'What? Why can't he get up?'
'They made him sit on a chair. And he don't dare get up. They won't even let him talk, and he-Oh, honey-bun, I… I think I'm going to be sick. Why'd you make me drink that water?'
'You want to go outside to be sick?'
'Yeah, maybe I better. Help me up. Oh-oh. No, I… can't. I can't lift my head. I'm too…'
'You'll be all right, Queeny. Just sleep. You'll be just fine in the morning.'
'Will I, honeybun? You think old Queeny's just fine, don't you? You wouldn't pass remarks about old Queeny, would you?'
'No, Queeny, I wouldn't pass remarks.'
'O-o-o-o, ain't that sweet? I know you wouldn't pass remarks, 'cause you were good to your ma and helped her make… biscuits. I just… I can't…' A short, moist snore, and she was asleep.
Matthew tucked the blanket up around her, then he sat in his chair in a dim shaft of waning moonlight. A sudden chill ran up his spine. He scrubbed his goose-bumpy arms. And took his canvas jacket down from its nail and put it on backwards, the collar under his chin to keep his throat warm. He scrunched down in the chair and decided he'd just sit there and wait for morning.
Well, maybe he'd rest his eyes, then come morning, he'd…
… He snapped awake, his heart beating and the base of his spine sore from the hard chair. The smell of whiskey and sweat from Queeny was thick in his throat, like the smell of his pa when he came home late and collapsed on the floor. That whiskey stench had somehow filtered into his nightmare about spongy red stuff… no, it was about his pa's face, all bloated with anger… no, about a roaring gun and… no, something about damaged boys and apostles and… no, he couldn't remember. The dream elements were rapidly dispersing and disguising themselves.
From down the street, came the sounds of laughter and splashing and shouting and…
… Splashing? He rose from his chair and, rubbing the base of his spine, went to the window. The moon had set, leaving the street matte black except for a dim glow of red-gold from behind Professor Murphy's Tonsorial Palace, where the wheezing old coal boiler was heating water. There came a loud whoop and another splash, then a snort, and a high-pitched yap. Someone had poured cold water on someone. Those men must be having baths in the wooden tubs out behind the barbershop. There was something weird, something repugnant about the thought of those men sitting up to their necks in wooden tubs of skin-scummy bathwater, splashing and horseplaying like kids in a swimming hole.
Matthew turned back from the window and decided to light his lamp and read until the clinging fragments of his nightmare withered and dropped away from his memory. He would seek calm in the uncomplicated, righteous world of Anthony Bradford Chumms, like he used to do when the sound of his parents fighting downstairs left his stomach all twisted.
So as not to waken Queeny, he drew the lucifer slowly along the bottom of his table until it hissed into a flat, puffing flame.
Just before dawn, his chin dropped into the collar of his jacket, and The Ringo Kid Plays His Last Ace slipped from his numb fingers into the pool of lamplight on the floor.
EARLIER THE PREVIOUS AFTERNOON, Mr. Delanny had been in the barroom playing two-hand solitaire with Frenchy when the three trail-stained strangers sauntered in. He had looked up, made an instantaneous evaluation, and told Jeff Calder to give them a drink. 'One drink on the house, gentlemen, then I must ask you to be on your way.'
Lieder blinked in a burlesque of befuddlement. 'Well now, I am confused. The sign outside proclaims this to be the Traveller's Welcome. And here we are, three travelers on the weary road of life. But you don't seem to be offering us genuine and heartfelt welcome. How come that is, friend?'
Mr. Delanny arched a disdainful eyebrow and spoke in his tight, precise way. 'This is a private hotel. I reserve the right to choose my clientele.'
Lieder grinned. 'Oh, I see. And we don't come up to snuff, is that it?'
