Chapter 17: Just Another Town

A battered sign, tilted twenty degrees from the perpendicular, read: ‘Bedrock. Straingers not welkum.’ Especially not if they’re literary folks, thought the Pinto Kid, noting that the population number below the hostile message had been crossed out and changed six times, reducing from 163 to 98. The Kid raced into town, bringing his green-tinted mare to a slithering, hock-wrenching halt outside the Lonesome Toad saloon. He dismounted with a leap, the operation marred only by his failure to extricate his left foot from its stirrup, a bungle that caused him to land rump-first in thick dust. It was an inauspicious entrance to an unpleasant community.

A cadaverous oldster who occupied a rickety chair on the porch, to the left of incomers, hawked hugely and directed a nine-foot squirt of tobacco juice at the Pinto Kid’s feet, getting it within an inch of the target. ‘Missed, ‘ he snarled. He usually did.

In the street, immediately in front of the sidewalk and to the Kid’s right, stood what seemed like a dummy Indian brave, immobile, unblinking and ramrod straight. Approaching this figure, the Kid waved a hand before its unresponsive face. ‘Are you real?’ he said.

‘I am. Name’s Billy Two-Eyes.’

‘Why do they call you that?’

‘Because I have two eyes.’

‘We all have. What’s different about you?’

‘I didn’t say anything was. You’re the one with the questions.’

‘Good point, ‘ said the Kid, using the Indian’s leathery cheek to strike a match, which he applied to his own mouth before realising that he hadn’t inserted a smoke.

The saloon’s batwing doors swung open, revealing the owner, Ned Falselove, a tall bald monstrously obese man, sweat-beads bespangling his pasty visage. His small black eyes – two raisins in a pat of dough – fixed on the newcomer. ‘What’s wrong with your horse, mister? he said. ‘Queer colour. She sick or somethin’?’

‘She’s a paint, ‘ snapped the Kid. ‘You heard of a paint horse, ain’t you?’

‘Sure, but I didn’t know they was hand-painted.’

‘Mescalero, ‘ the Kid responded enigmatically.

His interest exhausted, Falselove moved his mountain of lard back into its gloomy lair. The Pinto Kid pranced up the two steps to the sidewalk, snagging his troublesome left boot-heel on the overhanging plank. He recovered his balance with commendable agility. ‘Damned foot, ‘ he muttered. The cud-chewing old-timer cackled maniacally, then lolled back in his chair, eyes closed, attention probably occupied by some idea making its lonely way around whatever served him as a mind.

The Kid inflated his chest to its full thirty-four inches, then flung open the swing doors before starting to step inside. Being controlled by unusually strong springs, the batwings returned sharply, striking him amidships. He tottered backwards and sideways, caught his posterior on the hitch rail and made a three-quarter turn which deposited him face-down in the street. ‘Damned doors, ‘ he mumbled. Rising quickly, he bounded back onto the sidewalk and adroitly avoided another ejection of the once more wide awake old-timer’s tobacco juice. Negotiating the saloon doors, this time successfully, he swaggered to the bar, slapping his palms hard on the greasy splintered deal surface. It was a painful gesture, causing him to jam ringing hands into his armpits.

‘What’s it to be, feller?’ said Falselove. ‘Sarsaparilla or milk?’ His heap of blubber shook as he enjoyed the witticism.

The Kid summoned a steely glint. ‘Look, mister, ‘ he replied, ‘I don’t nohow and nowise take none o’ them sissy drinks. Not now, nor never. See?’