The Man Who Came Laughing
Par temporarybat7843
The Man Who Came Laughing
Par temporarybat7843
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The Man Who Came Laughing
Shane Quinn reached Perdition shortly after sunrise, though his horse had been attempting to avoid the place since midnight.
The mare was a rangy bay with one white stocking, a crooked blaze, and a limp that appeared whenever Shane pointed her toward labor. She had shown no trace of injury while chasing a jackrabbit the previous evening. She had developed a grave disability the moment the roofs of Perdition appeared beyond the rise.
Shane looked down at her.
“You’re limping.”
The mare continued limping.
“I watched you run yesterday.”
One ear turned toward him.
“You understand every word.”
The mare stopped.
Shane waited.
She lowered her head and began cropping grass.
“That is not a denial.”
He dismounted.
The limp vanished immediately.
Shane stood in the road holding the reins.
“I have been deceived by women of greater beauty and less imagination.”
The mare chewed.
“You’d have liked my second wife.”
The horse moved toward another patch of grass.
“She’d have disliked you, which was how she showed affection.”
Shane gathered the reins and began leading her toward Perdition.
He was sixty-four years old, except when speaking to women, employers, or doctors. In those circumstances, his age adjusted itself according to necessity. He claimed sixty-one when dancing, fifty-nine when flirting, and seventy-two whenever someone needed a wagon unloaded.
His beard had gone almost entirely gray, but his eyes remained bright and blue, with the unfortunate habit of suggesting he knew more than he did.
Often, he did.
His black frock coat had been made years ago by a fine New Orleans tailor for a younger, richer, narrower version of Shane. The garment still fit as long as he avoided large meals and ambitious breathing. His boots had been polished at the last hotel, though the road had already begun undoing the work. A narrow-brimmed hat sat low on his head. There was a bullet hole above the left temple.
He carried a polished hickory walking stick.
He did not require it.
That was one reason he carried it.
People tended to forgive a great deal in a man they believed might fall over.
Perdition looked small from the rise.
A church steeple leaned slightly north.
Smoke rose behind the mercantile.
The water tower had been painted once, perhaps as an act of youthful optimism, and the lettering had faded until only three uncertain letters remained.
The town did not look prosperous.
It looked inhabited.
Shane had come to distrust prosperous places.
They were usually owned by someone who lived elsewhere.
He paused on the rise.
Thirty years had passed since he last saw Leroy Lamar.
There had been letters for a while.
Then fewer.
Then none.
Shane had heard rumors. A marshal in Colorado. A deputy in Indian Territory. A ranch hand in West Texas. A prisoner in Mexico. A dead man in Arkansas.
Leroy had always inspired confident misinformation.
Shane had been told the man lived quietly in Perdition.
Quiet had always suited Leroy.
Shane hoped that part was true.
He hoped the rest was not.
The mare tugged toward town.
“You smelled breakfast.”
She walked faster.
“I knew there was character beneath the fraud.”
Herr Adler was the first citizen of Perdition to see him arrive.
The baker stood outside his shop with his arms folded, studying a tray of loaves placed on the sill. He wore a flour-covered apron, a white shirt rolled above the elbows, and the disappointed expression of a man who had placed great faith in dough and been betrayed.
Shane stopped before the bakery.
The smell of warm bread settled around him.
He closed his eyes.
“My Lord.”
Adler turned.
“He had nothing to do with it.”
Shane opened his eyes.
“You baked that?”
“What else would I be doing?”
“I’ve only just arrived.”
“That is obvious.”
Shane inspected his coat.
“I thought I’d concealed it.”
“You have dust on your trousers.”
“It’s traveling dust.”
“You have slept in them.”
“That is private dust.”
Adler looked at the mare, who was attempting to reach the bread through the hitching rail.
“Your horse is lame.”
“She isn’t.”
“She walks lame.”
“She lies.”
Adler looked at the mare again.
The mare stood evenly.
“You accuse a horse of dishonesty.”
“I accuse her from experience.”
“She has an honest face.”
“So did my third wife.”
“You were married three times?”
“Successfully, in the sense that each marriage ended.”
Adler’s expression suggested that Shane had just confessed to poisoning wells.
“You are hungry.”
“Always.”
“You have eaten?”
“I had coffee.”
“That is not eating.”
“I put whiskey in it.”
“That is drinking badly twice.”
Shane smiled.
“I have a feeling we’ll become friends.”
“No.”
Adler disappeared into the bakery.
An old man beneath the mercantile awning lifted his coffee cup toward Shane.
“He likes you.”
Shane glanced after Adler.
“I would hate to see displeasure.”
“You will.”
Adler returned carrying a loaf wrapped in cloth. He pushed it into Shane’s hands.
Shane felt the warmth through the fabric.
“What do I owe you?”
“Eat.”
“I asked the price.”
“You will know after you eat.”
“Does the price depend on my reaction?”
“The price is two cents.”
“Then why must I eat first?”
Adler scowled.
“I want to see your face.”
Shane tore off a piece.
