CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cruces was awake, sitting in a high-backed chair, sipping whisky. His sunken cheeks and dull eyes were the only indications of the trauma he’d been through, but he was strong. Coltrane, watching the Mexican from where he sat at another table with Maisie beside him, knew Cruces would be well enough to ride soon.
Through the bat-wing doors came Doc Farlow, stinking of booze, reeling across to the counter, pummeling it with his fists and demanding another drink. The barkeep, a man by the name of Sefton, shook his head, wiping the counter surface for something to do. “You’ve had enough, Doc.”
“To hell with that!” spat the old medic. “My money is as good as anyone’s, now give me a drink.”
“No.”
Farlow swung a wild, loping punch, which Sefton easily dodged. He caught the ol
