Chapter 4
Neighbors Being Neighborly
Nothing solidified old friendships more than hiding an outlaw under the saloon bar.
“Christ, how do you reckon I’m supposed to fit—” Cricket wiggled his way between Decker’s feet and wedged himself under rows of glasses and piles of old cards.
He’d burst into the saloon at half past four that afternoon, insistent he needed a place to hide as the town marshal for Ridgewater was hot on his tail.
“The law don’t come here. Get up,” Decker said, careful not to step on Cricket’s hands as he scowled down at him.
“Fuck they don’t.”
Decker muffled a sigh as he glanced outside. Through the dust-streaked hazy glass he caught a glimpse of a man swinging off his horse. The pistols at his side caught the light as he strode towards the saloon.
Decker stiffened and flipped the curtain down, brushing the tops of his boots.
A few locals gawked at the marshal. Most knew better and minded their own business, pulling hats over pointed ears and blending with the shadows.
Silver-scroll spurs jangled harshly as he propped a foot against the brass rail and dug out a creased wanted poster. “Heard reports this fellow held up a stage last week and a fine lady in Ridgewater saw him headed this way not ten minutes ago.”
Goddamn rich folk, sticking their nose where it don’t belong.
Decker studied the grimy paper. It was a crude drawing at best but bore a slight resemblance to Cricket if it wasn’t for the scrawled hair falling below his shoulders. That explained his fresh haircut.
“Looks like every other fellow that forgot to go to the barber.” He slid the paper back, his polite smile freezing in place as a boot kicked against his shin from below the counter.
The lawman grunted, piggy eyes narrowing at him.
“Let me get you a drink.” Decker smiled. “On the house.” If Cricket wanted to be a little bastard, he could rot under the bar a little longer.
Safine would tell him not to pander.
But Safine wasn’t here, and he couldn’t risk pushing that line.
Three stiff drinks and one good-natured slap on the back later, Ender’s Blessing settled thinly over the marshal’s eyes, and Decker wagered he hardly remembered where he was as he wandered out the door back to his side of town. No telling if he’d be back or not.
Decker reached down and grabbed the cord of Cricket’s necklace, dragging him out from under the bar.
“Christ, Deck—” he choked out, yanking the leather away from him. “Careful what you start, I might like it.”
Decker scowled at him as Cricket made a show of straightening his ever-wrinkled shirt. The law shouldn’t have followed him across the river. But Cricket couldn’t know that, because he was Cricket.
“Be more careful.”
“What, afraid they’ll find all the bodies in the whiskey barrels?” Grinning, he made himself at home behind the bar.
Decker frowned as Cricket poured them some gin. “Might find yours if you bring any more back here.” He still accepted the drink. The boy didn’t know his right hand from his left, but he managed to keep Decker on his toes.
The outlaw had always been that way, from the very first time he arrived—though his bravado soon gave way to a scraped-raw heart he buried in liquor and crime, and Decker never quite knew what version of Cricket he was getting each day he hung around.
Today he was the cheerful Cricket, or so he appeared, and he clinked his glass against Decker’s. “Here’s to escaping the law.” Downing the gin in one swig, he continued in a lazy drawl, “I was at the bank and heard tell there was some article a fancy newspaper man wrote about the town. TheDevil’s Town.” He wiggled his fingers at Decker.
Decker batted them away. “Unsubstantiated rumors,” he said. Blank stare. “Fancy newspaper man is a liar.”
Cricket made an understanding sound.
Decker didn’t know which facets of the boy were a theatrical act and which were an actual lack of knowledge. Three years wasn’t enough time to dig down to the bones of Cricket Conklin.
