Houses at the southern end, some of them with fenced property lines. All with shade trees and one with a neatly tended flower garden. Midway along the street, at the top of the curve, were business premises. Stores supplying the basic needs of life, a livery stable, blacksmith’s forge, barber shop and a bank. And a funeral parlour to which Barnaby Gold paid no more attention than any other building, as he rode slowly along the centre of the deserted street. All of these darkened and locked up for the night, their hours of business at an end for another day.
Beyond, two more houses on either side of the street, like those behind the newcomer, three had lights in some windows. One of them had a shingle to proclaim it was a boarding house. Across from this, a doctor advertised his presence.
At one time, this had been the extent of Bacall’s northern limit. Although there may have been an older church on the site of the obviously recently built one next to the darkened house. Its neighbour was a meeting hall, then came the stage depot and telegraph office, with the wire stretching northwards from its roof on a line of poles. The Riverside Saloon, named for a narrow creek that cut across the end of the street, was the last building on the left. On the other side, the law office and gaol were next to the boarding house. Then there was a Chinese laundry and the foundations of a new building with a pile of planks nearby.
The creek had a twenty foot long timber bridge with a rail, just wide enough for two people to walk on. But was shallow enough to be forded by wagons and horses. On the far side was another portal, its cross-member doubtless lettered in the same way as that at the southern end of the town.
The only lights on this side of town came from the two-storey frame-built saloon, which looked to be the newest property in town. And it was toward the stooped and balconied facade of this that the black-clad, trail-dusty, travel-weary and hungry Barnaby Gold angled his gelding.
Vented a soft sigh of relief as he got out of the saddle and allowed his horse to drink from a wooden trough before he hitched the reins to the rail. The sounds of the gelding gulping down the water and of the creek rippling past the bridge pilings, the chirping of crickets and the rustling of tree foliage in a gentle breeze were all that disturbed the peace of Bacall.
The batwinged entrance and two windows to either side of this spilled kerosene lamplight across the stoop on which stood two Boston rockers. None of the upstairs rooms were illuminated. And there were no sounds from inside until Barnaby Gold pushed open the batwings and stepped over the threshold.
When a man said: ‘Evenin’ to you ... oh, my God!’
It started out friendly and finished on a note of fear.
A woman greeted sensuously: ‘Well, hello to you, stranger.’
The saloon was wider than it was deep, with the bar counter running partway along the rear wall: an entertainments platform to the right and a stairway to the left. Fifteen chair-ringed tables took up most of the floor area and there was a circular dance floor with a piano at the side in front of the dais. The walls were white and hung with oil paintings in ornate gilt frames. The ceiling was black with yellow stars and a half-moon painted on it. A dozen lamps hung from the ceiling or wall brackets, but only four of them were lit.
The place smelled of fresh paint and new timber and the furnishings looked virtually unused. A mirror ran along the wall behind the bar, slightly tilted from the top, the section immediately opposite the entrance not fronted by glass and bottle-lined shelves. So that the newcomer had an unobstructed view, in reflection of his appearance that triggered the two comments.
The battered hat with the narrow brim curled up all around. The frock coat with the two bullet holes in the left pocket. The shirt buttoned to the neck. The pants. The boots. All of them black, powdered with grey dust. Creased, crinkled or scuffed. His face, the lower half heavily bristled while his cheeks and forehead were smeared with dust, ingrained from when he had wiped sweat from the flesh. The gun-belt with several looped bullets in view with the coat open, but the Peacemakers seen only as bulges. The Murcott which he had taken off the rigging ring, gripped in his right, blood-crusted hand, the sawn-off twin barrels pointed at the floor.
He probably looked worse because of the contrast with his surroundings. He felt wearier and dirtier as he crossed the unsullied floor to where the apprehensive bartender stood, dropping motes of dust behind him.
‘Hello. Hot food for sale here, sir?’
‘We sell everything a man needs in the way of home comforts, stranger.’
