Ain't Talkin'

The saloon was a hive of various kinds of human insects. Spread legged whores who reeked of sickness, thick-handed bounty hunters like himself, mercenaries blowing away the prize from their last job on booze and women, high rolling businessmen with wives and children at home with different children on their laps and Roche could smell the stink on all of them. It was moments like these that the walker realized how little he missed being a part of this humanity, the same humanity that had done away with Mollie. The day Roche shot the old man Will Dunham so full of holes the last seven or eight had no blood left to bleed he’d left it all behind. Though he’d left a good part of himself behind when he’d found Patchy Wilkes and Andrew Vickers too, hadn’t he?

Roche found the bar and pulled out a leather-seated stool. The bartender took his time coming over. Bartenders knew their regulars, and took their turned serving everyone in the damn place before they’d hit to an outsider. Didn’t bother the walker, but the hunter in Roche felt a little miffed.

“Can I getcha?” The gent finally found his way over and made a point of cleaning a glass in front of Roche for whatever effect that garnered. Rolled up sleeves, suspenders and a vest to boot. The kind of guy who was trying to keep an image alive that had been dead for nearly three hundred years.

“Whiskey. Three fingers.”

“Shelf?”

“Top if you got it but I have a feeling you’ll charge me top n’ serve me bottom.” Roche smiled.

“You’ll pay what I ask and get what I got, hunter. You got the coin you get top shelf.” The bartender kept squeaking the rag around inside the glass.

“Don’t like outsiders.” It wasn’t a question. Roche took out a few bank notes from his fold. “I have the cash, barkeep. Top shelf.”

“You got it.” The bartender stepped away and Roche spun in his stool, resting his elbows on the bar and scanning the room.

A pair of hunters in the far corner, just a hair hidden by a poker table, eyed Roche. In the opposite corner a boy of barely eleven played the piano with more skill than most Roche had heard in near anyplace. A copper at a table near the middle of the room with a too young girl on his lap had watched Roche since he threw open the front doors, to what end was the copper’s problem, not the walker’s.

The bartender returned with Roche’s whiskey and took his pay with a light tip back down the bar. Roche sipped at the liquor and felt it over his tongue before he threw back a belt. Damn it all, but the bartender had actually given him top shelf. Good man.

Roche turned back to the bar, threw back the remainder of his drink and summoned the bartender with a raised finger and a tap of his glass. The man returned with the bottle and filled the hunter’s glass again. Roche held out the bank note for pay and then some, When the bartender took the bill with two fingers Roche held on and motioned the man closer.

The bartender leaned in.

“S’your name, barkeep?”

“Whitney. Why?”

“Listen, Whitney. This full twenty for you if you can tell me why that copper is staring a hole in me and one more thing?” Roche eyed the copper over his shoulder. The man had a flat, stone face and all of his head shaved. He wore a too-tight blue jacket with a badge and had his hand down the girl’s blouse but his eyes were on the hunter.

“Eh? That’s officer Thompson. Not sure why he got eyes on you, hunter, but you cast a hell of a shadow.”

“How’s that?”

“Folks jus’ come through. Corporate boys with an official transport prisoner. On motorbikes. They said they was being followed and they thought by hunters.”

“Official transport and they was being followed, eh?”

“Yessir. Said they was being wrongly followed by hunters.” The bartender started to look uncomfortable and leaned back away from Roche, snatching his bank note. “Don’t think I’ll answer your other question if that’s alright.”

“You did already. Thank you, barkeep.” Roche turned back to the room and sipped at his drink, one mouthful at a time.

So the Corporate boys came through with Markus and they left a trail with the local law to watch for hunters. Smart boys. ’Course whether they knew Roche was following them or they was just being careful was anyone’s guess. Didn’t so much matter as it was an inconvenience.

Roche finished his drink and hopped down from his barstool. The hunter tipped his hat back from his eyes a little and left the saloon.