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Perhaps a dozen patrons now passed time and swatted flies in the bar. Precious little commerce seemed to be going on; most of the groups of tables were swapping drinks for tobacco, or old newspapers for a pocketful of nuts. Many of the men smoked. Peanuts and jokes cracked back and forth across the tables.
Valentine watched a man in deerskin boots swap a pipe for an unfinished bottle. A sheathed knife dangled from a leather thong around his neck, and his belt held no fewer than three pistols. Considering the clientele and the quantity of weaponry, the Goat Shack was surprisingly peaceful. Or perhaps it was due to the clientele and the quantity of weaponry. . . .
Valentine felt guilty lazing on the porch. He should be doing something. Arguing about the nature of promises with Hoffman Price, wandering through the barroom asking for stories about Kentucky-instead he was looking for another heart so he could lay down a flush and take the pot of sixteen wooden matches.
Two men wandered up from the riverbank, one bearing a dead turkey on a string. They wore timber camouflage, a pattern that reminded Valentine of the tall, dark, vertical corpses of buildings that he'd seen in the center of Chicago. The one with the turkey turned inside with a word about seeing to a scalding pot. The other, a pair of wraparound sunglasses hiding his eyes, watched their game. Or perhaps them.
"What manner of Grog is that?" he asked.
"We call ourselves the Golden Ones," Ahn-Kha said.
The bird hunter took a step back, then collected himself. "The who?"
"Golden Ones."
"Golden Ones?"
Ahn-Kha's ears went flat against his head. "Yes."
"Didn't know there was them who spoke that good of English of your sort."
"Likewise," Ahn-Kha said.
"Definitely see you later," he said, staring frankly at Duvalier. She ignored him. The hunter followed his friend in. Ahn-Kha squeezed out a noisy fart, Golden One commentary on the stink left behind by unpleasant company. Valentine heard a couple of welcoming hallos from the inside.
"The mosquitoes are getting bad," Duvalier said, putting down two pair and taking the pile of matches.
"I'll see about dinner and DEET," Valentine said, rising.
Greta's generator ran two lighting fixtures, both wall-mounted, both near the bar. One was the lit face of a clock-someone had broken off the plastic arms, and whether the remaining stubs still told the time Valentine couldn't say-and the other a green neon squiggle of a bass leaping out of the water, a bright blue line projecting from its mouth. Perhaps a dozen customers sat in the gloom, save for the two huntsmen, who were looking at a wanted poster under the clock-light.
Valentine felt the stares of the company. Because they were outsiders?
"You wouldn't have a bottle of bug repellent, would you?" he asked the slighter version of Greta at the bar.
She shook her head. "No, sir. You and your girl could come inside. The tobacco keeps them out."
"If you don't like the skeeters, you could relocate off-river, tag," a shaggy woodsman suggested. "Take your pet and go."
"Earl," the bartender warned. "Goat stew and biscuits will be up soon, mister."
A third man joined the other two by the clock, getting a light. He joined in the inspection of the bill.
"I'll buy four servings," Valentine said.
"There's only three of you."
"The Grog's got a big appetite."
"We've only got goat. No spitted youngsters," the man called Earl said. Valentine didn't like the way he kept his hand near his open-topped holster.
"You won't even get goat if you keep that up," the bartender said. "Greta hospitalitied them herself."
Valentine walked away.
"Hey, tag!" Earl called as Valentine walked away. The bar went quiet. "Tag!"
Valentine went out the door, glad to have the pile of sandbags and a cedar wall between himself and Earl.
