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already gotten there and staked a claim—enough whorehouses,
dancehalls, and gambling halls to service a city ten times the
size.
    Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy
saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to
get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming
shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of
bootstomps on floorboards. Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned
to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a
corset grinning at him.
    “Bet you could use a trim,” she said.
    “Not tonight.”
    She went on through the crowd, availing her
services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of
his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind
the bar.
    He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep
to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell
out you wanna drink in this shithole!”
    Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven
man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by
dirty, chin-length yellow hair. At the table sat three men, and the
one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of
whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial
damage.
    “Happy to share.”
    Oatha relinquished his place in line and
threaded his way through the crowd to the table, where they’d
already pushed out the last remaining chair. Oatha sat, extended
his hand across a filthy set of playing cards and a pot of tiny
pokes, a few crumpled dollars, a double eagle, and a voucher for
fifteen minutes with a whore called Grizzly Sow.
    “Oatha Wallace.”
    “Nathan Curtice. This is Marion McClurg and
Daniel Smith.”
    “Boys.”
    McClurg, a larded beast of a man, reached
forward and pulled the pot toward his corner of the table while Dan
eyed Oatha.
    “Play cards?” Nathan asked.
    “Not often.”
    Nathan poured a whiskey, pushed the glass to
Oatha, who took it up and tossed it back with a fleeting
grimace.
    “Two dollars gets you in on the next
hand.”
    “Well, I’m trying to save my money—”
    “For what?”
    “A horse.”
    “A horse.”
    “I’m traveling on to Abandon. Got a job with
the Godsend Mine.”
    “No shit,” Nathan said. “I’m headed that very
direction myself to visit my brother. He’s sheriff up there. Maybe
you heard of him…Ezekiel Curtice.”
    “I haven’t.”
    “Yeah, I can’t quite believe what that
outlaw’s become myself.”
    McClurg shuffled the cards while Dan refilled
the tumblers.
    “You been to Abandon?” Nathan asked.
    “First time.”
    “What I heard, even across lots, it’s a
twenty mile ride through hard country.”
    Oatha felt the cards sliding under his
fingers, McClurg already dealing.
    “Don’t wanna play.”
    “Few hands won’t kill ye,” Nathan said.
    Dan muttered, “Man bought you two drinks
already. ‘Less you some boiled shirt, least you can do is play a
hand.” Oatha looked over at Dan, the man thin as a totem, gant up
and blanched like he carried some parasite. Oatha reached into his
leather pouch, selected several pieces of hard chink, and tossed
the coins into the middle of the table.
     
    Two hours later, Oatha stumbled out of the
saloon, and he barely made it into an alley before spewing his
supper against the clapboard.
    Nathan stood chuckling behind him. “You can’t
play cards for shit.”
    “Yeah,” Oatha groaned as he leaned against
the wall, bracing for the next round of nausea. “And I got barely
the money for a horse now.”
    “Wouldn’t fret.”
    Oatha spit. “Why’s that?”
    “Like I said, me and the boys headin to
Abandon in two days. Travel with us, you want. Dan’s got a mule you
can ride.”
    “A mule.”
    “Mean son of a bitch name a Rusty.”
    Oatha straightened, tried to center himself
over his feet, the world tilting. On the second floor of a
false-fronted building across the street, a headboard smacked
repeatedly into a wall and bedsprings squealed like