Chapter 32

• That night, beneath the cold glare of stars and the haunting whisper of the canyon wind, the force that had sent Jack into Townvill_ Cole Grimwood himself_ stood guard at watch in a narrow canyon beneath the old Salton place. Up in the house, far above the canyon’s shadow, a small circle of men gathered around a battered table: Bart Williams, Rhinehart, and Jim Case were engrossed in a fierce game of poker, while Will Durov’s mournful mouth-organ filled the smoky air with a series of drowsy, sorrowful airs. The melancholic strains wound their way through the room, threading irritation into the hearts of Williams and Rhinehart, whose patience was already thinning as Case continued to rake in a steady winning hand.
• “Let up!” Williams bellowed suddenly, slamming his fist onto the rough-hewn table. “Your damn tunes are gettin’ my goat. Nobody can think straight while you’re jabberin’ away like some preacher at a prayer meetin’!”
• Durov, unperturbed by the outburst, withdrew his mouth-organ briefly, his small eyes blinking in an almost sorrowful defiance. He inhaled deeply as if to summon a lost muse, then resumed playing_ but now in an even higher key, as if his instrument sought to transcend the mundane to touch something raw and otherworldly.