“Yep.”
“Figures.”
Major stood quietly, not knowing what was going on. “I gather you men live here?”
“I own it,” Kirby said.
“Own it? How much of it?”
Kirby told him.
“Why … that’s hundreds of square miles!”
“We like lots of room.”
“You have papers on this?”
“I filed on it, yeah. But I have no objections to you and your men staying here. Just don’t trample my gardens or take my horses.”
The major had stepped closer, standing by a large, flat rock. “I assure you, sir, we will leave the —”
No one saw the young man draw, cock and pull the trigger of his right hand Colt. It was done as fast as a man could blink. The major looked down: A headless rattlesnake writhed at his boots.
“Sweet Molly!” a young cavalryman said. “I never even seen him draw.”
Major Powell was a cool one; he had not moved. He kicked the squirming snake out of the way and said, “That was the most impressive shooting with a handgun I believe I’ve ever seen. I thank you, Smoke.”
“Man can’t be too careful out here,” Preacher said, a bored look on his bearded face. “I take it upon myself to tell all pilgrims that.”
The major smiled at this quiet slur. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a man draw, cock, and fire a pistol that quickly. I’m sure I haven’t. But I’m told the outlaw, Jesse James, is also quite proficient with a handgun.”
“Who?” Kirby was startled.
“Jesse James. The Missouri bank robber and outlaw. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him.” Kirby drew his right hand Colt and tossed the weapon to the major.
The cavalryman inspected the pistol, noting the initials J. J. carved into the handles. Powell tossed the pistol back to Kirby. “I see,” he said quietly, not quite certain where he now stood, for emotions concerning the James Gang ran both hot and cold, depending upon which side of the fence one stood. “And where are you from originally, Smoke?”
“That ain’t a polite question to ask out here,” Preacher informed him.
“I know,” the major said. “I shouldn’t have asked it. I withdraw it.”
“It’s all right,” Kirby said. “I’m from the southwestern part of Missouri.”
“Did you fight in the Civil War?”
“My Pa fought in the War Between the States,” Kirby said with a smile.
“Ah … yes.” The major returned the smile. He would say no more about James. He mounted, ordering his men to do the same. “We shan’t disturb you, gentlemen. We’ll bivouac on the other side of the canyon. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
“I doubt it,” Kirby said.
“Oh?”
“Me and Preacher got things to do and places to go. Any horse you see around here with the SJ brand belongs to us. If you need a horse, take your pick of the mustangs and geldings, leave the mares alone. Just leave the money — what you think they’re worth — in the cave at the Hole.”
“Thank you,” the major said. “You are a trusting man, Smoke.”
“Not really. I just believe you don’t want to cheat me.”
Major Powell sensed in the young man a heavy, almost tangible aura of danger. The dark eyes gave no hint of what lay behind them.
“No,” the army officer said. “I don’t believe I want to do that.”
The cavalrymen were gone in a cloud of dust, all but the old buckskin-clad scout who had guided them to this old post. He had not dismounted. He looked at Preacher.
“Thought you’s dead,” he finally said.
Preacher glared at him. “Yeah? That’s what you get for tryin’ to stir up that mess between your ears.”
The scout grunted. “Walked right into that, I reckon.” He shifted his gaze to Kirby. “Met a man who knowed your Pa in the war. One of Mosby’s people. All stove up now — livin’ over to the hot springs on the San Juan. Valley there. He heared ’bout your Pa gettin’ lead in him west of here. His name is Gaultier. Don’t ask me to spell it. He might know something that you wanna know. Told him I’d tell you ifn I saw you. I seen you. I told you. Good seein’ you agin, Preacher.”
“Right nice seein’ you, Rio.”
The scout wheeled his horse and was gone.
“Friend of yours?” Kirby asked.
“Not so’s you’d know it. We fought over the same squaw back in ’49. He lost. We ain’t had much to do with
