Gaffney, Patricia (5 page)

"How did you hurt your eye?" she asked interestedly.

She'd never have dared ask him that before. He'd lost a lot of
ground, bad guy-wise, but somehow he didn't really regret it. "The
war."

"You must've been very young.
Very
young."

Yeah, about nine. "War makes you grow up fast," he
whispered. "Sure I can't interest you in a drink?"

"No, thanks, I don't drink. Maybe a beer on a hot day,"
she elaborated, "but that's it."

Since they were being so chatty, he said, "Mind if I ask how
you got in your current line of work, Miss McGill?"

"What's wrong with it?" she said, bristling.

"Nothing. Not a damn thing."

"I inherited the place."

"Your father?"

"No, a friend."

"Ah. A friend."

She smiled at him cynically. "Maybe you shouldn't jump to
conclusions, either, Mr. Gault."

Immediately he was sorry for using that slick, knowing tone. He
didn't want McGill smiling at him cynically.

The little boy, Ham, came over at just the right moment.
"Hey," he said shyly, leaning against Cady's chair. Jesse winked at
him. He looked pretty brave with Cady's hand resting on the back of his neck,
but his eyes on Jesse were still wide as half dollars.

"Hey," Jesse returned. "Look what I found on the
floor just now. I don't know how you missed it when you were sweeping."

"Whose is it?" Ham asked, staring at the quarter Jesse
laid on his palm.

"Well, I reckon it's yours now."

"Golly! Thanks, Mr. Gault."

"Don't thank me. Finders keepers."

Cady, he noticed, was looking at him with soft eyes, which was a
first. And what eyes they were, when they weren't guarded and suspicious. Dark
warm brown, true brown, the color of polished saddle leather. You could fall
right in those eyes and make yourself real comfortable.

"Did you get your meal and your bath, Mr. Gault?"

He roused himself to say yes and tell her about the steak dinner
he'd enjoyed at Jacques'. Ham hung on his every word, and Jesse thought of
himself at his age, when his sister had whispered to him in Sunday school once
that Sister Mary Aloysius was just like a regular person—she ate food, slept in
a bed, went to the privy,
everything.
Gault the gunfighter was a legend
to Ham, a myth right up there with Johnny Appleseed or Wild Bill Hickok. And
yet the legend ate rib-eye in the restaurant across the street, and got naked
to take a bath in the back room of Cuomo's barbershop. Jesse sympathized with
his amazement.

"If you're still looking for a poker game," Cady said,
"those boys over there play for pretty fair stakes. They start every night
around ten or so. They're not high rollers, but the play's square. I don't put
up with any brace games in my place."

"That's good to know." She looked like she didn't
believe him, but it was true. He was a pretty good poker player, but a lousy
cheat.

"Then of course, there's always blackjack." She smiled,
daring him.

"I don't think so," he said, smiling back.

"No?"

"Don't think I'd care for the odds."

"Never know till you try."

"I make it a point never to play against the house."

"It's riskier," she conceded. "But if you win, the
"payoff's a lot bigger."

They just looked at each other for a while. Something fun was
going on under this conversation, and it wasn't blackjack. Even Ham could tell.

"Well," said McGill, and pushed back her chair. He could
swear she looked reluctant. He'd made headway, considering she'd sat down in
the first place to ask him to leave. He wished she'd stay longer; except for Ham,
he hadn't talked to anybody for this long in weeks.

"Don't suppose you'd care to show me around the town
tomorrow, would you, Miss McGill?"

What a boneheaded move. The expression on her face brought him
back to earth with a thud. She got up fast, remembering all of a sudden who she
was dealing with. "No, sorry," she muttered, not looking sorry at
all, "I'm busy tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Ham pointed out. "What you
busy doing, Miz Cady?"

"Things."

"What things?"

She took in an exasperated breath. "Important things."

Jesse stuck his feet up on the chair she'd just left.

"Never mind," he said carelessly. "I just
remembered, I got important things to do, too."

Now she looked uncomfortable. Regretful? "Well," she
repeated. He didn't help her out, just glared at her with his evil eye. "
'Scuse me," she finally said, and went away.

Soon after that, Ham deserted him, too. Jesse thought about
getting drunk, just for the hell of it, then decided it wasn't worth it. In a
foul mood, he threw money on the table and walked outside for some fresh air.

