Free Karen Mercury by The Wild Bunch [How the West Was Done 5] Page A

really demanded fucking, too.
    Yes, he’d find some spurs, but he’d also find Spenser. There was something delicious about that buckaroo. He should find at least one of his sisters, sign those papers, get new chaps, and find Spenser.
    Or Fidelia.
    Chess realized he wanted and needed them both.
     
    * * * *
     
    “Now you see, my dear boy, that the ghost of Hamlet’s father must be utterly filled with drama and…what do you call it…” On the sidewalk, Bullet Bob paused and squinched his face at the sky.
    “Anger?” Spenser suggested.
    “No, that is not it…” Bullet Bob held his hand as though weighing a bull’s testicle. “He must have the proper…”
    “Fury? No. Outrage? Are you thinking more along the lines of rage that he was murdered? Passion? He wants vengeance, right? His soul cannot rest and must walk the earth, rattling his chains until someone solves or arrests his—”
    Bullet Bob cried, “ He is miffed! That’s it. Hamlet’s father is miffed because he was murdered.” Relieved to have found the correct word, Bullet Bob continued walking down First Street.
    Miffed? Spenser mouthed the word to himself. Somehow it seemed much too weak of a word for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Then he started thinking about Ulrich and how Ulrich’s ire must be similar to that of Hamlet’s father. Obviously, Ulrich was appearing to Fidelia and Spenser alone because he knew they were capable of discovering his murderer. They had to conjure up Ulrich again and obtain better clues so Spenser could help pinpoint which absinthe-drinking Gallery patron was responsible.
    Spenser was reminded of the giant spurs when Chess himself trotted up on a fine bay. He dismounted clumsily, catching a spur on his saddle’s cantle. Spenser grinned to see Chess pound on his woolies to rid them of dust. About the only thing Chess got right was the expert and fine knot he used to tie up his mount.
    Chess needed Spenser. Sure, Chess had all the hands at Serendipity to outfit him in the proper gear. But it would be a lot more fun if Chess would allow Spenser to help.
    Bullet Bob seemed lost in his own world. Rowdies milled around him, crashing into him as though he were an inconvenient statue. His idealistic hands were held to the sky as he recited, “‘But know, thou noble youth. The serpent that did sting thy Father’s life now wears his crown.’”
    A few boors even shoved Bullet Bob. “Move it, frog!”
    Spenser tugged the theater manager by the arm. “Come, Bullet Bob. There’s my friend Chess going into Freund and Brothers, and you wanted me to invite him to the Oddfellows Hall tonight. Let’s go in and ask him now.”
    Bullet Bob’s face went aghast at the sight of Chess’s shapely, rounded ass as he clanked through Freund’s front door. “Chess Hudson,” Bullet Bob whispered reverently.
    Perhaps Bullet Bob did want to worship Chess in more ways than one, for he went like sixty across the street, heedless of the wagons and buggies that wheeled down the middle of the dusty road. Spenser had no choice but to follow, dodging out of the path of a flock of sheep.
    Inside Freund and Brothers, Chess slammed his hat onto the counter and removed his spurs. Bullet Bob, strangely, hid behind a table laden with Indian blankets. Standing by Chess, a handsome fellow with a gravelly voice was telling one of the Freund brothers, “He wants to swap these spurs for some regular Texas ones. These are too big.”
    Chess dropped the Californio spurs onto the counter and started unbuckling his chaps. “And you sold me winter woolies.”
    “Yeah,” said the smooth fellow, already threatening, although the Freund brother had not refused to accept the returns. “What kind of swindle’s going on here? What kind of bunko game are you trying to play? Oh, he’ll take this blue bandanna too. You’ve got to have some color, to stand out from the crowd. Here, try these spurs.”
    Spenser grabbed some reasonable chaps and shoved them at