Under a Turquoise Sky Read Online Free PDF Page B

found two wooden chairs they could use.
    As they sat, Markstein pulled out a cigar.
    â€œWould you like one?” he asked Clint.
    â€œNot tonight, thanks.” Clint could see that the cigars were expensive, and he didn’t want the man to waste one on him.
    Markstein lit his cigar with a wooden match, puffed at it until he had it going to his satisfaction, then shook the match out and tossed it into the street.
    â€œAh,” he said, sitting back. “There’s nothing like a good cigar.”
    â€œA good horse,” Clint said, “a cold drink, a good woman…ah, a really good poker hand.”
    â€œI don’t ride, or gamble,” Markstein replied readily. “My days with women are over, and I prefer my liquor at room temperature. Therefore for me, it’s the good cigar.”
    Clint couldn’t argue with the man when he put it that way. He did wonder, though, if Markstein was done with women willingly or unwillingly. He didn’t appear to be sixty yet—and Clint knew quite a few sixty-year-old men who still enjoyed women.
    â€œShall we discuss my business proposition tonight?” Markstein asked, then.
    â€œNo,” Clint said. “I have other things on my mind. Besides, I have a place picked out for us tomorrow that has decent steaks and good coffee.”
    â€œVery well,” Markstein said, “we’ll wait. May I ask what your business is, Clint?”
    Clint looked at the man, who was staring at the tip of his cigar as he waited for his answer. It seemed as if the man truly had no idea who Clint was. He found that refreshing.
    â€œI’m a gunsmith,” Clint said. “My business is guns.”
    â€œAh, you work with your hands, then.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd, I assume from what happened this evening, that you are fairly proficient with the tools of your trade?”
    â€œFairly,” Clint said.
    â€œGood, good.”
    Markstein continued to enjoy his cigar until it was about half gone. The street was dark and quiet except for the music coming from a couple of saloons down the street. Clint found his mind wandering to Shannon, who was waiting upstairs in his room.
    Finally, Markstein said, “Well, I suppose it’s time to turn in.” He tossed half of his expensive cigar into the street, where Clint was sure someone like Charlie Wooster would find it and claim it as a prize.
    â€œThank you for the company, Clint,” Markstein said, rising unsteadily. Clint grabbed his arm. “I seem to be a little dizzy.”
    â€œCome on,” Clint said, “I’ll get you back to your room.”
    â€œI seem to be relying on you quite a bit today,” Markstein said. “I would say you are my first true friend in the West, Clint.”
    At that moment Clint didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

NINE
    When Clint entered his room, Shannon was on the bed, reading a book she had found in his saddlebags. It was Treasure Island , by Robert Louis Stevenson.
    â€œThis is very good.”
    She was still wearing her dress, but had discarded the shawl she’d thrown over it for the walk to the hotel.
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œDid you take care of your friend?” she asked. “Make sure he got to bed all right?”
    â€œI got him to his room,” he said. “He’ll have to get himself into bed. We’re not that good friends yet.”
    â€œWhen did you meet?”
    â€œOnly today.”
    â€œOh,” she said, setting the book aside, “then we’re just as good friends as you and him?”
    â€œMaybe,” he said, removing his gun belt, “but we’re about to get a lot more friendly.”
    Â 
    In his room George Markstein removed his trousers, then reached into the pocket and took out the stone. It was rough, with brown veins. To the naked eye it might not have seemed like much, but Markstein came from a family of people who knew stones