Free Destined to Die by George G. Gilman Page B

away from him and more than two hundred feet above. The river curved to the left but the trail continued due north, rising in a series of short grades with lengths of flat between.
    The street began at the end of an avenue of pinions, was even more clearly defined by a lettered board, two wagon widths long and supported on twenty foot high poles to either side. Moonlight illuminated the legend: BACALL WELCOMES ALL.
    There was just the one street, rising and curving gently toward the left. The best part of half a mile in length. A hundred feet wide beyond the town marker portal. The buildings to either side isolated on their own broad lots. Most of frame construction. A few of stone and, here and there, one which mixed the two materials.
    Houses at the southern end, some of them with fenced property lines. All with shade trees and one with a neatly tended flower garden. Midway along the street, at the top of the curve, were business premises. Stores supplying the basic needs of life, a livery stable, blacksmith’s forge, barber shop and a bank. And a funeral parlour to which Barnaby Gold paid no more attention than any other building, as he rode slowly along the centre of the deserted street. All of these darkened and locked up for the night, their hours of business at an end for another day.
    Beyond, two more houses on either side of the street, like those behind the newcomer, three had lights in some windows. One of them had a shingle to proclaim it was a boarding house. Across from this, a doctor advertised his presence.
    At one time, this had been the extent of Bacall’s northern limit. Although there may have been an older church on the site of the obviously recently built one next to the darkened house. Its neighbour was a meeting hall, then came the stage depot and telegraph office, with the wire stretching northwards from its roof on a line of poles. The Riverside Saloon, named for a narrow creek that cut across the end of the street, was the last building on the left. On the other side, the law office and gaol were next to the boarding house. Then there was a Chinese laundry and the foundations of a new building with a pile of planks nearby.
    The creek had a twenty foot long timber bridge with a rail, just wide enough for two people to walk on. But was shallow enough to be forded by wagons and horses. On the far side was another portal, its cross-member doubtless lettered in the same way as that at the southern end of the town.
    The only lights on this side of town came from the two-storey frame-built saloon, which looked to be the newest property in town. And it was toward the stooped and balconied facade of this that the black-clad, trail-dusty, travel-weary and hungry Barnaby Gold angled his gelding.
    Vented a soft sigh of relief as he got out of the saddle and allowed his horse to drink from a wooden trough before he hitched the reins to the rail. The sounds of the gelding gulping down the water and of the creek rippling past the bridge pilings, the chirping of crickets and the rustling of tree foliage in a gentle breeze were all that disturbed the peace of Bacall.
    The batwinged entrance and two windows to either side of this spilled kerosene lamplight across the stoop on which stood two Boston rockers. None of the upstairs rooms were illuminated. And there were no sounds from inside until Barnaby Gold pushed open the batwings and stepped over the threshold.
    When a man said: ‘Evenin’ to you ... oh, my God!’
    It started out friendly and finished on a note of fear.
    A woman greeted sensuously: ‘Well, hello to you, stranger.’
    The saloon was wider than it was deep, with the bar counter running partway along the rear wall: an entertainments platform to the right and a stairway to the left. Fifteen chair-ringed tables took up most of the floor area and there was a circular dance floor with a piano at the side in front of the dais. The walls were white and hung with oil paintings in ornate gilt frames. The