the window open a full inch and struck a match to light a cheroot. Dropped the dead match and then ash on the floor. He regretted not having asked for a pot of coffee to be sent up. But not for long. Wishful thinking about what might have been was as foreign to his nature as daydreaming on what the future could hold.
After the cheroot was smoked, the stub crushed out under a boot heel on the floor, he opened the window another inch. And dozed. Every lamp in Bacall was out by then. And the breeze that had stirred the trees when he dismounted in front of the Riverside Hotel had sprung up again. Was a little stronger now. Rattling the partially-opened window from time to time. He did not go deeply enough to sleep so that he failed to be aware of this noise. Which was the only sound he was aware of until the clop of hooves intruded.
He snapped open his eyes but did not move on the chair. Concentrated on listening to the slow cadence of the hooves on the street. Two horses, being walked up the sloping curve from the south. He listened to their approach for more than two minutes before the animals and their riders were close enough to be within his angle of vision.
Clearly seen in the moonlight which cast their shadows squat and distorted on the street across which eddies of dust occasionally swirled to the dictates of the east wind.
The riders were men not at all like those who lived in Bacall. Nor the mountain people from Tennessee who had moved west. This pair were more like one named Arkin than Clinton Davis.
Tall and well-built, lithe and loose-limbed. Dressed for the trail in spurred riding boots, pants, shirts and Stetsons. With thigh-length topcoats on against the cool night breeze. Not fastened, so that their gun-belts were displayed and they had easy access to the revolvers holstered below their right hips. Their clothing looked to be of good quality and they sat astride expensive saddles with all the accoutrements. On big, strong, well-groomed horses.
Although the shadows from the hat brims hid their faces, Gold got the impression that the two men were well short of middle-age. From the way they sat their saddles, the manner in which the horses were ill at ease with the slow pace and the small amount of trail dust clinging to clothing and horse coats, it looked as if men and animals had taken a long spell of rest not very far south of Bacall.
The newcomers exchanged no words or signals. One taking his cue from the other to angle toward the front of the hotel, coming to a halt beyond Gold’s angle of vision. He heard them dismount in unison and step up on to the stoop.
A fist banged on one of the big double doors.
It was at least two hours since the Daltons and the whore had gone to bed. And it required another, longer louder series of thuds with a fist on the door panel to rouse Arnie Dalton. Who yelled irritably that he was coming. Then muttered in the tone of cursing as he crossed the saloon to the entrance.
He was carrying a lamp which caused waves of light to come and go through the windows. Then two bolts were scraped in their fittings, the doors were opened and a wedge of solid yellowness angled out into the street.
‘Do somethin’ for you?’
Arnie Dalton sounded apprehensive at the sight of the two strangers.
‘Need a drink. Him and me both.’
‘Saloon’s closed.’ A pause. ‘What’s this?’
‘What’s it look like?’
‘It’s ten dollars.’
‘What it is. Put it toward your savings for your old age, mister. Go back to bed. Jake and me’ll attend to serving ourselves.’
‘I don’t know about that, gentlemen.’
‘Don’t plan on getting drunk. After we’ve had our fill, we’ll douse the lamp, close the doors when we leave.’
Just one of the newcomers had taken part in the exchange with Dalton until then. Now Jake spoke: ‘We look like thieves?’
‘No. I ain’t sayin’ that.’
‘Good. If you’re scared you got thieves living hereabouts, we’ll roust you out of
After the cheroot was smoked, the stub crushed out under a boot heel on the floor, he opened the window another inch. And dozed. Every lamp in Bacall was out by then. And the breeze that had stirred the trees when he dismounted in front of the Riverside Hotel had sprung up again. Was a little stronger now. Rattling the partially-opened window from time to time. He did not go deeply enough to sleep so that he failed to be aware of this noise. Which was the only sound he was aware of until the clop of hooves intruded.
He snapped open his eyes but did not move on the chair. Concentrated on listening to the slow cadence of the hooves on the street. Two horses, being walked up the sloping curve from the south. He listened to their approach for more than two minutes before the animals and their riders were close enough to be within his angle of vision.
Clearly seen in the moonlight which cast their shadows squat and distorted on the street across which eddies of dust occasionally swirled to the dictates of the east wind.
The riders were men not at all like those who lived in Bacall. Nor the mountain people from Tennessee who had moved west. This pair were more like one named Arkin than Clinton Davis.
Tall and well-built, lithe and loose-limbed. Dressed for the trail in spurred riding boots, pants, shirts and Stetsons. With thigh-length topcoats on against the cool night breeze. Not fastened, so that their gun-belts were displayed and they had easy access to the revolvers holstered below their right hips. Their clothing looked to be of good quality and they sat astride expensive saddles with all the accoutrements. On big, strong, well-groomed horses.
Although the shadows from the hat brims hid their faces, Gold got the impression that the two men were well short of middle-age. From the way they sat their saddles, the manner in which the horses were ill at ease with the slow pace and the small amount of trail dust clinging to clothing and horse coats, it looked as if men and animals had taken a long spell of rest not very far south of Bacall.
The newcomers exchanged no words or signals. One taking his cue from the other to angle toward the front of the hotel, coming to a halt beyond Gold’s angle of vision. He heard them dismount in unison and step up on to the stoop.
A fist banged on one of the big double doors.
It was at least two hours since the Daltons and the whore had gone to bed. And it required another, longer louder series of thuds with a fist on the door panel to rouse Arnie Dalton. Who yelled irritably that he was coming. Then muttered in the tone of cursing as he crossed the saloon to the entrance.
He was carrying a lamp which caused waves of light to come and go through the windows. Then two bolts were scraped in their fittings, the doors were opened and a wedge of solid yellowness angled out into the street.
‘Do somethin’ for you?’
Arnie Dalton sounded apprehensive at the sight of the two strangers.
‘Need a drink. Him and me both.’
‘Saloon’s closed.’ A pause. ‘What’s this?’
‘What’s it look like?’
‘It’s ten dollars.’
‘What it is. Put it toward your savings for your old age, mister. Go back to bed. Jake and me’ll attend to serving ourselves.’
‘I don’t know about that, gentlemen.’
‘Don’t plan on getting drunk. After we’ve had our fill, we’ll douse the lamp, close the doors when we leave.’
Just one of the newcomers had taken part in the exchange with Dalton until then. Now Jake spoke: ‘We look like thieves?’
‘No. I ain’t sayin’ that.’
‘Good. If you’re scared you got thieves living hereabouts, we’ll roust you out of
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