Bonegrinder
“If he hadn’t happened to glance toward the dim back booths he wouldn’t have seen him this time, but there Holt was, seated facing the door and sipping a mug of beer. His pipe and a book of matches lay on the table before him next to a glass ashtray. Wintone nodded to him and took his customary stool midway down the bar.
Old Bonifield was sitting farther along, and beyond him sat a man named Whelan Eberly, a sawmill worker.
Mully set up a beer for Wintone. “Look like rain out there, Billy?”
“I wish. Sun ain’t quite down an’ you can already see the stars.”
Wintone took a first long pull of the cold beer that tingled the back of his throat and slaked the thirst in him. The mug was half-empty when he put it down.
“Talk ain’t died down none, Sheriff,” Bonifield said from down the bar.
“Wouldn’t know,” Wintone said, not looking at him.
“Thought you oughta.”
Frank Turper came in, waved a hand in greeting and sat on the other side of Wintone. Sweat shone on his padded cheeks, and the back of ...his collar was damp.MoreLess
Old Bonifield was sitting farther along, and beyond him sat a man named Whelan Eberly, a sawmill worker.
Mully set up a beer for Wintone. “Look like rain out there, Billy?”
“I wish. Sun ain’t quite down an’ you can already see the stars.”
Wintone took a first long pull of the cold beer that tingled the back of his throat and slaked the thirst in him. The mug was half-empty when he put it down.
“Talk ain’t died down none, Sheriff,” Bonifield said from down the bar.
“Wouldn’t know,” Wintone said, not looking at him.
“Thought you oughta.”
Frank Turper came in, waved a hand in greeting and sat on the other side of Wintone. Sweat shone on his padded cheeks, and the back of ...his collar was damp.MoreLess
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