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hitting the thin board walls sounded like hail.
“Boys, listen to me,” Peavy said, now speaking in a lower and more respectful tone of voice. “These gunslingers could draw and make you do
what has to be done, but I don’t want that, and you shouldn’t need it. Counting what happened at the Jefferson spread, there’s over three dozen
dead in Debaria. Three at the Jefferson was women.” He paused. “Nar, I tell a lie. One was a woman, the other two mere girls. I know you’ve got
hard lives and nothing to gain by doing a good turn, but I’m asking you, anyway. And why not? There’s only one of you with something to hide.”
“Well, what the fuck,” said the graybeard.
He reached behind him to the bar and boosted himself up so he was sitting on it. He must have been the Old Fella of the crew, for all the others
followed suit. I watched for anyone showing reluctance, but to my eye there was none. Once it was started, they took it as a kind of joke. Soon there
were twenty-one overalled salties sitting on the bar, and the boots rained down on the sawdusty floor in a series of thuds. Ay, gods, I can smell the
reek of their feet to this day.
“Oogh, that’s enough for me,” one of the whores said, and when I looked up, I saw our audience vacating the balcony in a storm of feathers and a
swirl of pettislips. The bartender joined the others by the gaming tables, holding his nose pinched shut. I’ll bet they didn’t sell many steak dinners in
Racey’s Café at suppertime; that smell was an appetite-killer if ever there was one.
“Yank up your cuffs,” Peavy said. “Let me gleep yer ankles.”
Now that the thing was begun, they complied without argument. I stepped forward. “If I point to you,” I said, “get down off the bar and go stand
against the wall. You can take your boots, but don’t bother putting them on. You’ll only be walking across the street, and you can do that barefooty.”
I walked down the line of extended feet, most pitifully skinny and all but those belonging to the youngest miners clogged with bulging purple veins.
“You . . . you . . . and you . . .”
In all, there were ten of them with blue rings around their ankles that meant time in the Beelie Stockade. Jamie drifted over to them. He didn’t
draw, but he hooked his thumbs in his crossed gunbelts, with his palms near enough to the butts of his six-shooters to make the point.
“Barkeep,” I said. “Pour these men who are left another short shot.”
The miners without stockade tattoos cheered at this and began putting on their boots again.
“What about us?” the graybeard asked. The tattooed ring above his ankle was faded to a blue ghost. His bare feet were as gnarled as old treestumps.
How he could walk on them—let alone work on them—was more than I could understand.
“Nine of you will get long shots,” I said, and that wiped the gloom from their faces. “The tenth will get something else.”
“A yank of rope,” Canfield of the Jefferson said in a low voice. “And after what I seen out t’ranch, I hope he dances at the end of it a long time.”
* * *
We left Snip and Canfield to watch the eleven salties drinking at the bar, and marched the other ten across the street. The graybeard led the way
and walked briskly on his tree-stump feet. That day’s light had drained to a weird yellow I had never seen before, and it would be dark all too soon.
The wind blew and the dust flew. I was watching for one of them to make a break—hoping for it, if only to spare the child waiting in the jail—but none
did.
Jamie fell in beside me. “If he’s here, he’s hoping the kiddo didn’t see any higher than his ankles. He means to face it out, Roland.”
“I know,” I said. “And since that’s all the kiddo did see, he’ll probably ride the bluff.”
“What then?”
“Lock em all up, I suppose, and wait for one of em to change his skin.”
“What if it’s not just something that comes over him? What if he can keep it from happening?”
“Then I don’t know,” I said.
* * *
Wegg had started a penny-in, three-to-stay Watch Me game with Pickens and Strother. I thumped the table with one hand, scattering the
matchsticks they were using as counters. “Wegg, you’ll accompany these men into the jail with the sheriff. It’ll be a few minutes yet. There’s a few
more things to attend to.”
“What’s in the jail?” Wegg asked, looking at the scattered matchsticks with some regret. I guessed he’d been winning. “The boy, I suppose?”
“The boy and the end of this sorry business,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
I took the graybeard by the elbow—gently—and pulled him aside. “What’s your name, sai?”
“Steg Luka. What’s it to you? You think I’m the one?”
“No,” I said, and I didn’t. No reason; just a feeling. “But if you know which one it is—if you even think you know—you ought to tell me. There’s a
frightened boy in there, locked in a cell for his own good. He saw something that looked like a giant bear kill his father, and I’d spare him any more
pain if I could. He’s a good boy.”
He considered, then it was him who took my elbow . . . and with a hand that felt like iron. He drew me into the corner. “I can’t say, gunslinger, for
we’ve all been down there, deep in the new plug, and we all saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“A crack in the salt with a green light shining through. Bright, then dim. Bright, then dim. Like a heartbeat. And . . . it speaks to your face.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t understand myself. The only thing I know is we’ve all seen it, and we’ve all felt it. It speaks to your face and tells you to come in. It’s bitter.”
“The light, or the voice?”
“Both. It’s of the Old People, I’ve no doubt of that. We told Banderly—him that’s the bull foreman—and he went down himself. Saw it for himself.
Felt it for himself. But was he going to close the plug for that? Balls he was. He’s got his own bosses to answer to, and they know there’s a moit of
salt left down there. So he ordered a crew to close it up with rocks, which they did. I know, because I was one of em. But rocks that are put in can be
pulled out. And they have been, I’d swear to it. They were one way then, now they’re another. Someone went in there, gunslinger, and whatever’s on
the other side . . . it changed him.”
“But you don’t know who.”
Luka shook his head. “All I can say is it must’ve been between twelve o’ the clock and six in the morning, for then all’s quiet.”
“Go on back to your mates, and say thankee. You’ll be drinking soon enough, and welcome.” But sai Luka’s drinking days were over. We never
know, do we?
He went back and I surveyed them. Luka was the oldest by far. Most of the others were middle-aged, and a couple were still young. They looked
interested and excited rather than afraid, and I could understand that; they’d had a couple of drinks to perk them up, and this made a change in the
drudgery of their ordinary days. None of them looked shifty or guilty. None looked like anything more or less than what they were: salties in a dying
mining town where the rails ended.
“Jamie,” I said. “A word with you.”