Gaffney, Patricia (2 page)

Jesse shuddered in sympathy, picturing the kind of woman Shrimp
would scorn because of her personal hygiene. "That ain't worth two cents
to me," he said, figuring it was time to bring money into the
conversation.

It worked. "How much are those halfwits payin' you? Whadda
they want you to do, drag me back to marry 'er, or just plug me right here and
put me outa my misery? It don't hardly make a difference to me—I'd as soon be
dead as shackled to that horse-face hyena the rest o' my days." He looked
cocky and resolute for half a minute. Then he caved.

"Okay, okay, here's the deal." Jumping up, he dragged a
filthy cloth bag out of the deep pocket of his brown, baggy, dirt-crusted
dungarees. "Here's sixty-four ounces of dust, all's I got in the wide
world. Took me four months to sift and pick and scrounge it outa the river. You
take it and tell the Weaver boys you done killed me. Pocket what they give you
an' this, too, and ride on. They'll never know, 'cause I don't aim to set foot
in Coos County for the rest o' my days, and that's the God's truth."

Jesse caught the bag one-handed. It hefted like about four pounds.
Gold was bringing twelve dollars an ounce these days. Twelve times sixteen, two
sixes are twelve, carry your one is seven... Seven hundred and fifty bucks. He
didn't bother opening the bag to make sure it wasn't full of sand. In his short
but profitable career, nobody had ever stiffed Gault yet, and Shrimp Malone
didn't look like the man to start.

Jesse sent him his fiendish, one-eyed glare. "You wouldn't be
trying to bribe me, would you, Mr. Malone?"

"What? No, sir! I'd never do nothin' like that."

"I hope not. Because I've got a reputation to uphold."

"Yes, sir. No, this 'ud be like... like a gift. This little
bit o' gold for my life. A trade, like."

He looked thoughtful. "How'll I prove to them you're
dead?"

"Huh?"

"The Weavers. They'll want proof. What'll I use to convince
them?"

Shrimp looked baffled for a second, then crushed. "Aw,
shit," he mumbled, digging down in the other pocket and pulling out
something gray and nasty-looking. "This here's the onliest thing that'd do
it. My lucky pig's ear."

Jesse, who'd been hoping for a watch, took the bristly, petrified
ear between two fingers. It appeared to be a hundred years old, so it must be
his imagination that it still stank. "If you're trying to birdlime me,
Malone—"

"I
ain't, I swear I ain't! Anybody who knows me'll tell you, I'd
ruther die than part with my lucky pig's ear."

Jesse lifted the eyebrow over his good eye.

"Heh heh," Shrimp said nervously. "Leastways,
that's what I always use t' say. Ask anybody."

He pretended to think it over while the miner shifted from foot to
foot. After a long time he whispered, "I'm in a good mood today. Reckon
I'll take you up on your offer, Mr. Malone."

Shrimp's knees almost buckled. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Gault. You
won't regret it, I swear."

"I better not."

"You won't."

"Because if I do, that'll put me in a bad mood."

"Yessir. No, sir, you can rest easy." He started backing
toward the door, smiling hopefully, tipping his chewed-up hat. "Well, I'll
say adios—"

"I aim to stay in Paradise for a while. I'd sure hate to hear
any rumors about our little business deal."

Shrimp made an X over his chest with a black thumb. "Cross my
heart, nobody'll ever hear about it from me."

"Because if they did, you know what would happen?"

Shrimp was smarter than he looked. "It'd put you in a bad
mood."

"That's right. Folks say I get irrational when I'm in a bad
mood."

"Yessir." This time he twisted two fingers in front of
his mouth, and vowed, "My lips're sealed."

Jesse could've pointed out that he didn't have any lips, but that
would've been unkind. Besides, the smell was getting too bad. When Shrimp
scrabbled for the knob behind him and finally got the door open, Jesse sent him
one last steely-eyed glare and let him go.

Then he felt like letting out a rebel yell, or tossing his hat in
the air. But the walls were too thin and the ceiling was too low. He settled
for throwing himself on the bed and crooning, "Yee-ha," in a soft,
celebratory tone.

