He winked obscenely, and Backenhauser laughed.

Azul shook his head and stood up. ‘Thanks but leave me out. I’m heading for bed.’

‘So am I,’ chuckled the artist. ‘But not my own.’

Sutcliffe slapped him on the back and poured the last of the saki into his glass.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Azul said, the words slurring a little. ‘Take it easy.’

‘It’s real easy when Anita takes it hard,’ grinned Sutcliffe.

Azul went back to the hotel and climbed into bed. The room was small, facing towards the red-light district from the upper level. It had a narrow bed and a rickety washstand with a dirty towel stretched over the chipped jug. There were three hooks nailed to the facing wall and the sound of snoring from the room beyond. The half-breed locked the door and turned up the kerosene lantern hung from the center of the ceiling. A moth began to beat its wings against the hot glass.

Azul slid the window up and stared out over the shanty town. There was the tinkly sound of badly-played pianos mingling with the laughter of men and the higher-pitched tittering of the girls. The air was cool, and redolent of horse sweat and sex. He left it open as he stripped naked and splashed water over his body, then – still damp – threw himself on to the bed and closed his eyes.

Cal Backenhauser and Cutter Sutcliffe went back to The Golden Slipper. They downed a second bottle of whiskey while Sutcliffe described the charms of the whore called Anita in flowing, glowing detail.

Backenhauser’s eyes got brighter with each new revelation, and by the time the bottle was empty he was pantingly eager to go.

Sutcliffe helped him to his feet and they staggered out on to main street, stumbling through the dust as the artist tried to remember a longwinded joke about a man and a woman and a dog. Sutcliffe held him upright as they tracked down a side alley that led to a flight of steps opening on to the brothels. Backenhauser was laughing at the punchline he couldn’t remember, hanging on to the depot manager and telling him what a good friend he was.

When they reached Rosa’s place he drew himself upright and straightened his suit, adjusting the derby on his black hair and brushing the wayward strands of his mustache in place.

Sutcliffe knocked on the door.

And it opened to reveal a grossly fat woman, whose scarlet dress bulged over the spread of her breasts and the slightly lesser spread of her stomach. Her hair was piled up in oily curls above an olive face that might once have been pretty. Now, the eyes were almost lost between the folds of fat and the mouth was blubbery rather than sensual. The heavy pendants drooping from her ears shook as she smiled, and her smile gave off the stink of rotten teeth and garlic.

‘Cutter!’ Her voice matched her physical appearance: it was big and soft and oily. ‘How nice to see you again. Come in.’

Backenhauser and Sutcliffe stepped into a room that was totally red. There was a thick carpet covering the floor, dyed the color of fresh blood. The walls were papered in some kind of plush velour that matched the shade of the floor, and the ceiling had been painted red, too. Around the edges of the garish room there were seats, banquettes covered in the same material as spread over the walls, with little tables set beside them.

‘Anita around?’ asked Sutcliffe. ‘I been telling my friend about her.’

‘She’ll be free in a few minutes.’ Rosa ushered them to seats. ‘Take a drink while you wait.’

Before Backenhauser got a chance to say anything there was a glass of whiskey in his hand. And he began to drink it; automatically.

‘How long will you be staying?’ asked Rosa. ‘Anita is much in demand, so I have to charge you twenty dollars if you want to stay the night.’

‘Hell!’ Backenhauser fumbled in his pockets and spread bills over the table. ‘This looks better’n the hotel, so I’ll take a night.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosa counted out twenty dollars and tucked the remainder back in the artist’s vest. ‘And you, Cutter?’

‘I ain’t stayin.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘Wish I could but I got paperwork needs clearin’ before the stage leaves.’

‘Hey!’ Backenhauser emptied his glass. ‘I thought we was making a night of this?’

‘You don’t need me where you’re goin’,’ grinned Sutcliffe. ‘You bought your ticket to ride, so enjoy the trip.’

The Englishman began to protest, but just then a Mexican girl entered the room and stoppered the words on the way out of his mouth. She was tall in her spike-heeled shoes, with stocking-clad legs that emphasized her slender build all the way to the café-au-lait expanse of thigh below the black silk of her corset. The garment was cut high over wide hips, exposing the dark bush of her pubic triangle, curving up over her flat stomach to cup and expose her breasts. Her nipples were erect, dark thimbles of tempting flesh that jutted from breasts almost too large for her body. Her hair was loose, tumbling in long waves as blue-black as midnight, around an oval face that shouldn’t have been beautiful, but was. Her eyes were huge, the whites startlingly so, throwing into contrast the large, brown pupils. Her nose was straight and wide, curving up at the tip so that her full lips, gleaming bright scarlet with a fresh application of make-up, seemed even wider and fuller than they really were.

Backenhauser gasped.

And Rosa said, ‘You like Anita? Most men do.’

Sutcliffe said, ‘Wish I could join you, friend. Enjoy yourself.’

Backenhauser went on staring.

Rosa beckoned the girl over and explained that the artist had hired her for the night. Up close it was possible to see that she wasn’t as young as she looked, and the color of her hair came from a bottle. But Backenhauser wasn’t looking that close: he was mostly concentrating on the breasts and that enticing triangle of hair.

He followed Anita up the corridor like a little lost dog seeking a home. Just for the night.

Cutter Sutcliffe went back to his stage depot and made himself coffee in the little room at the back. Then he sat down in the chair and waited.

After a while there was a knock on the door. He picked up the cut-down Colt from his desk and turned the key.

Fritz Baum and Amos Dumfries came into the room.

‘Where are they?’

It was the German who spoke.

‘The half-breed’s callin’ himself Matthew Gunn,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘He’s in the hotel, I think.’

‘You think?’ Baum’s voice was cold as winter snow. ‘You was paid to spot them.’

‘He’s booked into the hotel,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘I got them rooms myself. I tried to set them both up like you wanted, but he said he wanted to sleep. I guess he’s there now.’

‘An’ the other one?’ said Amos Dumfries. ‘The artist?’

‘Like I promised.’ Sutcliffe smiled nervously. ‘He’s in Rosa’s place. With Anita.’

‘What do we do?’ asked the rancher. ‘Which one first?’

Baum thought for a minute, then: ‘How was the ’breed when you left him?’

‘Sleepy,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Looked like he’d taken a might too much likker.’

‘So he’ll sleep, most like.’ Baum was speaking mostly to himself. ‘An’ if we take him now, the artist could invite the marshal in.’

‘So let’s take the artist,’ said Dumfries. ‘I want to see that bastard die, anyway.’

‘Yeah.’ Baum nodded. ‘We’ll find him and then Breed.’

Suddenly, like a rabbit jumping clear of a magician’s hat, his gun appeared in his hand. The hammer clicked back and the barrel ground hard against Sutcliffe’s face.

‘You been paid for this, feller.’ His big hand clutched the depot manager’s wrist, twisting the Colt down and away. Applying enough pressure that Sutcliffe groaned and let the Colt drop to the floor. ‘You been paid well. Enough to forget it. You understand? You never seen us. Not ever.’