From Hades Lord of the Dead: A warning.
There was a marked difference between the smell of earth and the smell of dirt. Earth was rich and leafy, full of life and moisture and promise of things growing. Dirt was hard and dry. Clay and sand fought to be the dominating influence, sucking any hint of damp away into brittle grit. It was semantics. So much was, out here.
"Now that sounded awfully like an insult there, Mister."
The saloon was nearly silent. No amount of sliding glasses, shuffling boots, or light coughs could disguise the fact that all conversation had ceased. One man dared use the spitoon and the noise eclipsed everything else. I remained in a somewhat relaxed position as I had been instructed. It seemed like my ability to maintain a scowl would be my only contribution at the moment.
"Not at all, my American friend." Holmes said, his tone a hair too close to flippant, "I find in business ventures, there is great benefit to be had in learning about one's potential partners."
The gunbelt was uncomfortable but I fought the urge to shift. After all, I was to be the hired help in this masquerade. Holmes would do all the talking- which suited me perfectly- and I was to assist by 'looking tough'. It was common enough in the American West to parade around with a bodyguard of some kind.
"Really," Holmes continued, "It would hardly do to approach the table without knowing you come from a line of miners, have great experience with horses, and have recently come into wealth." He made a brushing motion with his hand. I had no doubt that to the bar's patrons he seemed every bit the foolish English gentleman he pretended to be.
I was the only one in on the secret. Not even Sheriff Lymann knew he was getting tips from Sherlock Holmes. Of course, the deductions he spouted off made it seem as if he had an informant. It would benefit us to make the gang we were seeking on edge. If they thought there was a traitor in their ranks, they would be less trustful of each other. It seemed they would also prove to be quicker to temper.
"I don't like what you're insinuatin', Mister Escott." Even I could see the finery was new, and the marks on the man's skin from a lifetime of labor would hardly be hidden by a sudden change of fortune. It was no insult, but something told me we were on the right track. This Mister Banks was too eager to start a fight to be an ordinary, respectable businessman.
"I insinuate nothing, sir." he denied again. "A miner knows his goods, a cowboy is loyal-"
I knew Holmes was simply trying to get Banks to force his hand, but he was treading too close to the line. When Banks surged to his feet, I suspected Holmes had already sauntered across it. Every man in the saloon tensed as Banks went for his gun, aimed, and shot an empty bottle off the bar.
"That was a warning, Escott."
"Really?" Holmes didn't so much as flinch, though I was hard-pressed to keep a reaction off my face. It was an expert shot, though quite believable with the background Holmes proclaimed him to have.
Without a word, Holmes snatched the gun from my holster, swiveled his arm back, and fired a second shot. The shards of another bottle hit the floor. I turned back to see the impossible shot he'd made- left handed even- and raised incredulous eyebrows at Holmes. His eyes held a twinkle and quickly flicked towards the wall. I nearly laughed when I saw the mirror. It was perfectly angled. Holmes had made trickier shots for the Irregulars' amusement than this. I fought the urge to shake my head as he handed my gun back to me.
"That was a warning, Mister Banks." Holmes flexed his fingers before resting one hand and drumming the table. "Now, shall we get back to business?"
Stupefied, the cowboy sat. I relaxed back into my chair once more. It looked as if things had gotten a lot more interesting for our colonial cousins.