Winter Kill by Frank Roderus

Author:Frank Roderus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

28

“IDON’T UNDERSTAND.”

“So tell me. Just what part of the word no d’ you not understand?” Gerald Fulbright gave him a look that Jug found more than a little disturbing. It was like Gerald was looking at a cockroach found swimming in his soup bowl. “Now get your crap and get out of here. I don’t want your business. Clear enough?”

Tabe Evans was standing nearby with a bung starter in his hand. The three of them, Gerald and Tabe and Jug, were naturally enough the center of attraction among the few customers who’d come in for an eye-opener.

Jug had quite frankly hoped to stretch his money by having beer for breakfast and a long visit to the free lunch spread. Now . . . now he was told he couldn’t leave his saddle and stuff in the storeroom that practically every cowboy in the basin used like it was his very own closet. Couldn’t put his things in there and had to take out the things Ski had brought down for him.

Jug didn’t understand this. And wasn’t that an understatement?

Still, this was Gerald’s property and the man had the right to do with it—or not—whatever he damn pleased.

Jug nodded and carried his saddle outside, then came back in and got the brass bound trunk that used to sit at the foot of his bunk. He didn’t look inside to see if everything was there. Wouldn’t have been any point anyway. If anything was missing it would be just his tough luck. And at the moment a handful of possessions seemed mighty unimportant.

“Thank you ever so much,” he said on his way out.

Once he was outside he . . . he had no idea in the world what to do next or where to head in order to do it.

Still, there was no sense in standing there like a cigar store Injun while dust settled on him. That wouldn’t accomplish a whole lot.

The trunk was small but fairly heavy and for dang sure it was of an awkward size and shape for carrying, so he left it there on the boardwalk outside the Bullhorn and carried his saddle back down to the creek where he’d slept. Left the saddle there and came back for the trunk.

Once his worldly wherewithal was out of the way, if not out of the weather—which, thank goodness, had been fair of late—he walked back into town in search of breakfast.

Anna Chong’s wasn’t open for breakfast, more’s the pity, so he had to choose between Abner Tyler’s café or Manfred Haas’s restaurant. The primary difference between them was the prices they charged. Although Jug had to admit that Haas did at least give diners a tablecloth to wipe their hands on in exchange for the higher cost of his meals. Jug headed for Tyler’s place. It was closer.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Jug. Especially not so early as this. What can I get for you?”

“Coffee first off, Abner. And a big ol’ plate of those biscuits your wife makes.

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