Текст книги "Dead in the West"

Автор книги: Joe R. Lansdale

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A few yard pets disappeared, though one small dog was found the next morning with its belly savaged. The way it was torn up wolves were suspicioned.

Certainly there had been a wolf howling last night.

From the sound of it, a large one.

…

And it was almost time.

…

IX

Next morning the Reverend cleaned his suit, and put on a fresh shirt from his saddlebag, spit-polished his boots.

He did not start his morning with a swig of whisky this time. He truly craved bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee.

He went over to Molly McGuire's for breakfast.

The cafe was bustling, noisy.

Waitresses moved back and forth from kitchen to table like ants from harvest to home.

They carried plates of flapjacks, bacon and eggs, pots of steaming coffee.

From his vantage point in the doorway, the Reverend saw one old codger grab a handful of a waitress' ass. She slapped it away in a professional manner, set the fellow's plate down without losing her smile.

At a table against the wall, he spotted the sheriff's badge. It was pinned on a broad-shouldered man of medium height and a sadly handsome appearance. That was the man he needed to see.

The sheriff was sitting at the table with a considerably older man who looked as weathered as an Indian's moccasins.

There was an empty table next to them, and as they were talking briskly back and forth, waving their hands about, he decided to take up that position until a good opportunity presented itself.

When he was seated, he strained an ear for their conversation. He was not even aware of the habit. He had learned it long ago. When traveling from town to town, preparing a sermon, he liked to eavesdrop on what was said. Sometimes it gave him the ability to work into his sermon a message that an individual would recognize. If he heard some man gloating over how he was dipping his wick into another man's wife, he would speak his sermon in such a way that the man might think God had given the preacher inside information.

It came in handy when the offering plate was passed. With their guilt boiled to the surface, the repenters (at least for that moment) would put in heavily, trying to buy off God.

As of last night, the Reverend had decided he would return to the original inspiration of his sermons. Desire to spread the gospel. He was God's boy again, and preaching purely for coinage to afford whisky was no longer his design.

Yet old habits—like eavesdropping—die hard.

"Well," said the older man to the sheriff, "I guess that means you ain't come up with nothing?"

"Not a thing. I rode out the stage trail this morning. Didn't see hide or hair of the passengers.... Could have been Indians, I guess. Or robbers."

'"You're grabbing at farts," the older man said. "Matt, you know well as I do there ain't been no Indian trouble around here in years. 'Cept maybe that medicine show fellow and his woman, and we took care of that problem."

"You hung him. Not me. I wasn't there."

"Judas didn't nail up Jesus either," the older man said with a mean smile. "Cut the holy-on-me shit, boy. You gave him to us. It's the same thing. And it ain't nothing to feel guilty for. He was just an Indian and that gal was half nigger at the least."

"He was an innocent man."

"Like the feller said, 'only good Injun is a dead'n'. And I'll second that on niggers, greasers, and half-bloods."

The Reverend noticed that Matt's face drew up in disgust, but he said nothing.

"All right," the older man continued. "It wasn't Indians, and it damn sure wasn't no robbers. Didn't you say the bags wasn't bothered with?"

Matt nodded. "Shitty robbers, I'd say. Polite like too. After they got the folks off the stage and hid them, they was nice enough to bring the stage on in, set the brake, and leave it in the middle of the goddamned street. Hell, I don't know why the lazy sonsabitches didn't just go on and feed the horses."

The two sat silent for a moment, and the Reverend took this as his cue. He stood up and stepped over to their table.

"Excuse me" said the Reverend to the sheriff, "I'd like a word with you."

"Speak ahead. This here is Caleb Long. Sometimes he's a deputy of mine."

The Reverend nodded at Caleb, who examined him with a look of wry humor.

Turning back to the sheriff, the Reverend said, "Sheriff, I'm a man of God. I travel from town to town teaching and spreading the Word...."

"And filling your offering plates," Caleb said.

The Reverend looked at Caleb. Considering that for some time that was exactly what he had been doing, he could not find it in himself to anger. He nodded.

"Yes, I admit that. I'm a man of God, but like you, I must eat. But I do bring something with me besides a sermon. I bring the Word of our Lord and eternal salvation."

"You fixin' to pass the plate now, Reverend? If so, don't push it my way. I don't buy nothing I can't see."

"I suppose I get a might carried away when the subject of the Lord is brought up," the Reverend said.

"You brought it up," Caleb said.

"So I did."

"Pardon me," Matt said, "but Reverend, do you think we could cut through the horseshit here and get down to cases? What can I do for you?"

