Slocum and the Glitter Girls at Gravel Gulch (9781101619513) by Jake Logan Page A

thin mustache and his sideburns flared on the upper edge of his cheek, a rust red, as was the color of his spiky hair.
    “What do you boys make of that Slocum feller?” Canby asked as he drew on his chubby cigar.
    Boze chuckled under his breath.
    “He’s a head taller than Hack and me, Orson, but he don’t look like much.”
    “Hack, what do you think of the man who sold me those horses?”
    Hack squirmed in his chair and stopped chewing his small cud of tobacco for a moment.
    “Like Boze said, he’s a tall drink of water and seems to know horseflesh. I didn’t like the way he looked at that old flea-bit gelding tied up outside the livery.”
    “How did he look at it?” Canby asked.
    “Like he pitied it,” Hackberry said.
    Boze nodded in agreement.
    “Is he movin’ on, you think?” Canby asked.
    “Hard to tell,” Boze said. “He was talkin’ to that Taylor gal when we left. Laurie.”
    “Hmmm,” Canby said. “Maybe he has an eye for the ladies.”
    “He can eye all he wants,” Boze said. “It won’t get him much in Deadfall.”
    Hack laughed and slid his chaw over to the left side of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.
    “I sent Whit over to the saloon to fetch Marlene over here,” Canby said. “Told her to take a look at them two gals Obie drug in here this morning.”
    “What you got in mind, Orson?” Boze asked.
    “Well, seein’ as how they neither one got their man, I thought Marlene might put ’em to work at the saloon, give ’em both cribs so’s they can spread their legs for them thirsty prospectors.”
    “Haw,” Hack laughed. “Good idea, Orson. We could all use some fresh meat in town.”
    Boze laughed, too. “They looked mighty appealing to me,” he said.
    “Well, Marlene’s just the one who can turn them twogals into greenbacks on their backs,” Orson said. He blew a plume of gray-blue smoke into the air above the other two men’s heads.
    They all looked toward the double-wide doors leading to the lobby of the hotel as Marlene Vanders flounced into the dining room swinging a small clutch bag embroidered with Navajo designs. She looked to be twenty years old, but was pushing thirty. Her dress clung to her slender, curvaceous body as she walked toward the table where Orson and his men sat, as jaunty as if she were even younger than twenty. Her long black hair glistened with the sheen of a crow’s velvety wing, and her blue eyes with their long lashes seemed to brighten as she glided toward them on high-heeled patent leather shoes. Her breasts rose and fell with her movements, ample and pert beneath her bright yellow blouse.
    “Good morning, fellers,” she said, her tone bright as the sun that now streamed through the front windows of the dining salon.
    “Get Marlene a chair, Hack,” Orson said, and Hackberry rose and grabbed a chair from a nearby table and swung it to an empty spot next to Orson.
    “God, it’s early,” Marlene said as she sat down. None of the men pulled out her chair for her. She reached over to Boze and slipped out his bag of makings and papers. She rolled a cigarette with deft delicate fingers.
    When she finished, she dumped the bag of makings on the table and leaned over toward Hackberry.
    “You going to light me, Hack?” she said. Her voice was musical with a slight rasp to it. She batted her long eyelashes at the gunman and smiled without parting her lips.
    “Sure, Marlene,” Hack said. He struck a match as she leaned forward and lit the end of her cigarette.
    “Thanks,” she said. Then she looked at Orson and the smile vanished.
    “You get a girl up early, Orson,” she said.
    “I get up early and expect the world to follow my example,” he said. He drew smoke into his mouth and blew a plume over all their heads.
    “Well, I went over to see Carrie at her boardinghouse. Saw the new gals.”
    “And what did you think?” Orson asked. He raised his coffee cup and sipped from it.
    “Both wet behind the ears. But young enough to