Mox and his gang because he didn't like traveling alone. He thought Mox Mox's habit of burning people was repugnant, and he always rode off a mile or two and tried to take a nap, while the people screamed out their pain. But he stayed with the gang because it eliminated the problem of being lazy and getting caught. He could make fires and he could cook; those were his main jobs with Mox Mox. He was rarely asked to take much part in the killing, and had been very reluctant to ride his horse over the hut of the old Comanche woman, although he had not known the woman personally. It seemed to him dangerous to race seven horses at the same time, and make them smash a hut, even a small one. Running horses often fell anyway. His own brother had his skull broken because a running horse had fallen in a rocky place with him on its back.
'They say Joey Garza can shoot you from a mile,' Jimmy Cumsa said. 'They say he don't miss.' 'I don't miss, either,' Mox Mox said.
'You miss because you don't aim--you just shoot. If I hadn't adopted you, I imagine you'd have been plugged by now. Let's go find somebody who knows where this wild boy's at. I want to kill him before he takes any more payrolls away from us.
Then, we'll go get Goodnight.' At the saloon, Oteros and Manuel stayed outside. Pedro Jones went in, but came right back out. He disliked low rooms.
Peon went in, hoping Mox Mox would buy him whiskey, but Mox Mox didn't mention buying whiskey for anyone. Hergardt and Jimmy Cumsa also went inside. Hergardt's head came within an inch of the ceiling, when he straightened up.
A white man with a splotchy face, a cripple, and an Irishman were in the saloon.
Mox Mox recognized John Wesley Hardin at once, from photographs he had seen in newspapers. Seeing him in person was a surprise. Mox Mox hadn't supposed he could walk into a saloon in the sandhills and come upon a famous man.
'Ain't you Hardin?' he asked, feeling that he was addressing a peer.
'Mind your own business, you cross-eyed runt,' Hardin said. He had stepped outside and surveyed the gang briefly. Red Foot had limped in and informed him that they were trampling old Naiche to death.
'Well, there goes the last woman,' he observed, to Patrick O'Brien. 'This place has got the curse of doom upon it. If I was you and had a business in a place like this, I'd move it.' 'Wes, I just got a load of whiskey in last week,' Patrick pointed out. 'It's the wrong time to move.' Mox Mox was so startled by John Wesley Hardin's insulting reply that he didn't do a thing. He took the other table, and told the Irishman to bring him whiskey. There were only two chairs at his dirty little table, and Jimmy Cumsa took the second chair. Jimmy was amused by the killer's reply to Mox Mox. Such talk was music to his ears. He had described Mox Mox exactly: a cross-eyed runt.
Hergardt was left standing. He didn't seem to mind or to notice, but John Wesley Hardin noticed.
'You're too big to be inside--go outside and wait,' he said, to Hergardt. 'Or else sit down. You're blocking the light. I can scarcely see my cards.' 'There ain't no chair for me,' Hergardt informed him.
'Then sit on the floor, you damn German,' Wesley Hardin said. 'If you don't get out of my light, you'll soon be enjoying a few holes in your liver.' He pulled his revolver out of his belt, and laid it on the table.
Despite the insult that had been offered him, Mox Mox found that he admired Hardin's temerity. Hardin was the most famous killer in the Southwest, after all. Finding a man who would say exactly what he pleased was a novelty, and of course, Hardin's reputation was far greater than his own. Hardin had the habit of killing, and he had gone to prison for it and survived, untamed.
Mox Mox decided to overlook the insult. He wanted to get to know Wesley Hardin, but more than that, he wanted Hardin to accept him as a peer.
Being called a cross-eyed runt was nothing new anyway. In his years at sea, when he was often the smallest man on the ship, he had been called worse things.
The epithet was inaccurate, of course. His eyes didn't cross. One was pointed at an angle to the other. People who called him cross-eyed were not very observant.
'Now, be friendly, Hardin,' he said. 'I've got seven men here, and we're after the Garza boy.' 'As to that, seven is not enough,' Hardin said.
'Well, counting me, it's eight,' Mox Mox said.
'No, you have to subtract the Mexicans, because they undoubtedly can't shoot,' Wesley Hardin informed him. 'Then, you subtract this giant, who's blocking my light, and the reason you can subtract him is because I'm about to kill him if he don't sit down. I won't stand for dim light. I killed a blacksmith on that very spot a few days ago, and he wasn't near as tall as this lunkhead, and didn't block near as much light.' 'Sit down, Gardt, don't you hear Mr.
Hardin?' Mox Mox said.
'Going outside would be even better,' Wesley Hardin said. 'That way, I wouldn't have to look at three hundred pounds of stupidity while I'm trying to concentrate on my cards.' 'I'll play you cards, if you're shorthanded for a game,' Jimmy Cumsa said. The man John Wesley had a droll habit of speech. If he had been offering employment, Jimmy would have accepted it on the spot.
There was little conversation to be had out of the present gang, although Pedro Jones became garrulous at certain times.
'I guess you would, you goddamn Cherokee,' Hardin said. 'Or are you Choctaw?' Jimmy Cumsa just looked at him. The man had a surprisingly rough tongue. He didn't seem to realize that he was badly outnumbered, or else he just didn't care.
'Is the Garza boy here?' Mox Mox asked. With a man as unpredictable as John Wesley, it seemed best to come to the point. He might fly off the handle and kill Hergardt, and Gardt was useful when there were heavy things to lift.
'The boy ain't, and what's more, his mother ain't, either,' Hardin said. 'She came here and killed the big pig that was eating the corpses, and then walked out of here with all the cunt, except that old thing you just killed with your damn nags.' 'Why, that old Comanche woman was too old to pester,' Mox Mox said.
'Old or not, and Comanche or not, she was the last woman left in Crow Town, and your action was unwelcome,' Wesley Hardin said. 'We don't like strangers who trample our women.' 'You're a sonofabitch,' Mox Mox said-- respectful as he was of Hardin, he was beginning to be riled by his tone.
