Ash stepped to the bed and picked up his gun belt. He strapped it on and hitched at it so it was comfortable on his hip. He took the Remington revolver and unloaded it and placed the cartridges in his pocket. Then he shoved the Remington into the holster and went out.
The sun hung on the brink of night. The air was filled with scents and sounds and Ash did not miss one. He was surprised at how keenly alive he felt.
The saloon was called Soledad’s. A pretty senorita in a billowy blouse and a long skirt served drinks. At a corner table sat a handsome man in a sombrero, playing a guitar. At the bar was another man who always came to Soledad’s in the evenings. This man wore a black slicker and a black shirt and pants. His hat was black, his boots were black, his gun belt was black. His slicker had been swept back and on each hip was a black-handled Colt. His eyebrows quirked when Ash stopped a few yards away.
“You’re Skelman.”
The man nodded. He had a glass in his hand. “What’s wrong with you? You look like hell.”
The question threw Ash off his mental balance. He’d worked it all out, imagined how it would be, and this wasn’t beginning right. “I’ve heard tell you are the quickest there is with those Colts of yours.”
“People like to talk.”
Ash moved his jacket aside so his hand was next to the Remington. “Whenever you are ready.”
Skelman showed no alarm or fear. He sipped his whiskey and looked Ash up and down. “You’re not a Pinkerton. You’re not the law. Bounty man?” He shook his head. “Who are you and what is this about?”
The bartender said something in Spanish. Skelman listened and frowned.
“He says you’re the gringo who goes around killing badmen. He says he has seen you around town and heard the stories.”
“Whenever you are ready,” Ash said again. He was afraid he would lose his nerve.
“Go away.”
The saloon had fallen quiet and everyone was staring.
“I’ll count to three,” Ash said. “Then I will draw and shoot you.” He took a deep breath. “One.”
Skelman set down the glass. His hands dropped to his sides and he let out a long sigh. “I have no quarrel with you.”
Ash glimpsed his reflection in the mirror on the bar and sadness gushed through him in a flood. His legs grew weak and he swayed. With a toss of his head he shook it off. “No,” he said.
“Are you talking to me?” Skelman asked.
Setting himself, Ash stared at Skelman’s hands and only at Skelman’s hands. They were thin hands, almost as thin as his, but bronzed by the sun. “Two,” he said loudly.
“Mister, whatever you are up to, it’s not worth it.”
Ash looked Skelman in the eyes. “I need it done. I’m sorry it’s you but there is no one else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I will shoot you unless you shoot me. I mean it.”
“Don’t, damn you.”
“Three,” Ash said, and drew, and it was true what they said: it was true that Skelman was living lightning. Those bronzed hands flashed and there were twin peals of thunder.
Fatal Justice Page 25