I Travel by Night by Robert R. McCammon Read Free Book Online Page B

poured beer and whiskey. Two men got in a fight and went crashing through the batwing doors into the dirt. The game went on, with Lawson up by twenty dollars and everyone but the cardsharp doing reasonably well. Biding his time, Lawson thought. And sizing me up as well.
    In the yellow light, the floating cigar, cigarette and pipe smoke and the fetid mist that rose from the water and drifted into the saloon, Lawson was aware that someone else had entered the Swamp Root and had come back to watch the game. He smelled her before he saw her. She was maybe twenty-four or twenty-five years old. She brought with her the aromas of lavender, leather, lemon soap and hot blood. When he gazed into her eyes he saw two bits of hard black charcoal, aimed at him. Her full-lipped mouth looked like it could bite the head off a water moccasin. She was tall and lithe and had light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. On her head was a dark green jockey’s cap. She wore a gray skirt and a black riding jacket over a white-and-green checked blouse. Her chin was firm and square and her nose was sharp and tilted up at the tip. Then Lawson took appreciative note of the intricately-tooled wheat-colored gunbelt slung on her slim waist, holding a couple of dozen bullets and a Remington revolver with a mother-of-pearl grip.
    Lawson lost the following hand to a thin lumberjack with maybe six teeth in his head and black hair that had been cut under a soupbowl. The cardsharp paused to have a sip of his own whiskey, and his eyes too found the young woman who’d just arrived. A few other men came forward to test the air, and finding it too rare for them they retreated, especially when the  new arrival casually rested a black-gloved hand on the butt of her pistol.
    “I’m Neville Brannigan,” said the man across the table from Lawson. “From Houston, Texas.” He offered a hand that was the perfect size to be slipping cards in and out of sleeves.
    “Is there any other Houston?” Lawson asked, shaking the man’s hand in a quick, firm and cold grip. He saw Brannigan’s eyes narrow. “Trevor Lawson, from New Orleans.” Lawson wondered if Brannigan had really been introducing himself to the young woman with the six-shooter.
    “Might I ask what business you have in St. Benadicta?”
    “Passing through.” It was Lawson’s turn to deal. He spent a moment squaring the deck. “Looking for another town, actually. Ever heard of a place called Nocturne?”
    “No. And I will say, Mr. Lawson, that there is nowhere from here to pass through to . This is as far as civilization goes.”
    “Anyone else heard of Nocturne?” Lawson asked the others at the table, and got either the shaking of heads or blank stares. “Well, then,” he said, “I suppose it’s hidden.” He offered the deck to the man on his left to cut. “But I’m sure I’ll find it.”
    “What about this particular Nocturne is so appealing to you, sir?” Brannigan opened a silver cigarette case and removed a freshly-rolled stick. He used his thumb to fire the match.
    “I have business there. In fact, I’m expected. Now…about yourself…you are a mainstay here? Or also passing through?”
    “I am an entertainment here,” was the smooth reply, accompanied by a cloud of smoke. “I make the circuit of the logging towns, to give these fine men something on which to focus their energies besides the obvious. In that way I do my part for the common good.” He smiled, showing a gold tooth at the front of his mouth. The smile didn’t last very long, and was replaced by a narrowed-eyed expression of curiosity. “You are very pale , sir. Why is that?”
    “I have an unfortunate condition,” said Lawson, as he prepared to deal. “Also…like you, Mr. Brannigan…I work at night. Same game?”
    “Absolutely,” said the cardsharp, tapping ashes upon the floorboards.
    When the cards were dealt, Lawson had a queen of spades, a four of clubs, a six of clubs, an ace of diamonds and an ace of