This was the quiet end of town. Down the street to his right, a
few faint drunken shouts sounded from time to time—Wylie's customers,
probably—but for the most part Paradise had gone to bed at a decent,
law-abiding hour. A sliver of new moon hung over the church steeple like a
platinum comma, still too thin to shed much light. He strolled to the railing
at the edge of the board sidewalk in the black shadow the porch roof cast. He
didn't notice the man leaning against the upright post until the tip of his
cigar glowed in the dark, and by then they were almost side by side.
"Evening," Jesse muttered absently, resting his hands on top of his
guns and taking in a deep breath of the clean night air.

The man didn't answer. His slowness in turning drew attention more
than any quick move would have. Unwillingness showed in every line of his body,
every deliberate inch he turned. He moved as if he was greeting the devil, or
his own certain death. In a spill of light from the saloon, Jesse finally
recognized him: the gaunt-faced man at the bar. The one who kept trying to
avoid him.

"Doc," he whispered cautiously, remembering the bartender
calling him that. He slipped a cigarette out of his pocket. "Got a
match?"

It took forever, but the doctor, if that's what he was, finally
fumbled a match out of his pocket and lit it on the porch railing. His right
hand shook so badly, he had to use his left to steady it. He was clean-shaven
and pale as death, with black hair growing straight back from a high forehead.
In the brief flare of the match, his eyes gleamed eerily from the shadows of
his sharp-boned, corpselike face.

Jesse took a deep drag on his cigarette and waited.

It didn't take long. "I haven't had a drink in eight
months," Doc announced in a low voice, staring up at the moon instead of
at Jesse. "Since that night. Not one drop."

A long silence.

"Did he tell you she might've died anyway?"

Jesse kept quiet.

"No, I reckon not. It's true, though. Even if I'd gotten
there on time, even if I'd been sober through the whole labor, she probably
wouldn't have made it. The child..." He hunched his shoulders, holding on
to the rail with both hands. "The cord was around its neck, it might've
been dead already. That happens sometimes. Jeffers knew that, knows that, but
he... well, no sense telling you what he's like." He straightened up with
slow arthritic movements. "How'd you find me?"

Jesse said nothing.

Doc's long, thin upper lip lifted in a sneer of pure contempt.
"Proud of yourself, Mr. Gault? Like the way you make your living? I made a
bad mistake once, but at least I was trying to save a life. You..." He
turned his head and spat in the street.

Jesse didn't move and he didn't speak. He couldn't think of
anything to say.

Doc backed up against the rail again. The fight went out of him;
he wilted, folded up on himself. "How do you do it?" he asked
disinterestedly. "Shoot me in the back? Challenge me to a duel?" He
laughed, a rough, ugly sound. "I could've made it easy for you a couple of
times. Not that long ago. Done it myself, I mean," he explained with a
sick grin. "Now... tell you the truth, I don't want to die. That make it
harder for you? Or better? Not that I give a good goddamn."

Jesse said, "Listen."

"No, you listen, you son of a bitch. Look here— this is what
I've got. A hundred and seventy dollars. Took it out of the bank today when I
heard you were here. Every cent I own. I was going to send it—well, never mind
what I was going to do with it. It's not much, but I figure it's more than what
my life's worth. If you'll take it, I'll be gone by morning." When Jesse
didn't move, the doctor slammed the wad of bills down on the rail in front of
him. "What's it to you? Jeffers won't know. Maybe you just
want
to
kill me. Or you want to hear me beg first, that it? Well, you can—"

"I'm not here for you."

"What?"

"You've made a mistake. I don't know any Jeffers."

He had to look away when the older man started to tremble. Holding
on to the railing, Doc stumbled over to the steps and dropped down on the
bottom one, thin legs seeming to give out under him. With his elbows on his
knees, he stared at the ground between his feet. His shoulders shook as if he
was laughing, but he didn't make any sound.

Jesse took the money and set it down beside him. For a long time
neither of them said anything. Then Jesse spoke quietly, not looking at the doc
but straight ahead, at the shadowy storefronts across the street. "I guess
you made a mistake once. None of my business, but it sounds like you haven't
finished paying for it. Inside, I mean. I don't know anything about you, but if
you came here to... work it off or something, maybe start over, I'm saying
that's fine by me. None of my business. And what you just told me—it never
happened. We never talked. We never even met."

