“I thought of that. But damn it, DeBeers, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. At least, not yet. And York is my family name. By God, I’m gonna stick with it. I’m doin’ some thinkin’ ’bout linkin’ up with Slim Bothwell’s bunch. They asked me to. I guess I ain’t got no choice. I don’t wanna hurt nobody or steal nothin’ from nobody. But, hell, I gotta eat!”
“York, you are not cut out for the outlaw life,” Smoke told him.
“Don’t I know it! Look, DeBeers, I listened to some of the men talk ’bout all they’ve done, in here and out there.” He jerked his thumb. “Damn near made me puke.” He sighed heavily. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Could this entire thing be a setup? Smoke wondered, and concluded that it certainly could be. But something about the young cowboy was awfully convincing. He decided to take a chance, but to do it without York knowing of it.
“Perhaps something will come up to change your mind, York.”
The cowboy looked up across the fire, trust in his eyes. “What?”
“I really have no idea. But hope springs eternal, York. You must always keep that in mind. Where are you staying while you’re here?”
“I ain’t got no place. Give that Dagget feller my last fifty dollars. He told me that give me five days in here.” He shook his head. “After that…I don’t know.”
“You’re welcome to stay here. I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share with me.”
“That’s mighty white of you, DeBeers. And I’ll take you up on that.” He grinned at Smoke. “There is them that say you’re goofy. But I don’t think so. I think you’re just a pretty nice guy in a bad spot.”
“Thank you, York. And have you ever thought that might fit you as well?”
The grin faded. “Yeah, I reckon it might. I ain’t never done a dishonest thing in my life. Only difference is, you ain’t got no warrants hangin’ over your head. You can ride out of this hellhole anytime you take a notion. Me? I’m stuck, lookin’ at the wrong side of society!”
The next morning Smoke left the still-sleeping York a full pot of coffee, then took his sketch pad and went walking, as was his custom every morning. As the saloon came into view, Smoke noticed a large crowd gathered out front, in the street. And it was far too early for that many drinkers to have gathered.
“Let’s have some fun!” Smoke could hear the excited shout.
“Yeah. Let’s skin the son of a bitch!”
“Naw. Let’s give him to Brute.”
“Brute don’t want no dirty Injun.”
“Not unless it’s a young boy,” someone shouted with hard laugh.
“Hold it down!” a man hollered. “Mr. Davidson’s got a plan, and it’s a good one.”
Smoke stepped up to a man standing in the center of the street. “What on earth has happened here?”
The outlaw glanced at him. “The guards caught them an Injun about dawn. He was tryin’ to slip out over the mountains. No one knows what he was doin’ in town.” The man shut up, appraising Smoke through cool eyes, aware that he might have said too much.
“He must have slipped in on the road,” Smoke said quickly, noting the coolness in the man’s eyes fading. “It would be impossible to come in through those terribly high mountains around the town.”
The outlaw smiled. “Yeah. That’s what he done, all right. And there ain’t no tellin’ how long he’s been tryin’ to get out, right?”
“Oh, absolutely. I think the savage should be hanged immediately.” Smoke forced indignation into his voice.
The outlaw grinned. His teeth were blackened, rotted stubs. “You all right, Shirley. You’re beginnin’ to fit right in here. Yeah, the Injun’s gonna die. But it’s gonna be slow.”
“Why?” Smoke asked innocently.
“Why, hell’s fire, Shirley! So’s we can all have some fun, that’s why.”
“Oh. Of course.”
A man ran past Smoke and the outlaw, running in that odd bowlegged manner of one who has spent all his life on a horse.
“What’s happenin’, Jeff?” the outlaw asked.
“Mr. Davidson tole me to get the kid, York. Says we gotta test him. You know why?”
“Yeah.”
Neither man would elaborate.
Smoke felt he knew what the test was going to involve, and he also felt that York would not pass it. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Smoke wandered on down to the large crowd gathered in front of the saloon and tried to blend in.
The crowd of hardcases and thugs and guns-for-hire ignored him, but Smoke was very conscious of Rex Davidson’s eyes on him. He met the man’s steady gaze and smiled at him.
Davidson waved the crowd silent. “I have decided on a better plan,” he said as the crowd fell quiet. “Forget York; we know he’s a wanted man. There are some of you who claim that our artist friend is not what he professes to be. Well, let’s settle that issue right now. Bring that damned Indian out here.”
Smoke felt sure it would be Lone Eagle, and it was. He was dragged out of the saloon and onto the boardwalk. He had been badly beaten, his nose and mouth dripping blood. But his face remained impassive and he deliberately did not look at Smoke.
“Drag that damned savage to the shooting post,” Davidson ordered. He looked at Smoke and smiled, an evil curving of the lips. “And you, Mr. Artist, you come along, too.”
“Do I have to? I hate violence. It makes me ill. I’d be upset for days.”
“Yes, damn it, you have to. Now get moving.”
Smoke allowed himself to be pushed and shoved along, not putting up any resistance. He wondered if any Indians were watching from the cliffs that surrounded the outlaw town and concluded they probably were.
And he also had a pretty good hunch what the test was going to entail.
The crowd stopped in a large clearing. In the center of the clearing, a bullet-scarred and blood-stained post was set into the ground.
Lone Eagle turned to face the crowd, and when he spoke, his voice was strong. “I do not need to be tied like a coward. I face death with a strong heart, and I shall die well. I will show the white man how to die with honor. Which is something that few of you know anything about.”
The crowd of hardcases booed him.
Lone Eagle spat at them in contempt.
He had not as yet looked at Smoke.
Smoke was shoved to the front of the crowd and a pistol placed into his hand.
“What am I supposed to do with this weapon, Mr. Davidson?”
“Kill the Indian,” Rex told him.
“Oh, I say now!” Smoke protested shrilly. “I haven’t fired a gun in years. I detest guns. I’m afraid of them. I won’t be able to hit the savage.”
Lone Eagle laughed at Smoke, looking at him. “The white man is a woman!” Lone Eagle shouted. And Smoke knew he was deliberately goading him. Lone Eagle knew he was going to die and preferred his death to be quick rather than slow torture, torture for the amusement of the white men gathered around. He might have chosen the slow way had he been captured by another tribe, for to die slowly and with much pain was an honor—if at the hands of other Indians. But not at the hands of the white men. “The silly-looking white man is a coward.”
“You gonna take that from a damned Injun, Shirley?” a man shouted.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Hell, sissy-boy. Kill the bastard!”
Smoke lifted the pistol and pretended to have trouble cocking it. He deliberately let it fire, the slug almost hitting an outlaw in the foot. Smoke shrieked as if in fright and the outlaw cussed him.
The others thought it wildly funny.
“Watch it there, Black!” an outlaw yelled. “He lift that muzzle up some you liable to be ridin’ side-saddle!”
The man whose foot was just missed by the slug stepped back into the crowd and gave Smoke some dirty looks.
“Shoot the goddamn Indian, DeBeers!” Davidson ordered.
Smoke lifted the pistol and cocked it, taking careful aim and pulling the trigger. The slug missed Lone Eagle by several yards, digging up dirt. The outlaws hooted and laughed and began making bets as to how many rounds it would take for Smoke to hit his target.