He looked at me flatly. “You don't have to go with me, son. This is just between Jim and me.”
“I'm not trying to get out of anything,” I said. “It just looks crazy to me, that's all.”
Some men had stopped on the plank walk to look at us. Perhaps they recognized Pappy, for they didn't loiter after Pappy had raked them with that flat gaze of his.
“You go buy yourself some clothes,” Pappy said quietly. “I can take care of this.”
He seemed to forget that I was there. He turned and pushed through the batwings of a place called the Mule's Head Bar, going in quick in that special way of his, and then stepping over with his back to the wall. I didn't think about it, I just went in after him. Somehow, Pappy's fights had got to be my fights. I hadn't forgotten the way he had taken care of the cavalry for me that time at Daggert's cabin.
We stood there on either side of the door, Pappy sweeping the place in one quick glance, taking in everything, missing nothing. “Well, son,” he said, “as long as you've dealt yourself in, you might as well watch my back for me.”
I said, “Sure, Pappy.” But it looked like it was going to be a job. The saloon was a big place with long double bars, one on each side of the building. There were trail hands two and three deep along the bars seeing how fast they could spend their hard-earned cash, and the tables in the middle of the floor were crowded with more trail hands, and saloon girls, and slickers, and pimps, and just plain hardcases with guns on both hips and maybe derringers in their vest pockets.
Down at the end of the bars there was a fish-eyed young man with rubber fingers playing a tinny-sounding piano. The tune was “Dixie,” and a dozen or so cowhands were ganged around singing: “Oh, have you heard the latest news, Of Lincoln and his Kangaroos...” One of the million versions of the tune born in the South during the war.
The gambling tables—faro, stud, draw, chuck-a-luck, seven-up, every device ever dreamed up to get money without working for it—were back in the rear of the place. That was what Pappy made for. I hung close to the doors as Pappy wormed his way between the tables and chairs, trying to keep my eyes on the gallery—I didn't intend to let a gallery fool me again—and on the men with the most guns. Before Pappy had taken a dozen steps, you could feel a change in the place. It wasn't much at first. Maybe a man would be talking or laughing, then he'd look up and see those awful, deadly eyes of Pappy's, and the talking or laughing would suddenly be left hanging on the rafters. One after another was affected that way, suddenly stricken with silence as Pappy moved by. By the time he had reached the gambling part of the saloon, the place was almost quiet.
I moved over to the bar on my left, keeping one eye on Pappy and the other on the big bar mirror to see what was going on behind me. Most of the men had turned away from the bar now, watching Pappy with puzzled expressions on their faces, as if they couldn't understand how a scrawny, haggard-looking man like that could draw so much attention. Then mouths began to move and you could almost feel the electricity in the place as the word passed along.
Somebody spoke to the man beside me. Automatically, the man turned to me and hissed, “It's Pappy Garret! He's after somebody, sure's hell!”
The men around the piano sang: “Our silken banners wave on high; For Southern homes, we'll fight and die.” Still to the tune of “Dixie.” Their voices died out on the last word. The piano went on for a few bars, but pretty soon it died out, too. All eyes seemed to be on Pappy.
I didn't have any trouble picking Jim Langly out of the crowd. His eyes were wider, and his face was whiter, and he was having a harder time of breathing than anybody else in the place. When he had looked up from his poker hand and had seen Pappy coming toward him, he'd looked as if he was seeing a ghost. And maybe he was, as far as he was concerned. Maybe he'd figured that Pappy would be dead on a creek bank by now, and all he had to do was wait for the reward money to come in and think up ways to beat Hagan out of his share.
He started to get up, then thought better of it, and sat down again. You could almost see him take hold of himself, force himself to be calm. He laid his cards face down on the table, fanning them carefully.
“Why, hello, Pappy,” he said pleasantly.
He was a big, slack-faced man wearing the gambler's uniform of black broadcloth and white ruffled shirt. He wasn't wearing side guns, but there was a bulge under his left arm that looked about right for a .38 and a shoulder holster.
“Hello, Jim,” Pappy said quietly. “I guess you didn't expect to see me coming in like this, did you?”
I thought I saw the marshal's face get a little whiter. “Nobody ever knows when to expect Pappy Garret,” he smiled. One of his poker partners wiped his face uncomfortably, gathered in his chips, and eased away from the table. Langly pushed the empty chair out with his boot. “Sit down, Pappy. It's been a long time.”
Pappy shook his head soberly. Carefully, I moved down the bar, looking for a place where I could do the impossible of covering the saloon with two guns. I saw that Langly was having trouble again getting his words out.
“What can I do for you, Pappy? Is there any trouble?”
“Maybe, Jim,” Pappy murmured.
Marshal Langly wiped his face with a neat, clean handkerchief. “What is it, Pappy? What do you want?”
“I came to kill you,” Pappy said softly.
The words were soft, but they hit Langly like a sledge. You could hear the wind go out of him, see his guts leak out. He groped for words, but there weren't any there.
“That's the way it goes with men like us, Jim. You tried to kill me and failed. A man only gets one chance in this business.”
“Pappy, what the hell's wrong with you? I don't know what you're talking about!”
“Sure you do, Jim,” Pappy went on in that velvety voice of his. “Hagan, our trail boss, came to you yesterday with a proposition. A profitable proposition for you, Jim —maybe fifteen thousand dollars, if you could figure out a way to keep Hagan from getting his split of the reward.”
“How could I do anything to you, Pappy? Hell, I've been here all day playing draw.”
“But not your deputies,” Pappy said. “They're right on the job. The job you put them on.”
The saloon seemed to be holding its breath. I glanced at faces around me. There were quizzical half-smiles on most of them, as if they thought it was all some kind of a big joke. I turned back to Pappy. I couldn't take my eyes off of him.
For a long moment he was silent, motionless. Langly was frozen. Then Pappy said, “You might as well draw, Jim.”
The marshal's mouth worked. “Pappy, for God's sake!”
“I'll give you time to clear leather,” Pappy went on, “before I make a move. That ought to make it about even.”
“Pappy, listen to me!” The marshal was begging now, begging for his life. “Pappy, for God's sake, I had nothing to do with it!”
“I'll count to three,” Pappy went on, as if he hadn't heard. Then something hard jabbed me in the small of the back.
I jumped, grunted instinctively. Pappy stiffened, but he didn't turn around. “What's the matter, son?” he asked quietly.