The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes by Linda Alvarez

notebook, turning his stub of pencil over and over between his big, blunt fingers. DeVille doubted the numbers would change tonight. The next town along was hosting a fandango after a performance of the travelling Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, and the streets had emptied by noon. Not a soul had entered who was interested in playing cards or hiring guns; the patrons, all two of them, came in, drank, gave him and Harcourt a suspicious glance, and left. He’d seen pitched battles that were friendlier.
    He fluttered his deck of cards between his hands in a never-ending stream while he pondered how best to irritate Harcourt, and thus distract him from his obsessive accounting. It wasn’t getting them to San Francisco any sooner.
    “It’s closing time,” the saloon’s owner Miss Kitty said, leaning over their table. A tuft of dark hair poked out of her red dress’ low-cut bosom, and she needed a shave. DeVille had been surprised, when they’d first arrived two days ago, how few of the customers seemed to mind Miss Kitty’s eccentricities. Then again, it was the only saloon in town.
    “I know you must get your beauty sleep every night,” DeVille commented. He gathered the cards into one hand and smiled up at her.
    Miss Kitty laughed like mountains crumbling and tapped the back of his head. He grabbed for his hat. She said, “You are a caution, Mr DeVille. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?”
    “I am so sorry, ma’am, but me and the captain here have other plans,” DeVille said. “Right, Harcourt?”
    Harcourt put away his notebook. He looked up long enough to say, “Yes.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
    DeVille knew what the locals thought: Harcourt looked dangerous. A coloured man with deep-set eyes and lean cheeks, he wore black from hat down to scarred cavalry boots. The grips of his two low-slung Colt revolvers gleamed with use, and he didn’t hide the Bowie knife sheathed at his back. His voice was deep and rough as his appearance.
    DeVille, a round-faced white man with a tidy moustache, knew he looked as if he’d come from another country entirely, though both men hailed from Holmestown, New Jersey. He made an effort to look less dangerous and more prosperous than Harcourt. Today he wore snug fawn pantaloons and a brocade frock coat the colour of good red wine. His embroidered gold waistcoat glowed over a minutely pleated cream linen shirt with a string tie. He reached into his breast pocket, but Miss Kitty laid a giant hand on his arm.
    “I’ll run you a tab,” she purred.
    “Why, thank you, Miss Kitty,” DeVille said. “And I’ve been thinking – why don’t you call me Virgil? It doesn’t seem fair, me using your Christian name and you not knowing mine.”
    Miss Kitty giggled. This sound was more like rocks tumbling down a mineshaft. “Oh, you sweet thing,” she said. “Don’t you forget to have a drink with me next time.”
    “I most surely would never forget!” DeVille said. He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. Harcourt rolled his eyes.
    As they exited, a slender young cowboy entered, battered hat in hand, his longish blond hair tied back into a stubby queue. He wore a long sourdough coat, stained dark with waterproofing. DeVille gave him a second glance, and then a longer, more appreciative one as he hurried into the saloon, graceful in his high-heeled boots. Harcourt elbowed him. He sighed and let himself be drawn out of the swinging doors.
    They’d gone barely ten steps when Miss Kitty bellowed after them. “Virgil! Captain Harcourt!”
    DeVille looked at Harcourt, who lifted his eyebrows. They retraced their steps. The cowboy sat at their vacated table. Seeing his face clearly for the first time, DeVille was startled by the softness of his features, though he was clearly no longer a young boy. Without beard or moustache, his lips had a plush curve, just waiting for someone to press with their thumb.
    Miss Kitty poured the cowboy a glass of whiskey and