"I would like to rent a tent, and with your permission, hold a night of gospel singing, prayer, and bringing lost souls to Jesus." Glancing at Caleb. "And passing the offering plate."

"It's all right by me," Matt said, "but we have a preacher.

He might not take too kindly to an outside Bible yacker. And as far as I know, he's the only one around these parts with a tent like you want. He used to travel-preach too."

"That a fact," the Reverend said.

"You go down the street," Matt pointed in a southerly direction, "till you come to a church, and Reverend Calhoun lives in part of it. You tell him it's okay by me if it's okay by him."

"Thanks," said the Reverend.

Caleb stood, tossed money on the table for his breakfast. He lifted one leg and cut loose with a loud fart.

For a moment the cafe went quiet. Customers stared at him.

Loud enough for everyone to hear, Caleb said, "Don't let it slow you none, folks. My mama didn't teach me no manners." He turned to Matt, "See you," then to the Reverend,

"See you in church, preacher boy," and he went out.

"Unusual sense of humor your friend has," the Reverend said.

"He's a little unrefined."

"I suppose that's the word for it."

"He was trying to embarrass you."

"He did the job nicely"

"He hates preachers. One raped his mama when he was a boy."

"And what about you? Do you hate preachers?"

"Are you an honest-to-God preacher?"

"I am."

"Then do me a favor, say a little prayer for me. I think I need one."

Matt stood up, tossed money on the table, and went out.

When he was gone, the Reverend said softly, "I will."

X

After breakfast, the Reverend paid up and started out the door. As he opened it, a beautiful dark-haired woman came in. The Reverend was stunned. She looked just the way he figured his sister would look now. He stood in front of her for a moment too long before stepping aside to let her pass.

As she did, she smiled and he tipped his hat.

Behind the woman was an elderly man with cigar-ash colored hair, glasses, and a glance that could drop a buffalo at fifty paces.

The elderly man took the woman's arm, walked her to a table. When they were seated, he turned to look back at the Reverend who was still dumbly holding the door.

The Reverend nodded, and as the woman smiled at him a second time, he hastened out.

As he walked toward the church, he had a sudden sinking in his stomach. He knew the woman was not his sister. They were not twins in appearance, but she certainly reminded him of her, and the old lust of her memory rose in his loins.

Was the woman one of God's little tests?

If so, she was a good one. He was as shook as an Indian rattle.

As he passed the livery, he saw David standing in the doorway grooming a horse. David waved. The Reverend waved back and continued down the street, the image of the woman still burning in his brain.

…

Unheard by David, when the Reverend walked by the livery – in the loft, hidden beneath loose hay – a crate had shifted ever so slightly in the Reverend's direction, as if it were a compass needle trying to point true north: the Reverend.

When the Reverend came to the end of the street, smack dab in the middle of it was a large white church with a large white cross sticking up into the sky. Out beside the church was a slope-off house, and beside that was a fenced-in garden, and in the garden, working furiously at weeds with a hoe, was Reverend Calhoun.

Jeb knew he was a Reverend at a glance. Like his father, Calhoun wore a constant mask of stern Baptist conviction. He worked at the weeds in his desperate little garden like the Lord himself chopping down sinners.

Calhoun lifted his head, leaned on his hoe, and wiped his sleeve at his sweaty forehead.

As he did, he laid eyes on the Reverend. He frowned slightly from habit, went to lean on the fence surrounding his garden.

The Reverend leaned on it as well.

"Good day, sir, I'm Reverend Jebidiah Mercer. I've come to ask you a favor."

"A favor?"

"One that any good Christian could not refuse."

"We'll see about that," Calhoun said.

"The sheriff gave me permission, if it's all right with you, to hold a night of gospel here in Mud Creek. He wanted to be sure you agreed, as he didn't want there to be conflict, though I hardly see how there could be conflict between us—two men of God."

"That so?" Calhoun said.

The Reverend smiled. He seldom did that of his own free will, only out of habit when he was after something he wanted. He felt as if his silver-tongued approach was not doing much good against this old preacher dog.

"He also said that you had a tent, and I would need a tent. I'd like to rent it for the preaching."

"I haven't given you permission for any preaching yet. Youdid say the sheriff said he wanted you to have my permission, did you not?"

"I did at that. I'm willing to pay nicely for the rental of that tent, by the way."

"How nicely?"

"You name it."

"Six bits."

"A popular price," said the Reverend. He reached in his pocket for the money.

"I choose the night you preach."

