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What had gotten into him?
No liquor is what. His brain had dried up. As soon as he had a drink, h
e'd be back to his old self. John licked his lips in anticipation.
Saul turned around, set the drink down, and slid it toward John.
"You can take your hands off the glass, Saul," John said confidently. "It's all there. Twenty-five berries. Count 'em if you don't trust me."
The barkeep's fingers remained on the shot glass's circumference. "I trust you, John. But tequila's gone up to fifty berries. Berry inflation."
John's spirits plummeted. "What was that?"
Motioning to the sign, Saul read, "All drinks are to be paid for with berries, at a predetermined price set by the barkeep."
"Well, hell!" John erupted, removing his hat and then smashing it back on. "Pour me a damn beer then."
With quiet emphasis, Saul explained, "Beer's thirty berries."
"But I only have twenty-five berries!" Taking off his Stetson once more, he was vaguely aware of creasing the crown and resettling the brim over his forehead again. "Pour me a damn half a beer!"
"Sorry, John. No discounts."
Muttering a string of oaths, John stood.
Newt Slocum had the misfortune of entering the Republic with a grin on his mug. "Hey, John. Haven't seen you around."
Without a word, John coiled his arm back and hit Newt square on the jaw with a punch that sent him reeling backward into a limp heap. "That's for lying about Isabel."
Then John stormed out of the saloon and left thoughts of Newt behind.
Somebody was out to get him. He didn't know exactly who, but somewhere, somebody, was thinking this was a hell of a funny one to pull over on John Wolcott—shut off the tap to his liquor by decreasing the value of berries.
He shoved the swinging doors and stood on the darkened boardwalk. A thin moon spilled down on Main Street. In its pale milky cast, a golf ball flew past like a shooting star, diving into the horse trough in front of John. The force of its impact splashed him with murky water.
John took a sharp look to the right where the ball had come from.
Nothing stirred. He couldn't see anybody.
To the night shadows, he shouted, "I've got news for you, whoever you are! I'm not laughing!"
The speculative buzz in the growing crowd escalated the closer the hour got to noon. Isabel had heard Bellamy Nicklaus would be stepping onto his porch to announce the arrival of his Christmas tree—the very one the berries were going to decorate. Supposedly a big Douglas fir had been cut near Santa Barbara and was being shipped down on the Pacific Coastal Railroad.
Gazing at the freshly painted house with its old gold half-timbered gables, Indian red trim, straw body color, and medium brownstone roof, Isabel couldn't believe it was the same decrepit place it had been less than a week ago.
Box elder that had been overgrown and gangly was neatly clipped. Monkey flowers thick with sticky foliage and trumpet-shaped flowers in a colorful profusion bookended the house's sides leading to the front path. How had Bellamy managed to do so much overnight? It was as if he were… magic.
Through the gathering, a gray felt Stetson stood out above the rest catching Isabel's attention. John. Although a short distance separated them, she could see he hadn't slept well. His long hair had been combed behind his ears and he hadn't shaved. Their eyes briefly held, then she looked away, feeling inexplicably self-conscious. Yesterday, she'd known he'd wanted to kiss her. But she'd pretended not to notice, too afraid to let herself melt beneath his sensual gaze. Doing so would be easy. Effortless. But she'd have to live with the repercussions.
A hush fell over the group as soon as the pop-pop and ca-pow of a rarely-ever-seen-in-Limonero motor car sounded, putting in from Main Street. Isabel hadn't even heard the noon train's whistle announcing its arrival And here came a dusty black Olds with a festive wreath mounted on the center headlamp.
Sticking up at least ten feet from the tonneau poked the tallest Christmas tree Isabel had ever seen, a fir with dense and fluffy foliage. The bluish-green needles spread all around the branches.
"Olds Motor Vehicle Company—Curved Dash model," the man next to Isabel said.
The fellow beside him added, "Nicklaus must have a bankroll. Only twelve of these have been made so far."
"You don't say."