PARADISE—YOU'LL LIKE IT HERE
, a sign said at the top of
Main Street. Yes, sir, Paradise was an all right town. Gault liked it here just
fine. So did Jesse.

****

Cady had passed that sign so many times, she didn't even see it
anymore. Today, driving by it, something else caught her eye anyway: Ham
Washington, Levi's boy, flying straight at her down the middle of the street
like rabid dogs were chasing him. If she didn't know Ham so well, she'd've
thought the saloon was on fire.

"Miz Cady, Miz Cady!"

The calm, slow-footed mare shied a little, halting just short of a
collision with Ham. "Abraham, how many times have I told you not to run at
a horse like that?"

He was too excited to apologize. "Miz Cady, a man—a
man—" And too winded to make sense. "Guns, guns, a black
horse—stayin' at your—place, and Poppy say—"

She reached her hand down, he grabbed it, and she hauled him up
beside her on the seat. Ham was tall for seven, but skinny as a weed, all
elbows and shoulder blades. "Slow down and catch your breath," she
advised, handing the reins to him out of habit.

Handling the mare calmed him down—Ham was crazy for horses. "A
man done rode in, Miz Cady," he managed all in one breath. "Bad man,
Poppy say. He at the Rogue—done took a room. He have guns an' rifles all over,
an' Poppy say he look like death walkin'. Just like death walkin'," he
repeated with relish.

"What are you talking about? Why is he a bad man?"

"He a
gunslinger.
Look at him cross-eyed, he shoot
you, Mr. Yeakes say. I ain't seen him yet—he up in his room, got the door shut.
He named Gault."

They were almost in front of the Rogue. "Stop right
here," Cady commanded, and Ham reined the mare in at the corner.
"Take the buggy to the livery for me," she told him, jumping down,
"and tell Mr. Yeakes I'll pay him later. You come straight back afterward
and stay with your daddy, you understand?"

"Yes'm." If anything, he looked more agitated than
before—her urgency had confirmed his worst, most exciting fears.

Watching him drive off, she noticed a knot of men across the
street in front of the French restaurant. She recognized Stony Dern and Sam
Blankenship; Gunther Dewhurt tipped his hat to her, but didn't come over. On
the opposite corner, Livvie Dunne and Ardelle Sheets were talking to a third
lady; Cady could only see her hat and the back of her gray dress. Like the men,
all three were staring across at the small, red-painted balcony that ran across
two sides of her saloon. Nobody was up there, though. Nothing stirred except
the rocking chairs in the wind, and one blackbird flapping its wings on the
railing.

She looked back at Livvie and Ardelle—who saw her and immediately
turned their backs on her, the way they always did. If they'd had their
children with them, they'd've gathered them up and herded them down the
sidewalk, as if they were sheep and Cady was a big drooling wolf. She made her
snooty, careless face, wishing they'd turn around so they could see how little
their scorn mattered to her. Just then Levi poked his head out the swinging
door. She picked up her skirts and hurried across the street toward her tavern.

"Cady," Levi greeted her, holding the door open. Over
his shoulder, she noticed the saloon was almost empty, nobody but Jersey Stan
Morrissey playing poker by himself, and Leonard Berg and Jim Tannenbaum, drunk
and squabbling as usual. This time of day on a Friday, the place ought to be
half full at least, and getting livelier by the minute.

"I just saw Ham," said Cady.

"Yep, I seen 'im fly by in the buggy."

"What's he saying about a gunfighter, Levi?"

The bartender smoothed one long-fingered hand back over his ear,
feeling for bristles. Levi shaved his head every morning, shiny and smooth as
an eight ball. "Sho' look like it to me. He say his name's Gault.
Bad
-lookin'
white man. Scared off all but these here," he said, nodding toward the
three stragglers at the bar.

"You gave him a
room?"

He ducked his head. "Didn't see no way not to. He look jus'
like I heard he did, one eye an' one good ear. Look like a killer to me. But he
ain't
did
nothin' yet, an' plus... tell you the truth, I was scared not
to do what he say."

