The Shopkeeper Read Online Free PDF Page A

my room. On my first day, I had passed a chair through the window, so I could sit on my private perch to jot my notes.

    The balcony gave me a bird’s-eye view of the town activities, and in the afternoon, the shade from an overhang made my perch the coolest place in town. When I went blank on what to write, I watched the comings and goings until reinspired.

    During the day, the hardscrabble path that ran down the center of town was quiet most of the time. The miners were underground, and the heat and glare kept other people inside. The rare individuals who did wander out moved with a poky and listless gait. Nothing aboveground in this woebegone place moved with purpose or speed, except possibly for the occasional swish of a horsetail.

    Transients and a get-rich mentality gave Pickhandle Gulch a bawdy and rowdy temper, but the overriding characteristic of the town was dust. The stamp mill ground perfectly good rocks into a fine sand so the silver could be extracted. Wheels, hooves, and boots kicked up the silt, until a brown dust covered everything and seeped into every crevice and body part. I had been in town for only four days, and I had already taken two baths at the barbershop. Despite folding my clothes and putting them in a drawer every night, I still had to slap off dust in the morning. To keep his print shop clean, Richard must have had to spend more time sweeping and dusting than setting type.

    I sliced off pieces of apple and cheese until I had a plateful. This would allow me to unconsciously reach for a bite without lifting my eyes from the paper. With my lunch in hand, I grabbed my journal and ducked through the window and onto the balcony.

    I usually read the prior day’s notes to make revisions before I started writing about any new adventures. Now I skipped this review, because the Cutler killing last night and my encounters with them today made me anxious to write. Using the flat of my hand, I brushed the dust off the page and prepared to start. They were a nasty pair, and I intended to make them infamous. On second thought, I decided to disguise their identity. I guessed that they would revel in notoriety, and I had no inclination to do them any favors.

    I had been writing for nearly an hour when I noticed my little ingénue with her Faustian husband. They were crossing the dirt corridor generously called Main Street. Despite my earlier self-recrimination, I could not take my eyes off her or stop myself from imagining—

    “Well, if it ain’t our own retired politico and his little whore.”

    Bolton looked shocked as the Cutlers emerged from the shade of an overhang that protected the building to my left. “Brian Cutler, you apologize to my wife.”

    “Apologize?” The skinny one chortled. “I was thinkin’ of escortin’ her over to Ruby’s to make an honest woman of her.”

    The young girl clutched Bolton’s arm in fright but tried to put on a lady’s look of indignation. Bolton squared his shoulders, “You—”

    Brian poked him hard in the middle of the chest. “Don’t say it … unless you’re ready to die.”

    When Bolton stammered in disbelief, the Cutlers broke into a harmony of cackling. The scene played out in front of me like a stage drama. I sat on my perch, transfixed by this latest episode of Cutler chicanery.

    Bolton grabbed his lapels as if he were about to make a political speech. In a basso voice, he said, “I shall speak to Washburn. You boys are off the reservation.”

    “Don’t bluster at me, Senator. Ya ain’t nothin’ no more.” He leered at Jenny and in a softer, more menacing voice, said, “You’re yesterday’s news.”

    The other brother stepped toward the couple. “Yep, just a has-been pompous ass, but ya got a sweet li’l trinket there we might be willin’ to buy offa ya.”

    “This is my wife!” Bolton protested.

    “Hell, we heard ya paid forty bucks for the lass. She’s used now, so how ’bout ten? Five from each of us.”

    “Get