“Rex Davidson,” Smoke said it aloud.
Both Monte and Johnny stiffened at the name, both men turning their heads to look at Smoke.
When Johnny spoke, his voice was soft. “What’d you say, Smoke?”
Smoke repeated the name.
Monte whistled softly. “I really hope he ain’t got nothing to do with the attack agin Sally.”
Smoke looked at him. “Why?”
Monte finished his beer and motioned the two men outside, to the boardwalk. He looked up and down the street and then sat down on the wooden bench in front of the saloon, off to the side from the batwing entrance. Johnny and Smoke joined him.
“That name you just mentioned, Smoke…what do you know about him?”
“Absolutely nothing. I heard Preacher mention it one time, and one time only. That was years back, when I was just a kid. The name is all I know except that Preacher told me he had to put lead into him one time.”
Monte nodded his head. “So that’s it. Well, that clears it up right smart. Finishes the tale I been hearin’ for years. I’ll just be damned, boys!”
The men waited until Monte had rolled and licked a cigarette into shape and lighted it.
“Must have been…oh, at least twenty years back, so the story goes. Rex Davidson was about twenty, I guess. Might have been a year or two younger than that. I don’t know the whole story; just bits and pieces. But this Davidson had just come into the area from somewheres. California, I think it was. And he though he was castin’ a mighty big shadow wherever it was he walked. He was good with a gun, and a mighty handsome man, too. I seen him once, and he is a lady killer. What’s the word I’m lookin’ for? Vain, that’s it. Pretties himself up all the time.
“There was a tradin’ post down on the Purgatoire called Slim’s. Run by a Frenchman. It’s still there, and the same guy runs it. Only now it’s a general store. It sits east and some north of Trinidad, where the Francisco branches off from the Purgatoire.
“This Davidson was there, braggin’ about how he was gettin’ rich diggin’ gold and running cattle up between the Isabel and the Sangre de Cristos. Said he was gonna build hisself a town. Done it, too.”
Monte dragged on his cigarette and Johnny said, “Dead River.”
“You got it.”
“Damn good place to stay shut of.”
“Sure is,” Monte ground out his smoke under the heel of his boot. “Whole damn town is owned by this Davidson and maybe by this Dagget, too. Anyways, this was back…oh, ’bout ’60, I reckon, and this mountain man come into the tradin’ post with some pelts he’d taken up near the Apishapa and the Arkansas. Him and Slim was jawin’ over the price when this Rex Davidson decided he’d stick his nose into the affair. He made some crack about the mountain man’s weapons and the way he was talkin’. This mountain man wasn’t no big fellow; but size don’t amount to a hill of beans when you start gettin’ smart-lipped with them people—as you well know, Smoke.”
Smoke nodded his head. He knew all too well the truth in that statement. Mountain men, for the most part, stayed away from people and civilization, keeping mostly to themselves, but God have mercy on your soul if you started trouble with them.
Oh, yes, Smoke knew. He had been raised up during his formative years by the most legended of all mountain men—old Preacher.
“Well, that mountain man’s name was Preacher,” Monte continued. “Slim told me that Preacher didn’t say nothin’ to Davidson; just ignored him. And that made Davidson hot under the collar. He called out, “Hey, you greasy old bastard. I’m talking to you, old man!’”
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Smoke said softly.
And in his mind’s eye, as Monte told his tale, Smoke could see what had happened. Smoke smiled as he visualized the long-ago day….
Preacher turned slowly, looking at the young man with the twin Colt Navy .36s belted around his waist and tied down low. The fast draw was new to the West, and some that thought they were fast weren’t. The mountain man, slim and lean-waisted, had a faint smile on his lips.
“What’d you want, Tadpole?”
“Davidson flushed red, hot and unreasonable anger flashing in his eyes.
The kid is crazy, Preacher guessed accurately. And he’s a killer.
“The name is Rex Davidson, old man.”
“Do tell? Is that ’pposed to mean something to me, Tadpole?”
“Yeah. I’m a gunfighter.”
“Is that right?” Preacher drawled. “Well, now, how come it is I ain’t never seen none of your graveyards, Tadpole?”
“Well, old man, maybe you just haven’t been in the right towns, standing in the right boot hill. I got ’em scattered around, here and there.”
“My, my! I ’spect I should be im-pressed.” He smiled. “But I ain’t,” he added softly.
“I thought you mountain men was supposed to be so damn tough!” Rex sneered. “You sound like you’re scared to visit a graveyard.”
“Oh…well, now, I tend to shy away from graveyards, Tadpole. They can be mighty spooky places. Some Injuns believe a man can lose his soul by wanderin’ around in a graveyard. Mayhaps that’s what happened to you, Tadpole.”
“What the hell are you babbling about, you old bastard? I think you’re silly!”
“Tadpole, I think you’ve prowled around so many old bone-yards, lookin’ up names on markers so’s you could lie about how bad you want people to think you is…why, hell, Tadpole, I think you lost your soul.”
“You calling me a liar, old man?” Rex fairly screamed the question, his hands dropping to his sides to hover over the butts of his Navy Colts.
“Could be, Tadpole,” Preacher spoke softly. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t take no of-fense. Not if you want to go on livin’ healthy.”
Slim Dugas got the hell out of the line of fire. He didn’t know this punk-faced kid from Adam’s Off Ox, but he sure as hell knew all about Preacher and that wild breed of men called mountain men. There just wasn’t no back-up in a mountain man. Not none at all.
“No man calls me a liar and lives, you greasy old fart!” Rex screamed.
“Well, now, Tadpole. It shore ’ppears like I done it, though, don’t it?”
“Damn your eyes! Draw!” Davidson shouted, his palms slapping the butts of his guns.
Preacher lifted his Sharps and pulled the trigger. He had cocked it while Davidson was running off at the mouth about how bad he was. The .52 slug struck the young man in the side, exactly where Preacher intended it to go; he didn’t want to kill the punk. But in later years he would realize that he should have. The force of the slug turned Davidson around and spun him like a top, knocking him against a wall and to the floor. He had not even cleared leather.
Monte chuckled and that brought Smoke back from years past in his mind.
“Slim told me that Preacher collected his money for his pelts, picked up his bacon and beans, and walked out the door; didn’t even look at Davidson. There was four or five others in the room, drinking rotgut, and they spread the story around about Davidson. Smoke, Davidson has hated Preacher and anyone connected with him for years. And one more thing: All them men in that room, they was all back-shot, one at a time over the years. Only one left alive was Slim.”
“That tells me that this Davidson is crazy as a bessie-bug.”
“Damn shore is,” Johnny agreed. “What kind of man would hate like that, and for so long? It ain’t as if Smoke was any actual kin of Preacher’s. Why wait this long to do something about it?”