"I wouldn't want it to conflict with your services. You choose the night."

"Very well, Saturday."

The Reverend stopped the hand with the money.

"Saturday? Now Reverend Calhoun, I want to abide by your wishes, but that is the worst night of the week. The saloon will be filled."

"Take it or leave it, Mr. Mercer."

"Reverend Mercer."

"Take it or leave it."

Frowning. "I'll take it." The Reverend slapped the money into Calhoun's outstretched palm.

Calhoun counted it out, slipped it into his pants pocket.

"You sure you're a preacher?" he asked.

"Don't I look like one?"

"You don't see that many with a gun. Carrying a pistol is hardly part of the Lord's work, Mr. Mercer."

"Reverend Mercer."

"It seems mighty peculiar that you carry a revolver like a common gunslinger, you supposedly being a man of peace,"

"Who said the Lord's work is peaceful? Sometimes it's necessary to bring a sword to deal with the infidels... or a gun...." Smiling. "Besides, you haven't heard any of my sermons. I have to have something to persuade attendance with."

If Calhoun caught the joke, he didn't show it. "Would you like to get the tent, Mr. Mercer.

I have work to do."

"Right. The tent."

II

The interior of the church was sparse. Rows of pews, a pulpit on a raised platform, and behind it on the wall: a huge, crude, wooden cross bearing a cruder Jesus of the German grotesque school.

Dead center of the middle row of pews was a door. Calhoun led the Reverend there and opened it. He reached inside, took hold of a kerosene lamp, and lit it. He turned up the wick and they went down a row of creaking stairs.

The Reverend could see a high window to the rear covered with a thick curtain. Light crept through it. Though the room was deep, the roof of it was still on a level with the rest of the church. It appeared that at one time there had been a second floor, but it had been torn away to make room for all the things stored there, stacked atop one another like dog turds.

There were boxes, barrels, bundles, and crates. Against the wall—covered in dust—was a rack of Winchesters, double-barreled shotguns, and a couple of ancient Sharps rifles.

Near them, were several crates marked AMMUNITION and ARMS.

"For a man who dislikes guns," the Reverend said, "you certainly have a few on hand."

"Don't be snide with me, boy.... When they first built this church it was used as storage, and as a sort of fortress against outlaws and Indians.... Well, we never really had much of either. The guns are still here, and there are bars on most of the windows. Come next year, I'm taking the bars out, and I'm going to see if I can't get the town council to move all this out of here. I could put the space to better use."

"What's in all these other crates?"

"Tools. Some clothes. Odds and ends. Pistols and ammunition."

The Reverend walked over to the gun rack and looked. Though some of the guns had spots of rust on them, they looked to be in pretty good shape. The dried-brick walls must have been pretty air tight.

"Here's the tent, Mr. Mercer."

"Reverend Mercer," Jeb said turning.

III

He had a relapse.

After he and Calhoun dragged the massive tent upstairs, and the Reverend hired a wagon to haul it over to The Hotel Montclaire, then hired a fistful of boys to help him carry it up to his room, he saw the woman again.

He had come out of the hotel onto the sidewalk with the boys, and he was paying them each—six bits of course—when he saw the dark-haired woman who looked like his sister crossing the street with the elderly man.

She was holding the man's arm firmly, and she turned and looked in the Reverend's direction.

It was a good distance between them, but it was as if the Reverend could feel the aftereffect tingling of a close-strike lightning bolt. It made his groin ache and-his soul feel bad.

He went upstairs, locked himself in his room, and masturbated to the woman's image.

Then he got back on the whisky.

There was yet another bottle in his saddlebags, and he took it out and resumed his drinking position on the bed. He felt totally unworthy of the second chance God had given him. He had messed it up. Here he was, once again, with the devil juice which he could not handle, and here he was lusting after his sister or a woman who brought her to mind, throbbing his manhood with his hand like a schoolboy. He had the willpower of a rabid dog.

He knew the night would come and with it would come the dreams—the boat down the river of hell with the spider-thing at the end.

There was a knock on the door.

The Reverend was amazed to find that he had thrown the whisky bottle to his left hand and drawn his Navy from his pants as easily as he had drawn his lily out earlier and stroked it until it gave dew.

He rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed.

He put the whisky bottle on the floor, stood, and put the revolver and himself in his pants again.

There was another knock.

"Hold your horses," the Reverend said.

He opened the door.

Looking up at him was David from the livery.

IV

"Don't tell me," the Reverend said. "The price of my horse has gone up another six bits, and I have to supply the currycomb."

