‘‘You could say that, I guess. But here’s what I’m driving at. Like I told you, young Billy tossed out his name in Rest and Be Thankful as freely as he did silver dollars to the Mexican whores. There are some who say that’s how come Pat Garrett was able to track him all the way to old Fort Sumner an’ gun him while he was holdin’ nothing but a butcher’s knife and the memory of a pretty senorita’s kisses.’’ The old man’s gaze was searching, as though he was trying to read McBride’s thoughts. ‘‘Are you catching my drift?’’
The younger man took it lightly. He grinned and tapped a forefinger against his nose. ‘‘I’ve got it. No names given or asked for in Rest and Be Thankful.’’
After a growl that might have been a word of approval, the old man asked, ‘‘What you doin’ in this neck o’ the woods anyhow?’’
‘‘Looking for work. I have four young wards attending finishing school back East and I have to earn enough to keep them there.’’
‘‘What kind o’ work?’’
‘‘Any kind of work I can find. I’m just about busted flat.’’
‘‘The saloons are always lookin’ for swampers. You could try that, though I don’t recommend it my own-self.’’ The old man’s face was suddenly crafty. ‘‘If you’re slick with the iron you could talk to Jared Josephine about gun work. He’s always hirin’. Well, talk to him or his son, Lance.’’ The old man took a step back and his eyes moved over McBride from the toes of his elastic-sided boots to the top of his plug hat. ‘‘On second thought, maybe you should forget it. Somehow you just don’t look the gunfightin’ type.’’
Strangely, McBride was pleased with the old man’s assessment of his gun skills. He didn’t want anyone in town, especially the marshal, to see him as any kind of threat. He picked up his blanket roll and threw it over his shoulder, then slid the Winchester carbine from his saddle scabbard, a ten-shot, 1866 model Yellow Boy in .44 caliber.
‘‘Nice rifle,’’ the old man said absently. He bowed his head, thinking, brow wrinkled, bushy white eyebrows lowered.
‘‘Thanks,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I bought it a few months back from a puncher with the rheumatisms who was riding the grub line up Santa Fe way. He let it go for . . .’’
But his voice petered out as he realized that the old-timer wasn’t listening.
What the man had on his mind could have gone unsaid, but he’d obviously just fought a battle with himself and decided he had to say his piece. ‘‘Here, you said you was busted. You know it costs two-bits to keep a hoss here overnight, even one like yours? That, an’ another two-bits extry fer the oats.’’
McBride smiled, fished in his pants pocket, then spun a silver dollar to the old man. ‘‘Keep the change, pops,’’ he said.
The old man had caught the coin deftly, and now he touched it to his hat brim. ‘‘Well, thank’ee, thank’ee kindly.’’ When he smiled he showed few teeth, and those were black.
McBride nodded and stepped to the door. The old man spoke to his back. ‘‘Hey, John McBride, my name’s Jed Whipple.’’
‘‘Nice meeting you, Jed,’’ McBride said, turning.
‘‘See, I gave you my handle, ’cause I like you.’’ Whipple hesitated, his bowed legs doing a strange, agitated little jig. ‘‘What I tol’ you earlier about speakin’ to Lance Josephine about gun work don’t go. I didn’t like you so much then. Still, talk to him if’n you’ve a mind to. Maybe I’m wrong and you are the type.’’
The big man smiled. ‘‘I’ll bear that in mind, about Josephine I mean.’’
‘‘He an’ his pa walk a wide path around here. Jared ain’t so bad, but Lance is pure pizen. He’s killed five men since he and his pa founded the town three years ago, and some say he’s even faster on the draw than Marshal Harlan.’’ Whipple shook his head. ‘‘It don’t take much for Lance Josephine to get mad at a man.’’
‘‘Thanks for the warning, Jed,’’ McBride said. ‘‘But I doubt I’ll meet him. I’m only passing through.’’
‘‘The last man Lance killed was only passin’ through. You step careful, John McBride.’’
‘‘I’ll do that.’’ McBride’s rumbling stomach was demanding attention and he turned back to the door. But Jed Whipple, apparently a talking man, was not finished with him yet.
‘‘Be at the funeral tonight, John. You don’t have any call to attend the hanging afterward, but let Jared Josephine see you on the street.’’
It was in McBride’s mind to question the old man further, but he decided he’d be there all night. He waved a hand and stepped out of the barn into the darkness.
Jed Whipple called out after him, but he couldn’t hear what the old man said.
Chapter 4
As McBride walked along the boardwalk toward the hotel the clouds had cleared and a honed moon hung in a sky without stars. The dank air smelled of mud and horse dung and out on the flat grass the coyotes were talking.
The buildings along both sides of the street looked bleached white in the stark moonlight, but the alleys were angled in deep purple shadow. Reflector oil lamps had been lit outside the saloons and McBride walked from darkness through dancing cones of orange light and back to darkness again.
The night was young and the town of Rest and Be Thankful was not yet fully awake. There were few men on the boardwalk, but the tinkle of pianos and the laughter of women that floated from the saloons declared to one and all that the music and painted, bold-eyed girls were ready and waiting.
The Kip and Kettle Hotel was in sight when McBride saw two men standing ahead of him where the boardwalk stopped for an alley. The men had Colts drawn and at first he thought they were shaping up for a gunfight. But then he heard one of the men laugh and say, ‘‘Set it up on the rail there, Ed. See if I can take its damned head off.’’
McBride quickened his pace, his eyes on the men. They were rough, bearded, dressed in dirty range clothes and they had been drinking. A sign that advertised women’s clothing creaked over their heads and a short length of white picket fence bordered the boardwalk outside the store, an attempt to add a touch of femininity to the location.
Then McBride saw what was happening and his anger flared.
The man called Ed had set a tiny calico kitten on top of the fence. The little animal was terrified, mewling in alarm, a hunched, trembling, bundle of orange, black and white fur.
‘‘Cut ’er loose, Jake.’’ Ed grinned. He holstered his Colt, his amused eyes on the kitten.
‘‘Watch this, Ed, its head’s comin’ right off,’’ the other man said. He took a few steps back until he was stopped by the store window. He raised his gun—and that’s when McBride hit him.
Driven with all McBride’s strength, the brass butt plate of the Yellow Boy crashed into the side of Jake’s head and the man dropped like a felled ox. He lay on the muddy boardwalk, his left leg twitching, but he made no sound.
Ed cursed and went for his gun.
McBride swung on him and rammed the muzzle of the rifle into the man’s belly. Ed bent double, retching, and McBride grasped the rifle in both hands and chopped upward, driving the top of the receiver into Ed’s mouth. The gunman convulsively triggered a shot into the timber of the boardwalk, then straightened for a moment before staggering into the fence. The slender pine rails splintered under his weight and Ed fell on his back into the mud, his ruined mouth a startled, bloody O of smashed teeth and pulped lips.