Cities of the Red Night

I point to a rifle in one corner: '30-30?' He nods.

We sit down on the bed and take off our boots and socks. Smell of feet and leather and swamp water.

'I'm tired,' I say. 'Think I'll turn in.'

'Me too. I've come a long way.'

He blows out the kerosene lamp. Moonlight streams through the side window. Frogs croak. An owl hoots. A dog barks in the distance. We take off our shirts and pants and hang them on wooden pegs. He turns towards me, his shorts sticking out at the fly.

'That stuff makes me hot,' he says. 'Shall we camel?'

When I wake up sunlight is streaming in the front window.

We get up, wash and dress and go down to the bar for a breakfast of ham and eggs, corn muffins and coffee. We walk up to the store, where a youth of fifteen or sixteen is loading the buckboard. He turns and holds out his hand.

'I'm Steve Ellisor.'

'Noah Blake.'

'Guy Star.'

The boy wears a Colt Frontier at his hip.

'32-20?'

He nods. He has russet hair and skin the same color. I figure he must be the son of the saloonkeeper. I go into the store and buy a slicker, mess kit and bedroll for Guy, a two-man tent, a can of white paint with three brushes, a bushel of apples, corn on cob and three stools. We give the Ellisor boy a hand loading the gear, climb in back and sit on the stools. The boy takes the reins and we move off down the road. When we come to the turn the boy points to the saloon.

'Get some bad hombres in there sometimes. Not that he wants their custom. They come anyway looking for trouble.'

I remember the pale gray eyes of the saloonkeeper and wonder if he is related to the store owner in Far Junction.

'Yep,' the boy says, reading my mind, 'brothers. Only two families hereabouts, the Bradfords and the Ellisors.... except for those who come in from outside....'

'Anybody else on the riverfront?'

'Two Irish and a girl if you could call her that ... end house by the inlet ... expecting more visitors in a few weeks....'

'These bad hombres you mentioned. Where they come from? ...'

'Across the river.' He points. I can make out the outlines of a town through the morning river mist. 'When the fog lifts you can see their fucking church sticking up.' The boy spits. He stops in front of my shack.

'I could help you fix the place up....Just one delivery to make down the road....'

'Sure. We could do with some help....'

'Would a dollar be too much?'

'Sure not.'

'All right. I'll drop the gear off and be right back....'

Guy and I get out with broom, mop, bucket, carbolic solution and washrags. Guy goes to river with bucket. Up steps, new hinges for screen doors, new screening for door and front porch. Unlock door which is heavy oak. Heave old stove