“Thank you,” Mary Lou said, walking quickly to the cells at the back of the office, as much to get away from Wilson as for any other reason.
Because it was late in the day and the filtered light coming through the window was weak, the shadows reached into the three cells. For a moment, Mary Lou saw no one.
“Mr. Pearlie?” she called out.
“It’s just Pearlie,” a male voice replied. He moved out of the shadows so she could see him.
“I’ve brought you your supper,” she said, pulling the cover off the tray.
Seeing the food brought a smile to Pearlie’s face. “If I stay here long enough, I’m liable to get fat,” he said. “That is, if I don’t hang first.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” Mary Lou said quickly. “It’s bad luck.”
“You’re Lenny’s friend, aren’t you?” Pearlie said. “I saw you in the saloon on the day it happened.”
“Yes.”
“Lenny is a very lucky man,” Pearlie said as he bit into a ham and biscuit sandwich.
“Oh, we aren’t that kind of friends,” Mary Lou said. “Besides, someone as fine as Lenny, I mean, he plays the piano and all, could never really be that kind of friends with someone like me. Maybe you don’t know it, but I’m a—uh—a whore.”
“Like I said,” Pearlie said. “Lenny is a very lucky man to have a friend like you.”
Chapter Seventeen
La Vita, Colorado
The two young men stopped in front of the Ace High Saloon, dismounted, and looped the reins around the hitching rail. Both were wearing long trail dusters, and they brushed their hands against them, raising a cloud of dust.
“Whoa, hold it there, Jerry,” one of the two said, coughing. “You’re near’bout smotherin’ me with all the trail dust you’re a-raisin’ there.”
Jerry laughed. “Yeah, like you just stepped out of a washtub, I s’pose? Come on, Ken, let’s get somethin’ to wet down our gullets. Then we’ll get us a bath, a bottle, and find us someplace to have a real good dinner.”
“And a couple of women,” Ken replied. “Let’s don’t forget to get us a couple of women.”
“You wantin’ to spend all that money we stole in one night, are you?” Jerry asked.
Ken chuckled. “Why not? As easy as that money was to get, we can always get some more. Did you see how that old fart shook when we told him we was robbin’ him?”
“Come on, let’s get us a couple of beers.”
The two men stepped into the saloon, then stopped for a moment to have a look around. The saloon was busy, but not crowded. There were several empty tables, and several empty spots along the bar. One of the men standing at the bar was Cole Mathers, and he paid little attention to the two men as they came in.
“Want to stand at the bar or sit at a table?” Ken asked.
“Let’s sit at a table,” Jerry suggested, and the two men found one near the stove. Because it was summer, the stove was cold, and had been for several weeks now. But even though there was no fire in the stove at the present, the remnants of past fires were still present in the unmistakable aroma of old smoke and burnt wood.
“Oh, that ain’t good,” the bartender said when the two young men sat down.
“What ain’t good?” Cole asked.
“That’s Mr. Cates’ table them two boys took. And Mr. Cates, he don’t like nobody else sittin’ at it.”
Cole turned to look toward the two young men.
Shortly after they sat down, both Ken and Jerry noticed that the hum of normal conversation had ended and it grew quiet in the saloon. And the sudden quiet did not seem to be a mere coincidence, as it soon became evident that everyone in the house was looking directly at their table.
“Hey, you,” Ken called toward Cole. “What is it you are a-lookin’ at?”
“How do you know he’s even a-lookin’ at us?” Jerry asked with a mocking laugh. “Hell, one of his eyes looks one way and the other looks another. I’ll bet he don’t even know his ownself what he’s lookin’ at.”
Cole turned away from the two.
“Oh, now,” Ken said. “You done gone an’ hurt his feelin’s.”
Jerry laughed, then looked around the saloon and saw that nearly everyone in the room was looking at them.
“What the hell are all you people a-lookin’ at?” Jerry asked.
“Maybe they heard of us,” Ken replied. “This here wasn’t the first job we’ve pulled. Could be we’re gettin’ to be famous.”
Jerry laughed. “Yeah, that’s prob’ly it.” He held up his hand as a signal to the bartender.
“Barkeep,” he called to the bartender. “How about a couple of beers over here?”
“And I’ll have the same,” Ken added, laughing at the joke.
The bartender ignored the request.
“Hey, what the hell? Don’t you want our business?” Trey asked.
“Not until you two galoots change tables, I don’t,” the bartender replied.
“Change tables? What do you mean, change tables? This here is the table we want.”
“It ain’t goin’ to be the table you want when he comes in,” the bartender said.
“When who comes in?”
“When he comes in,” the bartender replied without specifics.
“Don’t be a fool, mister,” Jerry said. “If you know’d who it was you was talkin’ to, you wouldn’t be talkin’ like that. Me and my friend here have kilt men for less than that. Now, if you don’t want to make us mad, and believe me, barkeep, that ain’t somethin’ you want to do, you’ll bring us them beers like we asked.”
Before the bartender could respond, another patron pushed his way through the batwing doors of the saloon. He wasn’t a very big man—in fact, he was quite small, no taller than five feet two inches, and weighing no more than 130 pounds. He was dressed in black, except for a tooled-leather pistol belt that bristled with filled cartridge loops. His eyes were small and dark, so dark that there was no delineation between the iris and pupils. He also wore a neatly trimmed mustache. He took a couple of steps toward the table, then stopped when he saw that it was occupied. He looked toward the bartender.
“It ain’t my fault. I told ’em I wasn’t goin’ to serve ’em as long as they was sittin’ at your table,” the bartender said.
The small man’s tongue darted out a couple of times before he spoke. “I would invite you gentlemen to find another table,” the small man said. His voice was a quiet hiss.
“What’s that you say? Damn, mister, are you so little you ain’t got voice enough to speak up?” Ken held his hand to his ear. “You sound like a mouse pissing on a ball of cotton. How the hell is anyone s’posed to hear you?”
Ken laughed at his joke.
Jerry looked over at Ken. “Do you know what I think this little pissant just said? I think he invited us to find another table.”
“Is that a fact? Well, we was here first, mister,” Ken said. “So we invite you to find another table. Unless you want us to mop up the floor with your skinny little ass.”
The small man smiled. “So, are you telling me you are willing to fight for that table?”
Jerry and Ken looked at each other, then broke out laughing. “You want to throw this litter feller out, or shall I?” Jerry asked.
“Oh, I don’t believe in physical violence,” the little man said. “That never settles anything.”
“Ha! He don’t believe in physical violence,” Ken said. He looked back at the little man. “This ball has started. So either we finish this now, or you can just go get yourself another table and mind your own business.”
“Oh, we are going to finish it,” the little man said.
“We are, are we?” Ken chuckled and shook his head. “I tell you what, mister, since you are hell-bent on doing this, you can choose whichever one of us you want to fight.”
“I intend to fight both of you.”