This from the woman who sat at a table near the stairway end of the bar. She was as close to thirty as made no difference, with long blonde hair, black roots starting to show. Good-looking, but with a predatory cast to her rounded features. No taller than five feet three inches with an amply curved body that had probably been a little slimmer when she first bought the high-necked, long-sleeved dress she wore. Flame-red with some fancy white trimmings on the bodice, hem and cuffs.
‘Food is what the man’s hungry for right now, Annie,’ the bartender said quickly, struggling to overcome his initial fright at seeing the unsmiling, black-clad, shotgun-toting young man between the batwings. ‘Ain’t that right?’
‘Sure is, sir. Can you do it?’
‘No trouble. Annie, go tell the missus, why don’t you?’
He was fifty or so. No taller than Annie, who left her game of solitaire to come along the bar. Running her dark brown, heavily made up eyes over the length of Barnaby Gold. Then went through the double doors at the other end of the bar.
‘Drink while you’re waitin’, stranger? Lay the trail dust.’
‘Beer would be nice.’
He hurried to draw the drink. A short, rotund man with a circle of black curly hair around his shiny dome. Square-faced and clean-shaven. Hardly any neck. Dressed in a clean white shirt and black bow-tie. With a leather apron tied around his waist.
Gold had leaned the Murcott against the front of the bar and placed a dollar bill on the polished top when the beer was delivered.
‘Appreciate it.’
‘First one’s on the house to any new customer comes in, stranger. On account we’ve only been open three weeks. Kinda encouragement for folks to call again.’
‘Nice of you.’ He sank the beer at a swallow and set the empty glass down on the bill. ‘Like to pay for another now.’
The house whore re-entered the room while the second beer was being drawn from the pump. ‘Mrs Dalton says she hopes meat loaf, beans and sweet potatoes will be okay.’
‘Sounds good, lady.’
She sidled seductively along the front of the bar. ‘Want to buy me a drink?’
The bartender was in the process of making change from a pocket in the front of his apron. He paused and eyed Gold expectantly.
‘No, lady, I don’t.’
The seductive pose abruptly switched to one of injured pride. While the bartender hurried to get out the right coins after directing a warning glance at the whore.
Annie bit back on an obscenity and said brittlely: ‘Well, you don’t have to be so damn rude about it.’
‘Was always taught it was rude to ask strangers for anything.’
He sipped his fresh beer.
‘I’m Anne Kruger. This is Arnie Dalton. His wife Fran is fixin’ your supper. If you tell us your name, we won’t be strangers, will we?’
‘Barnaby Gold. And I’m still not going to buy you a drink.’
‘Leave it, Annie,’ Dalton said harshly, eyeing his customer intently.
The whore gave a toss of her head which set her dyed blonde hair swinging. Then overemphasised the sway of her hips when she returned to the game of solitaire.
‘Gold,uh?’
‘More like iron, as in pig,’ Annie rasped venomously.
Dalton tried to mask the words by saying quickly: ‘You got no need of that shotgun, Mr Gold.’
‘I haven’t?’
‘The Gunman who was askin’ about you - stayed here in the hotel for a week - he left town t
his mornin’.’
‘After he got a telegraph? His name was Clinton Davis?’
A nod.
‘He found me.’
Dalton looked tense. Then shrugged his shoulders.
A silence followed, in which Barnaby Gold was the only one of the trio to seem at ease with it. The bartender and the whore were relieved when the double doors swung open and Fran Dalton emerged. Carrying a tray on which there was a plate of food, mug of coffee and a knife and fork.
She was perhaps ten years younger than her husband. A little taller and much slimmer. Her face was angular and plain, but attractive in the set of her blue eyes and the way her short black hair hugged her cheeks. Somehow sultry. She carried her small-breasted, narrow-hipped body well. Her sexuality far more alluring than the obvious sensualness of the professional seller of favours.
