taken him to Kimmie, who had driven him to town. His job wasn’t waiting for him, but Andy staked him to enough money to get him outfitted, and gave him a hotel room. Then he met Mal, who loaned him the rest of what he needed.
Now he needed a drink.
He went to his room to drop off the gun belt and gun. The rifle he kept with him as he walked to the K.O. Saloon as it was getting dark outside. The place was busy, but there were open spaces at the bar, so he claimed one.
“What can I getcha?” the bartender asked. He was big, brawny, had the body and the face of an old prizefighter, which probably explained the name of the place.
“Beer,” Lancaster said, “nice and cold.”
The bartender laughed. “Only kind we sell, friend.”
He placed the cold beer in front of Lancaster.
“How about a shot of whiskey to go with it?” the man asked.
“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. It wasn’t so long ago that he had crawled into a bottle, and crawled out again. He wasn’t about to start that slide all over again. A cold beer once in a while, that was all.
Lancaster lingered over that one beer, trying to pull his thoughts—or his memories—together. Boots, he remembered boots. But what stood out about them? And what else was there? He’d gone in and out of consciousness. Had heard voices. Seen figures. Had he seen faces and was just not remembering them?
Suddenly, he grew very tired. He finished off the beer, staggered back to his hotel, fell onto the bed fully dressed, and slept fitfully.
In the morning he woke with a pounding headache. All night he’d had dreams. He was being chased, being beaten, and he heard voices—only were they dreams? Or was his brain trying to remember things?
He decided to skip breakfast and go see the doctor. Maybe the doc could give him something for the headache and Lancaster could also ask him some questions. First, though, he unrolled the gun belt, took out the pistol, and made sure it was in working order. He cleaned it as well as he could with a rag, but that would have to do until he could get the right tools. The belt had cartridges on it, so after dry-firing it to make sure it would fire, he loaded the gun, put it back in the holster, and strapped the gun belt on. The rifle he propped up in a corner.
Feeling fully dressed for the first time since coming to town, he left the room.
“Back so soon?” Murphy asked, surprised. He was wiping his hands on a towel.
“I feel like my head’s coming off, Doc,” Lancaster said.
“Yeah, well, that’ll happen when somebody kicks you there. Let me give you something.”
He went into the other room, came back, and handed Lancaster an envelope.
“It’s a powder, for the headache,” the doctor said. “You dissolve it in a glass of water.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Wait.”
The doctor went into the other room again, came back with a glass of cloudy water.
“Here, drink this,” he said. “I already put some in there.”
Lancaster drank it and handed the glass back. “Thanks.”
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“Well, yeah…can we talk a minute?”
“Sure. Whataya want to talk about?”
“My memory.”
The doctor waved him to a chair and sat down himself at his desk.
“You said my memory might or might not come back,” Lancaster said.
“That’s true.”
“So it’s possible I could’ve seen the faces of the men who ambushed me, and I’ll remember later?”
“It’s possible,” the doctor said. “Why? Are you seeing faces?”
“I’m seeing…flashes of things,” Lancaster said. “You know…the boots…the desert…some figures…hearing voices, but never seeing faces. I need to see some faces.”
“Mr. Lancaster, I think you should prepare yourself for the possibility that these memories may never fill in for you. They may never come back.”
“But they’ve got to come back,” Lancaster said. “How the hell am I ever gonna find these guys if it doesn’t come back?”
“You may not find them,” the doctor said. “Or you may just have to use whatever information your memory is givin’ you.”
“Boots,” Lancaster said.
“What kind of boots?” the doctor asked. “What color? What style? What kind of stitching? How many? You can learn a lot from a man about his boots.”
“I guess…”
“I also suggest you don’t push it,” the doctor said. “If the memories are gonna come back, let them come back on their own.”
Lancaster rubbed his head.
“Better yet?”
“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, it’s letting up. I think I’ll go get some breakfast.” He stood up. “Thanks, Doc. What do I owe you?”
“Nothin’,” the doctor said. “Part of the service.”
“Thanks, again,” Lancaster said, and left.
Sixteen
Lancaster finally decided he had time for a leisurely breakfast, but he spent the whole time still trying to plug the holes in his memory.
He thought about what the doctor had said. What kind of boots? He’d never paid much attention to men’s boots before—unless they were heels up on the ground. What could a man’s boots tell you about him?
He thought back to being kicked, staring off into space, trying to bring it into focus. What he remembered mostly were toes and heels. Heels. That meant he was not only kicked, but stomped. But still, they made no attempt to kill him, only to hurt him. And they could have done worse than that. They could have maimed him. What did that mean? That they wanted to make it difficult for him to survive, but not impossible?
They wanted him to die in the desert, but not without a fighting chance?
But he was thinking about this the wrong way.
It wasn’t the three men who were making the decisions. He recalled a scrap of conversation that made him believe that they had been hired by somebody, and they must have had specific instructions.
So who wanted him dead?
The list was too damn long.
In his days as a gun for hire, he’d killed a lot of people—people he didn’t know, people he was hired to kill. He always did it from the front, though, never from behind, never an ambush. Anybody he killed always had a fair chance to kill him first.
But family members probably wouldn’t appreciate the distinction. There might be somebody out there who hated him enough to hire somebody to leave him alone in the desert to die.
It would be impossible for him to figure out who it was, though. There were just too many. And who knew how many he’d forgotten during the few years he’d been a drunk?
And now, getting kicked in the head hadn’t done his memory much good, either.
He’d gone to the doctor to talk, for either solace or advice. Maybe what he should do was take the doctor’s
