Ordinarily Bill wasn’t an early riser and would often sleep in until well into the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the dawn arrive and yet this morning, for some reason, he had awoken before the sun had even put in an appearance. Of course the bunk in the jailhouse, which served as his bed, wasn’t the most comfortable, but that didn’t bother him none and was nothing to do with his being up and about so early. The sheriff had slept in the next bunk, with his bandaged foot supported by a cushion, and Bill had never known a man make so much noise in his sleep. For the entire night the old man had been either snoring or farting, often both together. He’d also slapped his mouth together at regular intervals and quite often it had been a combination of all three.
Though Bill knew he couldn’t blame the old man for him being unable to sleep. He had slept through much worse in the past. Indeed Bill’s folks had often joked that he would sleep through the end of the world.
Bill was fully expecting Thomson to return sometime this morning, more than likely with soldiers or the law in tow, and he guessed that might have had something to do with him being up and about. The Welshman was now eager to ride on from this town. He’d been here quite long enough and just as soon as he felt able to leave town he planned on doing so.
Upon waking he’d gone to the stove and after coaxing the dying embers back to life by blowing gently through cupped hands and feeding it a couple of wanted posters (Gary Dobbs, for passing counterfeit notes and despoiling a preacher’s daughter, and Arkansas Smith, dead or alive, for bank robbery and murder) he’d found in the drawers, he had thrown on some stick and then brewed a pot of coffee.
And now with dawn starting to paint the sky in crimson stripes, he sat on the bench outside the jailhouse, a tin mug of coffee besides him while he concentrated on his knitting. Bill did so like to knit and although other men would often josh him over it, he would smile knowingly. For Bill knew something that they didn’t; that there were other benefits besides the obvious to his knitting. The deft way he worked the needles kept his fingers nimble and, he was sure, improved the speed of his draw and there wasn’t a man alive who could josh the Welshman about the speed of his draw.
The town was starting to awake now and Bill saw the hotel door open and then Martha came outside carrying a pail of trash, which she emptied into the large steel drum that she had positioned to the side of, and downwind of, her building. He wrapped his knitting around his needles and then slid them inside his shirt.
‘It’s gonna’ be a lovely day,’ he said as he walked over to Martha. ‘How is Mr. Stanton this morning?’
Martha smiled and wiped the back of a hand across her brow.
‘He seems stronger,’ she said.
‘That is good.’
‘I’ve just fixed him breakfast,’ Martha said and then added as if an afterthought. ‘Would you like a little breakfast yourself?’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ Martha replied. ‘I’ve got no other guests at the moment and I’ve fried up plenty of bacon. It’s no trouble.’
The thought of a real breakfast was certainly enticing and Bill felt his stomach cartwheel at the suggestion. Left to his own devices all he would have had would have been the coffee and maybe a stale biscuit.
‘Ddiolch’ ch,’ Bill said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Then come on,’ Martha said. ‘Or it’ll get cold.’
And it did prove to be a nourishing breakfast. Served in the kitchen at the rear of the hotel, Bill was faced with freshly cooked bacon, three eggs, a generous helping of beans and a mound of fried potatoes. Bill couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten such a meal and the coffee he used to wash the food down with was far sweeter than that he’d drunk earlier.
‘You enjoyed that,’ Martha observed, watching Bill as he mopped his plate with a thick piece of bread.
‘I did,’ Bill nodded and mouthed the bread that was now dripping with juice. He chewed it for several moments and then swallowed noisily before finishing off his coffee.
‘More coffee?’ Martha asked and took the cup from Bill. She went to the pot besides the stove and poured herself a cup as well as refilling Bills. She returned and sat at the table opposite him. ‘You’ve an healthy appetite,’ she said and sipped delicately at her own coffee.
Bill gulped down his own and then wiped his mouth with one of the napkins Martha had placed on the table.
‘I’ve not eaten so good since leaving my home,’ Bill said. ‘I never thought I’d taste cooking as good as my dear old mum’s, but I must say this meal you set before me came pretty darn close.’
‘I’m pleased you enjoyed it,’ Martha said and started collecting the dirty dishes. She carried them over to the sink and placed them on the side. She went back to the table and sat back down, deciding she had enough time to finish her coffee.
‘I must pay you,’ Bill said.
‘You certainly will not,’ Martha snapped.
‘Maybe I could do some chores,’ Bill suggested.
‘You can finish your coffee,’ Martha replied. ‘And say no more about it.’
Bill was amazed at how comfortable he felt just sitting here with this woman. She was little more than a stranger to him and yet there was none of the awkwardness, which was usual when alone with someone you didn’t really know. It felt good to Bill, almost if he belonged.
Bill was about to say something but he was silenced by the sound of a forceful rapping on the hotel door. He stood with Martha and followed her through to the front of the building. The rapping on the door continued grew more powerful.
‘I’m coming,’ Martha said. ‘Leave the door on its hinges.’
Bill felt a sense of dread rising up from the pit of his being and somehow he knew it would be Caleb standing outside before the door was even opened.