shoulder-length snow-white hair. His face was heavily lined, as was his neck. His eyes, though, were clear and sky blue. His face looked sixty, but his body, his stance, his eyes, all bespoke a man much younger.
“Ledge, this is Lancaster,” Mal said.
“Lancaster?” the tall man asked. “I know that name.”
Lancaster didn’t say anything.
“You got a taste?” Mal asked.
“Don’t I always?” Ledge asked.
He grabbed a jug from a table, pulled out the cork, and passed it over. Mal accepted it and took a swig. He turned to Lancaster, who shook his head.
“Just a taste,” Mal said. “To be polite.”
Lancaster took the jug, took a small taste, just enough to wet his lips. The stuff had a kick like a mule, and he was just able to keep himself from choking. He handed the jug back to Ledge.
“Money gun, right?” Ledge asked.
“I was,” Lancaster said. “That was a while ago.”
“Quit?”
Lancaster nodded.
“Gives him somethin’ in common with you, don’t it, Mal?” Ledge asked.
“Yep.”
Ledge looked at Lancaster’s hip. “And that’s your gun, ain’t it?”
“Yep,” Mal said again.
Ledge took a hefty swig from the jug and then put the cork back. “I guess somebody should tell me what’s goin’ on.”
“It’s like this…” Mal said, and went on to tell Ledge what had happened to Lancaster, and what he was trying to accomplish.
When he was finished, Ledge pulled the cork and took another heavy drink.
“Goddamn, but I hate bushwhackers,” he said with feeling.
“Sounds like you have some experience,” Lancaster said.
Ledge looked at Mal.
“Show him,” Mal said.
Ledge turned around and lifted his shirt up to his shoulder blades. Three healed bullet holes, one above the other, alongside his spine.
“Each one missed my spine, or I’d be crippled, or dead.” He dropped his shirt.
“He should be dead,” Mal said. “Don’t know how he pulled through.”
“Stubborn,” Ledge said, turning back around. “I hate back-shooters and ambushers.”
“And the men who shot you?”
“I tracked ’em and killed ’em,” Ledge said. “Two of ’em. And now I’m gonna help you do the same. Just let me get outfitted.”
There was another room, and Ledge quickly disappeared into it.
“I only need him to back me tonight,” Lancaster said to Mal.
“He’ll probably want to go all the way with you,” Mal said. “He hates bushwhackers that much. But that’ll be between you and him. Accept his help tonight, and deal with the rest when the time comes.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
Ledge reappeared, wearing a gun belt that held a pistol and a bowie knife. Across his chest was a bandolier that held extra cartridges and what looked like three throwing knives.
“You ready?” he asked.
Twenty-three
Mal went back to his livery stables while Lancaster and Ledge walked clear across town, stopping first at the little saloon with no name.
“I been here before,” Ledge said. “Usually a bunch of cutthroats.”
“It’s my play, so I’ll do the talking,” Lancaster said.
“Hey,” Ledge said, “I’m just here to back you—but I gotta warn you…”
“About what?”
“When they see me they’re gonna be curious.”
“Good,” Lancaster said. “Let ’em.”
Lancaster walked through the batwing doors with Ledge close behind him. They walked directly to the bar, which was made of pitted, old wood. They were probably used to the bar getting destroyed in here, and easily replaced.
The place was small and doing a good business. Most of the tables were taken and there was only a space or two left at the bar. Lancaster used his elbows again, as he had at the K.O., and when the other patrons saw Ledge with him, they willingly moved.
As Ledge had predicted, he and Lancaster were the center of attention. It was just not often that Ledge was seen in this part of town, let alone this saloon.
“Ledge,” the bartender said. “Surprised to see you here. What can I getcha?” He was fat, with mean little eyes buried in fat pouches. He had only a few hairs on his head, yet he appeared to only be in his thirties.
“That’s up to my friend here,” Ledge said.
The bartender looked at Lancaster curiously. He wasn’t used to having Ledge refer to someone as his friend.
“You remember a man named Sweet?” Lancaster asked. “Was in here last week with two other men.”
The bartender stared at Lancaster, then looked at Ledge. “What’s goin’ on, Ledge?”
“If I was you, I’d answer the man’s question.”
“We don’t like nobody comin’ in here askin’ no questions,” the bartender said. “You oughtta know that, Ledge. And why you come in here wearin’ a gun?”
“Because I’m thinkin’ I might have to shoot somebody,” Ledge replied.
“Sweet,” Lancaster said again. “With two other men, all stayin’ at the Autry House.”
The bartender’s eyes danced around in his head. He was either looking for help or just nervous that everyone in the room was now watching him to see what he’d say.
“Sweet, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Wh-what’s he look like?”
“Trail clothes, probably thirties. The three of them were probably alike.”
“We gets lots of men—”
“Came in off the desert,” Lancaster said. “Stayed a couple of days, maybe.”
“I dunno—”
“Maybe you even sent them over to the Autry,” Ledge said. “You been known to do that, right, Eddie?”
Eddie the bartender gave Ledge an exasperated look, as if to say,
“Think hard, Eddie,” Ledge said. “Think real hard before you answer.”
Eddie was being watched by everyone in the bar, but he was wilting beneath the twin stares of both Lancaster and Ledge.
“Sweet,” he said, licking his lips. “Yeah, I think I remember somebody by that name. I mighta sent them to the Autry—him and his friends, I mean.”
“Did you ever hear them talking about where they might go after they left here?”
“I don’t think—”
“I already heard from somebody who said he did hear them talking in here,” Lancaster said, “so I’m just checking to see if you have the same information—or if you’re going to lie.”
Again, the bartender licked his lips. “Well…somebody mighta said somethin’ about going to Henderson.”
“Would it have been Sweet?”
