They reached the Lattimore ranch around three in the afternoon. Dave Lattimore was just coming out of the barn, a small, quick man in a flannel shirt and Levi's, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. When he saw the two men, he started looking around for their horses.
"Afternoon," he said.
"Afternoon," Prine said.
"Lattimore, we need some horses and a couple of rifles. I'll pay you double what they're worth."
The old, familiar Neville was putting in an appearance again, and Prine wasn't happy about it.
He gave Lattimore a quick version of everything that had happened.
"You think they're still around here?" Lattimore said.
"They are if they're headed to Denver," Prine said. "They'll be settlin' in for the night pretty soon. If we go all night, we might be able to find them."
"No offense, Prine, but neither of you fellas look like you could last all night."
"We didn't ask for any of your Farmer Bob wisdom, Lattimore," Neville snapped. "We asked for horses and rifles. Now, can you set us up?"
Lattimore didn't like being talked to this way, obviously. But in order to help Prine, he nodded and said, "Yeah, I can set you up."
"I appreciate this, Dave," Prine said as they headed for a small rope corral set off from the outbuildings. The shadows were long, heavy, now that the sun was beginning its descent. Lattimore's wife was getting supper ready. You could smell it on the air. Prine had thoughts of a home-cooked meal, a leisurely one, topped off with a good cigar and some good sipping whiskey.
While Prine and Neville looked over the horses, Lattimore went up to the house for the guns. "Dave's a good man," Prine said.
"I'm sure he is."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd treat him that way."
"What? I wasn't treating him that way?"
For the first time, Prine realized that Neville here probably wasn't even aware of acting like a shit sometimes. His behavior was probably so ingrained—hell, he'd grown up rich and powerful, why wouldn't he just naturally assume that most people were put on earth to play subjects to his role as conqueror?—he didn't even hear himself. Or see the resentment in the eyes of the people he insulted.
"Just don't treat him like one of your servants," Prine said. "He's not, and I'm not, either."
"Well, hell, man, I didn't mean to insult him."
"Maybe not," Prine said. "But you did a damned good job of it anyway."
Prine took a dun, Neville a pinto. They walked them up to the barn, where they found a couple of old saddles.
Neville looked unhappy about having to set his royal ass on a saddle this worn, but at least he had the good sense not to say anything about it.
Lattimore appeared a few minutes later. He handed Prine a Winchester and Neville a Sharps that had been old ten years before.
"Best I could do," he said to Neville.
Prine fought a smile. He was sure that Lattimore had dug up the oldest weapon he could find for Neville. If Neville knew this, he didn't let on. He was behaving well since Prine had ragged on him about treating Lattimore better. He was like a dog brought to heel.
They were just ready to saddle up when Betty Lattimore, pretty and plump in blue gingham and a white apron, hurried down to them.
"Figured you boys'd be hungry," she said.
They took their food over to a small table in the backyard. Slices of beef and a boiled potato and peas, probably from her garden on the far side of the house. They ate with the innocence and fury of predatory animals. "And you're invited to sleep here overnight if you'd like."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Lattimore," Neville said in a voice so formal and polite that Prine actually quit shoveling food into his mouth for a few seconds. "You and your husband have already done plenty, and I plan to pay you back as soon as this is all done with."
"Why, we're practically neighbors, Mr. Neville. So there's no call to talk about paying us back. I'm sure you'd do the same thing for us."
Neville looked confused briefly. Somebody was turning down his offer to pay them back? He was used to paying people off. Money was the currency, not friendship. That was startling enough. But then, she'd said that he would do the same thing for her. But would he? Prine could see this thought process. It would be too much to say that Neville was having any kind of conversion to the goodwill of the common man here, but clearly he was forming a favorable impression of these people.
"Yes," Neville said, "I guess I would do the same thing for you."
He glanced at Prine as he said this. Prime gave him a doubtful look.
They left just as dusk was streaking the sky with its richest colors, the colors that only Eastern potentates were said to possess, colors that were the secret treasures handed down from ancient Egypt, colors, or so it was claimed, that no other civilization could duplicate—mauve and purple gold and green the color of a cat's eye.
Both men huddled inside their ponchos. They knew that soon enough the land would shimmer and shine with frost. Ice might even cover the creeks and the river by the time of the midnight moon.
Distant drums, having nothing to do with them, came from Ute camps scattered around the hills to the west.
Neither man said much. There wasn't much to say. Once in a while they'd piss and moan about how their asses hurt from their saddles, how the dropping temperature was beginning to test the strength of their ponchos, how when it was all over a bed would feel very good.
Neville, of course, had small moments of rage. Obviously, the man couldn't help himself. He'd start thinking of his sister and he'd go wild for a few minutes.
Their first stop came around nine o'clock when they saw the remnants of a mining town. An entire block of businesses were boarded up. Maybe two dozen tiny houses stood dark. Somebody had shot out all the stained-glass windows in the church.
The whipping and whining wind didn't exactly help Prine's sense of desolation. My God, not only had the gold boom gone bust in this place, he wondered if a plague hadn't visited it. He thought of images he'd learned about in school, how in medieval days the bubonic plague would literally wipe out the entire populations of some small towns.
They tied their horses to a hitching post in front of the saloon. The batwing doors, silhouetted against dim, flickering lamplight from inside, hung on one hinge each. A player piano badly out of sync and tune rolled through "Camptown Lady," somehow making it sound like a dirge.
Prine was so tired that all sorts of silly childhood images came to him. Ghosts, inside; or ghouls, the spirits so hideous there weren't even any names for them.
They took their rifles with them.
The way the wind was whipping, one of the batwings tore free and fell to the floor. Prine pushed on inside.
The sight before him resembled a stage set that had been deserted long enough to be shrouded with thick, dusty cobwebs. A long pine bar was on the right wall, a long dusty mirror running parallel to it. Empty tables and chairs filled up most of the space except for a small stage against which the player piano was pushed. Rats were everywhere, paying no attention whatsoever to the intruders. There must have been a dozen good-sized rats on top of the piano, scurrying about in frenzy. Needing, wanting—but not finding—food.
Only after a time did they cast their tiny red eyes on the newcomers. You could almost hear them begin to calculate what these strange upright creatures would taste like.
Neville shot three of them. The explosion of his Sharps was almost loud enough to tear the wide chandelier above them from its mooring.
"Happy now?" Prine said.
"I don't have the right to shoot rats?"
"You don't have the right to waste ammunition, is what you don't have."