"Right." He still didn't move, so she left him where he was and took her green dress and the rest of her things with her behind the screen.
It was a pretty screen, three-paneled, painted with a scene of a lady taking a bath in the woods surrounded by naked nymphs. Needless to say, it hadn't been in this room when Mr. Shlegel lived here; she had found it up in a third-floor room, and brought it down because she liked it, and because it gave her some privacy while she dressed if she had company. Ham or Levi, for instance, or one of the girls. She hoped Jesse was enjoying it.
She didn't feel like hurrying—some kind of lethargy was weighing her down very pleasantly, making her arms and legs feel heavy—but she could hear Chico playing "Buffalo Gals" on the piano, a sure sign that Saturday night was getting under way. "How do you like your room?" she asked, for something to say, while she pulled on her stockings and rolled garters up to the tops.
"Like it fine." The nearness of his voice surprised her. She peeked over the top of the screen, and saw that he'd moved. He was sitting on the foot of her bed.
"That's good," she said. "The balcony's nice."
"Real nice. I like to sit out in a rocking chair, watch the world go by."
"The world," she said with a laugh. The population of Paradise hovered around four hundred.
"Yeah, it's a real nice room. Gets kind of lonely, though."
Shimmying the tight green taffeta down over her hips, she heard the bed springs creak. She was turned away, facing the oval mirror nailed to the wall. She saw the reflection of four fingers and the top of a thumb on the screen edge, overlapping one of the naked nymphs. Her heart, which had finally slowed down since their almost-kiss, recommenced racing.
"Specially late at night. When I'm lying there in that big bed all by myself. I thought about you last night, Cady. Kept me awake. Couldn't get you out of my mind."
She started to turn, but he moved faster. She saw him behind her just before he put his hands on her bare shoulders, and for no reason she could think of she closed her eyes. Maybe it was so she could concentrate on the way it felt to be touched by him, undistracted by the sight of him. God knew the sight of him was a distraction. "Mr. Gault, I do believe..." She smiled with her eyes closed, thinking that leaning back against Jesse was like leaning back against a hard, strong wall. "I do believe you're toying with my affections."
His laugh was nice, a huff of breath followed by a soft, infectious chuckle. His hands slipped slowly down from her shoulders to her elbows, then her sides. "There's nothing I'd rather toy with, Miss McGill," he said with his mouth against her hair, "than your affections." He was staring in the mirror at her breasts. She couldn't get over how much she liked this, this blatant... thing they were doing that she never allowed and always discouraged, wouldn't put up with past this point from almost any man. This man... this gunfighter she'd known for a day... she very much wanted to go to the next step with him. She dropped her head back on his shoulder and watched, heavy-lidded, as his big hands slid up and across her rib cage, a soft, slow, full-handed caress. Reckless, out of control, she felt like she was drunk.
"Miss Cady," he murmured, dipping his head to kiss her on the neck. "When you're through tonight?"
"Mmm?"
"If you don't have any other customers..."
She felt his lips, then his teeth on the bony-soft side of her ear. "Customers," she breathed, pressing her palms against the tops of his hands to keep them still.
"If you'd save tonight for me, I surely would appreciate it." She stole a glance at him in the mirror. He had his eyes closed, his smiling lips pressed to her temple. "I don't know what you charge for toying with your affections," he whispered. "But whatever it is, it's not enough. Luckily, I can cover it."
Her eyes flew wide open. Everything changed. A second ago she'd liked the feel and the look of him, black-clad, hatless and long-haired, a sturdy wall of warm muscle and bone at her back. He looked predatory now, his roving hands ready to take what she no longer wanted to give. She didn't even like his handsome profile anymore. Don't be angry, she commanded herself. After all, it wasn't as if this had never happened before.
"You've made a mistake," she said calmly, mildly, turning in his arms to face him.
"I don't think so." He still looked drowsy, dreamy-eyed.
"Oh, yes. I'm afraid so." Slipping past him, she walked to the open back door and stood by it. "Would you excuse me, Mr. Gault? I've still got a few things to do."
