O’Sullivan’s feat of strength the sum of ONE HUNDRED dollars. I will also supply all who witness a repetition of the feat with free drinks until midnight on the day it is performed.’
Standing on a raised dais usually occupied by the saloon’s band, Claude Thackery ignored the offer. For one thing he did not have the strength necessary to do anything about it; for another, he was busily engaged in making an impassioned speech on the subject of the equality of men.
Thackery was a tall, thin man with a pinched, mean-looking face that bore a strong resemblance to his father’s, except that Claude’s complexion tended to be sallow and unhealthy. He did not wear a hat and his long hair hung straight back on his thin skull. Usually he wore a better suit, but not when speaking to the workers about equality. His white shirt was grubby and the red tie hung limp on it.
One reason he spoke in the O’Sullivan’s Load saloon was that his wife Marlene saw its owner and arranged for him to do so. Marlene was good at arranging such matters. While he went out to speak, she remained in their hotel room, or in this case a borrowed tent. Thackery could not see the owner of the saloon present, but did not care. Barraclough was not promising party material any way.
‘The conditions under which you live and work are worse than those of the slaves we freed in the Civil War!’ he told the attentive crowd, forgetting that his sole contribution to the Union cause had been making patriotic speeches many miles from the fighting area. ‘It is time you stood firm and demanded your rights!’
At that moment Calamity Jane, Mark Counter and Phil Chaseman entered the well-lit room. Almost instantly Thackery found his audience began to lose interest in his words of wisdom. Some, on seeing the big boss of the railroad, assumed expressions of complete disbelief at what Thackery was saying; others turned their attention from the politician completely.
‘Is that sign true?’ Mark asked the bartender who came to take their orders on their arrival at the counter.
‘Yep, sure is,’ the man replied. ‘The moment she’s hoisted up overhead, the money’ll be paid and the drinks start to flow.’
Turning from the bar, Mark walked forward and stepped on to the boards. He tested them carefully, making sure they were firm and would not move under him. Satisfied on this point, Mark examined the huge dumb-bell and guessed at its weight. If that O’Sullivan gent raised it over his head, he must have been a tolerable strong and powerful feller for it would weigh all of five hundred pounds.
All eyes went to the big Texan, noticing the way he examined the boards and studied the dumb-bell. Thackery might have been talking to the walls for all the notice anybody took of him. Slowly his voice trailed off and he stood on the dais with his mouth hanging open speechlessly.
Unbuckling his gunbelt, Mark handed it and his Stetson to Chaseman. Much to Mark’s surprise Calamity had not followed them from the bar, but stood near to the bartender. Mark wondered why Calamity did not join him, for it was unlike her to miss a chance of being at the centre of an attraction. Stripping off his shirt, to many admiring female and male glances, Mark handed it to Chaseman.
Now Thackery was completely forgotten as the crowd studied the great spread of Mark’s shoulders, the powerful muscles writhing under his tanned skin, the enormous biceps, the swelling forearms and large, strong-fingered hands. Some of the crowd recognised Mark from the old days in Mulrooney and others could recall hearing Texan cowhands boast of the blond giant’s strength.
One of the house gamblers, on being asked if he would take bets, threw an inquiring look at the bartender. Although he nodded his agreement, the bartender felt worried. A jerk of his head brought one of the waiters to him.
‘Go get the boss,’ he ordered.
‘I thought Tom didn’t want disturbing until just afore that dude
Standing on a raised dais usually occupied by the saloon’s band, Claude Thackery ignored the offer. For one thing he did not have the strength necessary to do anything about it; for another, he was busily engaged in making an impassioned speech on the subject of the equality of men.
Thackery was a tall, thin man with a pinched, mean-looking face that bore a strong resemblance to his father’s, except that Claude’s complexion tended to be sallow and unhealthy. He did not wear a hat and his long hair hung straight back on his thin skull. Usually he wore a better suit, but not when speaking to the workers about equality. His white shirt was grubby and the red tie hung limp on it.
One reason he spoke in the O’Sullivan’s Load saloon was that his wife Marlene saw its owner and arranged for him to do so. Marlene was good at arranging such matters. While he went out to speak, she remained in their hotel room, or in this case a borrowed tent. Thackery could not see the owner of the saloon present, but did not care. Barraclough was not promising party material any way.
‘The conditions under which you live and work are worse than those of the slaves we freed in the Civil War!’ he told the attentive crowd, forgetting that his sole contribution to the Union cause had been making patriotic speeches many miles from the fighting area. ‘It is time you stood firm and demanded your rights!’
At that moment Calamity Jane, Mark Counter and Phil Chaseman entered the well-lit room. Almost instantly Thackery found his audience began to lose interest in his words of wisdom. Some, on seeing the big boss of the railroad, assumed expressions of complete disbelief at what Thackery was saying; others turned their attention from the politician completely.
‘Is that sign true?’ Mark asked the bartender who came to take their orders on their arrival at the counter.
‘Yep, sure is,’ the man replied. ‘The moment she’s hoisted up overhead, the money’ll be paid and the drinks start to flow.’
Turning from the bar, Mark walked forward and stepped on to the boards. He tested them carefully, making sure they were firm and would not move under him. Satisfied on this point, Mark examined the huge dumb-bell and guessed at its weight. If that O’Sullivan gent raised it over his head, he must have been a tolerable strong and powerful feller for it would weigh all of five hundred pounds.
All eyes went to the big Texan, noticing the way he examined the boards and studied the dumb-bell. Thackery might have been talking to the walls for all the notice anybody took of him. Slowly his voice trailed off and he stood on the dais with his mouth hanging open speechlessly.
Unbuckling his gunbelt, Mark handed it and his Stetson to Chaseman. Much to Mark’s surprise Calamity had not followed them from the bar, but stood near to the bartender. Mark wondered why Calamity did not join him, for it was unlike her to miss a chance of being at the centre of an attraction. Stripping off his shirt, to many admiring female and male glances, Mark handed it to Chaseman.
Now Thackery was completely forgotten as the crowd studied the great spread of Mark’s shoulders, the powerful muscles writhing under his tanned skin, the enormous biceps, the swelling forearms and large, strong-fingered hands. Some of the crowd recognised Mark from the old days in Mulrooney and others could recall hearing Texan cowhands boast of the blond giant’s strength.
One of the house gamblers, on being asked if he would take bets, threw an inquiring look at the bartender. Although he nodded his agreement, the bartender felt worried. A jerk of his head brought one of the waiters to him.
‘Go get the boss,’ he ordered.
‘I thought Tom didn’t want disturbing until just afore that dude
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