touched you, it cut you. It cost Charley seventy dollars, having the handle remade to match the Colts.
The fingers stopped before they got to the shirt, as if the hand had thoughts of its own, and went sideways to the sack on the bar. Boone May said, "Here's your chance to get rich in the Hills, fancy. Thirty fast dollars." He opened the sack and pulled the head out by the hair. "This unfortunate goes by the name of Frank Towles. I got a legal warrant for his arrest, dead or alive, with a reward of two hundret dollars for the apprehendor."
The noise at the poker table had stopped. Charley turned to Bill, who was sitting straight and solemn with his back against the wall and the bulldog in his lap, and said, "You notice something peculiar about this town?"
Bill nodded, never changed expressions. "I never been anywhere," Charley said, "that so many people were walking around carrying spare heads." Bill smiled at that, Captain Jack Crawford began to lean away from it. It wasn't any contest who would be first under the table.
Charley turned back to Boone May to see where it would lead. It was a pattern to his life that he didn't understand. Things would stop before they happened. Like this man's fingers. If his fingers had touched Charley's shirt, the clean-up boy would of found them in the sawdust tomorrow morning. But at the last minute, they'd seemed to sense it—Charley had watched animals do the same thing at traps—and gone some other way.
That was a difference between Charley and Bill. Bill didn't give off the same warnings, or maybe it was that by the time somebody decided to aggravate Bill Hickok they'd quit listening to what their private voices were telling them.
"All you got to do," Boone May was saying, "is take the head in tomorrow and pick up the reward. Thirty dollars for no work at all." He smiled at Charley. "It ain't heavy, even for a fancy."
Charley looked him in the eye, motionless. Boone May pushed the head toward him, Charley stepped away. "You ain't afraid to touch it," Boone said, "it ain't nothin' but a head." He slid it another six inches. "You git the head and the bag both for a hundret and seventy dollars, I'll even put it inside for you. All you got to do is take the package in and pick up the reward, make yourself thirty dollars."
He waited for Charley to answer, then shook his head. "Frank Towles is been nothing but trouble since I kilt him," he said.
Harry Sam Young mixed Boone another gin and bitters. "Maybe you shouldn't of cut off his head," he said. "Maybe it's bad luck."
Boone turned one eye on the bartender, the other one looked adjacent. Charley felt his own weight change with the bug-eyes settled on something else. "I didn't have no choice," Boone said. There was a whine in his voice now. "The way it happened was a shotgun, blew most of Frank's neck off, so's he was only attached to himself by a thread. It just didn't make no sense to bring it all in together, especially now I got to go all the way to Cheyenne to collect on him."
"Must of been close range," the bartender said.
"About two inches," Boone said. "But nothin' to do with it has been right since I pulled the trigger."
"You believe in the spirit world?" the bartender said after a while. "There's a faro dealer over to Jim Persate's place, a French woman named Madame Moustache, who talks to the spirits of the dead. Maybe she could talk to Frank for you."
"What the hell am I going to say to Frank?" Boone said. "I shot him. Besides, I seen that French girl, and Frank's got too much pride to talk to somebody looks like that."
"You could tell him it was just business, nothin' personal between the two of you," the bartender said.
Boone May looked at the head. "No," he said, "he took it personal." The barkeep shrugged and returned to his duties. Boone May seemed to have forgotten Charley was there, and Bill went back to his cards, holding them up where the bulldog could read them too. Once in a while Boone would steal a
The fingers stopped before they got to the shirt, as if the hand had thoughts of its own, and went sideways to the sack on the bar. Boone May said, "Here's your chance to get rich in the Hills, fancy. Thirty fast dollars." He opened the sack and pulled the head out by the hair. "This unfortunate goes by the name of Frank Towles. I got a legal warrant for his arrest, dead or alive, with a reward of two hundret dollars for the apprehendor."
The noise at the poker table had stopped. Charley turned to Bill, who was sitting straight and solemn with his back against the wall and the bulldog in his lap, and said, "You notice something peculiar about this town?"
Bill nodded, never changed expressions. "I never been anywhere," Charley said, "that so many people were walking around carrying spare heads." Bill smiled at that, Captain Jack Crawford began to lean away from it. It wasn't any contest who would be first under the table.
Charley turned back to Boone May to see where it would lead. It was a pattern to his life that he didn't understand. Things would stop before they happened. Like this man's fingers. If his fingers had touched Charley's shirt, the clean-up boy would of found them in the sawdust tomorrow morning. But at the last minute, they'd seemed to sense it—Charley had watched animals do the same thing at traps—and gone some other way.
That was a difference between Charley and Bill. Bill didn't give off the same warnings, or maybe it was that by the time somebody decided to aggravate Bill Hickok they'd quit listening to what their private voices were telling them.
"All you got to do," Boone May was saying, "is take the head in tomorrow and pick up the reward. Thirty dollars for no work at all." He smiled at Charley. "It ain't heavy, even for a fancy."
Charley looked him in the eye, motionless. Boone May pushed the head toward him, Charley stepped away. "You ain't afraid to touch it," Boone said, "it ain't nothin' but a head." He slid it another six inches. "You git the head and the bag both for a hundret and seventy dollars, I'll even put it inside for you. All you got to do is take the package in and pick up the reward, make yourself thirty dollars."
He waited for Charley to answer, then shook his head. "Frank Towles is been nothing but trouble since I kilt him," he said.
Harry Sam Young mixed Boone another gin and bitters. "Maybe you shouldn't of cut off his head," he said. "Maybe it's bad luck."
Boone turned one eye on the bartender, the other one looked adjacent. Charley felt his own weight change with the bug-eyes settled on something else. "I didn't have no choice," Boone said. There was a whine in his voice now. "The way it happened was a shotgun, blew most of Frank's neck off, so's he was only attached to himself by a thread. It just didn't make no sense to bring it all in together, especially now I got to go all the way to Cheyenne to collect on him."
"Must of been close range," the bartender said.
"About two inches," Boone said. "But nothin' to do with it has been right since I pulled the trigger."
"You believe in the spirit world?" the bartender said after a while. "There's a faro dealer over to Jim Persate's place, a French woman named Madame Moustache, who talks to the spirits of the dead. Maybe she could talk to Frank for you."
"What the hell am I going to say to Frank?" Boone said. "I shot him. Besides, I seen that French girl, and Frank's got too much pride to talk to somebody looks like that."
"You could tell him it was just business, nothin' personal between the two of you," the bartender said.
Boone May looked at the head. "No," he said, "he took it personal." The barkeep shrugged and returned to his duties. Boone May seemed to have forgotten Charley was there, and Bill went back to his cards, holding them up where the bulldog could read them too. Once in a while Boone would steal a
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