‘Here all right, mister?’ she asked as she set down the tray on a table at the edge of the dance floor.
‘Appreciate it,’ Gold acknowledged, aware of the intensity of her glance at him - perhaps indicating that Annie had said more about him than that he was hungry. She went back to the kitchen.
He finished his beer and took the Murcott to the table, laid it on a spare chair. He wiped his hands down his coat before he started to eat. And kept on both the coat and hat. The food was plain, well-cooked and tasty.
Annie continued to play solitaire and Dalton went back to the mail order catalogue he had been reading before Gold entered. But both cast frequent surreptitious glances at the eating man. Apprehensive and riled.
When he had satisfied the edge of his hunger, he asked: ‘You have a room I can rent, Mr Dalton?’
‘Twelve of them. We’re empty right now.’
‘Hot bath?’
‘No trouble, Mr Gold.’
‘The livery is closed. Have a horse outside.’
‘Fred Street will be in later. He’ll take care of your mount.’
‘How about Floyd Polk?’
‘The sheriff?’
‘Name I was given.’
‘The right one. He ain’t in town right now. Had to go over to Prescott last week. Due back pretty soon, I guess.’
Another silence, disturbed by the scrape of fork on plate and the swallowing sounds Gold made.
‘Bounty hunter!’ Annie said suddenly.
Arnie Dalton glared at her.
‘Why else would someone like him want to see the sheriff?’
‘His business is his own!’ He blurted it out so fast that spittle ran down his chin. He wiped it off with his shirt sleeve. ‘I’ve told you before, girl! If you don’t watch your mouth, I’ll throw you outta this place!’
‘I don’t kill for money, lady.’
Both of them broke free of the angry stares they were locked on. To gaze at Gold. Who finished the last of his coffee and lifted the Murcott off the chair before getting to his feet.
‘Coming, lady?’
‘Uh? Where?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Well, you’ve changed your damn tune.’
‘Be nice, Annie,’ Dalton urged.
‘Well,’ she said with a petulant pout, but got to her feet. ‘He wouldn’t even buy me one lousy drink.’
‘I’ll see Fred Street tends to your mount, Mr Gold.’
‘Appreciate it.’
He gestured with the Murcott for Annie to go up the stairs ahead of him.
‘When’ll you be wantin’ to take the hot bath?’ Dalton called after him.
The young man on the stairway did not shift his gaze away from the swaying rear of the whore, each movement of the flesh visible because of the tautness of the red fabric stretched over it. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth then called out: ‘First things first’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘ANY room you like, mister Mine if you want, but it ain’t hardly got space to turn around in.’
The hallway leading off from the head of the stairs was illuminated only by blue moonlight entering through a window at the far end. Gold halted at the first door on the left he came to and swung it open. Went across the threshold into a room with a window overlooking the balcony and the street. Furnished with a double bed with a small table on one side and a chair at the other, a clothes closet, a bureau with a basin and pitcher on it and three small rugs. A kerosene lamp on the bedhead table. Two framed prints of flowers in vases on the wall flanking the bureau.
Annie had to come back down the hallway several yards when she realised he was no longer behind her.
‘Don’t tell a person what you’re gonna do, will you?’ she snapped. And slammed the door at her back.
Gold was at the window, and now he opened it a crack at the bottom, after glancing out along the still-deserted street.
‘Okay, lady. I’m going to screw you. So get out of those clothes.’
‘You gonna pull the drapes?’
‘No.’
He was at the chair now. Rested the Murcott against it and began to take off his hat and coat
‘So you don’t want the lamp lit?’
‘I get it cheaper for putting on a show for the local folks?’
Her dress had loops and buttons down the back from the nape of the neck to her waist. She glared her displeasure at him while she put both hands behind her, working at unfastening the loops from the buttons.
