Free Two-Gun & Sun by June Hutton Page A

I felt a flame of anger lighting up my face. The competition. And moments after discussing investing in my paper. Unless Morris was there to elicit information. I wouldn’t mind that. I could hear his hoarse voice, but not what he said. I’d like to know about his financial situation, and what sort of machine he used.
    Bugle Boy raised a hand as Silver Evans stepped into the room. I knew that’s who it was by his moustache with the pointed tips. He dressed just as Parker had said he would, with the addition of a helmet that was ant-shaped, bullet smooth, as though he were ready to be loaded into a cannon.
    Laughter was teasing my pipes and I had to choke it back when he passed. I assumed he was heading over to join Bugle Boy, but no, he took my head-snap for a nod, an invitation to sit.
    Sheriff Silver Evans, he said, and shook my hand. Are you crying? he asked.
    I waved my hand sharply to shoo away the suggestion of tears. He put his shiny ant head onto the table and sat in the chair Morris had just left. It was all I could do to control myself.
    I glanced over at Morris for the distraction and got more than I counted on. Was I seeing correctly? The Scot had joined him, and Bugle Boy turned his back to say something to the Scot, at which point Morris leaned forward, hand reaching toward the man’s jacket.
    I sat up as high as I could, eyes bulging. It was a look that said, Are you doing what I think you’re doing? Don’t you dare. My movement snagged his attention. His expression said, Not what it seems.
    What else could it seem—unless he was trying to pluck information from our competitor’s pocket? A terrible thing to do, the man had no scruples. Still my spine stiffened with excitement. I wanted to see what was in that pocket, too.
    Morris’ eyes widened then, seeing who was sitting beside me. His hand dropped, empty. A grateful grin, as though I had been warning him in order to prevent his arrest. The shit. I was doing no such thing. But good, good, so his hand should be empty. He could jeopardize our business arrangement with his antics. He was the friend of the Chinese, too, which meant friend of that contrary printer. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. No theft was worth risking my business, either, no matter how newsworthy the stolen item might be.
    The Scot returned to his table. Bugle Boy sat again, pockets intact, but I kept glaring at Morris until he fluttered his fingertips as though he was about to play the piano, tipped his hat at me again, and left.
    It was only then that I noticed the faces around me were turning one by one, aghast, toward the other end of the room, so I turned, too.
    An old gentleman was descending the curved staircase into the dining room, elegant cane tapping the iron steps. Except for a bowler hat fitted with a headlamp, and boots, he was as naked as a Freedomite.
    The Scot leapt to his feet. Jesus Christ, man!
    For a moment I stopped breathing for fear that drawing in air would somehow draw him closer, sack of skin and heft of gristle, like the neck of a turtle, dangling. All of it darker than the rest of him.
    I glanced quickly at Evans, who was slowly rising to his feet.
    Any respectable woman would have screamed and turned her head. But I breathed at last, free now to laugh loud and long, as the Scotsman turned to the rest of the guffawing men, seeking assistance.
    In front of a woman! Have ye no decency?
    But the naked man rolled his watery eyes about and in a thin, nasal voice said, Not six o’clock, yet? and slowly climbed back up the steps, each lift of leg revealing a distended rectum like a withered phallus. A two-necked monster.
    I was snorting with laughter, now, tears coursing, and I mopped at my eyes with my sleeves.
    I heard the shot before I saw that Silver Evans had pulled out a gun. My laughter was sucked back into my lungs. I wanted to puke. My ears rang from the blast.
    Marcel stood in the kitchen doorway, stunned, my