He came toward her uncertainly. He didn't get it. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, everything's fine. I told you, you made a mistake."
"What? What mistake?"
His total bewilderment was undermining her resolve not to lose her temper. "It's not for sale," she said through her teeth, smile hanging on by a thread. "What you can get here at the Rogue is beer, whiskey, pool, and poker. That's it. That's all I sell. Sorry if you were misled."
"Aha." He bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at her through his eyelashes. His lips quirked in a wry, one-sided smile. "Oops."
"Yeah, well." She waved her hand, indicating the open doorway. After a loaded second or two, while he seemed to be making up his mind about something, he walked out.
She started to close the door when he turned and said, "Sorry. Hope I didn't offend you."
"Not in the least. Not the least little bit."
"Good. That's good."
She wasn't angry, she wasn't offended. Why would she be? She was used to this; it or something like it happened about once a week.
"Cady—"
" 'Bye."
Nope, she wasn't angry. Slamming the door in his face was an accident.
Five
Two days went by, and two more people gave Jesse money so he wouldn't kill them. Paradise was turning into a flaming cesspool of guilty consciences. He'd never had luck like this before, not even in bigger towns like Medford or Crescent City. One of the sinners had stolen his mining buddy's poke two years ago in Silverado, and been more or less on the run ever since. The other, a woman, had emptied her husband's bank account and lit out with a piano tuner, who'd had his fun and then stranded her in Paradise last December. Ethel Payne, her name was. She'd landed on her feet, though, had a good job now in the insurance agent's office. But she was scared to death of her husband, and after she told him a few things about him, Jesse was scared, too. So he only took ten dollars, and told Ethel they were square.
Gault had his flaws, but bilking frightened runaway wives wasn't one of them.
Besides, now that he was filthy rich, he could afford to be generous. He could start a damn foundation. He could become a charitable trust. Instead, for the time being, he was redistributing the wealth by losing it at poker. Not on purpose—a run of bad luck. He didn't mind. He had so much of it, it felt like play money. And losing it widened his circle of acquaintances, which was a nice side benefit. At first the men he sat down to play stud with were scared to beat him, but they got over it as soon as they figured out he wasn't going to shoot them for it. Then they started to like him. He tried to tone down his own natural friendliness, act surly and dangerous and half-nuts, but his heart wasn't in it. He was lonesome.
It was all Cady's fault. Every time she saw him she gave him the same polite, freezing-cold smile and moved on. If he managed to corner her, she said polite, freezing-cold things, and always turned down his offers to sit or have a drink with him. Politely. She was killing him with politeness. Last night he tried to get a rise out of her, maybe torture her a little, by sitting down at her blackjack table, but he only ended up torturing himself. She wouldn't even look at him. Slapped his cards down like she was trying to kill flies with them, and took him for two hundred thirty dollars before he knew what hit him. After that he stayed with the boys, his new poker pals, glowering one-eyed at her over the head of a beer or the lip of a whiskey glass.
Okay, so he'd made a mistake about her. So shoot him. What exactly was the big deal? If
he'd phrased his suggestion to her just a little differently, left out that one tiny, unfortunate reference to commerce, she might have said yes. She sure had seemed to be heading in that direction. He remembered how she'd felt leaning back against him, all soft and blowsy with her pretty hair down, no corset, smiling and dreamy-eyed in the mirror. He thought about her bed a lot, too, how big and soft it was, how it didn't squeak. Cady McGill, saloon proprietor and blackjack dealer. Period. Not whore, and not madam. She didn't sell it, she gave it away. Just not to him.
Not yet, anyway. The sixth sense that never let him down was telling him he was finished here, Paradise had given up everything it was going to, and if he was smart he'd ride out today. But all the other senses, the ones McGill seemed to have pretty much taken over, told him he couldn't leave, because he had unfinished business.
Five to one.
"Uh, so, Mr. Gault, I see you read our little paper. That's, uh, very flattering. Sir."
Jesse, half dozing, daydreaming of Cady, lifted a corner of the hot towel Cuomo the barber had slapped over his face. He blinked up at a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a skinny nose over a wisp of a mustache. "Who're you?"