David ignored him, sniffed.

"Smells like a drunk's nest in here—and maybe like you been greasing your axle."

"A boy your age should know," the Reverend said, somewhat embarrassed that he had been found out.

"Yeah, but I got an excuse. I'm too young for women."

"What can I do for you?"

"I thought you preachers didn't approve of strong drink."

"I don't, but I drink it anyway. Medicinal purposes.... Something I can do for you, or you just come by to give me a temperance lecture?"

"You don't seem quite as pert and godly as you did yesterday, if you don't mind me saying so, Reverend." David smiled broadly.

"Would you like me to wipe that smile off your face?"

David quit smiling. "No thanks."

"Then for the sake of heaven, get on with it. What do you want, before I die of boredom?"

"That gun you carry. You any good with it?"

"I generally hit what I aim at, even if I throw the gun at it."

"Yeah, you look like a man that could do that—I want a shooting lesson."

The Reverend took hold of the door as if to shut it. "I don't give lessons, boy. Get your pa."

"He don't teach me nothing but hard work."

"Builds character, good day."

"I'd pay you."

"You'd pay me to teach you how to shoot?"

David nodded.

"Why do you want to learn so bad?"

"Something a man ought to know, I reckon. Papa says I ain't much at doing things a man ought to do. Says I'm short of hard work and the ways of a man."

"You're just short, that's all. You're a boy."

"Says I'm like my mama—a dreamer."

"My father said the same thing of me."

"Did he?"

"Among other things."

"Can I quit standing out here in the hallway?"

"I guess."

David came in, and the Reverend closed the door, sat back on the bed. David stood.

The Reverend picked up his whisky and took a swig.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a drunk," David said.

"Appearances are deceiving," the Reverend said, and drank again.

'"You look—I don't know—special. Like you really are the right hand of the Lord—you know?"

"No."

There was an awkward silence.

"Look, I'll give you a shooting lesson," the Reverend said. "Tomorrow morning. But I don't want your money. I want a favor."

"Name it. Anything."

"Slow down. Don't agree to anything until it's been explained to you. You might be sending your head to Old Glory on a one-way ticket without meaning to. Hear me out."

The Reverend nodded at the tent on the floor.

"Got a sermon to do Saturday night. I'll need some boys to put that tent up for me. I hired me some to bring it upstairs, but I didn't like their work. I did most of it, and I sure don't want a bunch of loafers when it's time to put it up."

"I can do that. I know some good workers, I..."

Holding up a hand. "Wait a minute. I also need some boys to pass out a few bills I'm going to have the paper office print up. They'll announce the sermon's time and place.

Can I depend on you to get those passed around and tacked up around town?"

"You can."

"Good. Now run along. I've got a headache."

David nodded. "Reverend—you've probably had enough whisky, don't you think?"

"I'll be the judge of that. Now get out before I bounce you out."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, one other thing. While I'm giving you this shooting lesson, while we're out in the country, I'd like to get you to help me to cut a few poles for the tent." The Reverend stood. "And here, take some money and rent us a wagon from your pa. Tell him I'm hiring you for some work. He'll like that. Make him feel good to know you're out there sweating."

"Let's see," David said. "Cut some poles, put up a tent, pass some bills out, and rent a wagon—want me to just go on and preach your sermon for you, Reverend?"

"Very funny. A regular Eddie Foy. Now go."

David went.

The Reverend closed the door, sat down on the bed again, and picked up the whisky bottle. It was halfway to his lips when he thought of something David had said. "You look—I don't know—special. Like you really are the right hand of the Lord..."

"Damn me," the Reverend said, and stood up.

Carrying the bottle with him, he walked over to the window and looked out. He saw David crossing the street, a few pedestrians.

He turned and looked in the mirror. He did not like what he saw. He turned back to the window and poured the whisky out of it, then using his gun butt, he broke the bottle and tossed it in the trash box.

Returning to the mirror he examined himself again. He didn't like what he saw any better, but he had made a decision. No more whisky to bind him like chains. He would do God's bidding. He would be what David had called him: "the right hand of the Lord."

Suddenly, the Reverend slammed a fist into the mirror and shattered it, cutting his hand in the process. He had said and done all this before.

He held the injured hand over the washbasin and looked at his shattered reflection.

Somehow, that looked better to him. 'Tm trying, Lord, I'm trying."

He washed his hands clean in his slow, ritualistic manner, as if ridding himself of some foul slime he could feel and smell but could not see.

