scrambling to his feet, Caleb dashed behind the bar to where he kept the box of spare shotgun shells. As he reloaded, he saw the flames licking around the edge of the broken window frame. Fortunately, the fire wasn’t spreading much past the window.
“Looks like that last bottle didn’t make it through,” Hank said.
“That just means the outside of my saloon is on fire rather than the inside.”
“Considering what side of the wall we’re on, I’m willing to accept that.”
Closing the newly loaded shotgun, Caleb gave Hank a quick nod. “Good point. Catch.” With that, he tossed the shotgun toward the barkeep.
Hank caught it and swung its barrel toward the burning window. “What about you?”
“I’ll do just fine,” Caleb replied as he reached for the holster hanging behind the bar. “Serves me right for not wearing this damn thing.” The moment he got the holster buckled around his waist, Caleb felt that knot in his stomach finally loosen up. He drew the old Smith & Wesson, took position next to Hank, and watched the window for the first sign of movement.
“We can’t wait here for long,” Hank said anxiously. “This place is still burning.”
“You’re right. Stay here, and I’ll head out first.” Without waiting for a reply, Caleb ran for the window so he could take a quick look at the damage that had been done.
There was a fair amount of smoke billowing into the saloon, but the window was wide enough for Caleb to see the street beyond the flames. By the look of it, the fire was still confined to the part of the wall that had been wetted by liquor. The early evening breeze was still relatively calm, so there wasn’t much else to fan the flames.
The next sound to fill the Busted Flush wasn’t from gunfire or another burst of flame. It was the slam of the front door being kicked in.
With the door still rattling on its hinges, the gunman who’d tossed the bricks reached inside to lob something else into the saloon. This bottle wasn’t as big as the others, but it shattered just as well against the bar, and its contents ignited, thanks to the flaming rag stuffed down its neck.