The Crack in the Lens Read Online Free PDF Page B

his square face it might as well have been chipped from a block of granite. Had he not spoken a word, it still would’ve been obvious to me: Here was a preacher of the sort who dined on brimstone and breathed fire.
    “The stench of death is upon you,” he boomed as his heavenly host went on wailing behind him. “The putrescence of sin and damnation! Only the blood of the Lamb can wash it away! Only the blood of the Lamb can save you!”
    He was pointing a finger at us that seemed as long and straight and sharp as the spear that pierced Christ’s side. But when Old Red and I drew even with him, he suddenly flipped his palm up, and the Finger of Doom became an outstretched hand.
    “Come join us in prayer before it’s too late. Come join us and be cleansed!”
    “Can we take a rain check on that?” I said. “Saturday’s my usual bath night, and anyway we gotta run on out to the Phoenix tonight.”
    The preacher gave us the Finger again as Gustav and I walked away.
    “Hellfire awaits you!” he roared. “You will burn! You will both burn !”
    And it’s kind of strange to reflect on, me not being a religious fellow or prone to fright at bad omens or spooks—but that preacher’s prophecy?
    It came true.

5

The Phoenix
    Or, I Discover That Clothes Do Indeed Make the Man…a Target
    I wasn’t just guying that sky pilot about heading out to the cathouse. It was obvious that was where my brother intended to take us next. First, though, there was an errand to run: We returned to the Star long enough for me to strap on my gun belt. The wrinkles in my fine trousers would be an annoyance, yes—but not nearly so much as a bullet through my liver.
    “You’re gonna keep your iron holstered ’less we really need it, ain’t you?” I asked Old Red as we trudged off toward the edge of town.
    “What the hell kinda question is that?”
    “A mighty simple one.”
    “Well, the answer’s yes. You know I ain’t one to throw slugs around willy-nilly.”
    “Usually, yeah, but you got a little hot when you laid eyes on Ragsdale and Bock. A lot hot, actually. In fact, I’d say you didn’t handle the whole thing very…uhhh…Holmesily.”
    My brother picked up his pace.
    “I ain’t feelin’ very goddamn Holmesy,” I heard him mutter before he hustled out of range.
    I let him have his distance again. There was enough crowding him already without me treading on his toes.
    Full-on darkness had fallen by now, yet for the first half mile or so we had plenty of light to see by: On each corner was that shining beacon of civilization, the electric streetlight. Some of the businesses and even homes were strung up for electricity, too.
    The twentieth century might be all of seven years off, but San Marcos—at least some of it—seemed to be getting there early.
    The Phoenix, on the other hand, was the 1880s encased in amber. Yes, barbed wire and railroads have put an end to the big cattle drives. Yet the heyday of the drover had never passed, to judge by the hullabaloo out at that brothel.
    From a distance, the Phoenix looked like nothing more than a big, newly raised barn just off the road—albeit one where the animals were obliged to stay outside rather than in. There must have been forty ponies ringing the place, and from their lean yet sturdy builds, the way they were tied, and the saddles they wore, it was obvious who the Phoenix catered to. And if all that didn’t make it plain enough, all you had to do was stop and take a listen.
    When a cowboy gets a crack at the fun he prefers—the kind mixing liquor, women, and gambling in equal measure—it’s said he’s “cutting his wolf loose.” To hear it, you’d think that’s just what was happening, for punchers get to yipping and howling like a pack of wild dogs. I guarantee you a dozen drunk dentists or lawyers or even sailors don’t put up half the racket of one whiskey-soaked cowhand, and it sounded like there were a hundred in the Phoenix that night.
    “Got a plan