“Of whom?”
“Huh?”
Smoke sighed. “Whom do you wish me to sketch?”
“Why, hell…me, o’ course!”
“I’m really in a hurry, my good fellow. Perhaps some other time.”
“I’ll give you twenty dollars.”
That brought Smoke up short. Twenty dollars was just about two thirds of what the average puncher made a month, and it was hard-earned wages. Smoke stepped back, taking a closer look at the man. This was no puncher. His boots were too fancy and too highly shined. His dress was too neat and too expensive. And his guns—two of them, worn low and tied down—marked him.
“Well…I might be persuaded to do a quick sketch. But not here in the middle of the street, for goodness sake!”
“Which way you headin’, pardner?”
Smoke gestured with his arm, taking in the entire expanse. “I am but a free spirit, a wanderer, traveling where the wind takes me, enjoying the blessing of this wild and magnificent land.”
Preacher, Smoke thought, wherever you are, you are probably rolling on the ground, cackling at this performance.
Smoke had no idea if Preacher were dead or alive; but he preferred to believe him alive, although he would be a very old man by now. But still?…
The gunfighter looked at Smoke, squinting his eyes. “You shore do talk funny. I’m camped on the edge of town. You kin sketch me there.”
“Certainly, my good man. Let us be off.”
Before leaving town, Smoke bought a jug of whiskey and gave it to the man, explaining, “Sometimes subjects tend to get a bit stiff and they appear unnatural on the paper. For the money, I want to do this right.”
The man was falling-down drunk by the time they got to his campsite.
Smoke helped him off his horse and propped him up against a tree. Then he began to sketch and chat as he worked.
“I am very interested in the range of mountains known as the Sangre de Cristos. Are you familiar with them?”
“Damn sure am. What you wanna know about them? You just ax me and I’ll tell you.”
“I am told there is a plethora of unsurpassed beauty in the range.”
“Huh?”
“Lots of pretty sights.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Damn shore is that.”
“My cousin came through here several years ago, on his way to California. Maurice DeBeers. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Cain’t say as I have, pardner.”
“He stopped by a quaint little place for a moment or two. In the Sangre de Cristos. He didn’t stay, but he said it was…well, odd.”
“A town?”
“That’s what he said.”
“There ain’t no towns in there.”
“Oh, but I beg to differ. My cousin wrote me about it. Oh…pity! What was the name? Dead something-or-the-other.”
The man looked at him, an odd shift to his eyes. “Dead River?”
“Yes! That’s it! Thank you!”
Drunk as he was, the man was quick in snaking out a pistol. He eased back the hammer and pointed the muzzle at Smoke’s belly.
5
Smoke dropped his sketch pad and threw his hands into the air. He started running around and around in a little circle. “Oh, my heavens!” he screamed, putting as much fright in his voice as he could. Then he started making little whimpering sounds.
The outlaw—and Smoke was now sure that he was—smiled and lowered his gun, easing down the hammer. “All right, all right! Calm down ’fore you have a heart attack, pilgrim. Hell, I ain’t gonna shoot you.”
Smoke kept his hands high in the air and forced his knees to shake. He felt like a total fool but knew his life depended on his making the act real. And so far, it was working.
“Take all my possessions! Take all my meager earnings! But please don’t shoot me, mister. Please. I simply abhor guns and violence.”
The outlaw blinked. “You does what to ’em?”
“I hate them!”
“Why didn’t you just say that? Well, hell, relax. Don’t pee your fancy britches, sissy-boy. I ain’t gonna shoot you. I just had to check you out, that’s all.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t understand. May I please lower my hands?”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t start beggin’. You really is who you say you is, ain’t you?” His brow furrowed in whiskey-soaked rumination. “Come to think of it, just who in the hell is you, anyways?”
“I am an artist.”
“Not that! What’s your name, sissy-britches?” He lifted the jug and took a long, deep pull, then opened his throat to swallow.
“Shirley DeBeers,” Smoke said.
The outlaw spat out the rotgut and coughed for several minutes. He pounded his chest and lifted red-rimmed eyes, disbelieving eyes to Smoke.
“Shirley! That there ain’t no real man’s name!”
Smoke managed to look offended. What he really wanted to do was take the jerk’s guns away from him and shove both of them down his throat. Or into another part of the outlaw’s anatomy.
“I will have you know, sir, that Shirley is really a very distinguished name.”
“I’ll take your word for that. Get to sketching, Shirley.”
“Oh, I simply couldn’t!” Smoke fanned his face with both hands. “I feel flushed. I’m so distraught!”
“Shore named you right,” the outlaw muttered. “All right, Shirley. If you ain’t gonna draw my pitcher, sit down and lets us palaver.”
Smoke sat down. “I’ve never played palaver; you’ll have to teach me.”
The outlaw put his forehead into a hand and muttered under his breath for a moment. “It means we’ll talk, Shirley.”
“Very well. What do you wish to talk about?”
“You. I can’t figure you. You big as a house and strong as a mule. But if you’re a pansy, you keep your hands to yourself, you understand that?”
“Unwashed boorish types have never appealed to me,” Smoke said stiffly.
“Whatever that means,” the gunhawk said. “My name’s Cahoon.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.”
“What’s your interest in Dead River, Shirley?”
“I really have no interest there, as I told you, other than to sketch the scenery, which I was told was simply breathtakingly lovely.”
Cahoon stared at him. “You got to be tellin’ the truth. You the goofiest-lookin’ and the silliest-talkin’ person I ever did see. What I can’t figure out is how you got this far west without somebody pluggin’ you full of holes.”
“Why should they do that? I hold no malice toward anyone who treats me with any respect at all.”
“You been lucky, boy, I shore tell you that. You been lucky. Now then, you over the vapors yet?”
“I am calmed somewhat, yes.”
“Git to sketchin’, Shirley.”
When Smoke tossed off his blankets the next morning, the outlaw, Cahoon, was gone. Smoke had pretended sleep during the night as the outlaw had swiftly gone through his pack, finding nothing that seemed to interest him. Cahoon had searched one side of the pack carefully, then only glanced at the other side, which held supplies. Had he searched a bit closer and longer, he would have found Smoke’s twin Colts and the shotgun.
Smoke felt he had passed inspection. At least for this time. But he was going to have to come up with some plan for stashing his weapons close to Dead River.
And so far, he hadn’t worked that out.
Cahoon had left the coffee pot on the blackened stones around the fire and Smoke poured a cup. He was careful in his movements, not knowing how far Cahoon might have gone; he might well be laying out a few hundred yards, watching to see what Smoke did next.
Smoke cut strips of bacon from the slab and peeled and cut up a large potato, dropping the slices into the bacon grease as it fried. He cut off several slices of bread from the thick loaf and then settled down to eat.
He cut his eyes to a large stone and saw his sketch pad, a double eagle on the top page, shining in the rays of the early morning sun.