Page 72 - WTP Vol. VI #4

Jedediah (continued from preceding page)
side the chubby hands. There was a glass of single
Then he saw the pistol.
malt, too, untouched: “Still hustlin’, I see.”
Lochlan had raised it with one hand as he’d bat- ted the shotgun with the other before it could strike his chest.
Now there came just a trace of a smile on Loch- lan’s lips.
Jedediah studied this man while he kept his left hand free. He hitched the shotgun’s stock up onto his bicep, trained the gun along his right arm, and curled two fingers around the trigger. The old man saw no sign of guilt or shame, no hint of concern.
“Watch out!” yelled Jedediah, pointing as if to someone behind Lochlan, and the fat man took the bait; he looked behind just as the envelope was thrown back in his direction.
“Here,” he said. Loud voices came from the bar- room, a commotion; he figured those drunken knuckleheads had begun to piece things to- gether. “It seems we don’t have long, and you’re going to be filling this,” he said, pulling the envelope for Connie out his jacket pocket. He pitched it down the table. It spun and flapped before landing beside Lochlan’s pile of win- nings. “Cash, only,” he said.
Lochlan watched as the envelope headed toward him. It was aimed straight for his face and, in one great quivering panic, he raised both hands to protect himself, losing grip of his gun and sending it high into the air.
Lochlan didn’t move, just glanced at that large envelope.
The report was deafening. The little bullet tore through Jedediah’s gut; the old man stepped back then watched in startled silence as the flash of his new gun’s muzzle lit the room.
The men outside were yelling. Fists and boots banged the door.
Jedediah’s ears rang so loudly, he felt certain his drums had burst, and he shook his head.
Jedediah was growing agitated. “Fill it,” he snarled, both hands now on the shotgun.
The fat man was staring at Jedediah, looking through him, really, and he settled on his chair, shifting, getting comfortable, sinking, like the
air had been let out. The eyes were blank—they registered nothing as Jedediah retrieved the envelope; Lochlan simply opened and closed his mouth and pawed at a wound beneath his throat that no-one in this present world could begin to set aright.
The table shook and the floorboards rumbled again as Lochlan heaved himself out of his chair. Sweat poured from his head and down along his neck. He rammed stacks of hundred-dollar bills deep inside the envelope, stuffed them, his gaze switching between Jedediah and a door that was about to bust its hinges.
“I’ll see you soon,” the old man whispered.
The old man barked at Lochlan: “Enough! Just toss it here.”
Neither man heard the words. Jedediah still could not hear a thing. He’d no idea if the drunks had continued shouting and knocking, nor did he give a damn. Instead, his focus now was on a fire door to the rear of the room.
The envelope soared. Jedediah gazed at it, as if hypnotized, then snatched it out of the air, just as he hurled the shotgun at Lochlan.
“Buy yourself some cartridges,” called Jedediah, grinning and tipping his hat politely.
The fog had thinned. The breeze had strength- ened and the waves crashed as the gray mare
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The old man laughed; he’d never seen Lochlan so confused. He leapt up and caught the pistol, just as Lochlan drew a second gun. And fired.