hat on tight and let Cannon Ball have free rein.
* * * *
One spot in Forlorn Gap where lights burned brightly was Doc Bogannon’s saloon. It was almost midnight, yet a few customers hung on; a drunk who nodded sorrowfully over a bottle; a couple of bearded miners who played cards for small stakes; and a well-dressed, alert, middle-aged, mean-looking stranger who sat by himself at an up-front table and watched them casually.
Doc polished a glass and set it back. He looked down at this neat, tigerish gent. “Don’t recall having made your acquaintance, my friend?”
“Now, isn’t that a coincidence!” No smile attended that remark. “But I’m not one to be stand-offish. My name is Moxley— Christopher Moxley.”
“Not a Boston Moxley, by chance?” Christopher Moxley eased his flattop hat back slightly and surveyed Bogie with a cold, critical eye. “A general sort of Moxley, if you please, sir.”
“From here, there, and everywhere, so to speak,” Bogie observed placidly. Doc Bogannon was tall and broad, with black hair and broad forehead. Though nature had intended him for greater things than being a barkeep, his philosophy of life included no higher aim than owning a saloon and living quietly with a half-breed Shoshone wife. Yet he looked neither up to nor down upon any man. Likewise he neither approved nor disapproved of his fellow-man, but regarded every wayfarer, good or bad, as being human and entitled to his principles, so long as he left other people alone. Here, certainly, was a character with a marked tendency toward insolence, yet Bogie entertained no ill will on that account.
He added charitably, “A good many people to hit Forlorn Gap have burned their bridges behind them, as it were, deserted their families, exchanged all worldly goods for cash, and struck West. Some, of course, had vague honest notions of going back East, once their fortunes were made, but by and large they’re buried in nameless graves, or left in lonely gulches for bird and varmint fare. Not that it matters, I presume, as to man’s eternal welfare, whether he’s digested by buzzards or by worms.”
Christopher Moxley gave Bogie a surly look. “I suppose you’re trying to be funny.” Bogie smiled conservatively. “I had a schoolteacher back in—well back East— who always said, There ain’t no law agin supposin’.”
Moxley’s jaws tightened. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to being trifled with. Obviously, too, he had no sense of humor. “There may be more law than you think, Bogannon.”
* * * *
Doc’s batwings swung inward, and a tall, lean, weather beaten hombre with round, battered hat, sharp nose and dark, cold eyes strode in.
“Winters!” exclaimed Bogie. “Glad to see you.”
“A dash of wine, Doc.”
Doc set up a glass and filled it. “Winters, you look like you’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re as pale as starch.”
Winters’ thin nostrils dilated. “Doc, I’m scared stiff.”
“Ah, so you’ve seen another ghost, eh?” Winters downed his wine. “Doc, ever hear of a werewolf?”
“Certainly, but of course it’s mere fable.”
“What is a werewolf anyhow?”
“According to fable, it’s a human in wolf form. Why?”
Winters held his glass for a refill. “I saw one, Doc.”
“Oh, naturally,” Doc scoffed. “A man who believes in ghosts never fails to see two or three a night. You’ve had a long ride, clear from Brazerville without a stopover, no doubt. It’s near midnight, too, and that’s when a man’s spook-sight is at its best.” Winters turned his back on Bogie. “You’re no help at all, Doc.” His eyes fell upon Doc’s guest, Christopher Moxley. “Well,” Winters sniffed. “I thought I’d felt something chilly. Doc, you running a cold storage business?”
Moxley looked Winters up and down. “Another smart gink trying to be funny, eh?” Winters was in a fractious mood. Ghosts not only scared him spitless, they also enraged him. If there was anything he wasn’t trying to do, it was to be funny. “Doc,” he flung over his right shoulder, “you been trying to melt this icicle with your cheap wit?”
Bogie leaned on his counter. “Winters, you’re talking to Christopher Moxley, from here, there, and everywhere. A universal Moxley, so to speak.”
“Yeah?” said Winters. “Well, Moxley, don’t bite yourself. You might die of snake venom.” He slapped down a coin and strode out, and Doc, from a watchful eye corner, saw Moxley’s murderous gaze fixed upon Winters’ back.
* * * *
Winters had been gone no more than three minutes when a stranger entered. And here was a character, if ever was, thought Doc. He was a ragbag and in every aspect a bum. He was bareheaded, surly, and his big face hadn’t been shaved in a week. Just inside he paused and, with only his eyes moving, took in all that was to be seen. After a thirsty glance at Doc’s shelves of wine and whiskey, he moved slowly toward what appeared his best prospects for help.
Those two gold-diggers, playing for small stakes, glanced up as a shadow moved close. A ragged tramp stopped by their table and settled into a chair. “My name, gentlemen, is Hollywell Dew, better known as Holly Dew. And yours, gentlemen?”
They eased their chairs back. “Lassiter,” said one of them. “Ed Lassiter.” He nodded toward his friend. “Kehoe Toler.”
“So glad to know you, gentlemen. And what must be all too apparent to both of you, I’m a poor, humble beggar, many, many miles from home. Fortune has never smiled upon me, as she has upon you. Accordingly, I would have a small alms from each of you.” He put out his left hand, palm up. In his right he held a sixgun, its muzzle oscillating slowly between them. “Far be it from me to be exorbitant; I wouldn’t think of accepting more than a couple of double-eagles.”
Lassiter and Toler were furious. They had guns in their belts, but they also had sense. Each one handed over a double-eagle.
“Thank you so much, gentlemen,” said Holly Dew, pocketing his take.
“You lousy, stinking robber,” snarled Toler. “You’ll hang for this.”
Christopher Moxley stood by them, unannounced. “Something wrong, gentlemen?”
“That skunk robbed us,” replied Lassiter. “No such thing,” said Holly. “I merely asked for alms.”
“But with a gun in hand,” declared Toler hotly.
“Did he threaten to shoot you?” asked Moxley.
“Well, no,” Lassiter admitted, a bit shame-faced.
“Then there was no robbery,” said Moxley. He sat down. “Tell you what I’ll do; I’ll give each of you a chance to make it back.” He looked at Holly. “Dew, I believe you said. Well, Dew, suppose you let Toler have your chair.”
He put down a twenty-dollar bill. “This, gentlemen, is called a game of snatch. If Toler will lay a twenty-dollar bill on top of mine, we’ll snatch for them. Here, Lassiter, you can signal. No, we better take Dew, who’ll be neutral.
