Free A Hanging at Cinder Bottom by Glenn Taylor

tossed aside the gold feed-sack. Underneath, long-legged underwear was ill-fitted and easily kicked free. He lifted her, one hand under her arm and the other at her thigh. They slowed then and stopped breathing until she had taken ahold and guided him in and pressed herself as close as she could. And it was like that for a moment beforethey remembered to breathe, and his forearms burned from holding her while she rolled her hips, quickening all the time, toes gripped against the cold panel wall.
    They sat together on the gold feed-sack afterward, and Abe lit a match and showed her the contract. She kissed him. She was pleased at the sight of the long, looping numbers, but she did not say so. She did not say anything, for as quick as they’d brought pleasure, those same numbers struck in her a strong and sudden premonition that life, for a time, would be splendor, and then Abe would be gone.
    He burned his thumb and tossed the match. He lit another and showed her a twenty.
    She tapped her knuckle on the safe behind her. “What’s in this thing?” she asked him.
    “Dust.”
    There was a pickled egg at the floorboard within Goldie’s reach. It caught the match’s light and shone pink and smooth. She leaned and reached for it. She blew off the dirt and ate it.
    When they stepped from the storeroom, the men had cleared out. Goldie took up a dustpan and headed for her daddy, who was sweeping by the door.
    Jake dunked mugs in one tub and rinsed them in the next. Beside the tubs was the stack of little gold pieces he’d cut. He had ideas on putting a hole at their middles or branding their faces with a B .
    Al stood over his rosewood cash-box behind the bar. He sorted dimes from nickels and quarters from halves. Hebagged them accordingly. He licked his thumb and rifled the notes and put them in an envelope. The count was high for a Wednesday.
    Abe came up behind his daddy slow and silent. “How’d we do?” he asked.
    Al nodded. He closed the cashbox and turned around. “I want to come and choke you when I see the men with the gold, but too busy.” He tapped his finger to his forehead. “Now I see your plan.”
    It was the first time the two had smiled at each other in a year.
    “How many normally leave after Goldie throws the cards?” Abe asked him.
    “You are a smart boy Abraham.”
    “How many?”
    “Half?”
    “At least. They want to get where they’re going.” In conversation on games of confidence, Abe talked near as fast as he thought. “How many walked out that door tonight?”
    “I imagine five—”
    “None.” Abe reconsidered. “Well, one. But only if we count the over-served boy who snuck back in after you’d tossed him.”
    “And then I toss him again.”
    “There you go.” Abe watched his daddy laugh. He joined him. “Can’t count one that doesn’t drink and been tossed,” he said. “And I’ll bet some ordered another after, andanother after that, all the while talkin to each other about coming back tomorrow.”
    Al felt old next to his middle boy. Small, too, for though Abe was not as thick-ribbed as his daddy, he was two inches taller. He patted Abe’s shoulder. “Remember, Abraham,” he said, “Even the smart boys can listen once in a while.” He tapped his forehead again. “Even the big boys can get hurt.”
    Al had just turned and picked up the cashbox when the door opened. It knocked hard against the head of Bill Toothman’s push broom.
    Rutherford stepped inside. Behind him was Taffy Reed, Rutherford’s errand boy and son of Faro Fred. Taffy was a year younger than Abe. He was well above average at the card table and had come by his moniker there. For a nickel, the young man would roll up a shirtsleeve, straighten his arm, take the elbow skin between his fingers, and pull it down, a stretch of flesh some five inches in length, highly reminiscent of the elastic properties of chocolate taffy.
    “Evenin Baaches,” Rutherford said. He gave a foul look to Bill Toothman who