Doughnut - By Tom Holt Page 0,39

cat wandered across the floor, stood next to the man under the hat, looked up at him, arched its back, rubbed its head against his left boot, curled up and went to sleep. “Yes,” Theo said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes you’re calling me a liar, and yes I am one.”

The man nodded. “We got our own way of dealing with liars in these parts, stranger,” he said, with a degree of satisfaction mixed with relief. “We give ’em a wooden overcoat and a one-way ticket to Boot Hill.”

“You don’t say.”

The man grinned. “Did you,” he said with great pleasure, “just call me a liar?”

Sod it, Theo thought, and without really knowing what he was doing, he reached for his gun. The next millionth of a second was a blur; then there was a very loud noise, something bashed against the web of his thumb, making him whimper, and the hat wearer’s gun flew out of his hand and sailed across the room.

There was a deadly silence, during which the cat got up and slowly walked away with its tail in the air. The man under the hat was staring at him in abject terror.

“Sorry,” Theo said. “Butterfingers.”

Very slowly, the man raised his hands and backed away. Theo looked round nervously, but instead of the traditional henchman with shotgun taking aim at the small of his back, all he saw was a bemused-looking man at a table near the window, staring dolefully at the ivory-handled butt of a revolver sticking up out of his bowl of chilli beans. Theo waited until his erstwhile opponent had retreated through the swing doors, then walked slowly and rather unsteadily to the bar.

“Whisky?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “And a doughnut.”

“Coming right up.”

He realised that he was still holding the gun he’d apparently disarmed the hat wearer with. He put it back in the holster. He had to have three goes at it.

The bartender was back with a half-tumblerful of whisky and an elderly-looking doughnut. Theo scrabbled in his pockets, which were empty.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have any money.”

“On the house,” the bartender said. “That was some mighty fine shooting, stranger.”

“Was it? Oh, good.” He lifted the glass, considered knocking it back in one, decided against it and nibbled at the meniscus like a tiny wee mouse. There was a brief moment of extreme disorientation, which he guessed was a bit like being sneezed on by a dragon. He put the glass down very carefully.

“Ain’t many folks in these parts as’d stand up to Big Red,” the bartender went on. “Leastways, not living. You’re a mighty cool hand, mister, and that’s no lie.”

Oh please don’t start all that again, Theo thought. “Awfully nice of you to say so,” he muttered. “Look, I was wondering. Is there anybody in this town by the name of Max?”

“Max?”

“Yes. Short for—”

“Let me see, now,” the bartender said. “There’s Big Max, Little Max, Cheyenne Max, Little Big Max, Banjo Billy Max, Max the Knife and Max Factor. Would the guy you’re after be one of them?”

“Um,” Theo replied. “OK, how about a short, round man with a bald head?”

The bartender scratched his chin. “Might you be meaning Doc Pete?”

“Mphm.”

“Hangs around with Nondescript Max at the Silver Dollar next to the livery,” the bartender said. “I don’t let ’em in here, see. They cause trouble.”

There was a soft clunk, which Theo identified as the chilli eater by the window fishing the gun out of his dinner and placing it on the table. Trouble, he muttered to himself, as opposed to the peaceful equilibrium of the average uneventful day. “I can see why you wouldn’t want any of that,” he said. “Um, what kind of trouble?”

The bartender looked both ways, then bent forward and lowered his voice. “Weird stuff,” he hissed. “Crazy stuff.”

“Ah.”

“It was getting so honest decent folk was scared to come in here.” The bartender shook his head sadly. “So I told them, get out and stay out, and you can get your doughnuts someplace else.”

Theo nodded slowly. “The Silver Dollar.”

“Mphm. That woman as runs it, she just don’t give a damn.”

The customer by the window had finished his chilli, and put the plate on the floor for the cat to lick out. “Near the livery stable, you said.”

“Turn left out of here, seventy-five yards on your right, you can’t miss it.”

The bar of the Silver Dollar was practically deserted. The only customer was a tall man, leaning up against the counter. His face wasn’t familiar, but his hat was. He turned to stare as