extended.
‘The sign, people, the sign.’
Apathetically the crowd repeated the sign. Valentine spoke again.
‘My people, the giving has been good. Festival prospers and although some may say the spirit does not come to us, no one can deny we live well and with honour. The peace of Festival extends as far as man may travel …’
Valentine stopped as a voice floated clearly over the crowd:
‘Horsepiss!’
A whole section of the crowd took up the cry.
‘Horsepiss!’
‘Horsepiss!’
The soldiers started to move forward as Valentine stood rooted, blood draining from his face. A beer jug shattered against the front of the Stage and a squad of troopers moved into the arena as more shouts came from the crowd.
‘The outlaws are flying out of the west!’
‘The outlaws — what about them?’
‘Bring back Starkweather!’
‘Starkweather!’
Suddenly Valentine’s voice roared over the speakers. ‘Shut up you swine! The Ceremony is over.’
He stalked from the Stage and the soldiers moved in to clear the sullen crowd from the arena.
10.
Elly-May dug her nails into the burly skinner, faking ecstasy as he grunted and humped on top of her. Mentally she cursed herself for turning down a free ride into Festival for Celebration. The revelry there had left Afghan Promise half-empty and she was forced to make a token with tricks like this oaf.
Why couldn’t she find more guys like the drifter who had got into the shootout with the troopers from Festival? He was a crystal freak and fargone too; turning a trick with him probably would have been weird and even painful, but at least he was pretty, and his eyes seemed to reflect more than the usual johns’ that hung round Eggs’s joint.
The skinner gasped and lay still. His dead weight forced her down on the hard bed. She wriggled to ease the bruises that still remained from the beating the soldiers had given her, trying to get information about the drifter.
‘You finished, darlin’?’
The skinner grunted and rolled over. Elly-May got up from the bed, wiped herself and squeezed into her dress. She threw the skinner’s shirt onto the bed.
‘You better get dressed an’ split darlin’; otherwise the boss’ll wanna charge you for twice.’
The skinner raised his head.
‘Stop hustlin’ ya bitch, I’ll go when I’m ready. Got it?’
‘Don’t tell me, darlin’, tell the boss. He makes the rules.’
Despite his protests, the skinner began pulling on his clothes. When he was dressed he came over and tried to grab her. Elly-May ducked under his arm.
‘All right lover boy, you had your fun. If you want any more you gotta pay, or I yell for the boys.’
Muttering, the man stumped out of the small room. Elly-May sat down on the bed and began to re-draw the patterns on her breasts and eyelids with colour sticks from her pouch.
Fug this town, she thought, I don’t know why I bother to get done up for most of these pigs. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t compete with the Festival girls: she had a good figure, breasts that needed no support, a slim waist, long legs. Her face was okay; maybe her nose was small and her mouth was a little too large, but the men seemed to like it that way; and her hair — she was really proud of its natural pure black and the way it hung almost to her waist, like in the text, ‘rolls and flows all down her breast’.
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a burst of gunfire on the strip. She jumped up and opened the window shutter a fraction. The strip was full of armed horsemen, firing into buildings and cutting down townsmen who ran frenziedly for safety. She slammed the shutter and pressed herself back against the wall. The unthinkable was happening.
Afghan Promise was being raided.
There was gunfire from the bar room and the wall shook. Elly-May looked around desperately. The only ways out were either through the window into the strip which was thronged with horsemen or through the door which led into the bar
‘The sign, people, the sign.’
Apathetically the crowd repeated the sign. Valentine spoke again.
‘My people, the giving has been good. Festival prospers and although some may say the spirit does not come to us, no one can deny we live well and with honour. The peace of Festival extends as far as man may travel …’
Valentine stopped as a voice floated clearly over the crowd:
‘Horsepiss!’
A whole section of the crowd took up the cry.
‘Horsepiss!’
‘Horsepiss!’
The soldiers started to move forward as Valentine stood rooted, blood draining from his face. A beer jug shattered against the front of the Stage and a squad of troopers moved into the arena as more shouts came from the crowd.
‘The outlaws are flying out of the west!’
‘The outlaws — what about them?’
‘Bring back Starkweather!’
‘Starkweather!’
Suddenly Valentine’s voice roared over the speakers. ‘Shut up you swine! The Ceremony is over.’
He stalked from the Stage and the soldiers moved in to clear the sullen crowd from the arena.
10.
Elly-May dug her nails into the burly skinner, faking ecstasy as he grunted and humped on top of her. Mentally she cursed herself for turning down a free ride into Festival for Celebration. The revelry there had left Afghan Promise half-empty and she was forced to make a token with tricks like this oaf.
Why couldn’t she find more guys like the drifter who had got into the shootout with the troopers from Festival? He was a crystal freak and fargone too; turning a trick with him probably would have been weird and even painful, but at least he was pretty, and his eyes seemed to reflect more than the usual johns’ that hung round Eggs’s joint.
The skinner gasped and lay still. His dead weight forced her down on the hard bed. She wriggled to ease the bruises that still remained from the beating the soldiers had given her, trying to get information about the drifter.
‘You finished, darlin’?’
The skinner grunted and rolled over. Elly-May got up from the bed, wiped herself and squeezed into her dress. She threw the skinner’s shirt onto the bed.
‘You better get dressed an’ split darlin’; otherwise the boss’ll wanna charge you for twice.’
The skinner raised his head.
‘Stop hustlin’ ya bitch, I’ll go when I’m ready. Got it?’
‘Don’t tell me, darlin’, tell the boss. He makes the rules.’
Despite his protests, the skinner began pulling on his clothes. When he was dressed he came over and tried to grab her. Elly-May ducked under his arm.
‘All right lover boy, you had your fun. If you want any more you gotta pay, or I yell for the boys.’
Muttering, the man stumped out of the small room. Elly-May sat down on the bed and began to re-draw the patterns on her breasts and eyelids with colour sticks from her pouch.
Fug this town, she thought, I don’t know why I bother to get done up for most of these pigs. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t compete with the Festival girls: she had a good figure, breasts that needed no support, a slim waist, long legs. Her face was okay; maybe her nose was small and her mouth was a little too large, but the men seemed to like it that way; and her hair — she was really proud of its natural pure black and the way it hung almost to her waist, like in the text, ‘rolls and flows all down her breast’.
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a burst of gunfire on the strip. She jumped up and opened the window shutter a fraction. The strip was full of armed horsemen, firing into buildings and cutting down townsmen who ran frenziedly for safety. She slammed the shutter and pressed herself back against the wall. The unthinkable was happening.
Afghan Promise was being raided.
There was gunfire from the bar room and the wall shook. Elly-May looked around desperately. The only ways out were either through the window into the strip which was thronged with horsemen or through the door which led into the bar
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