A short way up the street, a tall man in a striped apron shouted a greeting, and added: “Goin’ to take that Mex tonight Limpy.”
“I reckon.”
Adam was a little taken aback by his host’s answer. It implied a subtlety which he had not suspected in the man. It was not a boast yet suggested confidence. It was, on the face of it, a wholly neutral observation that could be taken either way.
Adam had thought, at first, that his host was little more than an oaf with a horse and a gun, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Limpy had principles. He believed that women and children should be protected at any cost. His given word was an oath he would never break and he was unshakably loyal to his friends.
Then, of course, there were horses. After a minute or so, Adam became convinced that this man knew more about horses than the greatest race trainers and breeders of his own age.
He not only knew about horses, he felt, loved and understood then. He was often employed to break one in. Sometimes he got thrown a few times but he always won through by love and persistence, never by violence.
“If Limpy breaks one in, it’s broke, you can take my word for it.”
Somehow all this failed to fit in with the portrait of a gunslinger but Adam could see the complete picture.
Limpy had not gone out looking for a fight. He carried six-guns from habit and necessity as most of them did but he had never fired them in anger.
Limpy had killed ten men and the first had been a traveling gambler with a green eyeshade and a greasy pack of marked cards
The gambler moved from township to township, staying only a night but cleaning up before moving on.
Limpy was only eighteen then and it was his first killing.
It was in the saloon and one of the painted girls from the house down the road was powdering her facer near the stable.
Perhaps she caught a reflection in her mirror or just saw something from the corner of her eyes but she said; “his bastard is switching cards!”
The gambler reacted, this was not the first time he had been caught out and had been forced to shoot his way out of a situation.
The set-up looked easy enough, not many in the saloon as yet. A group with their backs to him playing cards by themselves in the corner. Four elderly men at the bar and three girls, including the one near him, was al he had to contend with.
There was, of course, the fresh faced kid on the opposite side of the table. He’d already taken him for three dollars anyway.
The gambler swung back his jacket and reached for his guns. He’d kill the girl first, experience had taught him that killing a woman, no matter what she was, always caused diversion and delay.
The gambler had only just got his guns clear of their holsters when he got his.
Limpy, holding cards in his left hand, had been scratching his upper thigh when the gambler reached.
The single shot punched the gambler and his chair over backwards and tumbled them to the floor.
Limpy looked down at the dead man and tried not to be sick. There was a hole in the man’s chest, blood trickled from his open mouth and his eyes were still open. Somehow the eyeshade had come down his face and lay across his nose creating a grotesque effect.
Limpy felt no triumph, only a sort of gut-shock, he was shivering and shaking. It seemed to him that even his bad leg had begun to hurt a little.
“He was going to kill me,” said the girl. “I sort of sensed it inside me like.”
She turned to Limpy. “I owe you, boy, really owe you. You can come and see me any time, any time. Won’t cost you nothing.”
Again, Adam was amazed. His host might have been forgiven for a feeling of triumph, but he felt only regret. It was kill or be killed, himself and the girl but he didn’t like killing and never learned to like it.
Four weeks later a man burst into the saloon one Sunday evening but this was no gun duel, this was revenge.
“Where’s the murdering bastard what killed my brother?” He carried a heavy shotgun, pointed. “I’m looking for a guy what limps. You lot at the bar there, stand clear of him or you’ll get it too.”
Only one reaction was possible. Limpy dropped flat and fired from the floor.
The man with shotgun dropped it before he could pull the trigger. He staggered, his face registering mild surprise, then he coughed blood and fell sideways.
Number three was a youth from a nearby township who fancied himself as a gun slinger. With a little more practice he’d go bounty killing.
He provoked and provoked. “What’s the matter, you yeller livered bastard — draw!”
He made the mistake of reaching for his guns himself but was too slow to clear his holsters.
The memories and experiences of his host’s life were now completely Adams’, as if he had lived two lives. He was, however, still fumbling for an explanation. This life he was living now was real although he could take no active part in it. Was he telepathically or hypnotically attuned to the man?
If so, why the past? He could make no sense of it.
He had ceased to be afraid aside from a few vague apprehensions. He had almost convinced himself that he was the victim of some curious circumstance that would right itself in time. In all probability he was the victim of some accident which had mentally induced the whole business.
He was almost happy in it and grateful that he had acquired such a vast range of additional knowledge almost without effort.
He could survive in the wilderness out there, if forced, without weapons. He could make fire, strike out for a certain destination without a compass, and read terrain by a mere glance.
Each day he was learning more both about his host and the customs of the day. Tonight, for example, he would observe—
It was then, on that one word, that the implications hit him.
On another level of existence, in another age, Martin was trying to stop himself reaching for the whisky bottle for the third time. The trouble with this was that it relied too much on speculation.
It was fine for Argyle to be cock-a-hoop and say it was bound to be a success. Right, it had worked with twelve cases but, like the wonder drugs that had appeared in the last decade, cures might be limited to the few.
Argyle came in as he was reaching for a drink, as usual bouncing with confidence.
“Got a lot of news for you, old son, managed to make some important contacts. First of all, I’ve managed to get details in respect of the stuff. In the first place, the recipient goes to bed and sleeps in an outwardly normal way. He oversleeps slightly in the morning but begins to symptoms as soon as he comes down.”
“What kind of symptoms?” Martin was filling his glass,
“Well, first he seems withdrawn, absent-mined, does not what is said to him. He shows no interest in his own but exhibits activity in other matters. This symptom lasts around four d. change is announced, or becomes apparent on the fifth day.”
“The fifth day.” Martin glanced at the office calendar. “That Day.”
“Eh — what?” Argyle looked blank.
“Oh don’t be so bloody obtuse man, our Carnival for the couples only. The old man started the tradition forty years ago, Wenstone just carried it on. They hold it every year.”
Argyle’s face brightened. “Of course, I had forgotten. The day the bonuses and merit awards are presented. Everyone arrives in fano there’s a grand party, a dance, all that sort of thing.”
He paused and grinned. “Fits in perfectly. I have no doubt the boss will use the occasion to announce his retirement.”
“I wish I felt as damn confident as you.” Martin drained his glass.
“Aren’t you listening to me, man? I was trying to tell you, he’s shown all the symptoms. Like the others, he’s ringing around all over the pi obviously making plans. He’s acting out of character and, for reasons unknown, he limps occasionally. Another thing, he keeps fingering the of his right ear and then inspecting his fingertips. I tell you, man, he’s his way out.”