'That is it exactly, friend. And furthermore-'
'Nope! No furthermore!' Still grinning, Lieder slipped his gun out of his belt and cocked it. 'And please don't call me friend. Matter of fact, I don't think I want to hear another word from you of any kind. Not one more word! And you know why? Because I don't like your fancy shirt, nor your spindly wrists, nor your lily-white hands, nor your uppity-man-looking-down-upon-scum attitude. I purely hate it when people talk to me in a tone of voice! This place of yours ain't nothing but a low-class whorehouse. And you ain't nothing but a pimp. And I ain't going to take sass from any slimy clap-merchant. So here's what is going to happen. Listen up! You are going to sit right there in that chair and not say another word. Not… a… word! Because if you move your ass out of that chair, or if you so much as open your mouth just one time, I shall be obliged to punish you. And you had better believe that I am a most- vigorous and imaginative punisher. You understand what I'm saying to you? Just nod.'
Mr. Delanny started to reply, but Lieder lifted his eyebrows and the barrel of his pistol warningly, so he lowered his eyes to the cards on the table.
'Now, that's more like it. You play your cards just right, and you might escape being punished. But to tell you the truth, Mr. Pimp, I don't think there's much chance of that. You remind me of somebody I loathe and detest. Someone who used to talk to me in a tone of voice. Hey! You, there! Stand up and step away from him, unless you want to share his punishment.'
Frenchy's yellow eyes met Mr. Delanny's. He gestured with a lift of his chin for her to leave his table. She glanced at Lieder, then slowly rose from the table and moved back to against the wall, where she stood, her eyes on Lieder's face.
'You behind the bar! Peg-leg! Do you serve the drinks around here?'
Jeff Calder was caught swallowing nervously, so his voice squeaked when he said, 'Yes, sir.'
'Well then, get to serving!'
Jeff Calder reached down for glasses.
'Whoa there, old man! When your hands come up from under that bar, they better not have anything in them but a whiskey bottle. Or I'll blow your ass into next week, and that's a promise.'
'I wasn't going to-'
'You keep any iron under there?'
'Just my old army rifle. But honest to God, I wasn't going to-'
'Tiny, you go upstairs and look around. Bring everybody down to join in the festivities. Bobby-My-Boy, I think you better take Peggy's old army rifle from him. Unless he objects, of course. Do you object, Peggy?'
'No, sir, I don't object.'
'That's the kind of eager and cheerful cooperation I like to see. Where you keep your ammunition?'
'I ain't got but half a box. It's right here under the bar with the rifle.'
'Get the ammunition too, Bobby-My-Boy.' He slapped the bar top. 'Now, let's have a little service here, Peggy! It's been a long time since last my followers was in a saloon.'
After handing over his battered old rifle, balancing it on wide-splayed hands to show that he had no intention of trying anything, Jeff Calder set up three thick-bottomed glasses and started pouring rye, but he was shaking so hard that he chipped one of the glasses with the neck of the bottle. He reached under the bar for another glass, then froze and said, 'Now, I'm just reaching down to get a glass, mister! That's all I'm doing! They ain't no other guns down there!'
'Calm yourself, friend. Just take it easy.' Lieder's tone suggested that he was the only reasonable man in a panicked world. 'You've got to learn to lean back and let things happen. Nobody's going to get hurt around here. Not so long as they do what they're told. And do it quickly. Don't you bother about getting another glass, Peggy. I can drink out of the broken one. I ain't no fragile dandy like that pimp sitting over there so nice and obedient. I've got what you call your 'common touch.' I'm a Man of the People, risen from the ranks of the downtrodden to-Why you staring at me like that, woman? I don't need no dime-a-go nigger whore staring at me!
Frenchy let her heavy-lidded gaze linger on him for a moment before dragging it lazily away to look out the window. For the rest of the evening she kept the scarred side of her face toward Lieder, in part as a punishment, and in part to deter any appetites he might develop.
As Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy slapped back their drinks. Lieder held his glass of rye up to the light, but he didn't drink. 'You know what I'll bet you're wondering, Peggy?'
