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The room settled by slow degrees.

Not quiet. The Rusty Spur didn’t understand quiet as a concept. But chairs turned. Heads angled my way. They could feel an announcement coming.

I had never been accused of hiding one.

“All right,” I said. “Since you’re drinking on Calloway money, you’re contractually obligated to listen to a Calloway speech.”

“Refund mine,” Earl said.

“Denied. No returns after opening.”

“I ain’t opened it.”

“Emotional opening counts.”

A bottle cap snapped free somewhere behind me.

I spread my right arm, keeping the left comfortably low.

“Gentlemen. Survivors of Carrow Creek’s folding chairs. People who came for brisket and accidentally purchased livestock.”

A few sale books had followed their owners into the bar. One slapped against a table in appreciation.

“I’m proud to announce that on August fifteenth, Carrow Creek will host the finest one-day rodeo the Madison Valley has seen in—”

I paused.

There was no point putting a number on a claim if nobody could disprove infinity.

“—ever.”

The room laughed.

Not cheered.

Laughed.

Fondly, which made it worse.

I smiled wider.

A man near the window called, “You telling stories already, Calloway?”

“I’m making history. Stories come after.”

“August fifteenth this year?”

“No, I thought we’d announce early for 2037.”

A few men knocked their knuckles against tables.

Earl took his beer but didn’t drink it. His squint sharpened.

I pushed on.

“One day. Full program. Rough stock, timed events, barrels. Food, vendors, a proper gate, prize money worth showing up for, and enough parking that none of you block my hay field and pretend you didn’t see the signs.”

“You got signs?” somebody asked.