The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 31

When Hong came downstairs, she was in a mood to conciliate. The whisky had brightened her eyes, and made her voice rather loud.

"We don't need to clear out much," she announced. "Just the bare minimum. Enough to enable us to turn this place into a decent home."

"You know," I said, almost to myself, "I think I've finally found somewhere I can be myself."

As she squeezed my hand, her bracelet brushed my wrist. "We don't need to clear out everything."

"Tell you the truth," I said. "I really don't want to clear out anything at all."

Her pleasant face hardened. The smile vanished, and for an instant I saw her face as it might look in forty years' time.

"We have a perfectly good incinerator outside the back door," she hissed. "Why not use it?"

I gave a long, low sigh, as I surrendered to the inevitable. Rafe was right, I was a man after his own heart. I patted the mobile in my pocket. Anya's number was safely stored.

"All right." I ran my fingertips along her silver bracelet. I must no longer think of it as a present, but as a souvenir. "Tomorrow, I will."

COLT.

Ken Bruen.

d.a.m.n COLT 45.

Jammed.

Doggone it all to h.e.l.l.

Darn thing is supposed to work every time and I clean it like I do my tin cup, plate, every evening.

I'd landed up in a one-horse town named Watersprings, and I ain't joshing you, one horse is what they had and that was mine. Well, OK, I'm joshin you a bit here but my ride was the best, apart from the sheriff's and the owner of the saloon, who had three Palominos.

Sweet, sweet horse.

I've had my Sorrel since the Injun trouble and that baby ain't never quit, nohow.

I had me a thirst, been riding hard, real hard to get way the h.e.l.l outa Arizona. They wanted me real bad in that G.o.dforsaken place.

The why is a whole other yarn and I ain't gonna bother you none with that hok.u.m now.

Doggone, no.

This here is about a gal.

Ain't it always?

I tethered my horse outside the rail at the saloon. Couple a neer-do-wells given me that slack-eyes jaw look. I touched the brim of me beat-up Stetson, said, "How de?"

Not too friendly, didn't want em getting no d.a.m.n fool notions but enough to show I meant no injury, leastways I was pushed.

I took my Winchester outa its pouch, and I could see they knew it'd been well worn. Make em think twice about foolin around some.

They done muttered some answer. I didn't detect nuttin there to reach for my Colt so I carried on up to the saloon.

Real bird place, darn right.

Couple guys moseying at card playing but not more'n a buck on the table. Big stakes, huh, but I noticed they was all carrying iron, watching me over them cards.

I seen em.

The bartender, big, burly, like a grizzly I seen one time up near Canada, too d.a.m.n cold up there, and I had my Winchester, that bear in my sights and I swear, the beast turned, looked at me, like he was thinking, "I hurt you?"

I lowered the rifle, and never had a day's regret, not a one. He was kinda, I dunno the word ... n.o.ble. He sure a shotting was a big mother.

The grizzly behind the counter gives me a slow eye, asks, "What's it gonna be, partner?"

Could have said, "I ain't your partner, mistah." But no point touching trouble, one way or the d.a.m.n other, the stuff done find me anyways.

I jacked my boot up on that bra.s.s foot-rail, laid my Winchester lightly against the bar, said, "Whiskey."

Didn't put no please or nuttin on there. My daddy used to say, "Son, I ain't got a whole lot to teach you cept how to shoot, shoe a horse and this, don't start nuttin you ain't aiming to finish."

I ain't gonna lie to you none, I haven't always followed my daddy's saying, the reason I got me a bullet hole in my leg, drags a bit but I ain't a moanin, the other guy, he's not doing no walking, not nohow 's I see it.

Grizzly sets the bottle on the counter, shot gla.s.s, and it weren't durty but it weren't clean neither. I figured the whiskey will wash it most ways.

I knock back two fast ones and d.a.m.n, tasted real fine, like the Tucson sun after six months' hitch in the State Pen.

He's lookin at my holster, goes, "That there a Colt?"

The h.e.l.l else it be?

Real slow, I reach, take it out, let him see it. Don't let no man touch it, not unless he's got the draw on me, and even then, well, he better be prepared to do more than mouth.

He lets out a slow whistle, said, "You rode with the Cavalry?"

The guy was whole lot smarter than he looked. The Colt was Army issue, and the notches on the b.u.t.t, an old horse soldier tradition. Mine was riddled.

I nodded, not a story I wanted to share with some d.a.m.n barkeep.

He reached out his ma.s.sive hand, about to touch it, and felt, rather than saw me stiffen, pulled back, asked, "You ever run into Custer?"

That Yallah. And I ain't even talking bout his hair.

I downed another shot, let it warm me belly, then real easy said, "Man never pa.s.sed a mirror he didn't love."

