to the bedâs brass spindles.
âAre you trying to leave, and us just getting acquainted?â he said. Lum leaned on one elbow. âDid I ever tell you about Tom Scratcher of San Francisco town? No? Well, he was a rum one was old Tom. Heâd always give you a fair go, no fears about that, but in the end he always came up trumps. Aye, many a lively lad rode Tomâs bullet to the grave, and many a woman and child as well, if the truth be told.â
The whoreâs eyes were as round as coins, damp with fear and dread.
âSee, Tom took me under his wing, like,â Lum said. âHe taught me his ways, how to rob and kill and sleep sound oâ nights after the deeds were done.â Lum stabbed a stiff finger into the whoreâs chest. âDo you know what they were, the ways of Tom Scratcher?â
The girl shook her head.
âThey were the ways of hell,â Lum said. âWherever he went, olâ Tom brought hell with him.â He sighed deep and long. â âCourse, they done for him in the end. He was strung up by vigilantes and me alongside oâ him. Damned hicks, they set fires under us, and Tom died in the flames, bold as brass to the end, a-cursing the hicks, seed, breed, and generation of them. As for me, I was burned, as ye can tell, but I fooled them. I was still alive when they cut me down and left me lying there for the buzzards.â
Lumâs wolf teeth gleamed in the darkness. âOh, no, he didnât die, not olâ Lum. Leastways, his body didnât die. You know what died, missy?â He jabbed a thumb into his chest. âIn here? No? Well, my soul died. It burned up in the fire, and I hauled it out as a cinder.â
Lum laughed, as though heâd said the funniest thing that ever was.
âPlease let me go,â the whore said. âI have to make money to send to me mother.â
âShe wonât get any money,â he said. He shook his head. âOh, no, no, no, not ever again.â
âPlease misterââ
âBe quiet!â He slapped the girl so hard her blond head rocked on the stained pillow. His hands, the skin scraped raw by flame, circled the whoreâs slim throat and he squeezed.
He called himself Lum because, the discarded son of a two-dollar-a-bang whore, he had no other name. Without sparing a glance for the dead girl on the bed, he hurriedly dressed and buckled on his gunbelt. As was his habit, he drew his Remington from the holster and checked the loads. The revolverâs balance was excellent, as he knew it would be. An English gunsmith in Boston had fine-tuned the weaponâs action and closely fitted its ivory grips until the Remington was in itself a work of art.
Lum had killed the man to make sure heâd never make another like it.
He reholstered the gun, then settled a gray plug hat on his bald, fire-scalded head and studied himself in the small dresser mirror. In the guttering lamplight, half his face in shadow, he looked almost human. He scowled. What a pity.
A fist pounded on the door, and Lum said, âWhat do you want?â
A womanâs voice said, âTrippy is needed downstairs.â
âGo away, sheâs busy,â Lum said.
The fist pounded again. âOpen up, mister,â the woman said. âYouâve had your five dollarsâ worth of Irish ass.â
Lum cursed and stepped to the door, his huge six-foot-four-inch, former prizefighterâs frame filling the doorway.
The woman saw him and took a step back, her face frozen in shock.
âTrippy will be down in a minute,â Lum said, enjoying the effect his features and size had on people.
The woman, plump, blowsy, showing six inches of sweating cleavage, couldnât take her eyes off the burned mask that was Lumâs face. She thought his hairless skin looked like melting candle wax, and she wanted to cross herself and run away.
But sheâd been a madam with her own stable of