And then it came to him. If the dark-haired woman was a test, David had been an aid from the Lord. A dose of strength. He was not lost after all.

He looked in the mirror again, and this time he laughed, and thought: "Staying in this damned hotel is going to be expensive."

V

In a crate, in the loft of Rhine's livery—another lay in slumber—away from the light, wrapped in euphoria, an inner-clock beating away the minutes of daylight, ticking them off until nightfall.

That was when it would all begin.

Long about sundown, Joe Bob Rhine called it a day.

He sent David home ahead of him. He wanted to walk home by himself and not have to hear any foolish kid chatter. It had been a rough day.

As Rhine closed the doors of the livery, slipped the big, gray padlock into place, the last of the sun played out and gave it up to the dark. And when the lock clicked into place, Joe Bob thought he heard something move in symphony to the sound—something like a creaking noise.

Horses, most likely.

Rhine trudged toward home, a house at the end of the street just behind the barber shop.

He was hungry as a fresh-woke bear. He hoped that woman had something on the table.

He was too tired to slap her around tonight.

Shortly after Rhine made his way into his house full of the smell of beans and cornbread, the livery doors trembled ever so slightly. The padlock fell off the door without unlocking, thumped in the dust. The doors blew open with a gust of ice-cold wind, and the wind tumbled down the street.

The livery doors closed. The padlock jumped into place, and all was as it had been.

Almost.

II

The dog was a night hunter. Belonged to no one. Padded its way through the darkness, down the streets of the town, ever watching, ever alert.

Sometimes people shot at it, because the dog was known to be vicious, its one purpose in life was to scavenge, to dig in garbage, and attack small livestock.

One year it had wiped out the entire population of old man Mather's rabbit hutches and killed his prize boar hog—no easy feat.

It had bitten a young boy who had tried to hit it with a stick, and chased every dog in town away with their tails between their legs. For a year now, it had dodged bullets, rocks, and oaths. It was smart. It was a survivor.

During the day, the dog laid low. Hit town about sundown, when most people were about their suppers, and the saloons hadn't had time to crank up good. It was a good time to scavenge. And tonight, the dog was working its favorite place. The alley behind Molly McGuire's Cafe. There was generally plenty of tasty garbage there, except on Fridays when Uncle Bains brought his wagon around and hauled it all off.

But tonight was a good night. He could smell chili and hard biscuits and soggy flapjacks.

The dog climbed up on a wooden trash box and pushed it over. It made a loud thud and its contents puked into the alley. The dog did not rush to eat, though its mouth was watering. It watched the back of the cafe, turned to look down both ends of the alley. No one was coming.

The dog ducked its head into the box, used its teeth and forepaws to move paper and tins aside so it could get to the good stuff. First off, the dog found a flapjack with syrup and a spot of chili on it, and wolfed that down. Soon the dog was lost in his appreciation of what had been left for him, and by the time the dog knew something was amiss—it was too late.

Wasn't just the smell that alerted the him. Something else, a sixth sense. The dog pulled its head out of the box for a look.

He raised his hackles and his loose mouth folded back to reveal long, yellow, foam-flecked fangs. A low growl came from his throat.

A shape moved in the shadows.

The dog didn't like this at all. He had not felt what he was feeling now since he was a pup.

Fear.

But fear was a thing to overcome. The dog was a survivor. He was big and he was strong.

Teeth snapping, the dog leaped for the shape.

The dog yelped once before dying.

III

Nate Foster was Mud Creek's town drunk, and he was the neatest drunk in creation. He wore a black Prince Albert coat (hundred degree weather or not), striped, stovepipe trousers, and a crisp derby hat to perfection.

He was already six bottles of beer and two bottles of whisky ahead of every other drunk in town. That was because he had a two-hour start on most of them, and he could easily afford it. Unlike the other drunks, Nate Foster—king of Mud Creek's drunks—was also the town banker, and he made a rather good salary at it.

Tonight, Nate was particularly rolled up and pulled tight, feeling no pain. He had gotten started earlier than usual, and the whisky had been potent.

Now that he was well lubricated, he was about his nightly stroll (the school mistress, Bessie Jackson, called it his nightly wobble) toward Molly McGuire's where he would order a steak and hash browns, hold the gravy but plenty of biscuits. Then he'd be ready to tie on a real drunk.

He was nearly to the cafe when he felt the urge to urinate.

Piss first. Eat later.

Moving at a slightly faster wobble, Nate slid down a narrow alley that led to the larger one behind Molly's. No sooner had he made the alley, unbuttoning his pants as he went, than he tripped over something and went down hard, pissing all over himself.

