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.Barely had he made up his mind to call in at the pub, than something happened to make him rethink the idea.As he was approaching the place he heard a god-almighty commotion, and then a whole bunch of folks came rushing out of the front door of the thatched building, barging each other aside in their attempts to get clear of the place.Bomb scare? thought Sanchez.Nah.Fire, mebbe?No.No sign of any smoke.So what else could it possibly be?One other possible cause sprang to mind.Uh-oh.It couldn’t be?Could it?One of the last of the fleeing customers, a fat Mexican nicknamed Poncho, ran towards Sanchez, eyes bulging.He looked as though he’d raced straight out of Trap Two in the pub’s men’s room, because he was holding his baggy brown pants up with one hand and trying to buckle his belt with the other.His half-undone white shirt was hanging out, and he had a length of white toilet paper coming out the back of his pants, and trailing along behind him.As he drew near he shouted the warning that the bartender most dreaded.‘HE’S BACK! FUCKIN’ BOURBON KID, MAN!’Poncho barged heavily into Sanchez’s shoulder as he charged away down the street.The slight impact reminded Sanchez of just how tired he was.He stopped walking and let his shopping bags drop to the ground.His legs had turned to jelly a few minutes earlier simply from exhaustion (and because he was unfit).Now they had turned to spaghetti, so it was a miracle he was still standing at all.He stared at the front entrance of the Fawcett Inn, watching to see if anyone else came out.Or any stray bullets, for that matter.Up to this point, he hadn’t actually heard any gunshots, which was unusual if the Kid was back.Sanchez had survived two previous encounters with Santa Mondega’s most prolific killer.Now, for some inexplicable reason that would probably one day see him handing a blank cheque to a psychiatrist, his curiosity had got the better of him.He wanted one more look at the face that so often hid beneath that dark cowl.He took a few steps towards the entrance.The large wooden door was open inwards, shuddering a little in the wind.Through the gap in the doorway he could see that it was too dark inside to make out much.Even so, it seemed safe enough to step a little closer, because up to this point he still hadn’t heard any gunshots or screams from inside.At least, none that he could hear from where he was.So he took another step.Then another.Then he heard something behind him.He turned sharply and saw Poncho.The tubby Mexican who was an infamous local thief had run back and grabbed the bags of shopping that Sanchez had set down.After picking them up he stopped, shrugged at Sanchez in an apologetic fashion, then ran off with all the bartender’s new stuff.Bastard.Sanchez turned his back on the thieving little shit.Yet he had to respect Poncho’s initiative.The opportunity to acquire some free shopping was there and the guy had taken it.Besides, Sanchez had more pressing matters at hand.As carefully as he could, he took a few more tentative steps towards the entrance of the Fawcett Inn until he was little more than ten feet away.And finally something happened.A sudden movement made his heart miss a beat and his stomach tighten, as though he’d just taken a pineapple up his ass.The door of the pub opened a little more and a body appeared, crawling desperately along the ground.It was Igor the Fang.He was clawing his way along the dusty flagstoned floor and out of the bar as if he had lost the use of his legs and was relying solely on his upper body to get anywhere.He looked up at Sanchez, his face a bruised and swollen mess, his neck seeping blood from a deep cut.For just a moment it looked as though he was about to plead for help.That moment passed all too quickly, for a second later his body was dragged back inside the pub.His fingernails were damn near ripped out as he tried desperately to embed them in the dusty gravel outside, in a failed bid to maintain some kind of grip on the civilized world.And then, just for a split second, a hooded figure appeared in Sanchez’s line of vision.Then the door was slammed shut.It was the cue for Sanchez to make himself extremely scarce [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]