He rode back to camp alone, letting the company mule pick its way down a steep trail that clung to the gulch wall. Ben was a slave-driver, he thought. What successful contractor wasn't? Somewhere in the process of clawing and gambling his way up from the ranks, he had lost the capacity to understand a man who sat around the bunkhouse and talked about God. We were all crackpots, Tesno thought, each man in his own way.
He left the mule at the company corral, lunched at the cookhouse, and made the short walk to town. He found the saloons already busy with cooks, freighters, and a few night-shift men having a midday drink or a try at the games. He counted fifteen faro tables in town, not all of them operating at this hour. He spotted one game that was definitely crooked and he suspected there were more.
He visited the Pink Lady last, finding Madrid at the bar in conversation with Pinky Bronklin. They drew apart as he approached, and customers turned to watch.
Tesno stepped a few feet away, glad of a chance to face the marshal before witnesses. Madrid was freshly shaved and had put on a clean shirt. This one had broad green stripes. Its sleeves were encircled by red garters.
"My god," Tesno said. "You look like a Christmas tree."
"What's the matter with a little style?" Madrid said defensively. His tone was not that of a man looking for a showdown.
"Black is for corpses," Pinky muttered. His eyes raked Tesno. "It will look nice on you."
"Hobson sang, Pinky," Tesno said, stepping up to the bar.
"What's that to me?"
"You know what it is, but I'll say it. You paid him to pick a fight."