"Goddamn," he muttered, and pushed up on his elbows. A gorge of beer and whisky almost forced its way up.

Nate rolled over on his right side to see what he had tripped over. There was a dark shape at his feet.

He reached into his pocket, produced a match, and with great deliberation, and after many tries, struck it on his thumbnail.

He bent to place the match closer to the heap. It was a dog. That big dog that had troubled the town so much. And God almighty, its throat was ripped out.

Nate didn't feel so drunk anymore. He stood quickly, and as he did, he had the terrible sensation that someone, or something, was watching him.

He licked his lips and turned, slowly.

Nothing.

Just the alley wearing its shadows and a thin light like a straight razor's edge sliding out from beneath the back door of Molly McGuire's.

But the sensation did not go away.

Nate wasn't so curious he wanted to stay in the alley and find out what it was. He turned to head out the way he had entered.

And ran right smack dab into a big man's chest. Nate looked up. The face of the man was shielded by a great, flat-brimmed, black hat. It looked like... but it couldn't be....

The man bent closer, and now Nate could see the Indian's face, not clearly, but enough to know who it was.

"You," Nate said.

"Howdy," said the big man.

Nate tried to scream, but instead of a scream, he got a spout of beer and whisky puke that splattered on the chest of the big Indian.

"Not nice," the Indian said. "Not nice at all."

The Indian's hands shot out and clutched Nate's Prince Albert. He pulled Nate to him, and bent his face down close to Nate's and smiled.

IV

Ten miles outside of Mud Creek, in the forest at the edge of the stage-line trail, a long, slender white hand pushed up through the soft forest soil.

Nearby, other hands pushed up through the dirt.

After a moment, Millie Johnson had the soil worked away from her face—what was left of it. She had both hands free and was scraping the thin layer of dirt from her body.

Bill Nolan had already managed.

He sat bolt upright like a jackknife springing open. A wad of dirt slipped out of his empty eye socket. Nolan reached up absently and pulled his eye patch back into place over the hole.

Next to him the dirt quivered like a ground hog working, and up popped the gambler.

Nolan, with his broken right hand, slapped out at the gambler, striking him in the face.

The gambler, whose neck hung at an awkward angle because there was a plug out of it big as a fist, growled.

Nearby, Lulu came out of the ground. Her dress was ripped from bodice to groin. One of her breasts was missing. It looked to have been ripped, or gnawed off. She didn't mind.

She stood up.

Jake popped up, dirt raining off of him. And clinging to his chest was the little girl, Mignon. She slipped off and fell to the ground like a bloated tick. She lay there on her stomach for a moment. The back of her dress was ripped open and so was her back. Her spine was visible.

All of them stumbled out to the edge of the trail and began to walk.

Toward Mud Creek.

V

Sheriff Matt Cage sat at his desk drinking coffee.

The door opened and Caleb came in.

"Sit down, you old fart face," Matt said.

"Don't mind if I do.... If you got something besides that cat piss to drink."

Matt smiled, opened a desk drawer, and produced two shot glasses with one hand, and with the other he pulled out a bottle of redeye.

Caleb sat down on the opposite side of the desk. "Now you're talking," he said.

Matt started to pour the whisky. He filled one shot glass, and as the first splash went into the second, he hesitated. There was a fly in the bottom.

"I see it, and don't let it stop you," Caleb said.

Caleb reached out, put his hand over Mart's, and poured the shot glass full. He took the glass and sipped. Matt frowned.

"When I lived with the Indians," Caleb said, "may they all die off terribly and may God's people take their places– when a fly lit in the stew that was just extry meat. You just stirred that rascal in. Ain't lost the habit yet. What makes me healthy."

"God almighty, Caleb. Why do I stay around you?" "I reckon it's my natural charm."

Caleb took a big gulp of the whisky, wiping it and the fly out.

"Do her again " Caleb said. Matt poured.

When the glass was full, Caleb raised it in toast. "Here's to women with legs just like I like 'em. Feet on one end, pussy on the other" They drank.

"You know," Caleb said, wiping his mouth with a filthy sleeve, "tonight reminds me of the night we hung that Injun. It's great hanging weather out there. Crisp and cool." "Don't start it, Caleb."

Caleb reached into his shirt and pulled out a pair of female ears on a strand of leather around his neck. "Put it away," Matt said. "Getting squeamish in your old age?" "Sick of seeing it, that's all." Matt stood. "I'm going to make my rounds." Matt took his hat from a wall peg.