The crust cracked beneath his fingers. The inside was soft, warm, and faintly salted.
He tasted it.
Adler watched.
Shane chewed slowly, looked toward the sky, then removed his hat.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“Every loaf I praised before this one.”
Adler’s expression softened by an amount only a trained observer could have measured.
“Two cents.”
Shane handed him three.
Adler returned one.
“I do not accept charity.”
“It was gratitude.”
“That is worse.”
“How?”
“Charity is ignorant. Gratitude creates obligation.”
Shane pocketed the coin.
“You are an alarming philosopher.”
“I am a baker.”
Adler went inside.
The old man beneath the awning chuckled.
“You survived.”
“I feel improved.”
“Bread does that.”
“Who is he angry with?”
“Everybody.”
“Does he make exceptions?”
“Himself.”
“I admire consistency.”
Shane led the mare across the street.
The old man wore a battered hat pulled low over white eyebrows and smoked a pipe that had gone out unnoticed.
He pointed the pipe at Shane’s walking stick.
“You hurt?”
“Deeply.”
“Leg?”
“Pride.”
“Walking stick help?”
“It gives the injury dignity.”
The old man nodded as if this made sense.
“You looking for somebody?”
“Possibly.”
“Woman?”
“Not before breakfast.”
“Money?”
“Not after breakfast.”
The old man removed the pipe from his mouth.
“Leroy Lamar?”
Shane studied him.
“Why Leroy?”
“Strangers come here wanting whiskey, work, or Leroy. You’re too clean for work.”
“Appearances deceive.”
“You planning to work?”
“No.”
“Then they haven’t.”
Shane sat beside him.
“Where might I find Mr. Lamar?”
“Somewhere he wasn’t invited.”
“Helping?”
“Usually.”
“Unfortunate habit.”
“Seems incurable.”
Shane broke off a piece of bread.
The spotted town dog appeared from beneath the boardwalk with the swift judgment of an animal able to detect weakness.
It sat beside Shane.
“No,” Shane said.
The dog stared.
“I have known you less than a minute.”
One paw landed on Shane’s boot.
The old man watched.
“He’s named General.”
“Why?”
“Surrenders for provisions.”
Shane gave the dog a piece of crust.
General swallowed it and raised the second paw.
Shane frowned.
“Extortion.”
The old man smiled.
“You’ll fit.”
“What’s your name?”
“Silas Brody.”
“The barber?”
“How’d you know?”
“You have hair on your sleeves and gossip in your eyes.”
Silas looked impressed.
“You know Leroy?”
“I did.”
“That’s a strange way to answer.”
“He was a strange way to live.”
“He still is.”
Shane glanced toward the western end of town.
“Where is he?”
“Micah Willis’s fence, most likely.”
“Broken?”
“It became broken after Micah leaned on it.”
“And Leroy is repairing it?”
“Tomorrow. Today he was going to avoid work.”
“How is that progressing?”
“Poorly.”
Shane finished the bread.
“Where’s the livery?”
Silas pointed down the street.
“Red doors.”
Shane stood.
General remained on his boot.
He looked down.
“We have concluded our business.”
The dog did not move.
Silas said, “You have to pay a departure tax.”
“What is it?”
“More bread.”
Shane tore off another piece.
General took it and immediately walked away.
Shane watched him go.
“I have been treated more honestly by card cheats.”
Silas relit his pipe.
“Wait until you meet Shane Quinn.”
Shane paused.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Then why say that?”
“Wanted to see what you’d do.”
Shane looked at the old barber.
Silas grinned.
Shane tipped his hat.
“I believe we may become dangerous together.”
The livery doors stood open.
Inside, a narrow stable boy brushed a gray gelding while attempting to sing a popular song. He knew neither the melody nor most of the words, but approached both obstacles with determination.
Shane led the mare inside.
The boy stopped singing, which improved the morning.
“Need a stall?”
“Does it come with oats?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then she does.”
The boy looked at the mare’s legs.
“She lame?”
“Morally.”
The mare swung her head and bumped Shane’s shoulder.
“See?”
The boy patted her neck.
“She seems gentle.”
“So did my first wife.”
“How many wives did you have?”
Shane stared at him.
“Is that the first question everyone asks in this town?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s the first?”
“Whether you’re staying.”
“That is a dangerous question.”
“Why?”
“I rarely know.”
The boy took the reins.
“How long should I keep her?”
“Until I leave, she escapes, or someone offers you more money.”
“She have a name?”
Shane hesitated.
The mare had been sold to him as Abigail.
He did not approve of naming a horse after a woman likely to hear about it.
“Dusty.”
The boy studied the animal.
“Why?”
“She possesses none.”
The mare stepped squarely on Shane’s boot.
He looked down at her hoof.
“That was deliberate.”
Dusty did not move.
The boy tried not to laugh.
Shane used the walking stick to tap the mare’s ankle.
“Madam.”
She lifted her hoof.
“Thank you.”
The boy laughed despite himself.
Shane handed him a coin.
“For the oats.”
“This is too much.”
“For the song