Ryan leaned forward until his mouth was only inches from the merchant’s ear. “Just a word and you die. Also means he’ll die, as well. All for nothing. Just get out the jack.”
“I got an idea, mister.”
“What?”
“I’m Todd Keillor. Come from Lubbock in Texas.”
Ryan knew his predark rock and roll. “Buddy’s birthplace,” he said.
“Wouldn’t know him, I’m afraid.”
“You got an idea?”
Next door the man had only stopped for a noisy piss, sounding like a stallion staling into a deep pool. The door slammed shut, and the footsteps faded away back into the Montana Queen.
“Your idea?” Ryan repeated.
Some of the terror had faded away, though the voice was still shaky. Now there was a trading note in it, the hope of doing a deal.
“I got some jack on me, but some of those good guys in there are loaded. And I mean loaded.”
“So?”
“I mean, there’s a dry-goods man from Topeka, Big Nate Newcomb, carrying a wad of jack big enough to sink the Golden Eagle . Says he’s goin’ to blow it all on sluts.”
Ryan was becoming impatient. It was only a matter of time before a group of merchants decided to come out to take a leak together. And they would want to use all of the outhouses at the same time. “So what?”
Eagerly now, glimpsing light in his horrific darkness, Todd Keillor spilled his words over one another. “Let me go back and I can tell himI mean not tell him about yousomeone wants to see him out here. One of us conventioneers like, and then he’ll come out and you can take him and you’ll get more jack than I got. A lot more. Lot more, mister. How about that for an idea? Good one, huh?”
Ryan shook his head. “Friend of mine from way back had a saying. Blaster in your hand’s worth a whole armory locked away in the ville. Give me what you got and don’t hold back.”
“Oh, but” He squeaked in alarm, making no move to remove his billfold.
Ryan clipped him across the cheek with the SIG-Sauer, hard enough to knock him sideways on the seat of the john.
“Jack,” Ryan said.
“All right, mister. No call for that.” He reached out in the stinking darkness, pushing a thick roll of jack into Ryan’s left hand. Without seeing it, he knew that it was a sizable pile, enough for their plans to ride the stern-wheeler.
He stuffed it into his coat pocket, keeping the blaster steady on Todd Keillor’s chest. “Good move,” he said. “Means you get to stay alive to enjoy the convention.”
“You won’t chill me?”
“No.”
“Won’t hurt me?”
“Ah, can’t promise that.” Ryan reversed the automatic and clubbed the man with a short, powerful blow, hitting him above and a little behind the right ear. The merchant gave a small sigh of surprise and slumped forward. Ryan steadied him on the seat, leaning him back so that a casual glance would make it seem as if he had fallen asleep while doing his business.
Ryan backed away from the outhouse, pushing the door closed, walking quickly across the yard into the alley, where he collected Doc, Krysty and Mildred.
“All right, lover?”
He nodded at her. “Fine. Go and get our tickets when the boat docks tomorrow.” He pulled off the balaclava and unknotted the kerchief, giving it back to Doc. “Let’s move.”
J.B. AND JAK RETURNED to the Grits and Greetings boardinghouse for their supper break at about seven. Ryan and the others were waiting for them to learn what had happened back at the Montana Queen.
The Armorer grinned, throwing his fedora on the bed, removing his glasses to start polishing them. “Got lucky, friends. Four of the good merchants got themselves mugged during the day. Two on the upstairs landing and two out back in the courtyard. Sounded to me like the masked man who pistol-whipped the fat bastard could have been you, Ryan. Hope you weren’t the one with the razor. Chilled his man.”
“I laid him out. Todd Keillor from Texas. Guess he’s got a headache, but he should live. He tried to betray one of his friends he said had more jack than he did. But he had enough.”