“Steak and trout,” Smith grunted. “Heavy on both and heavy on the bread and potatoes.”
“Don’t like venison, huh?”
“Not especially.”
“I’ll throw the steak on the fire, and the trout and potatoes are cooked and ready.”
“Then bring ‘em on,” Smith said.
“Be a dollar and six bits first,” the balding man said, looking nervous.
“That’s a lot of damn money, and it better include another glass of whiskey.”
“All right, sir.”
Smith knew that he was being insulted by being asked to pay before his meal, but the whiskey was taking the edge off his anger and so he let the insult pass.
“Here you go,” he said, digging the money out of his pocket and smacking it down on the table. “I like my steak a little bloody in the middle.”
The man scooped up the money looking very grateful and relieved. The cowboys cleared out as soon as they could without looking like they were being intimidated, which they were. Smith knew that he must have made a pretty rough-looking figure of manhood what with his face and his guns and his dirty clothes. The thing of it was, he wanted to be ornery and crabby so that people wouldn’t start asking him questions.
The trout was delicious and so was the rest of the meal, which seemed to arrive in shifts for about the next half hour. No one else entered the cafe, so it was just Smith and the proprietor, who when he wasn’t bustling food over to Smith’s table busied himself in the kitchen.
The Assassin took his time eating. He was in no hurry and the steak was tasty. When he finished, he enjoyed his second glass of whiskey almost as much as he had the first. The proprietor, it seemed, was a mite anxious to shut the cafe down. He looked like the kind of man who probably had a fat wife and three or four kids. Probably had even been a good cowboy in his younger days.
“How are cattle prices in this country?” The Assassin asked, wanting to start up a little conversation.
“Poor as usual. Ranchers hardly making any money.”
“It’s a tough business.”
“It is,” the proprietor agreed. “But then life is tough, even for the prayerful.”
“Yeah,” Smith said. “You owned this cafe long?”
“Nope.”
“Like the business?”
“It’s a living, barely. I got regulars. I was a cook on the Rocking B Ranch. You know where that is?”
“In this valley?”
“No, down near Taos, New Mexico.”
“Huh,” Smith grunted. “I should have known that because me and Red used to work down that way.”
“Red Skoal?”
“Yeah. I lost track of him, but heard he’d settled in these parts.”
The proprietor brightened a little. “Hell, yes, he did! Red comes in here a couple times a week to take his supper. He likes his steak just the same as you and he’s not afraid of that whiskey either.”
Smith chuckled. “Yeah, he always was quite a fella. I haven’t seen him in … oh, six or seven years.”
“Well, then, you ought to stop by his place.”
“I’m on my way to Santa Fe.”
“Red likes company. He’s got a pretty nice little spread out at the south end of this valley. If you’re aimin’ for Santa Fe, you’ll be riding that way anyhow.”
“Yeah, I guess that I would be,” Smith said as if the idea would never have occurred to him. “Trouble is …”
“What?”
“I’m sort of down and out right now. Haven’t got much money, and my clothes …”
“Aw,” the man scoffed, “you know Red! He’s pretty rough-looking himself and he don’t give a damn about how anybody looks. Why, I heard it told that he once-“
“You think he’d put me up for the night?” Smith interrupted. “I hate to spend the last of my money on a hotel room.”
“Sure he would! Probably give you a job too! He’s already got two or three hands, but they’re mostly all butt-broke cowboys that would rather drink and play cards in his bunkhouse than do any real work.”
“How many cattle does Red own?”
“Oh, maybe five hundred. He’s not a big-time rancher, but he does all right. Always seems to have money, even when cattle prices have gone to hell like they have right now.”
“He must have a rich uncle or something.”
The proprietor came over and drew up a chair. “Don’t tell Red that I said so, but he has some ‘side businesses’ that aren’t exactly legal.”
“Like rustlin’?”
“Oh, hell, no! Every cowboy in South Park knows every cow in South Park as well as he knows his own sister. No, you couldn’t steal a one without everyone knowin’ it. But Red, he likes to ride out and nobody rightly knows what he does, but he comes back with money, Not that I’m saying he’s a thief or anything! Hell, no.”
“Not Red,” Smith agreed. “He’s honest as the day is long.”
“Well,” the man said, “I don’t know about that. Red tells me that he goes off and gambles down in Taos or even over in Denver. And he is one hell of a good poker player. He can deal a deck of cards, I tell you. Why, he’s so good they don’t even let him play in the games at the saloons.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is! Red almost always wins.”
“No man’s luck runs that pure,” Smith said. “He must give it a little nudge with a card off the bottom or some other such thing.”
“I expect so, but Red isn’t a man to be accusin’ of anything. If he’s drinkin’ or feelin’ low, he’ll shoot a man without needing much of a reason.”
“And there’s no law up here to arrest him.”
“That’s right! So people just sort of tread easy around Red. If you know what I mean.”
“Sure I do.” Smith sipped his whiskey. “Red ever get married?”
“Nope, but he’s got a real handsome Indian. Her name is Betty and she’s a half-blooded Ute. Damn pretty woman too. Red once killed a man that stared at Betty too long. Did it right across the street in front of the hotel. Now nobody so much as sneaks a peek at Betty.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Smith said.
“Oh, if you’re old friends, I guess Red will cut you some extra slack. Just don’t stare at Betty, and when Red starts to drinking real bad, find somewhere else to be. Understand ?”
“I sure do,” Smith said, dropping his feet from the empty chair and standing. He patted his distended belly, saying, “That was a real fine meal.”
“Glad you liked it. Stop by again the next time that you are passing through and say hello.”
“I will,” Smith promised.
“And don’t let them cowboys get you on the prod. They’re just dumb kids. We don’t see a lot of strangers up here, so they have a tendency to gawk a little.”
“Sure,” Smith said, belching and heading for the door. “What did you say the name of his ranch was? The Rocking B?”
“Naw, that’s the ranch that I worked on down in New Mexico. Red’s ranch is called the Bar S. It’s the last one on the south end of this valley. He’s got some big cottonwoods planted around a nice house and has a big barn with a bunch of busted-down wagons all around. His dog is a hound and he’ll wail when he sees you comin’ into the yard.”
“I’ll find it.”
“You can’t miss it. Just stay to the road and it’s the last spread on the right. And say hi to Red and Betty for me … well, Red anyway.”
“I’ll do it,” The Assassin said as he went out and climbed onto his waiting horse. “You just damn sure bet on that.”
Chapter 12
The moon was up and the coyotes howling by the time The Assassin reached the end of South Park. He reined his horse in beside a tiny weathered sign, and had to strike a match to read a Bar S brand burned in wood.
Smith shook his head. “Not too impressive for a ranch sign. I’m thinkin’ that you don’t want to attract any passin’ strangers, huh, Red?”