Clifford Simak - A Death in the House - And Other Stories

“I do declare,” she told him, “after you’d traveled all the way with us I’d thought you could have kept on until we got to Gun Gulch.”

He shook his head. “I had to stop at Antelope to ask about a man.”

“A friend of yours?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t rightly know. He used to be.”

Pretty, he thought, looking at her. Pretty as a picture with her raven hair piled atop her head. She was wearing a flame-colored dress that left her shoulders bare.

“You’re going out, Grant?” she asked.

“I thought I would. If—”

She silenced him with a gesture of her hand. “You might watch for Bob,” she said then. “I’m just a little—well, a little bit afraid.”

He laughed at her easily. “Gun Gulch may be tough, Nancy, but not as bad as that. Your brother can take care of himself.”

Her voice choked a little. “He’s been gambling,” she said. “He denies it, but I know he has. And he’s so poor at it and we have so little money.”

“And you want me to break up the game?”

“Well, not exactly that. You might see what you can do to get him out of it as tactfully as possible.”

He frowned. “Your brother has a job here?”

She nodded. “Yes, he has. But the man he has to see is out at some diggings somewhere and Bob has to wait until he comes back to town.”

“I’ll see if I can spot him,” he told her.

She smiled at him. “Thanks, Grant,” she said. “Good night.”

He watched until she shut the door, then moved on down the hall and out onto the street of Gun Gulch.

The Crystal Bar was a smoke-blurred din, a place of lights and music, talk and tinkle, with the undertone of feet shuffling on sawdust. For a moment, Culver stood in the door, staring out over the milling crowd that filled the place. The lights blazed from the ceiling, their brilliance softened by the trails of cigar smoke that snaked up in bluish ribbons. Glassware flashed and scintillated on the back bar and the barkeepers moved about almost like dancing men.

Culver moved down the room, going slowly, shouldering his way through the press of humanity. Foot by foot he worked his way toward the bar.

A bartender growled at him: “What’s yours?”

“Nothing right now,” Culver told him. “Where can I find Hamilton?”

“What the hell!” The barkeep stopped in mid-sentence, stared at him. His manner changed and he almost fawned.

“The boss said you were to see him just as soon as you come in.”

“Thanks,” Culver said.

The bartender leaned across the bar. “Have one on the house before you go.” He grasped a bottle by the neck, seized a glass.

Culver shook his head.

“Mister,” said the barkeep, “you may not know it, but you’re the talk of the town.”

“How come?” Culver asked.

“Stover was the fastest gunslick this place had ever seen,” the barkeep told him.

Culver shook his head. “Slow,” he said. “Terrible, awful slow.”

He swung around, pushed his way toward the center of the room.

The shot came like a thunderclap that split across the talk, a burst of blasting noise that drowned out all sound and set the ceiling lamps to swaying on their chains.

The crowd surged back and left a cleared space in the center of the room, a place of scuffed-up sawdust and green tables and smoke-filtered light.

Culver stood stock still, staring at the figure on the floor.

Bob Atwood!

Bob Atwood, who had ridden in the stagecoach with him all the way from St. Louis. Nancy Atwood’s brother.

Culver lifted his eyes and stared at the man who stood behind the table, a man with his hat tilted on the back of his head, teeth showing in a firm, white line beneath the jaunty mustache, and with a smoking gun clutched tightly in his hand.

The man was looking at Culver and from where he stood Culver could see the crinkles deepen at the corners of his eyes.

“So,” said the man.

Culver felt his muscles tightening, fought to relax them.

The man across the table was Perkins, he who had waded out into the street to get his carpetbag.

The gun was coming up, slowly, surely, and there was no chance to beat it.

“Perkins,” Culver said, “you’re a lousy shot. You just winged your man.”

Perkins’ eyes flickered for a moment toward Bob Atwood on the floor and as they did Culver’s arm moved swiftly, arm and wrist and fingers a sudden chain of strength and speed that brought the six-gun spinning from its holster.

Perkins’ hand jerked nervously and his gun belched smoke and fire. Culver felt the whining bullet spin past his head, heard the crash of glass as it slammed into the back bar mirror.

“You had your shot,” Culver told him, bleakly. “Now, by God, it’s my turn.”

Perkins stood rigid before him, face a deadly white, gun grasped in his hand and tilted toward the ceiling. Slowly, deliberately, Culver’s thumb pulled back the hammer and the click of the six-gun’s mechanism was a harsh and startling sound. Perkins whimpered. His hand suddenly was shaking and the gun dropped from it.

Without a word, Culver holstered his own gun, turned to the man upon the floor. Atwood was sitting up, hand clutching his shoulder, staring at Culver.

Culver crossed to him. “Can you get up?” he asked.

Atwood nodded. “He dealt from the bottom of the deck,” he said. “I caught him at it.”

Hamilton reached into the bottom drawer of the battered desk, came up with a box of cigars. “Light up, Culver.”

Chewing the end off the smoke, Culver studied the man. About the same as ever, he decided. A little harder, a bit more vicious, slightly older than he’d been back on the river. But he was the same Calvin Hamilton.

“Sorry about your friend,” Hamilton said. “Hope he will be all right.”

Culver struck a match. “Got him back to the hotel and put him to bed. Got a doctor for him right away.”

Culver ran the match back and forth across the tip of the cigar, eyes taking in the room. An old iron safe behind the desk, a couple of chairs, carpet on the floor, framed sporting prints scattered on the walls.

Hamilton leaned back in the creaking armchair, inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his vest.

“Surprised to see you here,” he said. “River dry up?”

Culver shook his head. “Out looking for a man. Supposed to have come here. Name of Mark Farson. Maybe you heard of him.”

Hamilton rocked slowly in the chair, brow furrowed. “Can’t say I did,” he declared. “But I might have missed him. There are so many people. Someone I should know?”

“Guess you wouldn’t,” Culver told him. “Came after you had left. Got to be pretty friendly with him.”

Culver snapped the match stick in two, flipped it from him with his thumb. “Figured he was about my best friend, I guess. Would have gone through hell barefooted for that kid.”

Back of the desk, Hamilton’s eyes squinted shrewdly. “Loan him some money?”

“Worse than that,” said Culver. “Heard of Gun Gulch, you see. Heard it was a good town. So we pooled our killings and he came out here ahead to sort of look it over. He was to let me know if it was worth investing.”

Culver blew smoke toward the ceiling, vaguely wished he had the money to buy cigars like the fine weed between his fingers.

“Didn’t hear a word of him,” he said. “Not a single word since he left. So I came along to check up. Figured something might have happened to the kid.”

“Run out on you,” Hamilton said, flatly.

Culver looked at him, but the face was a smooth, white mask. “Beginning to think that very thing myself.”