28

“IDON’T UNDERSTAND.”

“So tell me. Just what part of the word no d’ you not understand?” Gerald Fulbright gave him a look that Jug found more than a little disturbing. It was like Gerald was looking at a cockroach found swimming in his soup bowl. “Now get your crap and get out of here. I don’t want your business. Clear enough?”

Tabe Evans was standing nearby with a bung starter in his hand. The three of them, Gerald and Tabe and Jug, were naturally enough the center of attraction among the few customers who’d come in for an eye-opener.

Jug had quite frankly hoped to stretch his money by having beer for breakfast and a long visit to the free lunch spread. Now . . . now he was told he couldn’t leave his saddle and stuff in the storeroom that practically every cowboy in the basin used like it was his very own closet. Couldn’t put his things in there and had to take out the things Ski had brought down for him.

Jug didn’t understand this. And wasn’t that an understatement?

Still, this was Gerald’s property and the man had the right to do with it—or not—whatever he damn pleased.

Jug nodded and carried his saddle outside, then came back in and got the brass bound trunk that used to sit at the foot of his bunk. He didn’t look inside to see if everything was there. Wouldn’t have been any point anyway. If anything was missing it would be just his tough luck. And at the moment a handful of possessions seemed mighty unimportant.

“Thank you ever so much,” he said on his way out.

Once he was outside he . . . he had no idea in the world what to do next or where to head in order to do it.

Still, there was no sense in standing there like a cigar store Injun while dust settled on him. That wouldn’t accomplish a whole lot.

The trunk was small but fairly heavy and for dang sure it was of an awkward size and shape for carrying, so he left it there on the boardwalk outside the Bullhorn and carried his saddle back down to the creek where he’d slept. Left the saddle there and came back for the trunk.

Once his worldly wherewithal was out of the way, if not out of the weather—which, thank goodness, had been fair of late—he walked back into town in search of breakfast.

Anna Chong’s wasn’t open for breakfast, more’s the pity, so he had to choose between Abner Tyler’s café or Manfred Haas’s restaurant. The primary difference between them was the prices they charged. Although Jug had to admit that Haas did at least give diners a tablecloth to wipe their hands on in exchange for the higher cost of his meals. Jug headed for Tyler’s place. It was closer.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Jug. Especially not so early as this. What can I get for you?”

“Coffee first off, Abner. And a big ol’ plate of those biscuits your wife makes. I surely do like her biscuits.”

“I was afraid you were gonna ask that, Jug. No biscuits today.”

“She mad at you again, Abner?” Abner’s scraps with his wife were legendary in the basin. No one would have cared all that much except whenever Miz Tyler—she was bound to have a first name, but Jug had never heard it spoken—got mad at Abner she sulked up and stayed upstairs in her room instead of helping Abner with the cafe. And Abner wasn’t near as good a cook as his wife was.

“She is,” Abner admitted. “She should be all right again after church Sunday if you want to come by again then.”

“What day is this?”

“Thursday.”

“I don’t think I want t’ wait that long for breakfast, Abner, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I got rolled oat porridge, Jug. Made a big pot of it this morning, and I’ve got Borden’s and honey to pour on top.”

“How much?”

“Five cents. Eight with the coffee.”

“I’ll take the porridge, Abner. And some coffee now if I can.”

“Coming right up.”

The porridge was hot and filling and even tasted good. Jug took his time with an extra cup of coffee or two while he pondered where he should go to look for work. And how he should get there. Then he laid a dime on the table next to his empty cup and bowl and went outside into the bright sunlight.

Two young hands from the XI, which most everyone except the owner insisted on calling the Eleven brand, were just coming in as Jug was leaving.

The two youngsters—Kevin and Donny their front names were—stopped square in Jug’s path. Either one of them was half a head taller and about half Jug’s age.

“You son of a bitch,” Kevin said by way of greeting.

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing Jug ever did. But he didn’t really like that sort of thing for an opening comment. He reared back and hit Donny in the breadbasket just as hard as he could—figured that might take the wind out of Donny’s sails for a bit, and the boy wasn’t apt to be expecting it right off—then lit tooth and toenail into Kevin.