“Guess not,” she responded matter-of-factly, tossing the coins onto the table in front of him. “Here you go. You can buy your girlfriend a brain.”
“Excuse me?” Louise straightened defensively.
For the first time during the exchange, Anna dropped her controlled façade. “You’re an idiot. You have the nicest guy in the world throwing himself at your feet, and you’re here with this complete asshole.”
“Who I go out with is my own business,” Louise said curtly. “So why don’t you mind your own, bitch?”
Anna shook her head in wonderment. “You know,” she said, “you have very lovely, very big blue eyes. No one would ever know you were blind.” Anna whirled around and strode away, her bustle swaying back and forth as it vanished into the crowd.
Although nearly every member of the population of Old Stump had gathered to participate in the dance that night, the one individual who was forced to abstain, thanks to the very nature of his profession, was Sheriff Arness. He stood sullenly at the potbelly stove across from his desk, slowly stirring a watery stew of beef and vegetables for his dinner. His wife had been trampled by cattle three years ago, and since then Millie the brothel madam had gotten into the habit of bringing him his meals as a sort of unofficial courtesy. Whether it was out of pity for his loss, or whether she had romantic designs of her own, no one knew—not even the sheriff—but he was nonetheless grateful for the kindness.
Tonight, however, Millie was whooping it up at the barn dance along with the rest of the town, so it fell to Sheriff Arness to cook his own dinner. To make the task even more disagreeable, he had to prepare enough for his prisoner. Seems downright stupid to waste good beef on a dead man, he thought bitterly. Lewis Barnes was being held for shooting the pastor’s son until a U.S. marshal could be dispatched to Old Stump to take him into custody. Lewis would get a trial, of course, but because of Pastor Wilson’s blood connection to a congressman, that trial would be primarily for show. Lewis Barnes would be executed before the month was out.
The sheriff ladled three spoonfuls of stew onto his own plate and then a single spoonful on a plate for Lewis. He spat a mucus-filled glob of saliva on top for good measure, then retrieved the cell key from his desk. Lewis was fast asleep on his cot against the far wall. Plate in hand, the sheriff cautiously unlocked the cell door. As soon as it was open, he pulled his gun out of its holster and aimed it at the slumbering prisoner. “Suppertime, you lazy prick,” he growled.
Lewis remained unconscious, his soft, rhythmic snores echoing off the walls of the sparse cell.
The sheriff slowly set the plate down on the floor. He straightened up again and stared at the sleeping man with distaste. “Goddamn waste of lungs.” He turned back toward the cell door—
—and was out cold before he even felt the blow.
It was as mild a night as the desert ever deigned to offer its human tenants, and the stars were out in theatrical plenitude. Albert and Anna sat on the uneven fence next to Albert’s farmhouse and swapped jolting pulls from the whiskey bottle.
Albert took a swallow and winced as the burning amber liquid blazed a trail from his throat down to his stomach. He shook off the intensity of the taste with a high-frequency shiver and turned to Anna. “I have that goddamn moustache song stuck in my head,” he complained.
“Just think of another song,” she suggested.
“I can’t; there’s only like three songs.”
“That’s true, and they’re all by Stephen Foster.”
“Ugh, yeah.” Albert grimaced.
“You don’t like his music?”
“I dunno, I’m… on the fence about it.”
Anna rolled her eyes at his pun. “Wow, now I hope you get shot tomorrow.”
Albert laughed and looked at her fondly. “Listen,” he said with sincerity, “whatever happens tomorrow… I just wanna say thank you. And y’know, this may be the booze, or your pep talk earlier, or both, but… I think I can do it. I can beat him.”
Anna gave his arm a squeeze as she took another swig of whiskey. “Like I said, you’ll be fine. And in case you haven’t noticed, you sound a lot more confident than that guy who pulled me out of the saloon not too long ago.”
Albert thought back to that night. It seemed like a year ago. In reality, it had been… what, two weeks? Not even. He felt as though he’d known Anna Barnes so much longer. He could trust her. And yet, paradoxically…
“Anna, I have to ask you something. I feel as close to you as any friend I’ve ever had. Which is fucked up, because the glaring fact is, I still don’t really know anything about you. And every time I ask, you change the subject.”
Anna sighed and lowered her head. Usually, her acute mind would quickly arm her with a sharp, confident response to any question, but this time she did not speak.
Albert got the distinct sense that he was about to get the real story. In a way, he did.
“I know it seems like I’ve been secretive with you,” she said, “and… look, to be honest, here’s how it is: I don’t much like where I come from. I don’t like it at all. It’s a rotten place, and as far as I’m concerned, I’d just as soon erase it from my life. And it’s not who I am today. I know it’s asking a lot, but… don’t ask me about it. Okay?”
Albert’s curiosity was now twice as piqued; he desperately wanted to pry deeper. Instead, he offered his best sympathetic smile. “Okay.”
“Thanks,” she said with visible relief. The playfulness immediately returned to her tone. “Now, how ’bout a toast to something we both have in common: our hatred of this terrible part of the country.” She raised the whiskey bottle. “Fuck the West!” She took a sizable pull and passed it to Albert.
“Fuck the West!” he echoed, and tossed back a swig of his own.
There were only a couple more shots left in the bottle. “If you want to kill it, go ahead,” she offered.
“No, I can’t,” he said. “I’ve had enough already, and when I drink too much, it doesn’t shit well.”
“Doesn’t sit well.” She laughed, raising the bottle to her lips.
“No, shit. It causes horrible shits. The morning after I drink too much, when I sit down to go to the bathroom, it feels like a madman trying to punch his way out of my asshole.”
Anna laughed so hard, the whiskey came squirting out of her nostrils.
“See, that’s what happens, right there,” Albert said, laughing along with her. “I need at least half the Old Testament in the john with me, that’s how long it takes. Ironically, it usually settles down by the time I get to the part in Leviticus where it says, No butt stuff.”
“Okay, stop! You’re gonna make me drown!” She coughed, shoving him coltishly.
Albert straightened. “Ooh, I almost forgot,” he said with excitement. He called toward the corral. “Bridget! Come here, Bridget! Baaaa! Baaaa!”
Bridget emerged from the flock of sheep and hurried over toward the fence, bleating back at Albert. She had something strapped to her back, Anna noticed. As Bridget came to a stop next to the fence, Anna saw that it was a wooden tray with a small wrapped gift sitting on top.
“What’s this?” she asked with amusement.
“Ah, it’s not much. Just a little something to say thanks.”
She looked at Albert with suspicious but affectionate eyes and carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside, she found a picture frame with a photograph in it. It was a young, scruffy-looking cowboy leaning against a barn—
—with a big grin on his face.
Her eyes snapped wide open. “Holy shit!!”