He looked in the mirror again, and this time he laughed, and thought: "Staying in this damned hotel is going to be expensive."
V
In a crate, in the loft of Rhine's livery—another lay in slumber—away from the light, wrapped in euphoria, an inner-clock beating away the minutes of daylight, ticking them off until nightfall.
That was when it would all begin.
Long about sundown, Joe Bob Rhine called it a day.
He sent David home ahead of him. He wanted to walk home by himself and not have to hear any foolish kid chatter. It had been a rough day.
As Rhine closed the doors of the livery, slipped the big, gray padlock into place, the last of the sun played out and gave it up to the dark. And when the lock clicked into place, Joe Bob thought he heard something move in symphony to the sound—something like a creaking noise.
Horses, most likely.
Rhine trudged toward home, a house at the end of the street just behind the barber shop.
He was hungry as a fresh-woke bear. He hoped that woman had something on the table.
He was too tired to slap her around tonight.
Shortly after Rhine made his way into his house full of the smell of beans and cornbread, the livery doors trembled ever so slightly. The padlock fell off the door without unlocking, thumped in the dust. The doors blew open with a gust of ice-cold wind, and the wind tumbled down the street.
The livery doors closed. The padlock jumped into place, and all was as it had been.
Almost.
II
The dog was a night hunter. Belonged to no one. Padded its way through the darkness, down the streets of the town, ever watching, ever alert.
Sometimes people shot at it, because the dog was known to be vicious, its one purpose in life was to scavenge, to dig in garbage, and attack small livestock.
One year it had wiped out the entire population of old man Mather's rabbit hutches and killed his prize boar hog—no easy feat.
It had bitten a young boy who had tried to hit it with a stick, and chased every dog in town away with their tails between their legs. For a year now, it had dodged bullets, rocks, and oaths. It was smart. It was a survivor.
During the day, the dog laid low. Hit town about sundown, when most people were about their suppers, and the saloons hadn't had time to crank up good. It was a good time to scavenge. And tonight, the dog was working its favorite place. The alley behind Molly McGuire's Cafe. There was generally plenty of tasty garbage there, except on Fridays when Uncle Bains brought his wagon around and hauled it all off.
But tonight was a good night. He could smell chili and hard biscuits and soggy flapjacks.
The dog climbed up on a wooden trash box and pushed it over. It made a loud thud and its contents puked into the alley. The dog did not rush to eat, though its mouth was watering. It watched the back of the cafe, turned to look down both ends of the alley. No one was coming.
The dog ducked its head into the box, used its teeth and forepaws to move paper and tins aside so it could get to the good stuff. First off, the dog found a flapjack with syrup and a spot of chili on it, and wolfed that down. Soon the dog was lost in his appreciation of what had been left for him, and by the time the dog knew something was amiss—it was too late.
Wasn't just the smell that alerted the him. Something else, a sixth sense. The dog pulled its head out of the box for a look.
He raised his hackles and his loose mouth folded back to reveal long, yellow, foam-flecked fangs. A low growl came from his throat.
A shape moved in the shadows.
The dog didn't like this at all. He had not felt what he was feeling now since he was a pup.
Fear.
But fear was a thing to overcome. The dog was a survivor. He was big and he was strong.
Teeth snapping, the dog leaped for the shape.
The dog yelped once before dying.
III
Nate Foster was Mud Creek's town drunk, and he was the neatest drunk in creation. He wore a black Prince Albert coat (hundred degree weather or not), striped, stovepipe trousers, and a crisp derby hat to perfection.
He was already six bottles of beer and two bottles of whisky ahead of every other drunk in town. That was because he had a two-hour start on most of them, and he could easily afford it. Unlike the other drunks, Nate Foster—king of Mud Creek's drunks—was also the town banker, and he made a rather good salary at it.
Tonight, Nate was particularly rolled up and pulled tight, feeling no pain. He had gotten started earlier than usual, and the whisky had been potent.
Now that he was well lubricated, he was about his nightly stroll (the school mistress, Bessie Jackson, called it his nightly wobble) toward Molly McGuire's where he would order a steak and hash browns, hold the gravy but plenty of biscuits. Then he'd be ready to tie on a real drunk.
He was nearly to the cafe when he felt the urge to urinate.
Piss first. Eat later.
Moving at a slightly faster wobble, Nate slid down a narrow alley that led to the larger one behind Molly's. No sooner had he made the alley, unbuttoning his pants as he went, than he tripped over something and went down hard, pissing all over himself.
"Goddamn," he muttered, and pushed up on his elbows. A gorge of beer and whisky almost forced its way up.
Nate rolled over on his right side to see what he had tripped over. There was a dark shape at his feet.
He reached into his pocket, produced a match, and with great deliberation, and after many tries, struck it on his thumbnail.
He bent to place the match closer to the heap. It was a dog. That big dog that had troubled the town so much. And God almighty, its throat was ripped out.
Nate didn't feel so drunk anymore. He stood quickly, and as he did, he had the terrible sensation that someone, or something, was watching him.
He licked his lips and turned, slowly.
Nothing.
Just the alley wearing its shadows and a thin light like a straight razor's edge sliding out from beneath the back door of Molly McGuire's.
But the sensation did not go away.
Nate wasn't so curious he wanted to stay in the alley and find out what it was. He turned to head out the way he had entered.
And ran right smack dab into a big man's chest. Nate looked up. The face of the man was shielded by a great, flat-brimmed, black hat. It looked like... but it couldn't be....
The man bent closer, and now Nate could see the Indian's face, not clearly, but enough to know who it was.
"You," Nate said.
"Howdy," said the big man.
Nate tried to scream, but instead of a scream, he got a spout of beer and whisky puke that splattered on the chest of the big Indian.
"Not nice," the Indian said. "Not nice at all."
The Indian's hands shot out and clutched Nate's Prince Albert. He pulled Nate to him, and bent his face down close to Nate's and smiled.
IV
Ten miles outside of Mud Creek, in the forest at the edge of the stage-line trail, a long, slender white hand pushed up through the soft forest soil.
Nearby, other hands pushed up through the dirt.
After a moment, Millie Johnson had the soil worked away from her face—what was left of it. She had both hands free and was scraping the thin layer of dirt from her body.
Bill Nolan had already managed.
He sat bolt upright like a jackknife springing open. A wad of dirt slipped out of his empty eye socket. Nolan reached up absently and pulled his eye patch back into place over the hole.