The saloon at Clarke's Creek was nothing more than one small room with a shabby wooden floor, some round tables and a narrow bar.
A dishevelled middle-aged man with a sturdy built stood behind that bar and poured cheap whiskey into unwashed glasses. A heavily made-up woman with fiery red hair leant casually at the back wall, while three more men sat at one of the tables and played a game of cards.
When the saloon doors swung open and Rowdy and Clay entered, all heads turned towards them.
.
Clay had soon had enough of the hot midday sun, so he had suggested they go for a drink rather than standing next to the wagon the whole day. Rowdy had cautiously caught a glimpse at Wishbone, who really seemed to be very busy, and agreed. There wasn't all that much the two of them could do to help anyway. Wishbone liked to take care of the chuck wagon and the supplies himself, so he would probably not even miss them.
.
Together the pair made their way over to the bar and waited for the bartender to acknowledge them.
"Ya're the drovers that rode in this mornin', aren't ya?" the man eventually asked not too kindly, while he chewed on some tobacco.
"That's right." Rowdy confirmed in a feisty tone of voice. He had noticed the scornful looks the men in the saloon had given him and Clay.
"You got a problem with that?"
The bartender shook his head. "No. Long as you get outta here the moment your old goat outside is done with his business, I don't."
Affirmative murmur was heard from the poker table.
"What is it with you? We only just came into town! We didn't do nothin' to you people!" Rowdy asked agitated.
He had known people like that for as long as he worked cattle, which really wasn't all that long yet, but still it didn't sit well with the young man, that people all over the west seemed to label drovers as good-for-nothing drifters, who only came into town to cause trouble.
It was Clay who broke off the argument before it could start. He put a calming hand on his companion's shoulder and pushed himself between him and the bar.
"Look, friend, we only want a drink of whiskey. Think you can manage that?" he asked calmly.
The bartender nodded and went to fetch the bottle of alcohol from the shelf behind him. Rowdy continued to glare, while Clay turned around and took in the rest of the saloon.
One of the men at the table, a wealthy looking fellow in a dark garment and with a high stack of bills on the table in front of him, had obviously overheard what had been said at the bar. With a disapproving snort he muttered: "That's all you drovers ever do, isn't it? You come into town, just for one drink, mind you, but then things get out of hand and someone ends up hurt."
"What do you mean?" Clay asked cautiously.
The man got up and walked over to the bar. Sullenly he motioned to the bartender. "You see, Franks here, he used to have a daughter. She was the most beautiful thing you ever saw, I assure you. Decent and well-educated, too. Every young man would have been proud to call her his. One day, well, one day this drover-boy came along. He was with a herd pushing it north and he had all the makings of a big adventurer. He sweet-talked the girl for all he was worth, promised her the stars in the sky, and she fell in love with him."
Clay sipped on his drink and thoughtfully listened to the story. As did Rowdy.
The older man continued: "But you know how it is with the kind of you. They move on. And so did Miss Cathy's chosen one, and with him all her dreams." He looked very sad all of a sudden. "That was when…"
The bartender, Franks, interrupted the story with a sniveling sound. Forlornly he stood behind the bar, his eyes cast downwards.
"When what?" Rowdy asked anxiously. "What happened to the girl?"
To everybody's surprise it was the bartender who answered the question: "She cried. Five days and five nights she would cry her beautiful eyes out for that scallywag. On the sixth day she went to the quarry and lunged herself down."
The man looked up. Tears were streaming down his face. "You know, boy," he addressed Rowdy, "there's more ways than just a bullet to kill someone."
Rowdy nodded his head once. The story of that poor bartender's daughter saddened him more than he wanted to let on.
On the other hand was none of this his fault, or Clay's for that matter.
They were different than the drover who left Miss Cathy, weren't they? Involuntarily he thought back to the girls he himself had met in one town or another along the drive. Sure, he had liked some of them just fine, and they had liked him, too. But none of those girls would have ended their lives in lovesickness over him, now would they? If anything it always seemed to be him that ailed for days after a breakup, not them.
Then again, maybe Miss Cathy had been special.
"I am sorry about your loss, Mister. I truly am."
Rowdy emptied his shot glass in one go and poured himself a second from the bottle that still sat on the counter. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he felt he needed the burning sensation down his throat right now. It helped clear his head and quench his emotions.
"Yeah, me too." Clay endorsed. "We will be gone in a few hours, though. No need to fret."
With a last glance at the devastated bartender the two men went to sit at one of the unoccupied tables.