Very slowly the doc raised his head and looked at him. There was
color in his face for the first time, and his dark, sunken eyes glittered. With
tears? "I—"

"Well, g'night," Jesse muttered, backing up, panicky.
Embarrassment flooding through him felt like scalding water. "Gonna take a
walk, stretch my legs. See you around." He felt like running, but forced
himself to stride off at a reasonable pace. But he had to get away before the
doc said the two words that would've just about killed him:
Thank you.

"Yup, Peg's just fine, Mr. Gault, fine and dandy. Gave him
oats and clover like you said, and no timothy. He—"

"What did you call my horse?"

The liveryman, who went by the name of Nestor Yeakes, stopped dead
with a plug of tobacco halfway to his open mouth. "Peg? I thought
you—"

"He didn't hear you call him that, did he?"

"Why—why—yeah, he did, 'cause I was brushin' 'im, talkin'
soft, you know, tryin'—"

"And he didn't
kill
you?"

"What? What? No, he—"

"Mister, you are one lucky son of a bitch."

"I am?"

Jesse ducked through the dark doorway and moved down the dusty
corridor to Pegasus' stall, while behind him Nestor hurried to keep up.
"Last man to call my horse P-e-g only called him that once. After that, he
didn't call anybody anything." Poor Peg, he thought; it'd hurt his
feelings to hear Jesse slander him like that.

"Hey, fella," he crooned, and the stallion bobbed his
handsome black head three times over the stall door before setting his chin on
Jesse's shoulder and snuffling in his ear.
Beautiful boy,
he'd have
called him, and
big black baby,
if he'd been alone. Baby talk would
spoil his image, though. Not to mention Peg's.

"No timothy?" he said in a warning tone, running his
hands down the sides of the horse's sleek, muscular neck.

"No timothy!" Nestor swore, spitting on the floor for
emphasis.

"Well, he looks good," he finally begrudged. "Looks
real good. I think he's happy here. Think that's a happy look in his eye? Right
there, see that gleam?"

"Yessir, I did notice that! Fact, I caught him smilin' right
after his ground oats yestiddy."

Jesse checked the liveryman's round, beard-stubbled face,
wondering whose leg was getting pulled now. "Take him out for a run for me
today. In the afternoon, after it cools down."

"You want me to ride this horse?" he asked, pointing, as
if Jesse might be talking about some other horse.

"You ride, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure, but—"

"Just remember what I said, and you'll be okay."

"Don't call him P-e-g?" Nestor whispered, wary.

"Right. Not if you value your life. He's smart as hell and
he's got a lot of heart, but that's the one..." He trailed off, squinting
in the dimness at the stall next to Peg's. "What the hell is that?"

Nestor shuffled his feet, stared at the ground, and spat again.
"Horse," he mumbled. "Name's Bell Flower or something like that.
She—" He jerked his head up when Jesse made a fast movement in his
direction. "I didn't do it! I was to put some salve on her when you come
in!"

Jesse shouldered him out of the way, swearing softly in a steady,
wondering stream. Without thinking, he lifted his hand toward the big chestnut
horse in the next stall, and the animal threw up her head and screamed, half
rearing until the rope on her halter caught and held, jerking her back to the
ground. "Easy, easy," Jesse soothed her, "you're all right now,
big girl, easy there, nobody's gonna hurt you," and so on in a low murmur,
until the chestnut's ears went up and her breathing slowed. "Who did
it?" Jesse asked Nestor, grazing with his fingertips the bloody,
foam-flecked corners of the mare's mouth. Then he saw the raw, blood-crusted
gouges on her flanks, and started in swearing again.

Nestor hesitated, but only for a second. "It's Lyndon
Cherney's horse. He got 'er in San Francisco back around Easter time. Paid a
thousand dollars for 'er, I heard. She's a blood horse, s'pose to have Arab in
her."

"Who's Lyndon Cherney?"

Nestor flinched at his tone, but answered promptly. "Vice
president of the Mercantile Bank. Important fella. Town father."