He took off his clothing with the same kind of slow deliberation he did most things. Draped each item carefully across the chair. Appeared to pay no attention to the whore as the top of the dress slid off her arms and torso. Nor when she kicked off her shoes, inserted a thumb under the waistline at either side and crouched to push the dress, her underclothing and hose free of her hips and legs. Then stood up and stepped away from the heap of garments on the floor. Totally naked.
Barnaby Gold was still wearing his grey long-johns.
‘Most men enjoy watchin’ a woman take off her clothes.’
He looked at her blatantly now, as he unfastened the buttons down his chest. ‘You’re good at it, lady. Fast’
His eyes, their colour concealed by the darkness, glinted a little in the low level of moonlight as he surveyed her from the ankles up.
Her skin was very white and looked smooth. Her legs were finely shaped, slender, the tapered thighs in proportion with the calves. He had seen the broadness of her hips. Without the camouflage of the flare of the dress’s skirt and the constricting influence of the severely gathered waistline, her belly was seen to bulge and there was only a slight inward curve above each hipbone. Her sex was marked with a large and luxuriant triangle of jet black pubic hair. Her breasts were as large as they had promised to be: necessarily drooped into pear-shapes rather than standing as cones. The areas of the nipples were very dark. There was a lot of hair under her armpits.
Since she was a whore, she would not always have been well used by men. Maybe hated all men, if less forth-rightly than she loathed Gold. But she had taken care of her body well enough, ensuring that the merchandise she had to sell was attractive to the committed purchaser.
‘You like what you see, mister?’
He shrugged out of the top of the long-johns, to reveal a firm fleshed and not overly muscled torso, the matting of hair on his chest fine and as blond as that on his head.
‘You hear me complaining, lady?’
‘Well, you sure don’t look so happy at what you’re seein’.’
He straightened up from taking off the long-johns and when the whore raised her gaze from the base of his belly to his face, her mood had altered. From resentful petulance to smiling pride.
‘Well, in one way you’re as hard as you look, mister.’
She brought up her hands to cradle each heavy breast in the palms as she came across the room toward the bed.
‘I’ll take care of that,’ he told her.
She moved around the end of the bed to his side of it and halted a foot in front of him. He reached out and gently caressed her breasts with his hands in the attitu
des of claws: his fingertips testing the soft smoothness of her skin while the palms massaged her nipples.
She had dropped her arms to her sides. Now raised them to cup the hard, sparse flesh contouring his hipbones. He moaned softly. Her hands moved around to the back of him and exerted a slight pressure.
‘Not yet, lady.’
Footfalls sounded on the street below the cracked open window. Then across the stoop boarding,
‘Why don’t you call me Anne?’
He made no response. Leaned his head down. She thought he was going to kiss her on the mouth and she pouted her lips in readiness. But instead his face went lower and his hands raised her breasts. He brushed his lips delicately across the upper slope of each.
She leaned the side of her face into his hair. Then, as he continued to move his mouth on her breasts, alternately upon the rough texture of the nipples and the creamy smoothness of the pale skin, she tentatively brought her hands up the sides of his body. To his shoulders, his neck and then his face.
His day’s growth of bristles prickled her hands when she clutched his cheeks tightly. But he did not allow her to pull his exploring mouth closer. And his beard did not scrape her flesh. Merely brushed it, to become part of the pleasure his moist lips and tongue gave her.
Now she moaned, and arched her body toward his.
He allowed this to the extent where the hirsute base of her belly made the lightest of contacts with the exposed tip of his sex. And when he held back from her, she moved a hand away from his face: to grasp him.
‘Oh, God, it’s been so long!’ she rasped through teeth clenched in a half-grin, half-scowl of desire.
‘Okay, lady,’ he said and slowly, in a series of fluid motions, straightened up and eased away from her.
For perhaps a full second, her expression was entirely a scowl, as she released her hold on him and from the utter lack of emotion on his face feared he had merely been toying with her. As a prelude to some kind of punishment for the way she had been toward him down in the saloon.
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