William W. Johnstone by Massacre Mountain Page A

world, where happiness was counted in figures and coin and bills. But now the bank was quiet. Its doors were secure. Its windows were black rectangles, vaguely reflecting the sliver of moon.
    I was feeling better. This business of walking the streets of Doubtful to keep folks safe was lifting me up some, so I stopped thinking about the missing revolver and my room in a shambles. I’d find out who done it, and I’d keep looking, even if it took weeks or months. I was going to lock up someone and toss the key.
    I worked my way east, rattling storefront doors, until I came to the saloon district. There was only one still lit, the Last Chance, where my friend Sammy Upward manned the bar. He was a good man most of the time, and kept an orderly house. If he didn’t complain about city taxes so much, we’d get along better. There sure wasn’t much light coming out of the single window. But there still were two horses standing at the hitch rail, legs cocked, waiting for the trip out to one ranch or another. I was fixing to go in when I spotted the drunk on the road, between the two horses, sprawled out flat, so the horses had a hard time keeping their hooves off him. Well, drunks was ordinary enough. I’d get him up and haul him to the nearest pool table, or maybe the pokey for the night. It would all depend.
    I pushed them skittery horses apart and kneeled down over the man, who was lying on his stomach, his arms pitched outward under the nags.
    “Hey, you, get your butt out of here,” I said. But there wasn’t no answer from this one. He’d had about six too many. I poked him a time or two, and he didn’t budge. He sure was drunk as a sergeant away from the fort.
    “Well, all right,” I said.
    I stepped into the saloon, where Sammy was polishing glasses and waiting for two ancient cowboys, so old they leaned into each other to stay on their stools, to finish up their suds.
    “Sammy, I got a drunk out here,” I said.
    “I plead guilty,” Sammy said. “I wouldn’t want one to leave here sober.”
    He wiped his hands on his bartender apron, and followed me out to the street. I got this feller by the shoulders and Sammy got him by the feet. The drunk seemed stiff and cold, and I was having a few doubts about all this, but we lifted him up and toted him in, and laid him across a table, faceup.
    He was looking almighty dead. And acting dead, too, by which I mean he was a cold flop, and there was some blood on his shirt, but in the lamplight it was hard to say for sure. He was dressed in a blue shirt and black broadcloth trousers, and had a trimmed, brown beard shot with gray. His boots looked pretty new. He was about fifty, but I’m not much good at putting the age to a face. His hands were soft and showed little sign of hard use or calluses. He had seen plenty of sun, and his flesh was darkened from outdoor living. He was clean-shaven but for some long sideburns.
    “He don’t look very lively, Sheriff, Upward said. “In fact he looks more unlively than lively.”
    “I think you got a point, Sammy.”
    The barkeep produced a pocket mirror and held it to the drunk’s nostrils. It didn’t steam up none.
    One of the two ancient cowboys at the bar toppled to the floor, and got up cursing. “You’re a sonofabitch, Sammy,” he said, peering up from the sawdust with rheumy eyes, and fingering his ancient, sweat-stained hat.
    “Those your nags out there?” I asked.
    “How should I know?” the one on the floor said.
    “Don’t leave. I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
    “That feller sure took on a load,” said the other cowboy.
    “Was he in here?”
    “Not as I remember,” the cowboy said.
    “No, this man’s never been in here,” Sammy said. “He’d be a one for the Sampling Room, but not likely here. This isn’t the sort that comes in here. He’s got money, or some comfort anyway.”
    “I think he’s pickled,” I said.
    “Dead,” said Sammy, putting the mirror away. “Should I go for Doc