not allowed to pay
you."
"Why not?"
"Um... ethics. Sir."
Jesse reared up and sneezed, blowing mustache hairs off his chest.
"Then I'm not interested."
"What about lunch?" Cuomo suggested. "Buy him lunch
at the Frenchman's."
Will Shorter, Jr., widened hopeful eyes behind his horn-rims.
"The two-dollar lunch, Mr. Gault. Steak and potatoes, best in town."
Jesse fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully while Cuomo flicked at
his shoulders with a brush. "Vinegar pie for dessert?"
"Absolutely."
"Let's go."
****
It took a lot longer than a minute or two to have his picture
made. Will had to go get his camera at the Reverberator office, then set
it up on the sunny corner of Main and Noble Fir. While he waited, Jesse idled
in the shade, smoking cigarettes, staring back at people who stared at him. He
could sense a change in the average Paradise resident's attitude, and knew it
was still another reason why it was time for Gault to move on. People weren't as
afraid of him as they used to be. He'd been here for days and hadn't shot a
single person, so now they were more curious than scared. That was bad. He
ought to do something to stir them up, but he just didn't feel like it.
In truth, he was getting a little tired of Gault. Sure it was fun
to scare people, and sure it was nice to walk into a room and have it go all
quiet and cautious, while everybody checked him out and decided not to mess
with him. But then again, there were aspects of Gault that struck him at times
as pretty damn silly. Face it: sometimes Gault was a real horse's ass.
A man on crutches came hobbling toward him in the street. He had
his head down, concentrating on his good foot, swinging his splinted right leg
through the beat-up crutches clumsily, jerkily, like a beginner. Jesse didn't
recognize him till he'd passed all the way by, and then it was more the smell
than the sight that tripped his memory.
"Shrimp Malone."
The red-haired prospector stopped, teetered, hopped around in a
half circle, squinting into the sun. "Gault?"
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Fell down a cliff, broke my damn leg. You ain't gonna shoot
me, are you?"
Will Shorter was watching them with interest. Jesse said, "Be
right back," and left him to join Shrimp in the street. They started
walking together. "Where you headed?" Jesse asked, shortening his
steps to match the miner's gimpy shuffle.
"Church."
"Church."
Shrimp slanted him a funny look from under the bushy ledge of his
ginger eyebrows. "They give out stuff," he muttered.
"They what? Give out what?"
"Soup," he clarified shortly. "Once a day. They
dole it out to the poor an' the infirm. Which I'm both of these days." He
clamped his chicken lips together and concentrated on walking. He looked
terrible, worse than the first time they'd met, and that was saying something.
He smelled worse, too. Moving along on crutches in the hot sun made him sweat;
his dirty undershirt was soaking wet.
"When did this happen to you?"
"Satiddy. Day after I give you all my money. Every dad-blamed
cent." He turned his head to hawk and spit.
"Where've you been staying?"
No answer.
"Where do you live?"
Shrimp stopped short and faced him, swaying slightly, splinted leg
cocked back at the knee. "Listen here, Mr. Gault. No offense, but you can't
git blood from a stone. Since I already done give you everything I own, I
figger that makes us even. I don't got to tell you all about my private
business anymore." He almost looked dignified when he straightened his
shoulders, turned around, and stumped away.
Jesse caught up to him in three long strides. "Sleeping
outside, huh?" Shrimp snorted and didn't look at him. "That's
rough," he went on conversationally. "Only happened to me once. After
a poker game in San Francisco. I didn't care much for it. Speaking of poker
games—let's go over here for a second, you mind? Out of the sun. Yeah, this is
better. Sit down, take a load off."
"I only got a minute," the miner grumped uneasily,
lowering his
you."
"Why not?"
"Um... ethics. Sir."
Jesse reared up and sneezed, blowing mustache hairs off his chest.
"Then I'm not interested."
"What about lunch?" Cuomo suggested. "Buy him lunch
at the Frenchman's."
Will Shorter, Jr., widened hopeful eyes behind his horn-rims.
"The two-dollar lunch, Mr. Gault. Steak and potatoes, best in town."
Jesse fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully while Cuomo flicked at
his shoulders with a brush. "Vinegar pie for dessert?"
"Absolutely."
"Let's go."
****
It took a lot longer than a minute or two to have his picture
made. Will had to go get his camera at the Reverberator office, then set
it up on the sunny corner of Main and Noble Fir. While he waited, Jesse idled
in the shade, smoking cigarettes, staring back at people who stared at him. He
could sense a change in the average Paradise resident's attitude, and knew it
was still another reason why it was time for Gault to move on. People weren't as
afraid of him as they used to be. He'd been here for days and hadn't shot a
single person, so now they were more curious than scared. That was bad. He
ought to do something to stir them up, but he just didn't feel like it.
In truth, he was getting a little tired of Gault. Sure it was fun
to scare people, and sure it was nice to walk into a room and have it go all
quiet and cautious, while everybody checked him out and decided not to mess
with him. But then again, there were aspects of Gault that struck him at times
as pretty damn silly. Face it: sometimes Gault was a real horse's ass.
A man on crutches came hobbling toward him in the street. He had
his head down, concentrating on his good foot, swinging his splinted right leg
through the beat-up crutches clumsily, jerkily, like a beginner. Jesse didn't
recognize him till he'd passed all the way by, and then it was more the smell
than the sight that tripped his memory.
"Shrimp Malone."
The red-haired prospector stopped, teetered, hopped around in a
half circle, squinting into the sun. "Gault?"
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Fell down a cliff, broke my damn leg. You ain't gonna shoot
me, are you?"
Will Shorter was watching them with interest. Jesse said, "Be
right back," and left him to join Shrimp in the street. They started
walking together. "Where you headed?" Jesse asked, shortening his
steps to match the miner's gimpy shuffle.
"Church."
"Church."
Shrimp slanted him a funny look from under the bushy ledge of his
ginger eyebrows. "They give out stuff," he muttered.
"They what? Give out what?"
"Soup," he clarified shortly. "Once a day. They
dole it out to the poor an' the infirm. Which I'm both of these days." He
clamped his chicken lips together and concentrated on walking. He looked
terrible, worse than the first time they'd met, and that was saying something.
He smelled worse, too. Moving along on crutches in the hot sun made him sweat;
his dirty undershirt was soaking wet.
"When did this happen to you?"
"Satiddy. Day after I give you all my money. Every dad-blamed
cent." He turned his head to hawk and spit.
"Where've you been staying?"
No answer.
"Where do you live?"
Shrimp stopped short and faced him, swaying slightly, splinted leg
cocked back at the knee. "Listen here, Mr. Gault. No offense, but you can't
git blood from a stone. Since I already done give you everything I own, I
figger that makes us even. I don't got to tell you all about my private
business anymore." He almost looked dignified when he straightened his
shoulders, turned around, and stumped away.
Jesse caught up to him in three long strides. "Sleeping
outside, huh?" Shrimp snorted and didn't look at him. "That's
rough," he went on conversationally. "Only happened to me once. After
a poker game in San Francisco. I didn't care much for it. Speaking of poker
games—let's go over here for a second, you mind? Out of the sun. Yeah, this is
better. Sit down, take a load off."
"I only got a minute," the miner grumped uneasily,
lowering his
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