"It's all right," she said quickly, "I'd have done
the same thing." Following his nervous gaze to the stair landing at the
back of the saloon, she half expected to see Gault standing there, guns drawn.
"Think Wylie hired him?"

"I don't know. I hope not."

She hoped not, too, but what else would a gunfighter be doing in
Paradise? "Where's Tommy?"

Levi shrugged, and added a roll of his eyes. Which meant,
What
difference does it make?
She had to agree. Sheriff Tom Leaver (Lily Leaver,
some people called him for a joke) was either dutifully shuffling papers in his
office or else mooning around Glendoline Shavers, Cady's best bar girl. Either
way, if the man upstairs really was a hired killer, the sheriff wasn't going to
be running him out of town anytime soon.

She looked back at the empty staircase. Looked around her mostly
empty saloon. "I don't need this, Levi."

"No, ma'am."

She bit her lip for a while longer, scowling into space.
"Well, I guess I'll go up there."

Levi sighed, as if he'd known that was coming. "Guess I'll go
with you."

She looked at him doubtfully. Levi was tall as a telegraph pole,
but he weighed about as much as she did. He never touched guns, and there
wasn't a violent bone in his body. He kept the peace by talking men to death,
reasoning with them in a calm, practically hypnotic voice that soothed the
meanness out of the surliest customers. And if it didn't, Cady threw them out
herself, with help from the little Remington five-shot she kept in her garter.

"No need for that, Levi. I can handle myself," she said.

"Prob'ly can, but I'm still comin'."

If she kept refusing, it would embarrass him. "Okay, but
partway. Just see me into his room. After that, if you hear shooting, run for
the sheriff." She said it with a smile, but she wasn't sure if she was
kidding or not.

****

Jesse was dreaming about women. Two women, a blonde and a
brunette. The brunette was taking his boots off and the blonde was sitting on
his lap, wetting the end of a cigar, fixing to light it for him. She wet it by
running her tongue around and around the tip, making little humming noises.
Somebody said, "Bet's to you," and all of a sudden he had three kings
and a pair of aces in the hand that wasn't resting on the blonde's little round
behind. "See that and raise you a hundred," Jesse said, and everybody
laid down their cards. Slop everywhere—he won. The blonde kissed him on the
ear. He reached for the pot—

Knock knock knock.

He opened his eyes, smiling, disoriented, unable to remember where
he was. Big room, soft bed, yellow wallpaper—he sat up fast, going for his guns
while he called out, "Who's there?" in a sleep-rough voice.

"Cady McGill."

A woman. No need for a weapon, then. In the mirror over the
bureau, he noticed his eyepatch had slid over to his temple. Righting it,
raking his hair back with his fingers, he padded over to the door and jerked it
open.

And broke into a big, tickled grin—all wrong, not Gault at all,
but he was just so glad to see her. She was a little thing, no more than about
chin height, but she was real shapely. Real shapely. Shiny dark hair tied back
in a ribbon, and eyes the same color as her hair. Plain brown skirt, no bustle,
and a faded blue blouse with a piece of white lace at the front to draw your
eye, in case it wasn't there already. She had on a man's felt hat, hanging down
in back by a leather strap, dark against the smooth white of her neck. He liked
the thin, friendly line of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Most of all
he liked her wide, sexy mouth, currently set in a nervous straight line.

"Mr. Gault?"

Gault, right, right. He changed his smile into a leer. Pretty
girls had guilty consciences, too, he knew for a fact, so he didn't say a word,
just widened the door and stepped back. It was a fine line, though; he wanted
her to come in, so he didn't want to look
too
dangerous.

She hesitated. After a glance down the hall to her right, she
lifted her chin, like a stud player bluffing a flush when she's holding a pair
of deuces, and stepped over the threshold.

Before he closed the door, he checked to see who was out there.
Aha—the tall Negro bartender, on guard at the top of the stairs. He looked
petrified, but he was standing his ground. Jesse liked that in a man.