Read Online The Nail and the Oracle by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
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looking up, “I do hope you are listening, Mr. Brannegan.”
“Oh, every word,” said Brannegan happily.
“Now then,” said the gray-headed man, “I have his word. Sort of. He said he doesn’t complain. Well, I don’t know what kind of man he is, and I don’t really care very much. So we’ll pay him, too. Give him twenty dollars, Mr. Brannegan.”
“Give him
what?”
gasped the big man.
The gray-headed man thumbed a coin out of his watch pocket and flipped it ringing across the desk. “Give it to him.”
“Well all right,” said Brannegan, and took up the coin and handed it to Macleish. Macleish took it and put it away.
“Now,” said the gray-headed man, “take him outside and give him a boot in the tail.”
“I got just the one,” said Brannegan. He came over to Macleish, who stood up. Brannegan eyed him for a moment and said over his shoulder, without looking, “Get your gun out.” Macleish heard the beery man’s gun cocking and then Brannegan got Macleish’s left arm and twisted it behind him, putting the fist tight up between Macleish’s shoulder blades. It hurt. He pulled Macleish off balance and ran him out the door and along the gallery to the top of the stairs. Here he gave him a shove outward and followed it with an accurate boot. Macleish spun floundering down the steps and brought up at the bottom, leaning against the newel post like a fence prop. Brannegan, incredibly, was right beside him, got the left fist between his shoulder blades again, and pulled him upright. Macleish looked up. The gray-headed man was leaning over the gallery rail, smiling slightly. Beside him, the youth stood, his mouth wide, tittering. At the head of the stairs stood the beery man, gun in hand. Brannegan ran Macleish the length of the bar and banged him out through the batwings. Macleish cleared the two low steps without touching, clipped the far edge of the duckwalk, and sprawled in the dust outside.
Behind the batwings, somebody yipped a shrill clear drag-rider’s cattle-drive yip. A number of people helped make a bellow of laughter.
Macleish got to his feet. His face hurt. His hands and elbowshurt, and his left arm clear back to the shoulder bones hurt a whole lot. His fancy vest was a mess and he had a hole in the knee of his pants. He walked back to the hotel.
By the lamplight that streamed from the hotel, Macleish saw a man standing at the foot of the steps. It was the fat little old man from the livery. He had a white handkerchief pressed to his face. He said, “Oh, there you are. Gosh, son, a feller got to your saddle. I tried to stop him.”
Macleish gently pulled the handkerchief down away from the old man’s face. He had a puffy sort of hole on his cheekbone.
“Feller had a big ring,” said the man from the livery. “I tried to stop him,” he called apologetically as Macleish climbed the porch.
Some woman Macleish hadn’t seen before was in the little lobby. She had a basin of water standing on the hotel desk. Miz Appleton was sitting behind the desk. The woman was dabbing at Miz Appleton’s face with a wet clean cloth, and said to Macleish, “Oh, you must be the one. A man got to your things in your room.”
Macleish stumped up the stairs, and as he reached the landing he heard Miz Appleton say, “I tried to stop him, Mr. Macleish.”
Macleish went on upstairs. The door to his room was open. His saddlebags and spare clothes and blanket, and his Arbuckle coffee and trail bacon and beans were all dumped on the bed. He passed by with a glance and went to the wall peg where his gun-belt hung, and he took it down and strapped it on. He drew the gun, broke and spun it, clicked it straight and holstered it, and went back down the stairs. The women both spoke, but he didn’t hear what they said.
He clumped down the duckwalks to the other hotel, looking straight ahead and not exactly hurrying. When he got there he kicked open the batwings and walked in. This time the piano and the
“Oh, every word,” said Brannegan happily.
“Now then,” said the gray-headed man, “I have his word. Sort of. He said he doesn’t complain. Well, I don’t know what kind of man he is, and I don’t really care very much. So we’ll pay him, too. Give him twenty dollars, Mr. Brannegan.”
“Give him
what?”
gasped the big man.
The gray-headed man thumbed a coin out of his watch pocket and flipped it ringing across the desk. “Give it to him.”
“Well all right,” said Brannegan, and took up the coin and handed it to Macleish. Macleish took it and put it away.
“Now,” said the gray-headed man, “take him outside and give him a boot in the tail.”
“I got just the one,” said Brannegan. He came over to Macleish, who stood up. Brannegan eyed him for a moment and said over his shoulder, without looking, “Get your gun out.” Macleish heard the beery man’s gun cocking and then Brannegan got Macleish’s left arm and twisted it behind him, putting the fist tight up between Macleish’s shoulder blades. It hurt. He pulled Macleish off balance and ran him out the door and along the gallery to the top of the stairs. Here he gave him a shove outward and followed it with an accurate boot. Macleish spun floundering down the steps and brought up at the bottom, leaning against the newel post like a fence prop. Brannegan, incredibly, was right beside him, got the left fist between his shoulder blades again, and pulled him upright. Macleish looked up. The gray-headed man was leaning over the gallery rail, smiling slightly. Beside him, the youth stood, his mouth wide, tittering. At the head of the stairs stood the beery man, gun in hand. Brannegan ran Macleish the length of the bar and banged him out through the batwings. Macleish cleared the two low steps without touching, clipped the far edge of the duckwalk, and sprawled in the dust outside.
Behind the batwings, somebody yipped a shrill clear drag-rider’s cattle-drive yip. A number of people helped make a bellow of laughter.
Macleish got to his feet. His face hurt. His hands and elbowshurt, and his left arm clear back to the shoulder bones hurt a whole lot. His fancy vest was a mess and he had a hole in the knee of his pants. He walked back to the hotel.
By the lamplight that streamed from the hotel, Macleish saw a man standing at the foot of the steps. It was the fat little old man from the livery. He had a white handkerchief pressed to his face. He said, “Oh, there you are. Gosh, son, a feller got to your saddle. I tried to stop him.”
Macleish gently pulled the handkerchief down away from the old man’s face. He had a puffy sort of hole on his cheekbone.
“Feller had a big ring,” said the man from the livery. “I tried to stop him,” he called apologetically as Macleish climbed the porch.
Some woman Macleish hadn’t seen before was in the little lobby. She had a basin of water standing on the hotel desk. Miz Appleton was sitting behind the desk. The woman was dabbing at Miz Appleton’s face with a wet clean cloth, and said to Macleish, “Oh, you must be the one. A man got to your things in your room.”
Macleish stumped up the stairs, and as he reached the landing he heard Miz Appleton say, “I tried to stop him, Mr. Macleish.”
Macleish went on upstairs. The door to his room was open. His saddlebags and spare clothes and blanket, and his Arbuckle coffee and trail bacon and beans were all dumped on the bed. He passed by with a glance and went to the wall peg where his gun-belt hung, and he took it down and strapped it on. He drew the gun, broke and spun it, clicked it straight and holstered it, and went back down the stairs. The women both spoke, but he didn’t hear what they said.
He clumped down the duckwalks to the other hotel, looking straight ahead and not exactly hurrying. When he got there he kicked open the batwings and walked in. This time the piano and the
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