“ ’F anybody asks for me, you tell ’em I’m off on a tour,” and he pushed out through the crowd again.
When the doctor came, I took him up the hall to my room, where he patched my neck. The wound wasn’t much, but my neck is fleshy, and it bled a lot—all over me, in fact.
After he had finished, I got fresh clothes from my bag and undressed. But when I went to wash, I found the doctor had used all my water. Getting into coat, pants and shoes, I went down to the kitchen for more.
The hall was empty when I came upstairs again, except for Clio Landes.
She went past me without looking at me—deliberately not looking at me.
I washed, dressed, and strapped on my gun. One more angle to be cleaned up, and I would be through. I didn’t think I’d need the .32 toys any more, so I put them away. One more angle, and I was done. I was pleased with the idea of getting away from Corkscrew. I didn’t like the place, had never liked it, liked it less than ever since Milk River’s break.
I was thinking about him when I stepped out of the hotel—to see him standing across the street.
I didn’t give him a tumble, but turned toward the lower end of the street.
One step. A bullet kicked up dirt at my feet.
I stopped.
“Go for it, fat boy!” Milk River yelled. “It’s me or you!”
I turned slowly to face him, looking for an out. But there wasn’t any.
His eyes were insane-lighted slits. His face was a ghastly savage mask. He was beyond reasoning with.