bed to lock the doors after we leave. Thanks.’
Dalton said nothing. Perhaps he had signalled them to enter. Or maybe Jake simply stepped across the threshold, forcing Dalton to back into the saloon ahead of him. Whichever, the lamplight changed shape and moved. The footfalls tracked from the entrance to the bar counter. The doors were closed. The bolts were not shot home. The light from the windows danced and dimmed. Brightened and was still when the lamp was set down on the bartop. Voices were now just small scratches on the silence from below.
Barnaby Gold stood up, leaned the Murcott against the wall and eased the window open to its fullest extent. There was a pained expression on his face as he made each movement: revealing the tension he was experiencing while he strove to do everything in total silence.
The timber of the window creaked a little halfway up the frame, but the sound was no louder than those of the breeze and the creek.
He stepped out on to the balcony and reached back inside for the shotgun. Then, setting down each booted foot with great care, he moved to the corner of the building. And on to the stairway that canted across the side facing the creek. His face did not lose the pained look until he was on the solid ground between the Riverside Hotel and the bank of the water course.
The breeze stirred his open frock coat as he started back along the side of the building, then turned to go across half the front. The horses hitched to the rail looked at him fleetingly. Lost interest in him. The street, with small puffs of wind-stirred dust dancing on it, was otherwise empty.
He did not have to go up on to the stoop to see into the saloon through the window to the right of the entrance: had the height to see as much as he needed while standing on the street.
The two newcomers were standing at the bar, their broad backs to him. Each had a shot glass in his hand. Arnie Dalton, dressed in a blue nightshirt, was starting toward the double doors that gave on to the kitchen and, presumably, the private quarters of the hotel. He glanced back at his late night customers twice. And both times it was plain to see the dread that was deeply inscribed on his pale face.
‘Night to you, Mr Dalton!’ This from the one who had done most of the talking when they arrived.
Dalton opened and closed his mouth twice. Only then managed to call out: ‘Good night, gentlemen!’
‘Thanks for your trouble!’ Jake added.
Then the hotelman went through the double doors. And the dialogue section of the play in which Dalton had taken such a reluctant role was over. Then one of the men still on stage finished his rye, crouched out of sight of Gold for several seconds. Straightened again to put his boots on the bartop. Jake nodded to him and the man drew his revolver and took long, silent strides toward the foot of the stairway.
‘This sure does taste good, Chester! Near as good as that first bottle of liquor we had after we got to Dodge City that time! You recall that, partner? Hell, we swallowed some dust that trip, didn’t we? That sonofabitch of a trail boss had us riding drag the whole...’
Chester had moved outside Barnaby Gold’s range of vision now. Jake poured two more shots from the bottle, but did not lift either glass. For to drink would have left a gap in the monologue he was addressing to himself in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. His reflection showed him to be an ugly man of a little over thirty. Hard-eyed and with a bushy black moustache, teeth of almost the same colour, and a knife scar on his right cheek.
As he continued to recall the events on the trail drive and its rewards in Dodge City, Kansas - not pausing to allow his absent partner an opportunity to interject - his tone altered to take account of whether the memories were pleasant or painful. But his expression of tense expectancy did not change at all.
‘...whole time! But the grub was real fine, wasn’t it? What was the cook’s
Dalton said nothing. Perhaps he had signalled them to enter. Or maybe Jake simply stepped across the threshold, forcing Dalton to back into the saloon ahead of him. Whichever, the lamplight changed shape and moved. The footfalls tracked from the entrance to the bar counter. The doors were closed. The bolts were not shot home. The light from the windows danced and dimmed. Brightened and was still when the lamp was set down on the bartop. Voices were now just small scratches on the silence from below.
Barnaby Gold stood up, leaned the Murcott against the wall and eased the window open to its fullest extent. There was a pained expression on his face as he made each movement: revealing the tension he was experiencing while he strove to do everything in total silence.
The timber of the window creaked a little halfway up the frame, but the sound was no louder than those of the breeze and the creek.
He stepped out on to the balcony and reached back inside for the shotgun. Then, setting down each booted foot with great care, he moved to the corner of the building. And on to the stairway that canted across the side facing the creek. His face did not lose the pained look until he was on the solid ground between the Riverside Hotel and the bank of the water course.
The breeze stirred his open frock coat as he started back along the side of the building, then turned to go across half the front. The horses hitched to the rail looked at him fleetingly. Lost interest in him. The street, with small puffs of wind-stirred dust dancing on it, was otherwise empty.
He did not have to go up on to the stoop to see into the saloon through the window to the right of the entrance: had the height to see as much as he needed while standing on the street.
The two newcomers were standing at the bar, their broad backs to him. Each had a shot glass in his hand. Arnie Dalton, dressed in a blue nightshirt, was starting toward the double doors that gave on to the kitchen and, presumably, the private quarters of the hotel. He glanced back at his late night customers twice. And both times it was plain to see the dread that was deeply inscribed on his pale face.
‘Night to you, Mr Dalton!’ This from the one who had done most of the talking when they arrived.
Dalton opened and closed his mouth twice. Only then managed to call out: ‘Good night, gentlemen!’
‘Thanks for your trouble!’ Jake added.
Then the hotelman went through the double doors. And the dialogue section of the play in which Dalton had taken such a reluctant role was over. Then one of the men still on stage finished his rye, crouched out of sight of Gold for several seconds. Straightened again to put his boots on the bartop. Jake nodded to him and the man drew his revolver and took long, silent strides toward the foot of the stairway.
‘This sure does taste good, Chester! Near as good as that first bottle of liquor we had after we got to Dodge City that time! You recall that, partner? Hell, we swallowed some dust that trip, didn’t we? That sonofabitch of a trail boss had us riding drag the whole...’
Chester had moved outside Barnaby Gold’s range of vision now. Jake poured two more shots from the bottle, but did not lift either glass. For to drink would have left a gap in the monologue he was addressing to himself in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. His reflection showed him to be an ugly man of a little over thirty. Hard-eyed and with a bushy black moustache, teeth of almost the same colour, and a knife scar on his right cheek.
As he continued to recall the events on the trail drive and its rewards in Dodge City, Kansas - not pausing to allow his absent partner an opportunity to interject - his tone altered to take account of whether the memories were pleasant or painful. But his expression of tense expectancy did not change at all.
‘...whole time! But the grub was real fine, wasn’t it? What was the cook’s
Similar Books
