Ride the Pink Horse
“He was well to the back and he didn’t hurry. He remained seated there, his eyes alone moving while the other passengers churned front. His eyes moving and without seeming to move, through the windows on the right where he was seated, across the aisle through the lefthand windows. He saw no one he knew, no one who even looked as if he came from the city.A hick town. He didn’t like hick towns. He uncramped his legs, slid out into the aisle soon enough to seem to be one of the surge without being of it. Only someone who was aware, as he was, would know he was alone, separate. The hayseeds he’d traveled with out of Kansas City across the plains into mountain land, didn’t know. The yokels sagging on the concrete loading slab in back of this dump station didn’t know. It was habit that shoved his right hand into his coat pocket as he stepped off the bus. Not nervousness. He had no nerves; caution yes, but no nerves.There was no one he knew. He went around the bus to the rear where an officio...us bastard in a khaki-drab coverall was pulling baggage out of the compartment, dumping it on the concrete.MoreLess
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