“Don’t spill the gravy,” June said
when Cutter barred the dining door.
“Your supper’s six. His room is eight.
I’d like to take them off the score.”
Slim held a spoon above his plate
and smiled as if he’d sent for him.
“A splendid evening, Mr Cutter.”
“It’s a hundred dollars, Slim.”
“The claim has yet to reach its value.”
“The claim is underneath a lake.”
“A most convenient water source.”
“For drowning. Don’t mistake
my coming here for asking
if your prospect’s looking well.
You sold a claim you didn’t own.”
June moved the gravy out of reach.
She put its chipped bowl on a shelf,
then drew a chair out for herself.
Cutter rested his coat on a chair,
then very carefully seated himself.
His gun stayed holstered at his side.
“By morning,” he said, “pay.”
Slim counted forty in his pocket.
It could buy him a long way.
His horse was stabled out of town
behind a cousin’s shed.
He’d paid for it with honest cash—
or mostly, so he said.
June had seen the bill of sale
when he’d tried to borrow feed.
It named him owner of a good mare,
which might supply what he’d need.
“There’s a buyer,” Slim announced.
“A wealthy traveller named Parnell.
He’s staying here. He likes a lake.
The swimming suits him very well.”
June set the coffee by his spoon.
“Parnell left before the sun.
He took his bag and paid his bill.
His dealings here are done.”
Slim looked as if she’d moved a wall
upon which he had meant to lean.
“Another buyer then. A syndicate.”
“Another lie,” said June. “I’ve seen
you practice on the passengers.
I’m not the answer to your debt.
But I’ve a table and a witness.
You have money left, I bet.”
Cutter wanted payment,
and Slim wanted all his teeth.
June wanted both to leave alive
and nobody buried underneath
her cleanest dining-room floor.
She called the livery man inside.
He knew Slim’s mare; he’d offered sixty.
Slim had asked him seventy-five.
“Thirty-two in cash,” said June,
“the mare, and Slim pays me his eight.
You’ve lost money. He loses transport.
You both walk out through that gate.”
Cutter rubbed his roughened jaw.
“Bring the mare here before dawn.
If she’s sound, I’ll sign a settlement.
His hundred’s done. His claim is gone.”
Slim said the mare was worth a fortune.
The livery man said sixty still.
June brought out her account book,
and added Cutter’s supper bill.
He paid his six without a quarrel.
That worried Slim a little more.
A man who took a bill that calmly
could be waiting at a door.
Slim borrowed paper after supper
and wrote to June in mournful ink:
I’m forced to leave. Accept the twenty
underneath this cup, I think.
He left the letter by the candle.
He took the twenty out again.
The promise ought to soothe her
till he was somewhere else by then.
He’d slip out past the livery,
where June had sent for the mare.
He’d let them think the road was empty,
and bargain once he wasn’t there.
He tried the kitchen exit quietly.
June stood beside the stove.
“Your letter’s lacking something, Slim.”
“I’ve never been strong at prose.”
She pointed to the cup he’d moved.
He spread his hands in modest grief.
Then heard the mare outside the gate
and took the road without relief.
At the bend beyond the hotel lamps
he found Cutter on a chair.
“You used a mournful letter last time.
Thought I’d catch some evening air.”
Slim looked down the open roadway.
He could run, and Cutter could stand.
Neither pleased him as a prospect.
He put his hat back in his hand.
“You understand,” he said, “a settlement
is better signed in light.”
Cutter folded up the borrowed chair.
“June keeps a lamp. You’re right.”
The livery man checked the mare
while Slim explained her breeding.
June put a line through all the blank
space left below their wording.
Thirty-two, a sound brown mare,
and the debt completely done.
Cutter signed. June witnessed.
Slim read it twice, then signed.
The lamp shone on his fingers.
He laid the pen beside the book.
He paid June eight for bed.
“Keep the blanket till the morning.”
“I’ve a journey,” Slim said.
He walked out past the mare he’d owned.
She stretched her neck to see
whether he was bringing sugar.
He hadn’t thought to keep any.
At sunrise, six miles down the road,
a stranger offered him a lift.
“I know a claim with water on it.
For a partner, quite a gift.
You look a man who knows his business.
This is likely to be rich.”
Slim climbed aboard the empty wagon.
“Tell me,” he said, “your pitch.”
He recognised its pleasant turns,
the pauses and the smile.
He let the man rehearse them all.
It bought him another mile.
“I wouldn’t put my money there.”
“You’re short of money, friend?”
“I’m short of several things,” said Slim.
“Go on. I like the end.”
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