Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

“Oh, we’re well set up, Chess,” Hosteen assured him, tapping his money belt. “The Rev gave us plenty of gelt. No need — ”

“ — for trouble?” Chess swivelled ’round, grinning nastily. “Aw, that’s sweet of you to care, Kees.” To Morrow: “And where’d you learn to pinch pennies so fine, anyhow? Half this band’a numbskulls can’t count to twenty-one, ’less they’re naked.”

“Just careful, is all. Best to be, not knowin’ exactly when the Rev’s comin’ back — ”

“Rook’ll be back soon ’nough,” Chess said, a bit too quick for comfort

, “whenever and however he damn well pleases. He told — you — he’d be back; that’s good enough for me. In fact . . .”

“Chess Pargeter?”

This was a new voice entirely, drink-roughened and shaky, from directly behind Chess — some cowboy, barely old enough to shave. Morrow stared at the scarred table-top, suddenly more exhausted than scared. Thinking: Aw, great.

Looked like the Bird-in-Hand all over again, at best. And at worst —

“Chess Pargeter,” the cowboy repeated. “You’re him, right? If so, we’re gonna have words.”

“Seems I’m lettin’ you have them now,” said Chess, not looking up.

“You recall a waiter-gal used to work here, name of Sadie?”

“No.”

“You broke her head open last time you come through here, over that damn Reverend of yours.” He had a sun-reddened face, with spots of colour burned high on broad cheekbones. “She never woke up. Died of a fever, a week after.”

“Boy . . . I’ve killed a lot of people.”

“She meant somethin’ t’me!”

“I can see that. Question is, what? You even think about that part yourself?” The cowboy laid hand to gun, flushing further. “’Sides which — you waited what, a half-year? Somebody killed the Rev, I wouldn’t wait two minutes.”

“Well . . . I had to train.”

At that, Chess nodded. “Good thought, on your part. So — ”

The kid caught his eye-flick, and barely had time to touch holster. Chess cross-drew at the same instant, so quick he’d already shot the kid twice before the boy even had time to realize what had happened. Then didn’t bother to watch as the kid collapsed, skull cracking heavily on the saloon floor.

Morrow stared at Chess, who raised an eyebrow back at him. “What? You thought we was gonna have us an honest-to-shit shootout, in the middle of the damn street? Please.”

Like some kinda fair fight, or somethin’? Morrow thought, his stomach clutching queasily. Guess not.

It must’ve shown on his face, though, because Chess snorted out a sour half-laugh — as though even he felt some inexplicable wrongness in what he’d just done, and was annoyed by it.

“Sit yourself back down, Ed,” he ordered. “Joe’ll get this — ” he nodded toward the body “ — took away, and I got most’ve a bottle yet to drink. I don’t aim to do it alone.”

Morrow had a giddy moment’s thought of slapping Chess right across the chops and walking out, bullet in the back or no. But Chess — who might just as easily be well aware of that fact as blithely ignorant — just met his eyes straight on, unflinching.

“You heard ’im,” he said. “Boy didn’t know half what he oughta; be crueller to prolong the misery. ’Sides — he’d waited long enough.”

Up on the wall, a greasy pastoral Joe’d hung to block a draft first fell sidelong, then detached altogether, hitting the floor with a clatter. The noise seemed to spur Joe’s slim consort of musicians-in-residence to draw out a wheezy squeeze-box, and set to mangling a tune that sounded for all the world like Chess’s Ma’s favourite: For I’ll be true to my love, if . . .

Blood on the sawdust, coming up in clots, and a few flies, already gathering: perhaps this was the price of “being true,” sometimes, sadly enough. Especially when you didn’t take care to pick and choose who best to do it to —

But that was a lesson Chess himself might have to learn, someday. “All right,” Morrow said, finally. And took his seat once more.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

One bottle became two, and Hosteen switched to rotgut early on, “to stay crafty” — but since Morrow’d been kept busy matching Chess at absinthe slug for slug, might be he’d already lost his ability to reckon such matters. Now they were upstairs, in Chess’s quarters, playing a hand of cards while Chess supposedly kept score. Whenever Morrow looked over, however, he found him messing with his armaments instead — stripping one gun after the other, tallying up shot, stropping Hosteen’s former blade to a keen gleam.