"Will Shorter, Mr. Gault. I'm with the Paradise Reverberator."
"Junior," Cuomo stuck in, stropping a straight razor behind Jesse's left shoulder. "Will Shorter, Junior."
Will Shorter, Jr., acknowledging that with a testy nod, stuck out his hand. Jesse ignored it, and the kid—he couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-one—bobbed his head and blushed. "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Gault, but I was wondering if by any chance you'd mind posing for a photograph. For the Reverberator." He pointed to the newspaper lying open on Jesse's sheet-covered lap.
"Why?"
"Why? Um, because our readers would be very interested, you being a notor—a famous personage and everything. It would only take a minute or two. At your convenience. It's a nice sunny day—we could do it outside."
"Who'd take it?"
"Why, I would, sir. I'm the paper's junior reporter and official photographer."
"Hm." Jesse twitched his nostrils; Cuomo the barber was trimming his mustache, making his nose itch. "What's in it for me?"
The reporter looked flummoxed. "We're not allowed to pay you."
"Why not?"
"Um... ethics. Sir."
Jesse reared up and sneezed, blowing mustache hairs off his chest. "Then I'm not interested."
"What about lunch?" Cuomo suggested. "Buy him lunch at the Frenchman's."
Will Shorter, Jr., widened hopeful eyes behind his horn-rims. "The two-dollar lunch, Mr. Gault. Steak and potatoes, best in town."
Jesse fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully while Cuomo flicked at his shoulders with a brush. "Vinegar pie for dessert?"
"Absolutely."
"Let's go."
****
It took a lot longer than a minute or two to have his picture made. Will had to go get his camera at the Reverberator office, then set it up on the sunny corner of Main and Noble Fir. While he waited, Jesse idled in the shade, smoking cigarettes, staring back at people who stared at him. He could sense a change in the average Paradise resident's attitude, and knew it was still another reason why it was time for Gault to move on. People weren't as afraid of him as they used to be. He'd been here for days and hadn't shot a single person, so now they were more curious than scared. That was bad. He ought to do something to stir them up, but he just didn't feel like it.
In truth, he was getting a little tired of Gault. Sure it was fun to scare people, and sure it was nice to walk into a room and have it go all quiet and cautious, while everybody checked him out and decided not to mess with him. But then again, there were aspects of Gault that struck him at times as pretty damn silly. Face it: sometimes Gault was a real horse's ass.
A man on crutches came hobbling toward him in the street. He had his head down, concentrating on his good foot, swinging his splinted right leg through the beat-up crutches clumsily, jerkily, like a beginner. Jesse didn't recognize him till he'd passed all the way by, and then it was more the smell than the sight that tripped his memory.
"Shrimp Malone."
The red-haired prospector stopped, teetered, hopped around in a half circle, squinting into the sun. "Gault?"
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Fell down a cliff, broke my damn leg. You ain't gonna shoot me, are you?"
Will Shorter was watching them with interest. Jesse said, "Be right back," and left him to join Shrimp in the street. They started walking together. "Where you headed?" Jesse asked, shortening his steps to match the miner's gimpy shuffle.
"Church."
"Church."
Shrimp slanted him a funny look from under the bushy ledge of his ginger eyebrows. "They give out stuff," he muttered.
"They what? Give out what?"
"Soup," he clarified shortly. "Once a day. They dole it out to the poor an' the infirm. Which I'm both of these days." He clamped his chicken lips together and concentrated on walking. He looked terrible, worse than the first time they'd met, and that was saying something. He smelled worse, too. Moving along on crutches in the hot sun made him sweat; his dirty undershirt was soaking wet.
"When did this happen to you?"
"Satiddy. Day after I give you all my money. Every dad-blamed cent." He turned his head to hawk and spit.
"Where've you been staying?"
No answer.
"Where do you live?"
Shrimp stopped short and faced him, swaying slightly, splinted leg cocked back at the knee. "Listen here, Mr. Gault. No offense, but you can't git blood from a stone. Since I already done give you everything I own, I figger that makes us even. I don't got to tell you all about my private business anymore." He almost looked dignified when he straightened his shoulders, turned around, and stumped away.