"He did this?" The mare's gory sides and the blood
around her tender mouth had been caused by a vicious rider, not an incompetent
one. He smoothed his hand down the animal's fluttering shoulder, trying to
soothe the nervousness out of her, get rid of the wild look in her white-rimmed
eyes.

"He ain't much of a horseman," Nestor hedged. He bit off
a new chaw, fixing Jesse with a doubtful eye. "Thing is," he said,
standing up straighter, as if he'd come to a decision. "Thing is, he's
mean. Broke the horse he had before this one. White and gray gelding, a real
beauty. Claimed he didn't run right for him and broke 'im down. Ended up
selling him for nothing to the meat man. Damn shame, but he weren't any good by
then. Peckerhead done broke 'im down. And if this one ain't headed that way, I don't
know horseflesh."

"Where is he?"

"Cherney?" Nestor backed up a step. He gave Jesse a
quick up-and-down, and came to another decision. This one brought a glitter to
his faded blue eyes. "He'd be up at the bank by now. Done had his morning
ride and changed into his banker clothes. Reckon he's up there countin' his
money."

"Not for much longer," Jesse said, and his dead man's
voice not only didn't scare Nestor this time, it made him downright gleeful.

"Give 'im hell," he called as Jesse strode off down the
dusty length of the stable toward the doorway. "Give 'im one for me! Shoot
'is balls off, one at a time! Tell 'im to—"

"You take care of that horse," Jesse cut him off,
glancing back over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir!" It was hard to be sure in the half-light,
but it looked like Nestor saluted.

The sun had shone all morning, but clouds from the west were
blowing in and fat drops of water had begun to thud in the street, setting off
little dust explosions. Women put up their parasols and men jammed on their
hats; people who had been strolling before started to run. Jesse knew where the
bank was because he'd passed it riding in yesterday. A yellow brick building
with a stone portico, it occupied one of the four comers in the middle of town,
where Noble Fir Street crossed Main. The rain started in earnest, so he jogged
toward the sidewalk, heading for shelter under the awning of Baker's Canvas
& Tents, Hunting & Trail Outfitters. He barely noticed the three men
loitering in front of the store until one of them pushed off the clapboard wall
and slouched to the middle of the boardwalk. Jesse took one look at him, and
knew. Shit. It had to happen—it always did—but he'd been hoping it wouldn't
happen for a while yet.

"Hey, Mr. Gault, how you doing?"

Jesse called them jokers, these punks who had to make an
impression on him, one way or the other, or die trying. This one was slight and
bandy-legged, sandy-haired and mean-faced. He tongued a toothpick from one
corner of his mouth to the other, and Jesse thought,
A toothpick—now, why
didn't I think of that?
He could see that it gave a man that mean, careless
look he was always after, plus you didn't have to roll it, light it, or smoke
it. Well, too late now. Gault smoked thin black cigarettes, and everybody knew
it.

"Come on, Warren," one of the joker's sidekicks muttered,
backing up, flashing a weak, apologetic grin.

"Shut up, Clyde." The one called Warren never took his
eyes off Jesse. "So, Mr. Gault, you like our little town? Nice quiet
place, real peaceable. That's how we like it."

Jesse whispered, "I didn't catch your name, friend."

"Maybe that's because I didn't throw it."

The third man snickered, and Jesse slowly swiveled his head in his
direction. Their eyes locked. The man's face, swarthy before, lost all color.

"Warren, let's go," the second man, Clyde, said again.

Warren ignored him. "I hear you're pretty fast with a gun,
Mr. Gault."

Jesse said nothing. He was thinking how sick he was of that
opening line—"I heard you're pretty fast with a gun," or some
blockheaded variation of it. Behind and in front of him, people were either
scurrying away or gathering in fascination.

"Some say I'm pretty fast, too," Warren pressed on,
undaunted. "Real fast."

Jesse unfurled his evilest smile, like he'd just been handed some
nasty, disgusting present he'd wanted all his life. "That's good," he
whispered. "I'm mighty glad to hear that. Because I haven't met a man with
a fast gun in eleven days,
Warren.
That much time goes by, I get to
feeling itchy. Off kilter, you know what I mean?"

Warren slowly lifted his right hand to pull his jacket away and
uncover his gun. From the butt, it looked like a double-action .41. Small—built
for little hands—but fast and deadly accurate. People who hadn't gotten out of
the way by now dove for cover.

