But Kreyler wasn't dumb. It was a fact I had overlooked at first, but I was making no mistake about it now. He could look into those eyes of hers and read the lies as plain as anybody and for a minute I thought maybe he was going to tell her to go to hell.
But he didn't. He had wanted her too long, I guess, and she was in his blood. Well, I thought, they would make a nice couple. It would be interesting to stick around and see who would be the first to stick a knife in the other's back.
That was as far as my thoughts got. About that time Kreyler's patience played out, and he stepped over to the kid and jerked him off the floor and hit him across the mouth.
“The ledger,” he said coldly.
The kid said nothing, and that got him another slap across the face. Anger almost made me do something foolish, like getting off the floor and trying to punch a fist through Kreyler's thick middle. The thought was there, but it never got to be more than a thought. My glance ran head-on into that half-smile of Bucky's, and that was a great settling influence.
It was getting bad now. That ham-sized fist of Kreyler's would spat sickeningly in the kid's face.
“The ledger!”
The kid would say nothing.
Then the spat again.
But the kid didn't break. I was the one that broke. I stood it as long as I could and then I yelled, “Goddamnit, let him alone! I'll tell you about the ledger.”
Kreyler paused for a moment. His fist was bloody, and he was grinning, enjoying himself. There are men like that.
He grinned at Bucky. “Mr. Cameron wants to tell us all about it. He doesn't like to see his little pal knocked around. What do you think about that, Bucky?”
Bucky laughed, but there was no comment behind his laugh, and no humor.
“I don't much like to stop in the middle of a job of work like this,” Kreyler said pleasantly. “I figure the kid will tell me what I want to know, Cameron. It may take a little time. But I'm in no hurry.” He grinned again and jerked the kid's limp body up with a big left hand, and I guess that was when I threw caution away.
I started gathering myself. I was going to jump and Bucky knew it and was waiting for it. He opened his thin lips and breathed through his mouth. He was going to shoot me right between the eyes because that was the spot he had been concentrating on.
Oh, he had it figured down to a gnat's hair, all right, and his finger started squeezing the trigger. He was smiling now, actually smiling, and he was probably seeing himself cutting quite a figure among the pilgrims and dance-hall girls; and people would probably buy his drinks for him just to get him to tell how it felt to kill a man like Tall Cameron. Bucky was going to be somebody after this. He was going to get himself a reputation as a gunman, and nobody had to know that he had got it the easy way. All he had to do was pull the trigger.
I could see those thoughts going around in Bucky's mind as he started the squeeze. I had time to move about six inches before the hammer fell—and that wasn't time enough or far enough.
It's funny how your mind works at times like that, being aware of a lot of things but not actually seeing anything in particular. For instance, I knew that Marta would be watching it all and smiling in that detached way of hers, although I couldn't see her. And Kreyler would be too busy with the kid to notice what was going on until it was too late. It was just me and Bucky.
By that time I had lunged forward and was crouching like a wolf ready to spring. But Bucky wasn't worried. He was seeing me lowered away into shallow ditch with somebody throwing dirt in my face. And then the gun went off and the explosion went crashing around the room, and I was wondering why I didn't feel anything, why I didn't go down.
But I didn't wonder long. I crashed into Bucky and he went limp like a bag of grain slit open with a sharp knife, and that was when I realized that Bucky was dead. He was dead before I hit him. I didn't know how or why, and this wasn't the time to ask questions. I threw him aside and wheeled on Kreyler, who was clawing for his gun.
He never got his gun out, though.
There was another explosion and Kreyler took two quick steps forward and one step back, like the pride of the ball getting warmed up for a do-si-do or a skip-to-my Lou. His eyes were faintly bewildered and pained, as if somebody had just played a rather nasty practical joke on him. Then he started falling like a tree in a forest. He crashed to the floor, and he could have been a side of beef for all the fuss he made after that.
Along about then was when I noticed Bama for the first time.
He had that old .36-caliber Leech and Rigdon clutched in both hands, and a curl of white smoke was coming from the muzzle and making a hook near the ceiling, like a question mark over Bama's head. We must have all stood there for a minute or more and nobody did anything or said anything, and Bucky and Kreyler got deader and deader there on the floor. I hadn't seen Bama get out of bed, and I guess Bucky and Kreyler hadn't either. But he had managed it somehow. He had hobbled on one leg to the door, just as the party was getting into full swing.
I said, “Thanks, Bama. I guess that's a favor I owe you.
He didn't say anything for a minute. His wound had come open and blood was pouring down his leg again, but he didn't seem to notice. Then he leaned against the doorframe and panted. I caught him before he fell and got my shoulder under him and dragged him to the bed.
“Marta!” I yelled. She appeared in the doorway, and from the way she looked, I guess she expected to get belted all over the room. “Get some whisky,” I said. “I don't care where or how, just get it.”
Things were moving too fast for Marta, I guess. The situation had changed so often that she wasn't quite sure whose side to be on. She just stood there.
“Look,” I said. “Do you want to go to Mexico with me or don't you?”
Her head bobbed. She wanted to go where that silver went. She knew that.
