know.”
“Spooks me to think that maybe ol’ Chunk can hear us talking ’bout his likely demise.”
“Don’t talk about it, then.”
“All right. I won’t.”
They passed the bottle and moments passed silent and sullen as kicked dogs until Canary Joe returned to the fire with some old sunbleached logs pale as bones under his arm and dragging with his other hand a tangled pile of scrub across the dry hard-packed earth. He dropped the scrub and then the logs which clattered like tenpins. Joe turned to Chunk behind him.
“You say somethin’, Chunk?”
“Now
you’re
hearin’ him,” said the Kid. “This time I ain’t heard a thing.”
“Thought I did, yeah.”
“And you call me foolish.”
“You are foolish. Most foolish man I ever met.”
“Who was it planned this damn robbery? Who was it got us all shot up? I don’t recall doin’ it nor Faro Bill nor Chunk neither.”
“Gentlemen,” said Faro Bill, “we can resolve this. Heads Chunk spoke or tails he didn’t.” He produced an old smooth featureless silver dollar.
“Faro Bill,” said Joe, “I take it back and I want to apologize to the Kid here.
You
are the most foolish man I ever met bar none. You want to gamble on the way the wind blows.”
“Done that too.”
“I don’t doubt ya.”
He cracked some scrub and fed it to the flames, knelt and cracked some more.
“You want to know what I know about luck?
Real
bad luck?”
“Sure.” Faro Bill passed him the bottle. He drank it down to near-empty, settled down crosslegged and passed it to the Kid.
“Happened to me years ago when I was just a boy, I’d just come west. I was sittin’ in Tuttle’s Saloon in Newton, Kansas one night and of course we had us a game on. I didn’t rightly know the players. I was new to town and lookin’ for cattlework though not too hard as yet, arrived as I was just the day before. But these boys were a good enough bunch, I could tell that. Four of us. Lotta laughin’. Nothin’ serious. We’re drinkin’ Snakehead Whiskey, I remember. You ever had a taste?”
“Not that I recall,” said Faro Bill.
“Six rattlesnake-heads to the barrell. Tastes like the Devil stirred it with his own boot. Anyhow we’re playin’ and I’m losin’ when in walks this mean-looking dirty little fella, his shirt all stained with tobacco juice, Colt on his hip, hat looks like it’s been chewed by bears. Walks over to the barwhich I’m facin’ thank the lord and orders a drink and drinks it and then another and then turns and eyes the room.
“Other fellas I’m playing with don’t appear to notice this boy at all, they’re busy with the cards. Only me and that’s just ’cause I’m facing him. So that when he orders and downs that third one I’m the only one sees what he’s gonna do, I can see it plain in his eyes way before he draws and takes his stance and by the time he starts firing at our table I’m under it, trying to get my own gun off my hip but I’m just a kid myself, I ain’t no pistolero, and by the time I’ve got it out he’s shot two of the players in that game and the third, his chair’s gone over with him in it and he’s scramblin’ across the floor toward the door.
“Fella looks at me and I know my day’s arrived. Not even time to push over the table for cover and he’s ready to fire and I’m still fumblin’ around down there and the only thing that saved my ass that day was the bartender and the shotgun behind the bar, I’m tellin’ you. Blew that little fella halfway across the room. I had pieces of that kid in my hair, boys. And I can smell the stink of him to this day.”
He piled three logs on the fire. They immediately began to smoke.
“Mise’ble excuse for hardwood,” he said.
“I don’t follow you,” said Bill. “What’s that got to do with luck?”
“Gettin’ to that. When things was quiet again we walked over and had a look at him, those of us who
could
walk. He’d shot
“Spooks me to think that maybe ol’ Chunk can hear us talking ’bout his likely demise.”
“Don’t talk about it, then.”
“All right. I won’t.”
They passed the bottle and moments passed silent and sullen as kicked dogs until Canary Joe returned to the fire with some old sunbleached logs pale as bones under his arm and dragging with his other hand a tangled pile of scrub across the dry hard-packed earth. He dropped the scrub and then the logs which clattered like tenpins. Joe turned to Chunk behind him.
“You say somethin’, Chunk?”
“Now
you’re
hearin’ him,” said the Kid. “This time I ain’t heard a thing.”
“Thought I did, yeah.”
“And you call me foolish.”
“You are foolish. Most foolish man I ever met.”
“Who was it planned this damn robbery? Who was it got us all shot up? I don’t recall doin’ it nor Faro Bill nor Chunk neither.”
“Gentlemen,” said Faro Bill, “we can resolve this. Heads Chunk spoke or tails he didn’t.” He produced an old smooth featureless silver dollar.
“Faro Bill,” said Joe, “I take it back and I want to apologize to the Kid here.
You
are the most foolish man I ever met bar none. You want to gamble on the way the wind blows.”
“Done that too.”
“I don’t doubt ya.”
He cracked some scrub and fed it to the flames, knelt and cracked some more.
“You want to know what I know about luck?
Real
bad luck?”
“Sure.” Faro Bill passed him the bottle. He drank it down to near-empty, settled down crosslegged and passed it to the Kid.
“Happened to me years ago when I was just a boy, I’d just come west. I was sittin’ in Tuttle’s Saloon in Newton, Kansas one night and of course we had us a game on. I didn’t rightly know the players. I was new to town and lookin’ for cattlework though not too hard as yet, arrived as I was just the day before. But these boys were a good enough bunch, I could tell that. Four of us. Lotta laughin’. Nothin’ serious. We’re drinkin’ Snakehead Whiskey, I remember. You ever had a taste?”
“Not that I recall,” said Faro Bill.
“Six rattlesnake-heads to the barrell. Tastes like the Devil stirred it with his own boot. Anyhow we’re playin’ and I’m losin’ when in walks this mean-looking dirty little fella, his shirt all stained with tobacco juice, Colt on his hip, hat looks like it’s been chewed by bears. Walks over to the barwhich I’m facin’ thank the lord and orders a drink and drinks it and then another and then turns and eyes the room.
“Other fellas I’m playing with don’t appear to notice this boy at all, they’re busy with the cards. Only me and that’s just ’cause I’m facing him. So that when he orders and downs that third one I’m the only one sees what he’s gonna do, I can see it plain in his eyes way before he draws and takes his stance and by the time he starts firing at our table I’m under it, trying to get my own gun off my hip but I’m just a kid myself, I ain’t no pistolero, and by the time I’ve got it out he’s shot two of the players in that game and the third, his chair’s gone over with him in it and he’s scramblin’ across the floor toward the door.
“Fella looks at me and I know my day’s arrived. Not even time to push over the table for cover and he’s ready to fire and I’m still fumblin’ around down there and the only thing that saved my ass that day was the bartender and the shotgun behind the bar, I’m tellin’ you. Blew that little fella halfway across the room. I had pieces of that kid in my hair, boys. And I can smell the stink of him to this day.”
He piled three logs on the fire. They immediately began to smoke.
“Mise’ble excuse for hardwood,” he said.
“I don’t follow you,” said Bill. “What’s that got to do with luck?”
“Gettin’ to that. When things was quiet again we walked over and had a look at him, those of us who
could
walk. He’d shot
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