"I'll pick up my time now, Mr. Farrar," he said when the man had pulled on his trousers.
Farrar walked over to the dresser and picked up his poke. "There you are," he said. "Four months' pay – eighty dollars – an' the sixty dollars you won at poker."
Max put the money in a back pocket without counting it.
"Thanks, Mr. Farrar."
"Sure I can't talk you into comin' back with me?" Farrar asked.
"No, thank you, Mr. Farrar."
"You can't keep all that hate in your soul, boy," the older man said.
"It ain't healthy. You'll only wind up harmin' yourself."
"I can't help that, Mr. Farrar," Max said slowly. His eyes were empty and cold. "I can't ferget it's the same breast that fed me that bastard's usin' to keep his tobacco in."
The door closed behind him and Farrar stood there staring at it.
Mary Grady smiled at the boy.
"Finish your whisky," she said, "while I get my dress off."
The boy watched her for a moment, then drank the whisky quickly. He coughed as he went over to the edge of the bed and sat down.
Mary looked over at him as she slipped the dress up over her head.
"How are you feelin'?"
The boy looked at her. She could see the vagueness already in his eyes.
"All ri', I guess," he answered. "I ain' used to drinkin' so much."
She came over and stood looking down at him, her dress over her arm.
"Stretch out and shut your eyes.
You'll be all right in a few minutes."
He looked up at her dumbly, without response.
She put out her hand and pushed his shoulder.
A hint of awareness sparked in his eyes. He tried to get to his feet, his hand locked around the butt of his gun, but the effort was too much.
He collapsed, falling sideways across the bed.
Expertly Mary bent over him and lifted his eyelid.
The boy was out cold.
She smiled to herself and crossing to the window, looked out into the street.
Her pimp was standing across the street in front of a saloon.
She raised and lowered the shade twice in the agreed signal and he started toward the hotel.
She was dressed by the time he got up to the room.
"You took long enough gettin' him up here," he said surlily.
"What could I do?" she said.
"He wouldn't drink. He's just a kid."
"How much did he have on him?" the pimp asked.
"I don't know," Mary answered. "The money's in his back pocket.
Get it an' let's get out of here.
This hotel always gives me the creeps."
The pimp crossed to the bed and pulled the money out of the boy's back pocket. He counted it swiftly.
"A hundred and thirty dollars," he said.
Mary went over to him and put her arms around him.
"A hundred and thirty dollars.
Maybe we can take the night off now," she said, kissing his chin. "We could go over to my place and have a whole night together."
The pimp looked down at her. "What? Are you crazy?" he rasped. "It's only eleven o'clock.
You can turn three more tricks tonight." He turned to look down at the boy while she picked up her pocketbook. "Don't forget the bottle of whisky," he said over his shoulder. "I won't," she answered.
"He don't look like no cowboy," he said. "He looks more like an Indian to me."
"He is," she said. "He was looking for some guy who had a tobacco pouch made from an Indian woman's skin." She laughed. "I don't think he even wanted to get laid.
I got him up here by lettin' him think I knew who he was lookin' for."
The pimp looked down thoughtfully.
"He's carryin' a gun, too.
It should be worth somethin' to the guy he's lookin' for to know about him."