Doctor Who_ Peacemaker - James Swallow [12]
The man hesitated, then pivoted and offered Martha his hand.
‘Apologies, Miss, Joe Pitt at your service,’ He showed a quick flash of broken teeth. ‘Nice to meet ya.’
‘Mr Pitt owns the livery stable across from the school,’ Jenny explained. ‘Joseph, is something awry?’
The man swallowed. ‘Just came into town, passing the schoolhouse.’
He pointed back in the direction they had walked. ‘Big window at the front, it’s been stove in. Broken all abouts, Miss Jenny.’ He blew out a breath. ‘And I reckon there might be a fella inside there.’
Jenny gathered up her skirts. ‘Joseph, thank you kindly for coming to me with this.’ She grimaced. ‘This would not be the first time someone has broken in, believing mistakenly that there’s wealth to be had in the schoolhouse.’
28
‘I can come with and help you corral whatever roughneck might be makin’ trouble back there,’ Joe offered, squaring himself up.
‘Please do,’ said Jenny. ‘Martha, perhaps you ought to remain here.’
Martha glanced around; there was no sign of the Doctor. For a moment she considered racing back to the TARDIS to look for him; but then she rejected the idea. ‘Let’s all go,’ she said firmly. ‘Three of us against one burglar? No contest.’
29
The Doctor placed both hands on the saloon doors at the entrance to the Bluebird and pushed them open with a jaunty flick of his wrist. They flapped open and closed, open and closed, and he stood watching them, beaming.
‘Brilliant,’ he said aloud, reaching out to flap the doors again. ‘These are great! And they’re going to have such a big comeback in the 1970s, believe me. You won’t be able to walk into anyone’s kitchen without going through a set of these.’ He puffed out his cheeks and wandered into the saloon proper, taking it all in. He walked in what seemed like an aimless course, finally ending up at the bar. ‘Hello!’ he said brightly, addressing the small fellow in the apron tending the cus-tomers. ‘You know what, I’m parched. I suppose a cuppa is out of the question?’
‘Just what you see,’ came the surly reply.
‘Oh-kay,’ The Doctor scanned the blackboard behind the bartender’s head, between the big mirror and the lurid painting of a reclining lady.
‘Applejack, Redeye, Gut Warmer, Blackstrap.’ He read out the names of the various hard liquors. ‘Dust Cutter, Tonsil Varnish, Sudden Death, Tarantula Juice.’ He paused. ‘Is that made from real tarantulas? No?’
When the bartender said nothing, the Doctor shrugged. ‘How about a 31
glass of sarsaparilla instead, then?’
The man in the apron grunted and went to get his drink. A few steps down the bar, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and black waistcoat gave the Doctor a sneering look. ‘Sarsaparilla? Maybe a glass of milk would be more to your likin’, English.’
‘Milk does a body good,’ replied the Doctor. ‘Although you’re off about the “English” thing. Funny coincidence, actually. Same accent, different stellar cluster.’
The bartender plonked the drink down in front of him. ‘That’ll be a bit,’ he demanded.
‘A bit of what?’
‘One bit,’ growled the man and he held out his hand. ‘Twelve cents!’
‘Oh, money!’ The Doctor nodded, and fished in his pockets, pulling out pieces of string, a yo-yo, a pencil, a Japanese bus timetable and his sonic screwdriver. He paused. ‘Ah. I think I may be, what’s the term for it? Temporarily financially embarrassed.’
The bartender reached out to take back the drink, but the waistcoated man stopped him. ‘Leave it, Fess. Put it on my tab.’
The Doctor saluted him with the glass. ‘That’s mighty neighbourly of you.’
The other man picked up the sonic screwdriver before the Doctor could sweep it back into his coat pocket. ‘Strange-looking contraption.
Bet it’s worth a buck or two.’
‘Or three,’ he said carefully.
The man touched the brim of his hat with a finger. ‘Name’s Loomis Teague. I’m known hereabouts.’
‘I’m the Doctor,’ he replied. ‘I’m, uh, not.’
Teague weighed the sonic in his hands. ‘Tell you what, Doc. How about you return my goodwill with a little sport?’ He nodded in the direction of a table where a group of men were