“Take your pick,” he said.
“Quiet is a good choice,” Mildred stated. “Less risk of real trouble.”
They walked together along the center of the dusty, rutted street. Ryan’s right hand rested gently on the butt of the SIG-Sauer, but he couldn’t taste any threat in the air. A few townspeople strolled by, and several of the men lounging on the porches stared down at the outlanders. But it wasn’t much more than the usual natural curiosity that would be encountered in any one of a thousand frontier pestholes, with their bars, gaudies, drunks and sluts.
“What an exercise in ingenuity has gone into thinking up some of these splendid names,” Doc commented, pointing at some of them with the point of his cane Flying Burrito, Palace of Sin, Satan’s Golden Bar, Hank’s Way, Wheels of Thunder, San Joaquin, Adelita’s Muncheria, Gipsy Sharon’s, My Place, Sam’n’Ella’s.
“That last one sounds the kind of joint where you might pick up food poisoning,” Mildred said, laughing at some private joke that none of the others understood.
“How about that?” Krysty asked, pointing to a small, dimly lit bar that stood on its own on the southern side of the street. “Nice name. Might get some good vibrations from it.”
It was just called Harmony.
A YOUNG BEARDED GUITARIST sat on a stool on a tiny stage oaf the far end of the bar, singing a beautiful, mournful song about leaving an L.A. freeway. A tall woman with cropped black hair leaned on the counter, idly wiping a glass with a green-checkered cloth.
Ryan glanced around as soon as they were inside, trying to size up the atmosphere, feeling for any sense of danger. There were about a dozen people in Harmony, sitting at five or six tables. Four of them were playing a quiet game of poker, the rest were nursing schooners of beer and talking in low voices.
They were all men, in a variety of Western clothes, shirts, jeans and working boots.
Every head turned at the appearance of the six strangers, but Ryan had the feeling that their arrival in Country Row had already been noted by the locals. Nobody seemed at all surprised to see either Jak’s stark white hair, blazing in the gloom like a beacon, or Mildred’s black skin and beaded hair.
“What can I get you folks?” called the woman from behind the bar. “Come right on in. Don’t stand in the doorway, blocking up the hall.”
There was a large round table, its top scarred and ringed from years of cold glasses, and the companions sat at it, Ryan picking the seat that faced the main entrance. J.B. chose the chair that gave the best view of a rear door, which presumably opened into an alley at the back.
“We got beer, some local wine and some better stuff from out west. And we got fruit juices. Could even do you some coffee sub if you wanted.”
Ryan looked up at the woman. “You do food?”
“Sure. Nothing fancy. Soup. Chili and beans. Got some ham and pork if you fancy that.”
Ryan picked the chili and a long beer. Krysty followed his choice, as did Doc. J.B. chose a plate of ham and pork with a bottle of chilled wine, which he shared with Mildred. She didn’t feel that hungry and ordered a bowl of the soup of the day, which turned out to be turnip, leek and bacon. Jak took a long time making up his mind, eventually opting for the soup, followed by chili with a side order of bread and cheese, washing it all down with two glasses of beer.
They had finished and were beginning a last round of drinks before going back to the wags to settle for the night, when the doors swung noisily open and in came the two young rednecks who owned the smart 4×4. They were both drunk, sweating heavily and still flaunting their Brownings and the ammo belts.
Ryan instantly tasted the bitter iron of danger and eased himself a little away from the table, his hand falling to the SIG-Sauer, seeing that each of the other friends was beginning to react in a similar way.