Jesse caught up to him in three long strides. "Sleeping outside, huh?" Shrimp snorted and didn't look at him. "That's rough," he went on conversationally. "Only happened to me once. After a poker game in San Francisco. I didn't care much for it. Speaking of poker games—let's go over here for a second, you mind? Out of the sun. Yeah, this is better. Sit down, take a load off."
"I only got a minute," the miner grumped uneasily, lowering his backside to a shady section of sidewalk. "They don't give out soup all day long, y'know."
"In that case I won't keep you. Just wanted to mention—you know that seven hundred dollars' worth of dust you gave me?"
"It rings a bell."
"Well, would you believe it? Last night I tripled it with three jacks and a pair of queens."
"You don't say. Well, that brings tears o' joy to my eyes, Mr. Gault, it surely does. Now, if you don't mind—" Jesse put a hand on his arm when he tried to get up. Shrimp froze. "No offense," he blurted. "I'll sit here an' jaw all day if you want, no problem whatsoever. It ain't like I've got anything else to—"
"So the way I figure it, you're like my good-luck charm, Mr. Malone."
"I am?"
"Now, I'm the kind of fellow who pays people back. Know what I mean?"
"Uh..."
"Somebody does something bad, wrongs me in any way, I'm inclined to shoot him. Or wound him, leastways—sometimes a good maiming's better than an outright killing, you know?"
"Heh heh."
"Same thing if a man does me a good turn."
Shrimp started to scoot sideways. "You shoot him?"
"No, you idiot. I pay him back."
"Oh." His little pig eyes lit up. "You do?"
"Course, it'd have to be a secret between you and me."
"Sure, sure. Sure. How come?"
"How come! Because I got a reputation to think about. What would happen if it got around that I was donating to the poor and the infirm? Somebody might say I was soft, and pretty soon somebody else might decide to call me out. Then I'd have to shoot 'em both, and maybe it wouldn't be convenient right then. Maybe I wouldn't be in the mood."
"Ye
ah," Shrimp said thoughtfully. "Yeah, I can see how that'd be a problem."
Jesse glanced around. The coast was clear. "So— here," he said, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket and stuffing it into the miner's outstretched paw. "Quick, put it away. Anybody asks where it came from, make up something good."
"I sure will." Stunned, dazed, Shrimp shoved the money into his grubby dungarees. The sudden change in his fortunes hadn't sunk in yet. "Thanks, Mr. Gault, thanks a lot. You're a real—"
"Okay, but keep that quiet, too. Last thing I need is people hearing somebody thank me."
"Oh, right. Sure, sure."
When they stood up, Jesse had to stop himself from giving the miner a helping hand. Gault had been saintly enough for one day, and then some. "Well, so long."
"So long." He didn't move, though. "Uh, Mr. Gault?"
"What."
"You been a real trump about this, no mistake, and I'm much obliged—"
"Yeah, yeah. What?"
"Well, I was just wonderin' if by any chance you still got my ear. And if you do, if you'd consider givin' that back, too."
"Your what?"
"My ear. You know. My ear?" He scowled, incredulous. "My pig's ear! You done made me give it to you, and ever since then it's a fact I ain't had nothing but bad luck."
"Oh. Your ear." What had he done with it? Thrown it out the window, he vaguely remembered. "Sorry, Shrimp, i sent it to the Wilsons."
"Sent it to who?"
Oops. "The, uh..."
"Weavers?"
"Weavers, Weavers. Sent it to them to prove I'd killed you. Remember? That was our deal? So then they paid me—which is another reason why I don't need your piddling seven hundred bucks." He was babbling, but Shrimp had a brand-new expression on his whiskery, pocked, pug-ugly face: intelligence. "So I haven't got it. The ear. Sent it to 'em, and they mailed back my pay right away. Real sweet deal, way I look at it. I don't even miss killing you. In your way, you're not a bad sombitch. Well, so, good luck, see you around—"
"What was 'er name?"