Destined to Die (11 page)

He went to the window to look out on the street.

‘No one else ever gave a damn about my feelin’s.’ She sounded surprised to the point of shock. ‘Men who use whores, they ain’t supposed to.’

There was just one man on the street. Leading the black gelding down the curving slope toward the livery stable. From the saloon below there came a steady buzz of talk, interspersed with a gust of laughter now and then.

‘How come, mister?’

‘How come what?’ He turned from the window and saw that she was still sprawled on the bed, legs, splayed and arms outstretched in an attitude of pleasant exhaustion.

‘You treated me like dirt down in the saloon. Yet here in this room...’

‘Appreciate it if you’d go arrange that hot bath for me, lady.’

‘Sure. Sure.’ She quickly got up from the bed. And he was stretched out on it before she reached her heap of discarded clothing.

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘It’s two dollars for a short time. You pay Arnie Dalton. If you wanted to give me somethin’ extra?’

‘No.’

She had put her dress on first and was now getting into her underclothing. ‘Damn you!’ she flared.

‘The liveryman’s taken my horse. He should have left the saddlebags. Appreciate it if you’d bring them up.’

‘All right!’ She pushed her feet into her shoes. Whirled toward the door. But paused with her hand on the knob to look back at him. He still lay flat on his back, naked, hands interlocked at the nape of his neck, gazing up at the ceiling. She spoke softly. ‘Will you tell me one thing?’

‘It was good.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘I saw you were.’

‘And that was real important to you, wasn’t it?’

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘It takes two.’

She sighed ruefully. And shook her head. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

‘Lady, unless you got something other than money out of that screw, it wouldn’t have been so good for me.’

‘Yes, I know. I don’t mean that. I mean I don’t understand how you could be the way you was downstairs. Then make love to me like I was the only woman in the world for you.’

‘I am what I am.’

You’re like two different people. Hard and mean one minute. Gentle and tender the next.’

He raised his head to look across the room at her. Removed a hand from the back of his neck and held up the forefinger,

‘Just the one man, lady. Who only enjoys doing what he’s good at. Whores are for screwing. I screwed you and you didn’t have any complaint. If I want you again, I’ll let you know.’

‘Damn you!’ She tried to snarl it, but her voice broke and a sob escaped her throat as she wrenched open the door. ‘I’d rather go with a thousand men who treat me like the whore I am! Than have you make me feel like a real woman for five minutes! Only to act like I was dirt again before I’ve...’

‘Talking of dirt, lady, you want to go arrange for my bath now?’

She slammed the door. Forcefully enough to rattle the window and vibrate the lamp on the bedhead table.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BARNABY Gold was still lying naked on his back on top of the bedcovers, smoking a freshly-lit cheroot, when the door swung open. And a woman gasped.

He raised his head off the pillow and with the cheroot clenched between his teeth, said: ‘Mrs Dalton.’

She was carrying a metal hipbath.

‘I didn’t expect... I thought you would be decent.’ She had been staring at his nude body. Now averted her head as she carried the tub into the room and set it down. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Gold. I should have knocked.’

Anne Kruger came across the threshold behind her, toting two pails of steaming water, with the saddlebags off the gelding draped over a shoulder. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth while she enjoyed the other woman’s discomfiture.

Gold swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It doesn’t bother me, Mrs Dalton. But if you haven’t seen your husband in this state, you’re right. You should have knocked on the door.’

‘That is hardly the ... oh, dear. I’ll leave Annie to do the rest.’

She hurried out. And closed the door on the higher volume of noise that came up the stairway from the saloon below,

The whore tossed the saddlebags on the bed, then two towels and a cake of soap from the bath before tipping in the hot water. She was no longer smiling.

‘Those men who treat you better than I did, lady?’

‘Yes?’

‘One of them Jesse Gershel?’

‘That hillbilly kid.’ She scowled.

‘He said he was in this place last night.’

‘He had a couple of drinks. He didn’t come upstairs with me. Hasn’t since the second time. Same as the first. Did it before he touched me almost. Some kids are like that. But that second time, he didn’t wanna pay. Blamed me for shootin’ off—’

‘Just a couple of drinks? Like two?’

‘Or three. I didn’t keep damn count, mister. Anyway, I was up in Ginton Davis’s room some
of the time.’

She peered hard at him, seeking a reaction to the name. But there was a knock on the door. Mrs Dalton called that there was more water and to hand out the empty pails. The whore complied and the woman in the hallway kept her head averted again while the door stayed open.

‘He wasn’t liquored up?’

She had emptied the pails into the bath. The room was getting steamy and there was condensation on the window.

‘Not him. Like he can’t handle a woman, he’s no good with liquor. Got sick to his stomach a few times when he first started to use the place. Just drinks beer now. What’s it to you?’

‘There were other people in the saloon?’

‘Sure. A few.’

‘Who saw he was okay when he left?’

‘Sure. I guess so.’

‘Guess so?’

‘Damn it, mister! He wasn’t drunk. Just mad.’

‘What about?’

‘Davis goin’ with me, I figure. He stared daggers at us when we went upstairs. The same when we come down later. Muttered somethin’ I didn’t hear. And Davis laughed at him and said somethin’ about him bein’ a man some day. Then Jesse upped and went out. Left half a glass of beer. He’s just a kid, mister. What’s your interest in him?’

Knuckles hit the door again and Fran Dalton called it was the last of the hot water. She was gone from the hallway when the whore went for the buckets. Filled the tub almost to the brim.

‘You want me to stay? Scrub your back?’

‘No thanks.’

