Ryan looked across at his former leader. “Try and remember what our names are.”
“Guess those two pretty little fillies drove all that clear out of my mind, Ryan. Boy, they are triple something, aren’t they?”
There was no reply. Ryan had gone across to stand near the balcony, looking out along the rim of the canyon. “Just wondering what happened to J.B. and Abe.”
“They’ll be out there, someplace,” Trader said confidently. “Out there.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The food was about adequate. There was trout, the skin blackened, some of the flesh too pink, oozing a clear liquid, but parts of the fish were excellent; creamed potatoes, well prepared, with a sweet mixture of apple and pink cabbage; some duck, too greasy for Ryan’s palate, with wild rice and a mix of thinly sliced peppers, covered in a fiery sauce of green chilies.
The beer was good and cold, served from misted pitchers by a couple of silent, dark-skinned women.
There were only five people at the meal.
Ryan and Trader sat opposite each other at the low table, both freshly shaved and washed.
Baron Torrance was at the head, looking a little less filthy and disgusting than earlier in the day, wearing a green-and-orange kaftan, belted across his capacious belly.
His daughters sat next to him, Cissie alongside Trader, Bessie close to Ryan. Very close to Ryan.
Too close to Ryan.
The sisters wore nearly identical outfitswhite blouses, cut low and tight across the tops of their nearly identical breasts, and loose black skirts of antique cotton. Both wore tan sandals, with straps that laced up to the knee.
They both sported an extraordinary amount of jewelery, mainly turquoise and silver. They were cheap pieces that had seen better days, though Ryan spotted one or two quality items, including the heavy squash blossom, in solid silver, that dangled around Bessie’s wattled throat.
The other thing that Ryan noticed about Bessie was the smell of her body. Overlaid with cheap soap and scent, there was a strange odor of musk and mold, as though a dead bird had become trapped in a box of face powder.
Her chair was so close to his that he couldn’t move without brushing against her. While they ate bowls of pumpkin soup, the girls kept up a flood of chatter about clothes, food, hunting and how great Hightower had once been.
And how great it could be again.
Baron Torrance half lay, half sat on an overstuffed sofa, picking and slurping at the meal, using his ringed fingers rather than any of the costly jade-handled cutlery that was at everyone’s places.
He contributed little to the evening, only showing any enthusiasm on the subject of how strong and influential the ville could be.
“I have been a sick man these many years,” he said, “and my little girls are not skilled in the ways of the cruel and cunning world. But with the right sort of help, they can rule when I am gone.”
Ryan spotted the dilation of the pupils of his eyes and the brittle urgency of his words. Catching Trader’s attention he traced the single letter; on the linen cloth, without anyone else noticing.
Trader nodded his understanding and his agreement. The baron was fast in the relentless claws of the coke and mescal mix commonly called jolt.
During the first course Bessie Torrance twice dropped her napkin, refusing to allow Ryan to pick it up for her, making much play of reaching below the table for it. Each time her right hand settled on Ryan’s thigh, well above the knee.
Each time a little higher.
The same thing happened three times during the fish course of the meal.
It wasn’t the first time that Ryan had been felt up by a woman. But they were generally gaudy sluts after a purse of jack. It wasn’t all that often you found the daughter of a baron groping at your jewel casket.
He considered shifting his chair, but a leg of the long table had been artfully placed to his side, blocking off any movement. Across the table he had noticed that Cissie’s left hand had also vanished and that Trader was breathing just a little more quickly than usual.