was counting on him to keep the family land.
Thirty minutes later, Big Eli’s rusted Ford truck
crunched onto the gravel lot of the Iron Horse Tavern.
It wasn't really a tavern. It was a corrugated steel pole barn
sitting on the county line, reeking of stale cigarette smoke,
spilled draft beer, and the sour tang of nervous sweat.
On Friday nights, Russell "Rusty" Cobb cleared away the
pool tables. He ran an unsanctioned bare-knuckle-adjacent
fight club for the local farmhands, off-duty deputies, and
anyone stupid enough to think they had an iron chin. Big
Eli walked through the heavy wooden doors. The air
conditioning was broken, replaced by two massive
industrial fans that merely circulated the humid, swampy
air.
The noise hit him first—a chaotic wall of shouting, clinking
glass, and the heavy bass of the jukebox fighting against
the roar of the crowd. He stood near the back, keeping his
massive six-foot-four frame hunched forward, making
himself look smaller. He wore faded overalls stiff with
dried mud and a plain gray T-shirt stretched across his
broad chest. He ordered a club soda from the bar.