Jeff Calder swallowed.
Lieder nodded, 'That's right.' He left the barroom.
A moment later, Tiny came clumping down the stairs carrying a pillow slip lumpy with shoes.
The bat-winged doors were still oscillating behind him when Frenchy stepped toward Mr. Delanny to get…
Lieder pushed the doors open again and stood on the threshold, smiling and shaking his head. 'Did you really think I was just going to leave like that, girl? Come on now! I've known all along that Delanny probably had some sort of sneak-gun up his sleeve or in his boot. His kind usually do. I've been watching him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he'd go for it. But I was pretty sure he wouldn't have the guts to draw down on me. But you, girl…? O-o-oh, you're a different kettle of fish. Peggy, go find Mr. Delanny's gun. Feel around until you come up with it. Yes indeed, you are a different kettle of fish altogether. You're the sort that could do a man real harm-and I don't just mean by giving him the clap or scaring him to death with that ugly face of yours. ' He accepted the over-and- under derringer that Calder had found in a small holster stitched into the lining of Mr. Delanny's boot. 'Well now, look at this. A. 41 Remington double. Isn't that just the kind of shooter you'd expect a pimp to pack? A healthy man can piss further'n that thing can shoot, but its slug starts tumbling as soon as it leaves that dinky barrel, so it can tear an awful hole in a fella. Tell me the truth, Frenchy. When you thought I'd left you within reach of your pimp's gun, didn't a little thrill of hope tingle down deep in that black heart of yours? Come on, fess up! And when you saw me walk back in here, didn't that black heart just shrivel up? Admit it! Your hopes were lifted, then they were crushed. That's what they call the Torture of Hope, and it's the worst torture of all, because tantalizing hope keeps you from taking the easy way out and killing yourself. It's hope that holds your face down in the mud. It's hope that keeps you nailed to the cross. It's hope that turns the knife in the wound.' He shook a finger at her and said in a singsong tone, 'I told you I'd get you, Frenchy. I told you.' He left to have his bath.
MATTHEW JOLTED AWAKE, HIS heart beating, the base of his spine sore from the hard chair. The whiskey stench coming from Queeny had filtered into his nightmare about some 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 out in the street came the sounds of laughter and splashing and shouting and…
… Splashing?
He heard a loud whoop and another splash, then a snort, then a high-pitched yap. Someone had poured cold water on someone. Those men must be having baths in the wooden tubs behind the barbershop. And there was 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 decided to read until the clinging fragments of his nightmare withered and dropped from his mind. 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, then he lit his lamp.
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.
HE WOKE TO FIND his book on the floor, but the pool of lamplight had been diluted by, then absorbed into, the wan light of dawn seeping in through the window. He blew the lamp out and dragged his fingers through his hair, then he tiptoed out to avoid waking Queeny. It was not until he was standing in the chill of the empty street that he realized his jacket was still on backward. As he was taking it off and putting it on right, he noticed that the spreading dawn light was strange… greenish and oily. And there was a dirty smell to the unnaturally still air. Back in Nebraska those signs would have meant that a big storm was on its way in. But the sky was bell-clear and the far foothills were gold-crusted by the first rays of an autumn sunrise. If there was a storm brewing, it was hidden behind the mountain that loomed over Twenty-Mile. He thought of Ruth Lillian, who must have gone up to the Livery before dawn, then started climbing the trail toward Coots as soon as it was light enough to find her footing. He could picture B. J. at his back window, watching for Coots to appear around Shinbone Cut, a pot of coffee simmering on the stove to greet him.
He eased open the back door of the hotel kitchen and crept across to peek into the barroom. Tiny, Bobby- My-Boy, and Chinky were not there. Upstairs, probably. Frenchy was sitting at a table by the wall, her head down on her arms. Mr. Delanny was near her, his back to Matthew, but there was something strange in his stiff, awkward posture. Lieder was in a chair tipped back against the wall, facing the bat-winged doors, a rifle cradled across his lap. Matthew could only see his profile, but his chin was down on his chest, and his breathing was deep and regular.
If only Coots was here right now with his pistol. He could get the drop on him and…!
But Coots wasn't there, so Matthew tiptoed back into the kitchen to light the stove and begin making breakfast, doing everything as quietly as he could, but each little unavoidable noise he made caused him to pull in his neck and suck air through bared teeth.
After carefully sliding the first batch of biscuits into the oven, Matthew sliced bacon and put it into a big two-handled frying pan on the middling-warm part of the stove, then he filled the tin pot with water, dumped in a good handful of coffee, and put it on the hot center ring. When the first batch of biscuits was done, he put them under the warming hood and started a second.
'Hey there!'
Matthew gasped and almost dropped the bag of flour he was pouring into the mixing bowl.
'Colder'n a witch's tit this morning!' Lieder said from the doorway to the barroom.
'I thought you were asleep!'
'I never sleep, boy. Just quick little catnaps. I don't seem to need sleep, like ordinary men do. And I never drink liquor. I require neither rest nor stimulation.'
'I don't like liquor either,' Matthew said. 'Just the smell makes me want to urp.'
'Speaking of stuff to make a body urp, please don't tell me you dipped your wick into that old whore I threw into the street last night! You can do better'n that, boy! Hell, even Old Lady Fist is better than that sorry old worn- out hole. And a hell of a lot cleaner, too.'
The coffee boiled over, sending drops hissing and dancing over the surface of the Dayton Imperial. Matthew grabbed up a rag and dragged the big pot over to the edge of the stove. 'You want a cup, sir?'
'A cup of coffee'd go down real good on a cold morning like this. The air smells like there's a storm brewing.'
Matthew poured and passed it over, and Lieder sat down on the kitchen steps and took a noisy sip. Matthew put a couple of biscuits onto a plate along with an open tin of corn syrup and set them on the step beside Lieder, then he returned to mixing up the second batch of biscuits.
'So!' Lieder said, warming his hands on the speckled enamel cup. 'You say you didn't ream old… whatshername?'
'No. I just brought her to my place so she wouldn't have to sit out in the cold.'
'There you go! I told them you were just doing a good deed and not meaning to go against me. I admire kindness more than any other quality… except for patriotism. The only reason I threw that old hole out into the street was because I could see right off that she was nothing but dregs.' Lieder dunked a biscuit into his coffee. 'And I don't let my apostles accept dregs. You want to know why?' He held the dripping biscuit up and ate half of it from beneath to catch the drips.
'Why?'
'Because once a man starts accepting dregs, that's all he ever gets. For the rest of his life, it's nothing but dregs and leftovers that other people don't want! Shoot, even Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy didn't want to stick that jiggling pile of lard! And they've been inside so long that they'll stick 'most anything that's warm… even one another! Now ain't that a picture to gag a maggot!' He laughed and finished his biscuit.
Matthew concentrated intensely on dropping spoonfuls of biscuit dough onto the tray.
'Lord, that bacon smells good!' Lieder continued. 'I been smelling it for a quarter of an hour, and do you wonder if my mouth's been watering? It's been watering.'
Matthew slid the second tray of biscuits into the oven and closed it. 'You really think you've been awake since I started the bacon?'
'Like I told you, boy. I don't need sleep like an ordinary man.'
Matthew shrugged.
