LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

a hurry.

      “Just pork,” Sal told Buddy. “They serve beef down the road, but I don’t expect you’d be welcome there.”

      “Do I still need money here?” he asked.

      “More of a formality,” Sal explained. “But an important one. I’ll run you a tab, and you can pay it when you win in cards. Eventually everybody gives their money to the blacksmith for bullets, and he’s lousy at cards so he redistributes it back a hand at a time.”

      Buddy didn’t seem to mind being dead since he’d probably be doing the same thing if he was still alive: drinking, telling stories, and teasing the younger fellas. He couldn’t figure out why he ended up shy of hell.

      “Thought for sure I’d done enough killin’ to earn a nonstop ticket.” he smiled. “But I don’t mind hanging out with you boys while they stoke the furnaces for me.”

      He was knocking back the whiskey at a furious pace. A lot of fellas hit the bottle hard to wash away the sting of those final fears of death. Buddy might’ve been mourning something else though, some simpler life he never got a chance to live. Every rotten son of a bitch figured he’d get a chance to repent and go straight before he died. Then they ended up in Damnation, never getting the pretty wife and the house with a picket fence and a yard full of youngins.

      Sal didn’t usually extend so much credit, but he couldn’t cut the man off without causing a fuss. The boys crowded around to hear how Buddy had robbed a stagecoach dressed as an Indian, then joined the posse to hunt down the thief. He could spin a good yarn, but his speech was slurring some, and the gap between fact and fantasy was getting too large for anyone to swallow.

      At half past two, Jack Finney sauntered into the saloon. It was easier for him to sleep in since he didn’t bunk at the noisy stinking rooming house with everyone else. Had his own room in the hotel, just below the vampire’s. He wasn’t donning the big hat today. He wore all black except for the colorful stitching on his fancy lizard-skin boots, which he had taken off a tinhorn he shot for having an uppity look. Jack rubbed a hand over his smooth chin, wondering what to make of the new fella. For once, Sal was relieved to see Jack, figuring he’d send Buddy to hell before he ran up too big of a tab. Sal was a frugal man. Some said he’d died just to avoid further taxes.

      Jack sat alone at the end of the bar eyeing up Buddy. Judging by his sourpuss, the fat man didn’t rank very high in his estimation.

      “One time, I took on four men in San Antonio,” Buddy boasted. “Only had a single-shot derringer, and they was all heeled with fancy Remington six shooters. Had to reload after every dang shot!”

      “Did you get ’em all, Mr. Baker?” Stumpy asked.

      “I’m still standing, ain’t I? Well, I guess I’m not anymore!” he cackled. “But them boys ain’t the ones that got me. Hey, maybe they’re here. Seen any shot-up Texans with stained shorts ’round here?”

      Jack stood, and the room silenced. He wasn’t the sort to put off shooting a man. On the way to the latrine, he ambled by the chubby newbie and knocked against his sipping arm. Some whiskey spilled over Buddy’s hand, but he didn’t make a big to-do of it, like most would. Barely pausing in his storytelling, he licked his knuckle so as not to waste any gut-warmer.

      “What’s he, yella?” Sal whispered. “Thought he was supposed to be some kinda big-shot gunfighter.”

      “Maybe gun fighting ain’t as important to him as telling tales and drinkin’ prairie dew,” Fat Wally said.

      On his way out of the latrine, Jack lingered by the faro table, though he wasn’t the gambling sort. He stood beside the banker, watching the cards come out of the shoe and glancing over a punter’s shoulder toward the bar. After a short while, Buddy stood, hiked up his pants, and staggered lazily to the latrine. Jack made a beeline for the bar to intercept him in his path. Buddy was nearly twice his size but Jack hardly gave him a foot to squeeze by. As they passed each other, Jack stiffened his elbow at the last moment and bumped hard against Buddy’s gut.

      “Watch where you’re going!” Jack hollered.

      “I was watching just fine,” Buddy replied. “Better learn some manners, son.”

      There were a few gasps of surprise around the room. Nobody would ever dare to address Jack that way. He still looked seventeen, because that’s how old he was when he died, but he’d sent hundreds of men to hell in the ten years since he’d arrived. It stuck in his craw to be called son, but he didn’t show it.

      “If you’re gonna address a man like that in Damnation, I expect you’re ready to draw,” Jack said calmly.

      Buddy was in his mid-forties—old by outlaw standards—and he showed his age, but he acted like a goofy kid and thought everything was a game. “Shit, boy!” He looked down at Jack. “I wanted to draw, I’d a got me some pencils instead of pistols.” He laughed good-naturedly, but Jack kept eyeballing him without so much as a blink.

      “Ah, you’ll understand when you’re older, sonny.”

      “Quit your jawing and pull!” Jack showed a rare flash of anger.

      “All right, if you’re set on getting yourself shot, how ’bout high noon tomorrow?” Buddy suggested.

      “Ain’t no such thing as noon here,” Jack said. “It’s always dusk.”

      “Oh yeah?” Buddy shrugged and took a gulp of his drink. “Guess we might as well settle it now then.” He seemed more put out by the interruption of his drinking than anything else.

      “How about you boys settle this outside.” Sal tried to sound stern, but he wasn’t. Jack must’ve been in the mood for some fresh air though, because he obliged him.

      Buddy staggered drunkenly toward the door, knocking over a spittoon on the way. He cursed at it for jumping in front of him, but then went back to give it a heartfelt apology.

      The whole saloon emptied into the road to watch, except Sneaky Jim. The greasy weasel liked to steal sips from other men’s drinks while they were in the commode. After a good gunfight, you could expect every glass in the room to be lessened by two sips, and for Jim to be lying in the corner with a bellyache.

      “We ain’t seen anyone semi-famous get shot in quite some time,” Red remarked.

      “I reckon the fat man won’t even clear leather.” Fat Wally waved a five-dollar bill to wager.

      “Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black,” Red said.

      “All right, boys!” Sal interrupted, “I got two-to-one odds that the new man heads south without showing metal.”

      “I’ll take some of that action,” I said, having a suspicion Buddy might show some gumption. “He might not win, but I reckon he’ll get sent to hell with a gun in his hand.”

      The vampire was up on his balcony across the road, smoking a pipe with his feet propped up on the banister. He surely enjoyed himself a gunfight. Seemed the only time a smile crossed his pale face was when some loudmouth got a lead plumb in the gut. Looked on it like a type of vaudeville.

      As the two men lined up back to back in the center of the road, Buddy’s large round body shadowed Jack’s lean figure like a carnival tent beside a stake in the ground. The heft on his hips looked like it might hinder him from lifting a sidearm, whereas Jack’s trim waist gave no such obstruction, and his arms were coiled tight as a spring.

      At Sal’s signal, they each began walking in opposite directions. At the count of ten, they turned and stood for a moment. Jack locked Buddy in a cold glare. He could look at a fella like there wasn’t nothing else in the world, but at the same time he was aware of everything going on around him—always ready in case some upstart in the crowd decided to pull.

      Normally, Jack’d wait till his opponent made the first move. Then he’d gun him down so it looked like it was the other fella’s idea and he was just finishing

Скачать книгу