He got up from the bed, tested the heat of the water: lowered himself into it. Some of it slopped over the sides. He clicked his tongue as he began to relish the feel of the water on his sweat and dirt-stale skin.

‘You know somethin’, mister?’ She was at the door, which was still closed.

Gold had sunk down to his neck, the cheroot clenched between his teeth. His eyes were closed and he opened them in tacit invitation for her to go on.

‘If you’ve had some kinda trouble with them mountain people - of which the Gershel kid is one - Sheriff Polk won’t be much help to you. They take care of their own problems and Floyd Polk ain’t inclined to poke his nose into their business.’

‘Bye-bye, lady.’

‘What?’

His eyes were closed again.

‘Damn you!’ The door was jerked open and crashed shut in the same manner as earlier.

Alone, Barnaby Gold bared his teeth in a grin of sheer enjoyment. Remained in the same attitude with the grin on his face until the cheroot was smoked. Then put it out in the water, stood up and soaped himself. Rinsed off the suds and stepped from the tub to towel himself dry. Dressed in all but his frock coat and hat before getting a razor, mug and brush, then squatted beside the tub and shaved his face clean of all bristles.

Men began to leave the saloon. He had not heard any of them come up the stairs with the whore.

He put on his hat and coat, then the gun-belt, and picked up the Murcott. But he did not leave the room. Instead, carried the chair from the bed to the window, used a coat sleeve to wipe it
clear of mist before sitting down: the shotgun resting across his knees.

Without exception, the dozen customers he saw leave the saloon and start down the curving slope of the street cast glances up at the window. Which suggested he had been one of the topics of the conversation which had previously reached him as a buzz. He was far enough back from and to the side of the window for them not to see him seated there.

They were the kind of men he had grown used to back in Fairfax and Standing. Business-suited or attired in hard-wearing work clothes. Merchants and professional men, clerks and manual labourers. As hard and tough as their work and lifestyle in a frontier community demanded. Most of them content with their lot which was relatively trouble-free except for the day-to-day problems which beset everybody. With little to talk about outside of small town gossip. Thus, inevitably intrigued - excited by and a little frightened of - the black-clad, heavily armed, uncommunicative young stranger who had ridden into town. Eager to know the reason he was there. But anxious not to be caught in the backwash of any trouble he had brought to Bacall.

Barnaby Gold paid them no heed as, via the crack at the bottom of the window frame, he heard an occasional snatch of talk: with key words.

‘... hillbillies ... Annie ... shotgun ... Gershel kid ... Davis ... gunslinger ... Polk ...’

After they had all gone to their respective homes, the batwings flapped again, and booted feet rapped on the stoopboarding.

‘Night, Fred.’

‘Be seein’ you, Arnie.’

‘Sleep well, Mr Street.’

‘Oh, Annie, if only I could be sure the wife didn’t find out, I could sure sleep well with you.’

‘Some day, Mr Street.’ Annie laughed.

The liveryman joined her. ‘Be the same when pigs can fly, I reckon.’

The final customer stepped off the stoop and staggered a little as he started for home. One wedge of light extending from the saloon was blacked out when the big double doors were folded closed in front of the batwings. Then those from the flanking windows faded and disappeared as the kerosene lamps were doused, two at a time. The voices of Dalton, his wife and the whore were indistinct mutterings for a minute or so. Just one pair of woman’s footfalls sounded on the stairway and went along the hall to the far end without pausing outside the room where Barnaby Gold sat. A door was opened and closed. Below, in the rear of the building, another door closed, presumably behind the Daltons in their living quarters.

The man on the chair eased the window open a full inch and struck a match to light a cheroot. Dropped the dead match and then ash on the floor. He regretted not having asked for a pot of coffee to be sent up. But not for long. Wishful thinking about what might have been was as foreign to his nature as daydreaming on what the future could hold.

After the cheroot was smoked, the stub crushed out under a boot heel on the floor, he opened the window another inch. And dozed. Every lamp in Bacall was out by then. And the breeze that had stirred the trees when he dismounted in front of the Riverside Hotel had sprung up again. Was a little stronger now. Rattling the partially-opened window from time to time. He did not go deeply enough to sleep so that he failed to be aware of this noise. Which was the only sound he was aware of until the clop of hooves intruded.

He snapped open his eyes but did not move on the chair. Concentrated on listening to the
slow cadence of the hooves on the street. Two horses, being walked up the sloping curve from the south. He listened to their approach for more than two minutes before the animals and their riders were close enough to be within his angle of vision.

Clearly seen in the moonlight which cast their shadows squat and distorted on the street across which eddies of dust occasionally swirled to the dictates of the east wind.

The riders were men not at all like those who lived in Bacall. Nor the mountain people from Tennessee who had moved west. This pair were more like one named Arkin than Clinton Davis.

Tall and well-built, lithe and loose-limbed. Dressed for the trail in spurred riding boots, pants, shirts and Stetsons. With thigh-length topcoats on against the cool night breeze. Not fastened, so that their gun-belts were displayed and they had easy access to the revolvers holstered below their right hips. Their clothing looked to be of good quality and they sat astride expensive saddles with all the accoutrements. On big, strong, well-groomed horses.

Although the shadows from the hat brims hid their faces, Gold got the impression that the two men were well short of middle-age. From the way they sat their saddles, the manner in which the horses were ill at ease with the slow pace and the small amount of trail dust clinging to clothing and horse coats, it looked as if men and animals had taken a long spell of rest not very far south of Bacall.

The newcomers exchanged no words or signals. One taking his cue from the other to angle toward the front of the hotel, coming to a halt beyond Gold’s angle of vision. He heard them dismount in unison and step up on to the stoop.

A fist banged on one of the big double doors.