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“Oogh, that’s enough for me,” one of the whores said, and when I looked up, I saw our audience vacating the balcony in a storm of feathers and a swirl of pettislips. The bartender joined the others by the gaming tables, holding his nose pinched shut. I’ll bet they didn’t sell many steak di
“Yank up your cuffs,” Peavy said. “Let me gleep yer ankles.”
Now that the thing was begun, they complied without argument. I stepped forward. “If I point to you,” I said, “get down off the bar and go stand against the wall. You can take your boots, but don’t bother putting them on. You’ll only be walking across the street, and you can do that barefooty.”
I walked down the line of extended feet, most pitifully ski
“You . . . you . . . and you . . .”
In all, there were ten of them with blue rings around their ankles that meant time in the Beelie Stockade. Jamie drifted over to them. He didn’t draw, but he hooked his thumbs in his crossed gunbelts, with his palms near enough to the butts of his six-shooters to make the point.
“Barkeep,” I said. “Pour these men who are left another short shot.”
The miners without stockade tattoos cheered at this and began putting on their boots again.
“What about us?” the graybeard asked. The tattooed ring above his ankle was faded to a blue ghost. His bare feet were as gnarled as old tree-stumps. How he could walk on them—let alone work on them—was more than I could understand.
“Nine of you will get long shots,” I said, and that wiped the gloom from their faces. “The tenth will get something else.”
“A yank of rope,” Canfield of the Jefferson said in a low voice. “And after what I seen out t’ranch, I hope he dances at the end of it a long time.”
* * *
We left Snip and Canfield to watch the eleven salties drinking at the bar, and marched the other ten across the street. The graybeard led the way and walked briskly on his tree-stump feet. That day’s light had drained to a weird yellow I had never seen before, and it would be dark all too soon. The wind blew and the dust flew. I was watching for one of them to make a break—hoping for it, if only to spare the child waiting in the jail—but none did.
Jamie fell in beside me. “If he’s here, he’s hoping the kiddo didn’t see any higher than his ankles. He means to face it out, Roland.”
“I know,” I said. “And since that’s all the kiddo did see, he’ll probably ride the bluff.”
“What then?”
“Lock em all up, I suppose, and wait for one of em to change his skin.”
“What if it’s not just something that comes over him? What if he can keep it from happening?”
“Then I don’t know,” I said.
* * *
Wegg had started a pe
“What’s in the jail?” Wegg asked, looking at the scattered matchsticks with some regret. I guessed he’d been wi
“The boy and the end of this sorry business,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
I took the graybeard by the elbow—gently—and pulled him aside. “What’s your name, sai?”
“Steg Luka. What’s it to you? You think I’m the one?”
“No,” I said, and I didn’t. No reason; just a feeling. “But if you know which one it is—if you even think you know—you ought to tell me. There’s a frightened boy in there, locked in a cell for his own good. He saw something that looked like a giant bear kill his father, and I’d spare him any more pain if I could. He’s a good boy.”
He considered, then it was him who took my elbow . . . and with a hand that felt like iron. He drew me into the corner. “I can’t say, gunslinger, for we’ve all been down there, deep in the new plug, and we all saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“A crack in the salt with a green light shining through. Bright, then dim. Bright, then dim. Like a heartbeat. And . . . it speaks to your face.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t understand myself. The only thing I know is we’ve all seen it, and we’ve all felt it. It speaks to your face and tells you to come in. It’s bitter.”
“The light, or the voice?”
“Both. It’s of the Old People, I’ve no doubt of that. We told Banderly—him that’s the bull foreman—and he went down himself. Saw it for himself. Felt it for himself. But was he going to close the plug for that? Balls he was. He’s got his own bosses to answer to, and they know there’s a moit of salt left down there. So he ordered a crew to close it up with rocks, which they did. I know, because I was one of em. But rocks that are put in can be pulled out. And they have been, I’d swear to it. They were one way then, now they’re another. Someone went in there, gunslinger, and whatever’s on the other side . . . it changed him.”
“But you don’t know who.”
Luka shook his head. “All I can say is it must’ve been between twelve o’ the clock and six in the morning, for then all’s quiet.”
“Go on back to your mates, and say thankee. You’ll be drinking soon enough, and welcome.” But sai Luka’s drinking days were over. We never know, do we?
He went back and I surveyed them. Luka was the oldest by far. Most of the others were middle-aged, and a couple were still young. They looked interested and excited rather than afraid, and I could understand that; they’d had a couple of drinks to perk them up, and this made a change in the drudgery of their ordinary days. None of them looked shifty or guilty. None looked like anything more or less than what they were: salties in a dying mining town where the rails ended.
“Jamie,” I said. “A word with you.”
I walked him to the door, and spoke directly into his ear. I gave him an errand, and told him to do it as fast as ever he could. He nodded and slipped out into the stormy afternoon. Or perhaps by then it was early evening.
“Where’s he off to?” Wegg asked.
“That’s no
“I du
“Just do the best you can,” I said.
I had no interest in their ages, but the discussion and argument took up some time, which was the main object. If the blacksmith had fulfilled his commission, all would be well. If not, I would improvise. A gunslinger who can’t do that dies early.
The miners shuffled around like kids playing When the Music Stops, swapping spots until they were in some rough approximation of age. The line started at the door to the jail and ended at the door to the street. Luka was first; Wrist-Clock was in the middle; the one who looked about my age—the one who’d said they were always afraid—was last.
“Sheriff, will you get their names?” I asked. “I want to speak to the Streeter boy.”
* * *
Billy was standing at the bars of the drunk-and-disorderly cell. He’d heard our palaver, and looked frightened. “Is it here?” he asked. “The skin-man?”
“I think so,” I said, “but there’s no way to be sure.”
“Sai, I’m ascairt.”
“I don’t blame you. But the cell’s locked and the bars are good steel. He can’t get at you, Billy.”
“You ain’t seen him when he’s a bear,” Billy whispered. His eyes were huge and shiny, fixed in place. I’ve seen men with eyes like that after they’ve been punched hard on the jaw. It’s the look that comes over them just before their knees go soft. Outside, the wind gave a thin shriek along the underside of the jail roof.