Page 28 of New Storm Rising
“Indeed. I have been reliably informed that in this area, locals congregate in an establishment generally referred to as ‘saloon’. Apparently, in this ‘saloon’, all the people gather, chat and exchange friendly, peaceful banter.” Slamming shut the chamber of the revolver, he gave it a twirl and cocked his head at me, his cold eyes boring into mine. “Why don’t we go and pay them a visit?”
***
Clink…clink…clink…
The metallic sound of spurs hitting the ground echoed through the air. The eyes of everyone inside the saloon moved towards the door. Mugs were set down onto the tables and bar. Hands shifted to revolvers.
A dark figure appeared in the doorway. It stood there, its towering shadow cast halfway across the room.
A moment later, I pushed open the door and gave the occupants of the room a beaming smile. “Hello there, everyone! Is this here the Ladies’ Flower Arrangement Association Headquarters?”
…
…
What, you thought it was Mr Ambrose who bought himself a lovely pair of shiny golden spurs? Get real!
The crowd in the saloon didn’t seem to appreciate my lovely new accessories. Or me, for that matter. Eyes narrowed. Rough hands grabbed revolvers, and—
“Greetings, gentlemen.”
—let go again.
Another shadow was cast across the saloon floor, swallowing mine whole. Most men in the saloon shifted uncomfortably, averting their eyes, while most of the women, including the dancers with one leg still in the air, stood frozen and gaping.
Three guesses who had just joined me?
Stepping past me, Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode into the saloon until he came to a stop in front of the bar. His chiselled face, cast in shadow beneath a broad-brimmed hat, was half-covered by a ragged piece of cloth.
“Barkeep,” he said, his cold voice cutting through the silence like a knife through inexpensive margarine. “A glass of water.”
Absolute silence pervaded the room. You could have heard a pin drop onto a soft cushion.
“Whatdid ya say ya want?”
Raising an eyebrow a fraction of a millimetre, Mr Ambrose stared at the man. “Water.”
Again, a long moment of silence, before…
Roaring laughter exploded throughout the room. People were pointing, slapping the tables and smirking like they’d seen the biggest clown ever just ride into town. Everybody in the room was busy ridiculing Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
Everybody except me, and a small number of other intelligent people, that is.
“Hola, pretty boy!” A massive Hispanic man with a beaver-sized moustache ambled over, grinning in a way that would make the most patient of men punch him in the face. “Did I hear right? You came into a saloon to getwater?”
Reaching out, Mr Ambrose lifted the glass of water the barkeep had placed in front of him.
“Indeed.”
“Say,niño…” The man smirked. “What d’ya want water for?”
“Simple,” Mr Ambrose told him. “This.”
And he emptied the glass over the big oaf’s head.
“You…you…!”
The man’s face darkened. His jaw clenched. His muscles bulged as he raised a massive fist, and stepped forward, towering over Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
