relish the feel of the water on his sweat and dirt-stale skin.
‘You know somethin’, mister?’ She was at the door, which was still closed.
Gold had sunk down to his neck, the cheroot clenched between his teeth. His eyes were closed and he opened them in tacit invitation for her to go on.
‘If you’ve had some kinda trouble with them mountain people - of which the Gershel kid is one - Sheriff Polk won’t be much help to you. They take care of their own problems and Floyd Polk ain’t inclined to poke his nose into their business.’
‘Bye-bye, lady.’
‘What?’
His eyes were closed again.
‘Damn you!’ The door was jerked open and crashed shut in the same manner as earlier.
Alone, Barnaby Gold bared his teeth in a grin of sheer enjoyment. Remained in the same attitude with the grin on his face until the cheroot was smoked. Then put it out in the water, stood up and soaped himself. Rinsed off the suds and stepped from the tub to towel himself dry. Dressed in all but his frock coat and hat before getting a razor, mug and brush, then squatted beside the tub and shaved his face clean of all bristles.
Men began to leave the saloon. He had not heard any of them come up the stairs with the whore.
He put on his hat and coat, then the gun-belt, and picked up the Murcott. But he did not leave the room. Instead, carried the chair from the bed to the window, used a coat sleeve to wipe it clear of mist before sitting down: the shotgun resting across his knees.
Without exception, the dozen customers he saw leave the saloon and start down the curving slope of the street cast glances up at the window. Which suggested he had been one of the topics of the conversation which had previously reached him as a buzz. He was far enough back from and to the side of the window for them not to see him seated there.
They were the kind of men he had grown used to back in Fairfax and Standing. Business-suited or attired in hard-wearing work clothes. Merchants and professional men, clerks and manual labourers. As hard and tough as their work and lifestyle in a frontier community demanded. Most of them content with their lot which was relatively trouble-free except for the day-to-day problems which beset everybody. With little to talk about outside of small town gossip. Thus, inevitably intrigued - excited by and a little frightened of - the black-clad, heavily armed, uncommunicative young stranger who had ridden into town. Eager to know the reason he was there. But anxious not to be caught in the backwash of any trouble he had brought to Bacall.
Barnaby Gold paid them no heed as, via the crack at the bottom of the window frame, he heard an occasional snatch of talk: with key words.
‘... hillbillies ... Annie ... shotgun ... Gershel kid ... Davis ... gunslinger ... Polk ...’
After they had all gone to their respective homes, the batwings flapped again, and booted feet rapped on the stoopboarding.
‘Night, Fred.’
‘Be seein’ you, Arnie.’
‘Sleep well, Mr Street.’
‘Oh, Annie, if only I could be sure the wife didn’t find out, I could sure sleep well with you.’
‘Some day, Mr Street.’ Annie laughed.
The liveryman joined her. ‘Be the same when pigs can fly, I reckon.’
The final customer stepped off the stoop and staggered a little as he started for home. One wedge of light extending from the saloon was blacked out when the big double doors were folded closed in front of the batwings. Then those from the flanking windows faded and disappeared as the kerosene lamps were doused, two at a time. The voices of Dalton, his wife and the whore were indistinct mutterings for a minute or so. Just one pair of woman’s footfalls sounded on the stairway and went along the hall to the far end without pausing outside the room where Barnaby Gold sat. A door was opened and closed. Below, in the rear of the building, another door closed, presumably behind the Daltons in their living quarters.
The man on the chair eased
‘You know somethin’, mister?’ She was at the door, which was still closed.
Gold had sunk down to his neck, the cheroot clenched between his teeth. His eyes were closed and he opened them in tacit invitation for her to go on.
‘If you’ve had some kinda trouble with them mountain people - of which the Gershel kid is one - Sheriff Polk won’t be much help to you. They take care of their own problems and Floyd Polk ain’t inclined to poke his nose into their business.’
‘Bye-bye, lady.’
‘What?’
His eyes were closed again.
‘Damn you!’ The door was jerked open and crashed shut in the same manner as earlier.
Alone, Barnaby Gold bared his teeth in a grin of sheer enjoyment. Remained in the same attitude with the grin on his face until the cheroot was smoked. Then put it out in the water, stood up and soaped himself. Rinsed off the suds and stepped from the tub to towel himself dry. Dressed in all but his frock coat and hat before getting a razor, mug and brush, then squatted beside the tub and shaved his face clean of all bristles.
Men began to leave the saloon. He had not heard any of them come up the stairs with the whore.
He put on his hat and coat, then the gun-belt, and picked up the Murcott. But he did not leave the room. Instead, carried the chair from the bed to the window, used a coat sleeve to wipe it clear of mist before sitting down: the shotgun resting across his knees.
Without exception, the dozen customers he saw leave the saloon and start down the curving slope of the street cast glances up at the window. Which suggested he had been one of the topics of the conversation which had previously reached him as a buzz. He was far enough back from and to the side of the window for them not to see him seated there.
They were the kind of men he had grown used to back in Fairfax and Standing. Business-suited or attired in hard-wearing work clothes. Merchants and professional men, clerks and manual labourers. As hard and tough as their work and lifestyle in a frontier community demanded. Most of them content with their lot which was relatively trouble-free except for the day-to-day problems which beset everybody. With little to talk about outside of small town gossip. Thus, inevitably intrigued - excited by and a little frightened of - the black-clad, heavily armed, uncommunicative young stranger who had ridden into town. Eager to know the reason he was there. But anxious not to be caught in the backwash of any trouble he had brought to Bacall.
Barnaby Gold paid them no heed as, via the crack at the bottom of the window frame, he heard an occasional snatch of talk: with key words.
‘... hillbillies ... Annie ... shotgun ... Gershel kid ... Davis ... gunslinger ... Polk ...’
After they had all gone to their respective homes, the batwings flapped again, and booted feet rapped on the stoopboarding.
‘Night, Fred.’
‘Be seein’ you, Arnie.’
‘Sleep well, Mr Street.’
‘Oh, Annie, if only I could be sure the wife didn’t find out, I could sure sleep well with you.’
‘Some day, Mr Street.’ Annie laughed.
The liveryman joined her. ‘Be the same when pigs can fly, I reckon.’
The final customer stepped off the stoop and staggered a little as he started for home. One wedge of light extending from the saloon was blacked out when the big double doors were folded closed in front of the batwings. Then those from the flanking windows faded and disappeared as the kerosene lamps were doused, two at a time. The voices of Dalton, his wife and the whore were indistinct mutterings for a minute or so. Just one pair of woman’s footfalls sounded on the stairway and went along the hall to the far end without pausing outside the room where Barnaby Gold sat. A door was opened and closed. Below, in the rear of the building, another door closed, presumably behind the Daltons in their living quarters.
The man on the chair eased
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