dollars, and told Ethel they were square.
Gault had his flaws, but bilking frightened runaway wives wasn't
one of them.
Besides, now that he was filthy rich, he could afford to be
generous. He could start a damn foundation. He could become a charitable trust.
Instead, for the time being, he was redistributing the wealth by losing it at
poker. Not on purpose—a run of bad luck. He didn't mind. He had so much of it,
it felt like play money. And losing it widened his circle of acquaintances,
which was a nice side benefit. At first the men he sat down to play stud with
were scared to beat him, but they got over it as soon as they figured out he
wasn't going to shoot them for it. Then they started to like him. He tried to
tone down his own natural friendliness, act surly and dangerous and half-nuts,
but his heart wasn't in it. He was lonesome.
It was all Cady's fault. Every time she saw him she gave him the
same polite, freezing-cold smile and moved on. If he managed to corner her, she
said polite, freezing-cold things, and always turned down his offers to sit or
have a drink with him. Politely. She was killing him with politeness. Last
night he tried to get a rise out of her, maybe torture her a little, by sitting
down at her blackjack table, but he only ended up torturing himself. She
wouldn't even look at him. Slapped his cards down like she was trying to kill
flies with them, and took him for two hundred thirty dollars before he knew
what hit him. After that he stayed with the boys, his new poker pals, glowering
one-eyed at her over the head of a beer or the lip of a whiskey glass.
Okay, so he'd made a mistake about her. So shoot him. What exactly
was the big deal? If he'd phrased his suggestion to her just a little
differently, left out that one tiny, unfortunate reference to commerce, she
might have said yes. She sure had seemed to be heading in that direction. He
remembered how she'd felt leaning back against him, all soft and blowsy with
her pretty hair down, no corset, smiling and dreamy-eyed in the mirror. He
thought about her bed a lot, too, how big and soft it was, how it didn't
squeak. Cady McGill, saloon proprietor and blackjack dealer. Period. Not whore,
and not madam. She didn't sell it, she gave it away. Just not to him.
Not yet, anyway. The sixth sense that never let him down was
telling him he was finished here, Paradise had given up everything it was going
to, and if he was smart he'd ride out today. But all the other senses, the ones
McGill seemed to have pretty much taken over, told him he couldn't leave,
because he had unfinished business.
Five to one.
"Uh, so, Mr. Gault, I see you read our little paper. That's,
uh, very flattering. Sir."
Jesse, half dozing, daydreaming of Cady, lifted a corner of the
hot towel Cuomo the barber had slapped over his face. He blinked up at a pair
of horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a skinny nose over a wisp of a mustache.
"Who're you?"
"Will Shorter, Mr. Gault. I'm with the Paradise Reverberator."
"Junior," Cuomo stuck in, stropping a straight razor
behind Jesse's left shoulder. "Will Shorter, Junior."
Will Shorter, Jr., acknowledging that with a testy nod, stuck out
his hand. Jesse ignored it, and the kid—he couldn't have been more than twenty
or twenty-one—bobbed his head and blushed. "Sorry to bother you, Mr.
Gault, but I was wondering if by any chance you'd mind posing for a photograph.
For the Reverberator." He pointed to the newspaper lying open on
Jesse's sheet-covered lap.
"Why?"
"Why? Um, because our readers would be very interested, you
being a notor—a famous personage and everything. It would only take a minute or
two. At your convenience. It's a nice sunny day—we could do it outside."
"Who'd take it?"
"Why, I would, sir. I'm the paper's junior reporter and official
photographer."
"Hm." Jesse twitched his nostrils; Cuomo the barber was
trimming his mustache, making his nose itch. "What's in it for me?"
The reporter looked flummoxed. "We're
Gault had his flaws, but bilking frightened runaway wives wasn't
one of them.
Besides, now that he was filthy rich, he could afford to be
generous. He could start a damn foundation. He could become a charitable trust.
Instead, for the time being, he was redistributing the wealth by losing it at
poker. Not on purpose—a run of bad luck. He didn't mind. He had so much of it,
it felt like play money. And losing it widened his circle of acquaintances,
which was a nice side benefit. At first the men he sat down to play stud with
were scared to beat him, but they got over it as soon as they figured out he
wasn't going to shoot them for it. Then they started to like him. He tried to
tone down his own natural friendliness, act surly and dangerous and half-nuts,
but his heart wasn't in it. He was lonesome.
It was all Cady's fault. Every time she saw him she gave him the
same polite, freezing-cold smile and moved on. If he managed to corner her, she
said polite, freezing-cold things, and always turned down his offers to sit or
have a drink with him. Politely. She was killing him with politeness. Last
night he tried to get a rise out of her, maybe torture her a little, by sitting
down at her blackjack table, but he only ended up torturing himself. She
wouldn't even look at him. Slapped his cards down like she was trying to kill
flies with them, and took him for two hundred thirty dollars before he knew
what hit him. After that he stayed with the boys, his new poker pals, glowering
one-eyed at her over the head of a beer or the lip of a whiskey glass.
Okay, so he'd made a mistake about her. So shoot him. What exactly
was the big deal? If he'd phrased his suggestion to her just a little
differently, left out that one tiny, unfortunate reference to commerce, she
might have said yes. She sure had seemed to be heading in that direction. He
remembered how she'd felt leaning back against him, all soft and blowsy with
her pretty hair down, no corset, smiling and dreamy-eyed in the mirror. He
thought about her bed a lot, too, how big and soft it was, how it didn't
squeak. Cady McGill, saloon proprietor and blackjack dealer. Period. Not whore,
and not madam. She didn't sell it, she gave it away. Just not to him.
Not yet, anyway. The sixth sense that never let him down was
telling him he was finished here, Paradise had given up everything it was going
to, and if he was smart he'd ride out today. But all the other senses, the ones
McGill seemed to have pretty much taken over, told him he couldn't leave,
because he had unfinished business.
Five to one.
"Uh, so, Mr. Gault, I see you read our little paper. That's,
uh, very flattering. Sir."
Jesse, half dozing, daydreaming of Cady, lifted a corner of the
hot towel Cuomo the barber had slapped over his face. He blinked up at a pair
of horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a skinny nose over a wisp of a mustache.
"Who're you?"
"Will Shorter, Mr. Gault. I'm with the Paradise Reverberator."
"Junior," Cuomo stuck in, stropping a straight razor
behind Jesse's left shoulder. "Will Shorter, Junior."
Will Shorter, Jr., acknowledging that with a testy nod, stuck out
his hand. Jesse ignored it, and the kid—he couldn't have been more than twenty
or twenty-one—bobbed his head and blushed. "Sorry to bother you, Mr.
Gault, but I was wondering if by any chance you'd mind posing for a photograph.
For the Reverberator." He pointed to the newspaper lying open on
Jesse's sheet-covered lap.
"Why?"
"Why? Um, because our readers would be very interested, you
being a notor—a famous personage and everything. It would only take a minute or
two. At your convenience. It's a nice sunny day—we could do it outside."
"Who'd take it?"
"Why, I would, sir. I'm the paper's junior reporter and official
photographer."
"Hm." Jesse twitched his nostrils; Cuomo the barber was
trimming his mustache, making his nose itch. "What's in it for me?"
The reporter looked flummoxed. "We're
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