Eclipse at Noon by James Axler

They’d been in Twin Forks for four days.

The trip down, searching the banks of the Big White for some trace of Ryan or his corpse, had taken a total of four days, and ended in utter failure.

But Krysty insisted that her lover still lived, that she had felt a message from him over a week ago, felt him respond to her sending out the Gaia-powered words.

The rest of the party was more than happy to humor her by staying in the sprawling ville, questioning travelers, particularly those who came in from the east. Since the big river wound away north and south, this was the principal direction of trade. Not many had come from the hinterland of old Tennessee. But none had any news of a one-eyed man, alive or dead.

To pay for the three rooms that they’d booked, J.B. and Jak had taken on part-time jobs as sec bouncers at one of the biggest of several saloons and gaudies. The Montana Queen was run by a tough, silver-haired woman named Dolores Stanwyck. She had hired J.B. on the strength of his superior armory of the Uzi and the flechette-firing scattergun.

She had been less easily convinced about taking on young Jak Lauren.

“Might frighten away clients, lovely lad. You look like a cheesy fart’ll blow you off the boardwalk.” She laughed throatily. “Wouldn’t want to be responsible for you getting trodden into the street, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ please,” Jak said quietly as he looked around the ornate, gold-painted interior of the building. It was only a little after nine in the morning when they called, and Miss Stanwyck was finishing her breakfast, counting up the night’s take. Some of her whores drifted down to eat, looking curiously at the ill-matched pair of strangers, particularly at the skinny boy with the dazzling mane of white hair.

“What’re you looking for, son?” Dolores asked.

“Show you can look after self.” He pointed at a fat-faced golden cherub that decorated the staircase. “Nose.”

She dropped her knife and fork. “Don’t you dare go shooting at that. Cost me a fortune from a greaser in Phoenix who Holy Madonna!”

Jak had reached casually around to the small of his back, under his jacket, as though he had a twinge of discomfort. Then his hand came forward with a crack like a Concord whip. There was a blur of shimmering silver light across the dusty shadows of the saloon and a dull thunk.

A leaf-bladed throwing knife, with a taped hilt, was quivering in the center of the cherub’s gleaming nose.

Dolores stood slowly, peering a little shortsightedly at Jak’s demonstration. “That is something, boy,” she said. “Be glad to take you on along with J.B., here. Just don’t be too fast in drawing your blade. Don’t want to lose all the customers of the Montana Queen.”

So they had steady work, and they brought home enough jack-in-hand to pay the landlady at the Grits and Greetings.

And Krysty, Doc and Mildred passed the days asking the same question again and again around the ville, getting the same shake of the head.

“HOW DO I LOOK, Ryan?” The question was asked with a touch of nervousness, the little man primed up, ready to snap at Ryan if he criticized his ensemble.

“Look a deal smarter than me, Paddy.”

The coat had the same slightly phosphorescent green glint as Doc’s frock coat, a somewhat sinister sheen that meant you could almost see your face in it from age and wear. The pants were hoicked up in a bunch around Paddy’s midriff, seeming to belong to a much taller and bulkier man. The vest was torn and neatly mended, though no more than two of the buttons matched. To crown things, Paddy was wearing a sporting derby, perched on the side of his head.

“You sure I look all right?”

Ryan nodded. His private opinion was that the little man looked like a badly made-up corpse, but he wasn’t going to hurt Paddy’s feelings by telling him that.

“Fine. You going to shave?”

“Have done.”

“You have?” He peered at the scabrous, silver stubble that lined the cheeks and jawline. “Mebbe you missed a few places, then, Paddy.”