Ghost Town: A Novel Read Free Page B

which time the next verse has commenced and the piano player’s back on his stool again. No one pays much attention to any of this.
    Come back, cowboy, and do us like yu done before, moans the chanteuse, but more to the smoke-smudged ceiling, stretched out on the broad piano as she is now with the men of the saloon lining up and taking their turns on her. Through the jostle and the saloon’s pearly light he can see she’s wearing black petticoats and, flagged to one bobbing ankle, black drawers.
    Seems like widow weeds is in fashion here, he remarks to the barkeep in a friendly manner, forcing a smile onto his parched lips.
    The barkeep grunts. Here, they always is. He’s a tall skinny man with stiff greasy hair reaching to his shoulders, making it look like an ugly insect is standing there, its belly resting on the top of his head. So whut kin I do yu fer, stranger?
    Whuskey. Double. Not what he wants at all. What he craves is a few gallons of water. But he figures some things you can get in here and some you probably can’t.
    The tall ugly barkeep glares down at him, both hands braced on the bar edge, jerks his head inquiringly, making his locks walk about. Ah. He offers him the black flat-crowned hat full of holes he’s just won off the oldtimer, best of the lot for all the damage to it, but the barkeep shakes it off. A truly formidable thirst has him by the throat and he’s ready to barter away anything he’s got, down to his weapons and his horse, assuming the horse is still in the neighborhood. Then he remembers the card from the claims office and he slaps it down on the bar.
    There’s a sudden hush. The barkeep backs away a step, hands fallen to his sides. The lady on the piano is sitting up, black skirts around her waist, and the men are stealthily pulling their breeches back on. The piano player sits stonily with his hands in his lap, staring at him, as do the faro, craps, and monte players, all hands poised. At the back, the tall fortune wheel creaks and ticks in its slow ceaseless rounds.
    Who is thet kid? he hears someone whisper, though no lips move.
    Some gunslinger most like.
    Y’reckon?
    Lookit thet injun scalp hangin from his belt!
    But he’s jest a brat. And he aint got but one pistol.
    Thet we kin see .
    Rifle, too. A blade…
    The buggy-haired barkeep, who seems to have shrunk half a foot, sets a double shotglass on the bar and, his hand trembling, smiling a nervous gold-toothed smile, pours it full to overflowing. Before he can pick it up, though, the glass is batted away. It’s the one-eared man with the oozing brains, back on his feet again. Whar’d yu git thet card, stranger? he asks, breaking the deathly silence, weaving unsteadily back and forth beneath the overhanging gas lamp. Whar’d yu git thet black one-eared jack? Everybody’s watching them. It wasn’t his intention to draw notice to himself, but it seems hard not to in here. Gimme it, kid. Gimme thet card.
    He shrugs. Hell, I dont give a keer. Here, yu kin have the damn thing.
    Goddammit! bellows the man, rage flushing his face, both sides of the split. Out comes a dirk, the blade agleam in the yellow lamplight. I said I want thet black jack!
    And I said yu kin have it.
    Yu gonna gimme thet fuckin card, boy, or I gotta kill yu fer it?
    Awright, he says, seeing how it is and bracing himself. The man lunges at him with the dirk, exposed brains wobbling like gray custard: he deflects the thrust and it slices clean through his tattered vest from sleeve hole to bottom hem. He whips his own bowie knife out and, as the one-eared man plunges forward again, buries the blade deep in his belly. The man staggers back, staring down in amazement and confusion at the staghorn handle protruding from his stomach, which slowly sucks it up until it vanishes entirely. Even the pierced shirt seems to mend itself behind the handle as it sinks inside. The man looks up at him around the cleft in his skull, grins crookedly, opens his mouth as though to