It burned a quick path to his belly but it didn’t quiet the pain, the anger that churned there. It was late, he was tired, and he was stuck in a low-life saloon, gambling with men who were the lowest of the low. His night couldn't get any worse. Croft didn't spend much of his profits on sprucing up the place. Sawdust coated the floors, blotting up the backwash of tobacco spit and whiskey. The saloon girls had been around one too many times and it showed. The room was full. Men from ranches all over the area were drinking their sorrows, or whatever else ailed them, away. And the ladies of the night Croft provided were there to help. The combination was raucous, the sounds of hard drinking, and in one corner that he could see, a little slap and tickle between a randy ranch hand and a lusty barmaid, threatened to make the headache at the base of his neck even worse. “I don’t have enough to cover the bet,” Croft said hastily. The saloon owner rifled through the scant dollars left in front of him.
