Graham Rowat

His grip was cold and clammy, like having your hand shaken by a codfish.

Jacob didn't like it in the slightest.

Jacob extracted his hand from Savage's, trying his best to ensure that a deal was made and that it was over as quickly as possible.

He wanted this slimy quartet of riders out of his bar as soon as possible.

But greed was a hard thing to snuff out.

They looked wealthy.

Anyone showing up here, alone and dressed like this, had to be wealthy or mad.

Jacob had never ridden anywhere other than from one end of Halleck to another, but he saw no reason to offer that.

The four men did nothing but look and smile at him, oily skin glistening.

There was no visible intelligence in their expressions.

Perhaps they were simpletons, unwanteds coming from a town with no room for village fools.

Well, all the better to sell the mail.

It occurred to him that many of his customers had fallen silent, dropping their conversations to low murmurs as they hunched over glasses of ale and bowls of fried bark.

The loudest sound in the room was the constable's snoring, his six-shooter flopping limply at his wide belly.

Jacob nodded.

It hadn't been what he was hoping for.

He'd wanted them to at least order some fried bark.

Local specialty.

Still, business was business.

And as for Slake, Slaughter, Sully, and Savage, the sooner they had their ales, the sooner they could get out of his bar, bringing their shiny suits and their strange smell, like old crackers or bread, out of there.