“No services,” Gauge told the undertaker. “Just four holes and plant them. Nothing read over ’em. Send the bill to my office.”
Perkins was clutching his top hat by its brim, as if it might fly away. “And the gentleman last night?”
“Same.”
“Separate bills?”
“One bill. Charge the city as usual.”
The undertaker nodded and went about his task.
Gauge went to Lola. “What did you see?”
She slowly spun the parasol on her shoulder, her manner casual, as if out on a weekend stroll. “Nothing. But everybody is saying this newcomer is the fastest gun ever. And most of them have seen you in action, Harry. Of course, you know how fickle people are. And how easily impressed.”
He studied her, looking for smugness. “You think this is funny?”
“Not a little bit.” The twirling stopped, her expression turning grave. “Could it... could it be Banion, Harry?”
He sighed. Shook his head. “Doesn’t seem likely, but...” He gave her a sly smile “... how would you like to find out for me?”
Her smile in return was as confident as it was pretty. “That doesn’t sound like a terribly difficult chore.”
“Not with your special talents it isn’t.”
She smiled just a little. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”
And she turned and walked toward the Victory, twirling the little shoulder-slung umbrella again.
Rhomer came up to Gauge, frowning. “You should have let me cut that buzzard in half.”
“Not the time or place.”
“You catch any of the action?”
“No. That girl’s horse was in the way.”
Frowning, Rhomer shook his head. “Well, he must have been pretty damn fast to take ’em both like that.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Jackson and Riley were just clumsy oafs.”
Rhomer nodded, acknowledging that possibility. “I heard you send Lola down, to scope out who and what that stranger is.”
“Did you?”
Rhomer nodded. “Think she can get anything out of him?”
“If he’s breathing, she can.” He let out a nasty chuckle. “And then, pretty soon? Maybe he won’t be.”
Tulley and the stranger walked the black-maned dappled gelding down to the livery stable, where a stall and feed were arranged for the animal.
That taken care of, the pair walked back down the street as various Trinidad citizens gawked and pointed at the dude who had shot down two of the sheriff’s toughs.
Still having to work at keeping up, Tulley asked, “Where to next, stranger?”
“Well, now that my horse can get some rest,” he said, “maybe I better find myself a room. Fairly tuckered.”
“You crazy? You can’t get a room now.”
“Oh?”
“Yesterday was payday! Hotel’s chock-full of cowpokes sleepin’ it off.”
“Shame. Should’ve taken a stall next to my horse.”
“You know what you need, stranger?”
“Tell me.”
“A drink.”
“It isn’t even noon yet.”
“But you already beat up two men today and shot ’em down to boot. I figure that oughter work up a hell of a thirst. Anyways, I reckon you owe me another a drink for savin’ your hide.”
“I do at that.”
Tulley jabbed a finger at the stranger without touching him. “In addition to which, it’s about time you and me had a man-to-man talk, my friend.”
He half-smiled, raised one eyebrow. “Like I used to have with my daddy?”
“Mebbe. Mebbe do you some good.”
“What’s to talk about? I already know about the birds and the bees.”
“I bet you do! I just bet you do. But what you don’t know is what’s gonna happen to you right soon, and it won’t be near as fun as the birds and the bees.”
“Oh?”
“No, sir. A man don’t pull what you did on Harry Gauge and live long around here.”
The stranger shrugged. “Well, let’s give the sheriff time to figure out what to do about me. Here we are.”
They were at the Victory.
He gave Tulley a warm smile. “Ready for that drink, old-timer?”
“Well, now.” Tulley licked dry lips. “I guess we can continue our little talk in there as well as anywheres.”
The stranger pushed through the batwing doors with Tulley right on his heels. This time of day at the Victory, things were quiet — no music, very little gambling, just a row of cowboys lined up along the brass rail, seeking the hair of the dog. Faces exchanged wary glances in the mirror as the stranger found a place midway for himself and Tulley.
A handlebar-mustached bartender in white shirt and bow tie attended them immediately, or anyway did the stranger. “Yes, sir. What’ll it be, sir?”
The stranger glanced at Tulley. “How about you, pal?”
“Beer’s fine, mister.”
“Two beers, bartender.”
But when the foaming mugs arrived, and the stranger went to digging out a coin, the bartender held up a palm and said, “No charge.”
“Right friendly,” the stranger said, with a nod of thanks.
A cowhand called down from the far end of the bar: “Mister, that true what you told the sheriff, ’bout Stringer and Bradley? Was they wanted men?”
The stranger took a sip, nodded, said, “You can write the territorial governor for copies of the circulars if you want.”
“That’s okay, mister. Take your word for it.”
From down the other way, a voice called out, “Four of them ‘deputies’ headed to Boot Hill! Sure puts the squeeze on the sheriff.”
Somebody else said, “Couldn’t happen to nicer fellers.”
Glancing down the bar both ways, the stranger said, “If the sheriff and his bunch are all that bad, why don’t you folks clean them out?”
As if in answer, two men pushed through the swinging doors, big, burly, unshaven, battered hats snugged down, six-guns low on their hips, their expressions daring you to look them in the eye. A dare no one was taking.
Tulley whispered, “That’s why.”
“Pretty playmates the sheriff has,” the stranger said, speaking over the rim of his glass.
The two gunhands took a table. One of the bartenders automatically brought them beers. The taller of the two rolled a cigarette while the other lit up a stogie. Their eyes remained on the bar.
In particular, on the stranger.
“Now, don’t you go startin’ nothin’,” Tulley advised his new friend. “You had enough fun for one mornin’.”
“Is that possible, really?”
“What?”
“Can a man ever have enough fun?”
The doors opened again, but it wasn’t a gunhand who breezed through: it was a beautiful, dark-haired female in a figure-outlining satin dress, a parasol over her shoulder.
The stranger, seeing this in the mirror, said, “You get my point, old-timer?”
Tulley said, “You might want to steer clear of that one.”
“I can see a lot of reasons not to take that advice.”
“That’s Lola.”
“It would be.”
“She belongs to the sheriff.”
The stranger gave him a mock frown. “Tulley, didn’t this country get in a ruckus a while back that settled this whole business of folks belonging to other folks?”
They watched in the mirror as she hip-swayed up to them. Then the stranger turned toward her, Tulley keeping his back to her, but watching in the glass.
She looked the stranger up and down like a dress on display she was considering buying for herself. Then she smirked at him, eyes hooded, and purred, “You’re quite a topic of conversation around this town, handsome.”