Doctor Who_ The Gunfighters - Donald Cotton [5]
Hopefully, Phineas changed the subject. ‘So where do we meet up with Seth?’ he enquired, wanting to know.
‘Last Chance Saloon,’ answered Ike, thereby bringing a lick to all lips, except those of Billy – always a sullen boy.
‘What for we need the likes of Seth Harper?’ he grumbled, ‘I say we do the job ourselves.’
‘Pa’s payin’ him, that’s why. Pa says we work along with him. And what Pa says goes, rather than...’ he was still having trouble with his denouements... ‘rather than what you say!’ he finished, after some thought.
Dismounting, they entered the bar of the Last Chance Saloon – leaving their horses outside, as previously instructed on several occasions.
Perhaps a word here about this hostelry, famed though it may be in the lower class of obituary.
Well, it weren’t no plush-lined sleep-easy, with a cactus-court cat-gut ensemble, that’s for sure! And there weren’t no picture of your genial host and his lady on the occasion of their silver wedding behind the bar, neither. On account, your host – by name of Charlie – weren’t a mite genial; and his ladies came and went with monotonous irregularity.
No, what there was behind the bar, was a shot-up oil-painting of a fat blonde in her birthday rig. Sitting on a cloud, she was, being molested by a bunch of tear-away cherubs, who looked as if they’d been up several nights round a stud-game, and passing the nectar pretty free, at that.
It was that kind of place. Why, I declare, there used to be a song about it. Now, how did it go?
With rings on their fingers
And bells on their toes,
The gals come to Tombstone
In their high silk hose.
They’ll dance on the tables
Or sing you a tune,
For whatever’s in your pocket
At the Last Chance Saloon.
(And that’s putting it a mite delicate, I’d say...) There’s gamblers from Denver
And guns from the South,
And many a cow-poke
With a bone dry mouth.
So from midnight to morning
The bar’s going boom,
Till there’s blood upon the sawdust
In the Last Chance Saloon!
Got the picture, have you? Right. So let’s get back to the Clantons; who have just about disentangled themselves from the busted swing-doors by now, and spat out the fresh air they’d unavoidably inhaled on the way over...
Time they sashayed in, the place was a little on the empty side – and you couldn’t blame it! Firstly, Charlie was still sweeping up the teeth left over from last night’s hurrah; and, secondly, leaning on the bar as though it had given him some kind of argument, was a character of so villainous an appearance that you might have taken him for a film extra, waiting for an audition.
You’d have been wrong. This was the aforementioned Seth Harper; known to the sheriffs of five counties as portrait of the year. Not a top-class shootist, by no means; but say you wanted a friend shot in the back, and no questions asked, then he was your boy.
With some difficulty, he spoke. ‘You took your sweet time gettin’ here, Clanton. Holliday’s rig pulled into town afore noon.’
Ike hated criticism. ‘Rode out as soon as I got your wire figured,’ he said. ‘For Pete’s sake – “Holiday in Tombstone”! There’s two l’s in our kind of Holliday.
Thought at first it was from a tourist tout, or some such!
Anyways, the Doc’ll keep whiles a drink or three, I’d say...’
Billy’ swaggered forward, spoiling his effect once more –
this time by some temporary problem with his spurs. ‘Sure
‘nough will. Charlie – four bottles, fast!’
Seeing how the party was likely to develop, Ike felt he’d best get on with the introductions. ‘You boys know Snake-eyes Harper?’ he enquired.
They nodded, and said ‘Yup’. Seth didn’t. ‘Don’t you ever call me Snake-eyes, you hear? Last man called me that lost one of his own!’ And he blinked his scaly lids resentfully.
‘What’s he mean by that?’ asked Phineas, slowly. ‘I mean, when a man’s got eyes like... I mean, seems only natural you’d call him... Well, wouldn