The saloon's porch creaked ominously as he stepped up onto it.The saloon's porch creaked ominously as he stepped up onto it. The large brown dog sprawled across the top step opened its eyes and looked up without even moving as Frewling stepped over it and through the swinging doors into the main room. Ah, at least that was in reasonable order. Fresh sawdust on the floor, a few stray motes dancing in the beam of early morning sun coming through the poor-quality but clean windows telling him that the floor had just been swept. Several townsfolk sat about the tables, and the smell of frying sausage and coffee was like manna to his dust-tortured nose. Frewling set his bag on the floor at the bar, and waited for the barkeep to notice him. Handing a plate of breakfast to the lone serving girl working at that hour, the barman turned to Frewling. His white shirt was freshly laundered, its collar stiff with starch, and the sleeves shoved up and caught with a red garter above each elbow. Frewling noted with approval the precision of the man's black bow- tie and his carefully waxed mustache. "Welcome t Rattlesnake Gorge," the barman said. "You come in on the morning train from Big Sky?" "Yes," Frewling replied, a bit uncomfortable at the attention the customers at the tables were suddenly paying. "Breakfast, please, with coffee." Behind him, a young boy, perhaps twelve, in ragged pants much too large for him, torn off at the knees and held up with a bit of rope, and a baggy shirt that had seen better days, reached cautiously for the city slicker's bag. If he moved just right, and avoided that darned creaky board fifth from the end of the bar, he could snatch the bag and be out the door before the slicker knew what was happening. The townsfolk wouldn't stop him, or warn the slicker. They were up for a bit of fun with a stranger as much as he was. A little further, just a little closer. . . And the touch of cold metal on his hand froze him in place. The slicker's hand hid all but the last quarter-inch of the barrels from view, but the derringer had appeared like a conjurer's trick, and pressed on his wrist, threatening to maim him if he so much as twitched. The boy looked up into cold grey eyes that told him the truth about the slicker: a lawman. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, boy," Frewling said quietly. |