Let it out there, see where he stood on that whole darn mess.

He poured himself a shot, downed it in one, grimaced, the whiskey of Custer?

He said, "He sure ran into one mountain of shinola that day."

OK.

Then he done told me about those fine horses he had and I gave him the face that asks, "Say I was in the market for a horse?"

I put a few bits on the counter and he asked, "You fixing to stay a few days?"

And when I didn't answer, it's real foolhardy to be asking a stranger his business these wild days, he added real fast, "Reason I ask is, we got us a hanging, folks coming for miles round, ain't often you gets to see a woman dangle."

I seen most stuff, lynchings, burnings, scalpings, and I don't got me no taste for it, especially not the legal ones. But I was interested, who wouldn't be, and I repeated, "A woman?"

"Yeah, done shot her husband and now they gonna stretch her pretty little neck, see if they don't."

I dunno, I still can't get me a fix on it, I was aiming to get some chow, get my horse seen to and then hit out next day. I had business over in Shiloh and I was antsy to git movin but I asked, "She local?"

He was shaking his head, wiping down the counter with a greasy rag, said, "h.e.l.l no, outa Virginia, name of Molly Blair."

The whiskey stuck in me gullet and I'd to fight real hard to keep me face tight. I tipped my Stetson, said I might stick around for the rope party and he shouted as I reached the swing door, "Real purty little thing, shame to let all that fine woman go a begging."

My hand went to my Colt, pure instinct, I would have drilled that sum of a gun for two cents.

Outside, I had to grab me some deep breaths.

Molly, d.a.m.n her to tarnation, the only gal I done ever loved.

I hawked me a big chunk of spittle and let it out on the boardwalk ... looked round and could see the sheriff's office down a ways.

Cussin nine ways to Sunday, I hitched my gun belt, headed on over, thinking, "The h.e.l.l I had to go running off me fool mouth."

I glanced at my horse, tired as he was, tired as I was my own self, we could have bin outa there in two seconds flat, left her to rot, like she did me but ...

Darn story of my life, I just can never mosey on the other way.

I put a chaw of bacca in me cheek, began to walk towards the jail, me fool heart thundering like the Injuns reining down on Custer.

Stepping up to the porch outside the sheriff's office, I heard loud hammering and looked to my left, d.a.m.nation ... how in all that's shottin did I miss seeing it?

The scaffold, ugly looking thing but then, I guess, they ain't building em for purtyness.

d.a.m.n thing was near done too, they was even trying out a sack of taters, body weight I guess, though Molly, a cup of sugar would have been about right with her.

Pet.i.te sweet thing I'd thought way back in Tennessee when I done first run into her.

Sweet? ... Like a coyote on heat.

They let the bag fall, and it startled me, I had to shake me own self, get it tight.

I opened the door and a man was sitting behind a desk, cup of gruel going, cheroot dangling in his mouth, boots up on the desk and I thought, "Uh oh."

Frontier lawmen, a real mean breed of buzzard, they get that tin on them, they're as dangerous as a herd of buffalo in a Cheyenne autumn. He had him a belly there, a man who liked his vittles and his drinking if his flushed cheeks were any story. Round thirty, I'd hazard, and all them years, mean as can be.

He had him a smirk too, like he knew I wasn't bringing him no good news.

He got that right.

He drawled, "Help yah?"

Sounding like that was a darn fool notion.

I kept my hands loose, no threat showing, least not yet, said, "I'm kin to Molly."

He mulled that over then spat to his side, said, "That so."

Not a question.

I kept with it, tried, "Yessir, on my Momma's side, we ain't been real close or nuttin but I figured I'd better come, pay my respects."

He had a metal cup on the table and lazy as can be, he reached over, his cobra eyes never leaving my face, took his own time in a long swallow, making noises like a hog, said, "Funny, ain't it?"

What?

I went, "What?"

Then stuck on, "Sir?"

Let the beat in.

He blew a cloud of smoke at me, said, "The murdering gal ain't mentioned no kin?"

I gave a real slow grin, the gee shucks I keep for killing vermin, said, "Like I said, sheriff, we ain't been real close."

He stood up, real sudden and I kept very still. He grabbed a bunch of keys, asked, "Well, whatcha waiting on son, you're real keen to visit with yer kin, am I right?"

Sumofapistol ... son ... I had a good ten years on him. I nodded and he led me back.

She looked even more d.a.m.n beautiful than I remembered and before the sheriff could try his game, I said, d.a.m.n near hollered, "Coz, Momma done told me to come visit, see you be needing anything?"

He gave me the look then and his eyes showed most of what he was, a piece of trash with a Smith and Wesson, nothing no mo in that.