Jesse showed his teeth. "That's a pretty little popgun you
got there. You want to step out in the street and show me how it works?"
His heart was racing; all his energy, every cell, was concentrated on keeping
his good eye focused and unblinking on Warren the joker's sharp, ratty
features. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades; he was glad for the
mustache that hid the sweat on his upper lip.

Then Warren swallowed—Jesse saw his throat contract, his jaw
muscles clamp. The mean smile faltered and the beady eyes darted away.

This was when he always let them off, gave them some graceful out,
while his own insides quaked with relief. But this two-bit joker irritated him.
He wasn't only a punk, he was a coward to boot.

"I asked you a question," Jesse whispered, taking a
deliberate step toward him, then another. "You want to show me how that
little bitty .41 works? Or are you gonna shut your mouth and stay out of my way
for the rest of your stinking life? What's it gonna be,
Warren?"

Again the third man snickered, but this time it was a mistake.
Fast as a snake, Warren whirled and cold-cocked the bastard, catching him on
the point of the chin and sending him crashing back against the wall.

Watching him slide to the ground, Jesse suppressed a sympathetic
groan but didn't move, except to flex his fingers over his gun handles. Facing
him again, Warren's cheeks turned apple-red from frustration. Jesse braced, his
mind going blank in sudden panic. The son of a bitch was going to draw!

But then—he didn't. His ready stance stayed the same, but the
light went out of his eyes. Just like that, like a vicious dog that turns tail
when you run at it, Warren went from killer back to coward.

This time Jesse didn't give him a chance to change his mind. He
walked straight toward him, feinted left at the last second, and deliberately
smacked him on the right shoulder as he passed. He could hear him suck in an
outraged breath, but he didn't stop, didn't look back. He kept walking, moving
at that slow, infuriatingly casual pace that drove men like Warren crazy, while
inside his heart felt like it might punch through his chest and flip out on the
sidewalk.

He'd won again. One of these days, though, sure as shooting,
Gault's luck was going to run out.

****

It was cool inside the First Mercantile Bank & Trust Company.
Cool and dim because of the rain, and quiet, like a high-class library. Two of
the tellers were busy with customers, but the third gave Jesse a brisk nod,
telling him to come forward.

"Lyndon Cherney—is he here? I want to see him." He said
it straight out, no whispering. The encounter with Warren had jolted him; he
wasn't all the way back to being Gault yet.

The teller's face paled as recognition dawned. "And your
name, sir?" he inquired, fatalistic—the way you'd ask, "Is he
dead?" about a man who's been hanging from a gallows for a day and a half.

Jesse said his name.

The teller pivoted and skulked off, to a closed door behind a low
railing that stretched across the back of the bank. A full minute later he
reappeared, looking ill.

"I'm very sorry, sir, very sorry, but Mr. Cherney is not able
to see you just now. He, ah, he's in conference."

In conference? If it was true, all the better—there could be a
witness to the conversation Jesse had in mind. "Thanks," he told the
teller, who smiled with relief until Jesse stepped over the little railing and
strode across the marble floor, spurs jingling, to Cherney's closed door.

"Oh! Sir? Please, Mr. Gault—"

Jesse shoved the door open just as a man on the other side reached
out to lock it. Couldn't be anyone but Cherney—he was alone in the room. Guess
he'd lied about the conference.

"Morning," Jesse said pleasantly, simultaneously backing
Cherney toward his big oak desk and giving the door a savage kick that nearly
shattered the frosted glass window.
Slam!
Cherney jumped like he'd been
shot. Jesse gave him a little tap on the chest and he fell back against the
desk, plump buttocks sitting on it. "You irritate me, Lyndon. I don't like
slimy little bugs like you." A memory of the bloodied mare made his anger
genuine, no act this time. "What I like to do is squash 'em. Step on 'em
and watch 'em bleed." He grinned ghoulishly.

Fear made the banker's light blue eyes pop behind rimless
spectacles. He uttered gasping noises, mouth opening and closing, guppylike,
while he shook his manicured hands in the air, as if erasing some huge,
invisible mistake. "It wasn't my fault," he finally got out.
"I'm telling you, it wasn't my fault."