“Yeah, yeah,” she says over her shoulder. “Come on up.”
He climbs into view, and when he spots me standing there he winks. I think I make a face more revolting than necessary, ’cus he just says, “And I offered to buy you one once.” Shaking his head, he turns to Evelyn. “Did I ever tell you yer the prettiest gal in Phoenix?”
“Those words’d be more convincing if there weren’t dollars behind ’em.” But she’s smiling as she says it, and there’s something bright in her eyes. I don’t know much ’bout painted ladies, but I never seen one look so genuinely pleased to take a client’s hand.
I squeeze by Will and flee down the rickety stairs.
The parlor ain’t big, and it’s busting at the seams on account of the few folk spread throughout. Men lounging on fading couches, drinking whiskey and bourbon as girls in bright, frilly dresses dance about. An accordion’s being played, the ivories tickled. Deep red curtains hang in the windows, looking rich and trying to distract from a mud-stained carpet.
Jesse’s leaning ’gainst the sad excuse for a bar, a rolled cigarette pinched between his lips as he spins a whiskey glass with his free hand. He spots me coming down the stairs and straightens. I feel his eyes lingering on my flannel and can practically hear him chiding, Ain’t no reason to keep pretending yer a boy.
He throws back his drink, then turns away from me, sliding the empty glass forward for a refill. I shove out the saloon without a backwards glance.
It’s later than I expected. The sun’s set, but a bit of light still stains the horizon. The lantern hanging from the parlor eaves is already lit and glowing scarlet.
Silver’s waiting not far to my right with her reins wrapped round the hitching post. She stamps a hoof, tosses her head. Suddenly, not even the sight of her makes me feel better, ’cus alls I can see is Jesse tracking her for me. Finding her. Bringing her back.
Why’s he gotta be so honorable? If he were more like Will, he’d be easier to hate. But somehow I like Will just fine and can’t stand Jesse.
Goddamn mess of a hunt. And now I can’t even cut loose till morning.
I look at the darkening sky and curse under my breath. I hope Jesse drinks so much whiskey, he passes out. If I gotta see him squinting again when I get back, judging and glowering, I’m gonna go mad.
I stomp down the street, jiggling my fingers by my thighs like I can shake the prickling emotions outta my body. I pass a string of saloons and a bank, then finally find a general store looking like it could rival Goldwaters. Hancock’s, according to the paint on the facade. The owner’s closing soon, and he’s sure to tell me it the moment I step through the doorway.
I shop quick, gathering up more cured meat, matches, ammo, and anything else I think I might need heading into the mountains come dawn. Then I dally on the general store’s porch, groceries between my feet and back pressed ’gainst the wall. The last bit of light leaks from the sky. A few less-than-respectable-looking characters start wandering the streets, heading for the various saloons. I ain’t ready to return to the parlor. If’n I stand here long enough, Jesse might be asleep when I get back. Maybe I can creep in extra late and sneak out come first light without so much as facing him.
It dawns on me that I don’t know where we’re staying for the night. Evelyn’ll need her room. There were only so many couches on the main floor, and I reckon they’ll be full of patrons. I should prolly see if there’s a hotel round.
As I stoop to grab my groceries, two long coats drift by.
“. . . shouldn’t be stopping here,” one man’s saying.
“You know the boss man. He’s got a weakness for cards,” the second replies. I go rigid on the porch. “’Sides, he’s only playing a few hands, and didn’t Hank say the sheriff’s gone on business till tomorrow?”
I strain my hearing, but they’s already moved outta earshot, so I follow ’em, being sure to keep back a good distance. They walk fearless, like predators on the prowl. Finally, they head into the Tiger Saloon. It’s a big place, two stories high. I hurry nearer, and sure enough, there’s their horses. Seven of ’em. Waiting calm as ever at the hitching post, a rose burned into each saddle.
On the other side of the swinging doors I can hear music and rowdy men. Shouts and bets and a few girls carrying a tune. How’s it folks in a town as small as Walnut Grove knew ’bout Waylan Rose, and here people don’t seem to notice the demons they got stomping down their own streets?
Could be they do know and are too scared to do nothing ’bout it without the sheriff round. It ain’t one man they’re up ’gainst, but a whole gang.
Or, could be Rose and his boys ain’t been recognized. When I’s a kid, we had an outlaw squatting in Prescott a few weeks and not a soul noticed. There were wanted posters hung on every other town building too. Problem was, the illustration weren’t very good—he were drawn too young and thin—and with the outlaw going by a different name and carrying himself all confident, no one batted an eye.
I step onto the porch and peer through the saloon window. A body’s standing right ’gainst it, blocking any view I mightta had. For a moment I consider dropping my groceries and plowing inside anyway, pistol blazing. But I’m worried ’bout hitting innocent folks in the process, and besides, you can’t gun down seven men unprovoked and walk away whistling. Assuming I can even make that many perfect shots, I’ll still need Silver nearby so I can run when it’s over.
I turn my pace brisk and head for my horse. Soon as she comes into view, I swear. My saddle’s missing, swiped right off her back, and I’d bet all the gold left in Pa’s pouch who took it.
I charge into the parlor.
Jesse’s still at the bar—Will now drinking ’longside him—and he don’t even look up as I march over.
“Where is it?” I says.
Jesse strikes a match and lights a new smoke. Then he exhales slow and runs his thumb ’long the rim of his whiskey glass like he ain’t even heard me.
“Jesse, where’s my damn saddle?”
“Why, you going somewhere?” His words are clipped, and I can’t tell if it’s on account of the smoke wedged between his teeth or how much he’s drank.
“Jesse, I ain’t kidding. I want my saddle back.”
“And I want in.”
“What?” I says.
Jesse straightens and squares to me so fast, I know for certain he ain’t drunk.
“Will and me’s been talking. We’ll help you track down Rose if’n we can have a share of what’s waiting in those mountains.”
“Oh, we’re in agreement now?” Will cuts in. He’s playing with a poker chip, letting it dance over his knuckles. “’Cus I recall arguing it weren’t the smartest of plans.”