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“Let’s go in the office,” Mal said.

“Lead the way.”

Lancaster liked the way Mal stroked Crow Bait’s neck before walking away from him.

Mal led him to a door in the back, which led to a small office with a rolltop desk and a trunk. In one corner were three saddles, stacked.

“Sometimes folks don’t come back for their stuff,” Mal said. “Or they don’t pay their bill. Take your pick.”

Lancaster walked to the saddles, separated them, and examined them. “This one looks like it’ll hold together. How much?”

“Well,” Mal said, “it’s just sittin’ there gettin’ dusty…Twenty dollars?”

“With saddlebags?”

Mal walked to the chest, opened it, and pulled a worn pair of saddlebags. “Twenty-two, with the saddlebags.”

“Deal.”

Mal tossed the bags to him.

“Now how about that gun?”

Again, Mal reached into the trunk, came up with a rolled-up holster with a walnut grip of a pistol showing. He tossed it over. Lancaster deftly caught it, unrolled the leather. It was a Peacemaker with a worn grip, but it was generally clean and well cared for. So was the holster.

“Somebody’s been oiling this leather,” Lancaster said.

“The gun used to be mine,” Mal said. “I take care of it when I can.”

Lancaster took it, checked the action on it, spun the cylinder. “How much?”

“A hundred?”

“I don’t have a hundred.”

“A hundred for everything,” Mal said. “Saddle, saddlebags, and gun. But you gotta bring the gun back when you’re done.”

Lancaster took out the money he had left. “I have sixty dollars left. Then I’m broke.”

“You really need that gun, right?” Mal asked. “Rifle ain’t enough?”

“I really need the gun.”

“I tell you what,” Mal said. “Take it all, but when you’re done you gotta bring it all back.”

“Are you serious?”

“Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I want the horse, too.”

“Crow Bait? Why?”

“I’m already fond of him.”

“What’s the real reason?”

Mal scratched his nose.

“I recognize your name,” he said finally. “You and me, we used to be in the same business.”

“What business is that?”

“The business that requires a handgun.”

“I’m not in that business anymore.”

Mal spread his arms and said, “Neither am I, as you can see. But you need a gun for somethin’, and I know the feelin’. So take it all, but bring it all back when you’re done.”

“You’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

Lancaster looked around at everything, then said, “Thanks.”

“I’ll get back to your horse now.”

“Your horse,” Lancaster said. “I’m just borrowing it.”

“I forgot,” Mal said. “I’ll get the saddle in better shape for you. Gun, too, if you want.”

“I’ll work on the gun myself,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”

They walked back out to Crow Bait, and Mal picked up the brush.

“I hope you get ’em,” he said.

“Get who?”

“Whoever gave you that limp, and the cuts and bruises,” Mal said.

Lancaster strapped the holster on, slid the gun in and out a few times before settling it back in.

“Feel better?” Mal asked.

“Yeah,” Lancaster said, “suddenly, I’m feeling a lot better.”

Fifteen

Lancaster was thinking that since his last kick in the head his luck had turned. He’d found Crow Bait, who had taken him to Kimmie, who had driven him to town. His job wasn’t waiting for him, but Andy staked him to enough money to get him outfitted, and gave him a hotel room. Then he met Mal, who loaned him the rest of what he needed.

Now he needed a drink.

He went to his room to drop off the gun belt and gun. The rifle he kept with him as he walked to the K.O. Saloon as it was getting dark outside. The place was busy, but there were open spaces at the bar, so he claimed one.

“What can I getcha?” the bartender asked. He was big, brawny, had the body and the face of an old prizefighter, which probably explained the name of the place.

“Beer,” Lancaster said, “nice and cold.”

The bartender laughed. “Only kind we sell, friend.”

He placed the cold beer in front of Lancaster.

“How about a shot of whiskey to go with it?” the man asked.

“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. It wasn’t so long ago that he had crawled into a bottle, and crawled out again. He wasn’t about to start that slide all over again. A cold beer once in a while, that was all.

Lancaster lingered over that one beer, trying to pull his thoughts—or his memories—together. Boots, he remembered boots. But what stood out about them? And what else was there? He’d gone in and out of consciousness. Had heard voices. Seen figures. Had he seen faces and was just not remembering them?

Suddenly, he grew very tired. He finished off the beer, staggered back to his hotel, fell onto the bed fully dressed, and slept fitfully.

In the morning he woke with a pounding headache. All night he’d had dreams. He was being chased, being beaten, and he heard voices—only were they dreams? Or was his brain trying to remember things?

He decided to skip breakfast and go see the doctor. Maybe the doc could give him something for the headache and Lancaster could also ask him some questions. First, though, he unrolled the gun belt, took out the pistol, and made sure it was in working order. He cleaned it as well as he could with a rag, but that would have to do until he could get the right tools. The belt had cartridges on it, so after dry-firing it to make sure it would fire, he loaded the gun, put it back in the holster, and strapped the gun belt on. The rifle he propped up in a corner.

Feeling fully dressed for the first time since coming to town, he left the room.

“Back so soon?” Murphy asked, surprised. He was wiping his hands on a towel.

“I feel like my head’s coming off, Doc,” Lancaster said.

“Yeah, well, that’ll happen when somebody kicks you there. Let me give you something.”

He went into the other room, came back, and handed Lancaster an envelope.

“It’s a powder, for the headache,” the doctor said. “You dissolve it in a glass of water.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Wait.”

The doctor went into the other room again, came back with a glass of cloudy water.

“Here, drink this,” he said. “I already put some in there.”

Lancaster drank it and handed the glass back. “Thanks.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Well, yeah…can we talk a minute?”

“Sure. Whataya want to talk about?”

“My memory.”

The doctor waved him to a chair and sat down himself at his desk.

“You said my memory might or might not come back,” Lancaster said.

“That’s true.”

“So it’s possible I could’ve seen the faces of the men who ambushed me, and I’ll remember later?”

“It’s possible,” the doctor said. “Why? Are you seeing faces?”

“I’m seeing…flashes of things,” Lancaster said. “You know…the boots…the desert…some figures…hearing voices, but never seeing faces. I need to see some faces.”

“Mr. Lancaster, I think you should prepare yourself for the possibility that these memories may never fill in for you. They may never come back.”

“But they’ve got to come back,” Lancaster said. “How the hell am I ever gonna find these guys if it doesn’t come back?”