The bonnet had worked in disguising Drifter for what he really was. Worked, so far.
“You just hold on, fancy-pants,” Hart told him. “You wanted to come in here, remember?”
“But now I want to leave! I want to leave right this instant!”
“Sorry, sweets. You’re here to stay.”
Jim Wilde looked at the late afternoon sunlight outside his office window. He sighed and returned to his chair. “He ought to be in there by now. God have mercy on his soul; I guess I got to say it.”
“Yeah,” Sheriff Mike Larsen agreed. “He’s got more guts than I got, and I’ll stand out in the middle of the damn street and admit that.”
Jim sipped his coffee. “You told your boys not a word about this to anybody, right?”
“Damn well bet I did. I told ’em if they even thought hard on it, I’d catch the vibrations and lock ’em up.”
And the marshal knew the sheriff would do just that. Mike ran a good solid straight office in a tough town.
“You got the final tally sheet of all that’s goin’ in, Mike?”
“Yep. The boys is gearin’ up now. Quietly. Three sheriffs, including myself. Twenty regular deputies. Twenty volunteers—all of them top riders and good with short gun and rifle—and you and ten marshals.”
“The other marshals will be comin’ in by train two at a time, staring tomorrow at noon. They’re goin’ to stay low. I just wish we had some way of findin’ out how many hardcases we’re gonna be up against.”
“I think that’s impossible, Jim. But if I had to make a guess on it…I’d say two hundred at the low end. We all gonna tie a white handkerchief on our left arm so’s the Injuns won’t mistake us for outlaws…that is still the plan, ain’t it?”
“Yeah. Best I can come up with. I’ve already contracted for horses to be stashed along the way. So when we start ridin’, we ain’t gonna stop until it’s over and done with. One way or the other,” he added grimly.
Mike Larsen chose not to elaborate on that last bit. He would tell his wife only at the last moment, just before he stepped into the saddle. It was not a job he looked forward to doing, but he knew it was a job that had to be done. “Where you got the horses?”
“We’ll switch to fresh at Spanish Peaks, then again at La Veta Pass. The last stop will be at Red Davis’s place. I ain’t gonna kill no good horse on that final run. Most of that is gonna be uphill.”
Both men knew the fastest way to tire a horse was riding uphill.
“Red is givin’ us the best of his line and wanted to go in with us. I thanked him but told him no. Told him he was doin’ enough by loanin’ us fresh horses.”
“He’s a tough old man. But you was right in refusin’ him. You think he took offense?”
“No. He understands. White Wolf says he’ll have at least thirty braves around that town when Jensen opens the dance. And Jensen is goin’ to start the music as soon as White Wolf signals him that we’ve left the trail and entered the pass. White Wolf says the guards along the road will be taken care of. Them Utes ain’t got no use for anybody in Dead River. And I told the boys that volunteered that the reward money will be split up amongst ’em.”
“That’s good, but I don’t like Smoke openin’ the show by hisself.” Larsen frowned. “We’re gonna be a good forty-five minutes of hard ridin’ away from the town when he starts draggin’ iron and lettin’ it bang.”
“I know it. But he was by hisself when he met them ol’ boys up there on the Uncompahgre. And he killed ever’ damn one of them.”
“Yep,” the sheriff agreed. “He damn shore did that, didn’t he?”
“Unhand me, you beast!” Smoke shrilled his protest, struggling against the hands that held him in front of the saloon.
“My, my.” A man stepped out of the Bloody Bucket and onto the boardwalk. “What manner of creature do we have here, boys?”*
“It’s that sissy-boy that draws them pitchers, Mr. Davidson. The one that Cahoon told us about.”
“Where is my friend, Cahoon?” Smoke asked.
No one from the gathering crowd of thugs and hardcases replied.
“Well, well,” Davidson said with a smile, his eyes taking in Smoke’s outlandish dress. “So it is. And how do you like our little town, Mr. DeBeers?”
“I think it is appalling and disgusting and most offensive. And I do not like being manhandled by thugs. Tell your henchmen to unhand me this instant!”
Rex Davidson stepped from the boardwalk, faced Smoke and then backhanded him viciously across the face. He slapped him again. Smoke allowed his knees to buckle and he slumped to the ground, whimpering.
“You, silly boy,” Rex said, standing over Smoke, “do not give me orders. Around here, I give the orders, and you obey. I say who lives and dies, and who comes and goes. Do you understand that, Shirley?”
“Yes, sir,” Smoke gasped. The blows from Davidson had hurt. The man was no lightweight; he was big and muscled. Smoke decided to remain on the ground, on his hands and knees, until ordered to rise.
“Here, silly-boy,” Rex continued, “I am king. You are nothing. However, if I decide you may live—and that is a big if—I might elect to make you my court jester. Would you like that, silly-boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Until I shed this costume and put lead in you, you overbearing jackass!
King Rex kicked Smoke in the belly, knocking him flat on the ground. “When you address me, silly-boy, you will address me as Your Majesty. Now, say it, you foppish-looking fool!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” and Smoke knew it was going to take a miracle for him to last out the entire seven days. Maybe two or three miracles.
“That’s better, Jester. Some of you men get this fool on his feet and drag him inside the saloon. I wish to talk with him about doing my portrait.”
Smoke started to tell him that he didn’t do portraits, then decided it would be best if he’d just keep his mouth shut for the moment. He let the hardcases drag him to his feet and shove him up the steps, onto the boardwalk, and through the batwings. And it was all done with a lot of unnecessary roughness and very crude language.
What the hell did you expect, Jensen? Smoke silently questioned. A tea party?
The saloon—and from what Smoke had been able to glean, the only one in town—was a huge affair, capable of seating several hundred people. There was a large stage on one end of the building. The stage had red velvet curtains. Smoke wondered who did the acting and singing.
He was shoved roughly into a chair and then, looking up, got his first good look at Rex Davidson.
The man was a handsome rascal, no doubt about that. And a big man, in his mid-forties, Smoke guessed, solid, with heavily muscled arms and shoulders, thick wrists. Big hands. His eyes were cruel but not tinged with any sign of madness that Smoke could readily detect.
Rex leaned against the polished bar and smiled at Smoke; but the smile did not reach the man’s eyes. “Talk to me, Jester.”
“About what, Your Majesty?” Smoke promptly responded as instructed.
“Good, good!” Rex shouted to the hardcases gathered in the saloon. “You all see how quickly he learns? I think this one will do just fine. Oh, my, yes. Where are you from, Jester?”
“I am originally from Pennsylvania, Your Majesty.”
“What city?”
“I am not from a city, Your Majesty.”
“Oh? You certainly don’t speak like a hick.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” You royal pain in the ass! “I was born on a small farm. Both my mother and father were highly educated people. They taught us at home.” And I’m going to teach you a thing or two, King Jackass! “There were no schools nearby.”
“Thank you, Jester. And where did you learn to draw, Jester?”
“I suppose I was born with the talent, Your Majesty.” Just like I was born good with a gun, which you shall certainly get the chance to see…briefly. “My brother, Maurice, has the ability to write quite eloquently.”