“And trencherwomen,” Mildred added. “Don’t forget there’s ladies present, Doc.”
“How could I ever forget it when you are always there, like a bad conscience, to remind me, Dr. Wyeth.” He hesitated, shaking his head. “Trencher-women! All in the name of that fearful ogre whom history calls the beast of political correctness. Sanctuary men, but never sanctuary women, my lord bishop.” He looked across the table at the bewildered Clinkerscales. “I saw some fine strawberries in your garden, as I passed by. I beg you.”
“Got strawberry pie, Doc,” the barkeep offered. “Ain’t fresh, though. Place up north cans them for us.”
“What other kind of pie?” Mildred asked.
“Key lime and cherry and hot fudge and peach and blueberry. All of them with cream.”
“Peach,” Dean said, quickest to make up his mind.
“Cherry, please,” Mildred stated.
“Did you say key lime was among the variety of options?” Doc asked, getting a nod from Clinkerscales. “Then that is for me. It has long, so long, been my favorite.”
Ryan and Krysty both went for the hot fudge.
Jak picked blueberry pie, but turned down the option of added cream.
After giving the matter due consideration, J.B. also chose the key-lime pie. Without cream.
“VERY, VERY GOOD,” Krysty pronounced, pushing her dish away. Only a few crumbs and a smear of cream was left from the third portion of the hot fudge pie.
Dean had set the group record, having four helpings of dessert.
Starting with peach, he followed it up with strawberry, going on to sample the hot fudge and finishing up with a huge slice of the cherry pie, dripping with the hot sweet fruit, smothered in rich cream.
Clinkerscales had urged the boy to try for five, but Dean drew a finger across his own throat, indicating the level that the food had reached.
“Would you like to come out into the bar for a drink? Or, I figure you’d probably rather all go up to your own rooms and get early to sleep.”
The note of tension was clear in the barkeep’s voice, and he kept wiping his hands with the check apron.
“You mean you’d rather we all went up to our rooms?” J.B. said.
The man nodded, beads of sweat glistening across the top of his skull.
“Think there’ll be trouble?”
“Could be, Mr. Cawdor. Can’t be certain, but word’s raced around Green Hill. Probably farther.”
Ryan knew that Trader used to say that a man who went searching for trouble was triple sure to find it.
He looked around at his friends. “Sensible thing is to do like the man says.”
“Nobody tell me run,” Jak said.
“Let’s go look.” Mildred stood from the table. “Just a quick look.”
“Why not?” Ryan said.
Chapter Thirteen
” ‘My love commands, I must obey, Over the hills and far away. When I reach her I’ll surely stay, Over the hills and far away.’ ”
The singer was a young man with a sallow complexion and protruding teeth, standing on a small platform, next to the piano. He had long hair, prematurely gray, and he sang in a nasal tenor voice, with one hand clamped over his ear, as if he were having trouble sustaining pitch.
The packed saloon had quietened, everyone there listening to his fine rendition of the old song, nobody taking any notice as Ryan led the other six friends out from the dining room, into the dark at the bottom of the stairs.
There was a roar of applause as the young man finished the ballad, and the floor all around him rang as jack was thrown as a reward for his singing.
Clinkerscales appeared at the piano, revving up the clapping, beckoning for more money, then waving his hands for silence. “Thanks for Jake Stafford. He’ll be back later with another set. Now the Lincoln Inn is pleased to offer you an unusual entertainment. An unusual lady.”
“Does she fuck mules?” a voice bellowed from a table near the stairs.
“Gentlemen, please,” the barkeep said reproachfully. “This is not that sort of place. Go to Johnny Owen’s if you want that kind of pleasuring. And if you want to get the clap, the gripe, the bloody flux, knob rot, blindness and facial cankers, then go to Johnny Owen’s place. And may the Lord have mercy on you!”