“Tea.”
“Sure. I guess so. Never acquired much of a taste for it.”
“I can make coffee.”
“No, no. Tea will be fine.” He pushed open the gate and took a chair on the porch.
It wasn’t fine. Buck thought he was going to gag on the stuff. It didn’t taste like nothing. But he smiled bravely and swallowed. Hard.
Sally laughed at him. “Please let me make you some coffee, Buck. It will only take a few minutes.”
“Maybe you’d better. I sure would appreciate it. This stuff and me just don’t get along.”
Buck sat alone on the small porch and watched as Dupre rode past, riding slowly, his Henry repeating rifle held in one hand, across the saddle. As he rode past, the old mountain man nodded his head to Buck. “Nice mornin’, ain’t it, son?”
“Yes, it is. Have yourself a good day.”
“My good days are twenty year down my backtrail,” Dupre said. “But I still manage to git by.” He rode on, soon out of sight.
“Who in the
“You probably read about them in school,” Buck said. “Mountain men?”
“Oh, yes! But I thought they were all dead.”
“Most of them are. The real mountain men, that is. But there’s still some salty ol’ boys out there, still riding the high lonesome.”
“The high lonesome? That’s beautiful, Buck. Do I detect a wistful note in your voice?”
“Wistful?”
“Means a longing, or a yearning for something.”
Could he trust her? Buck didn’t know. She could very well be a spy for Stratton or Potter or Richards. Then he remembered how she had stood up to Sheriff Reese. He made up his mind. All right, he would tell her just enough to bait her.
“I guess so, Sally. I came out here just a boy. Alone,” he lied. “I grew up in the mountains. Met a lot of mountain men. They was, were, old men even then. But tough and hard as nails. They knew their way of life was about gone, even then. But it was a fine way of life—for them; not for everybody.”
“And for you, Buck?”
“For me? Do you mean did I enjoy it?”
She nodded.
Buck smiled. “Oh, yes. I’ll get a burr under my saddle one of these days and you won’t see me for several days. I’ll have to shake the staleness of town off me; head for the high country. Me and the horses. But I’ll be back. If it matters to you, that is.”
She was silent for a very long moment. So long that Buck thought he had offended her with the statement.
“Yes, Buck. I think it does matter to me. In…a way that I can’t explain. Not just yet. Buck, I am a very perceptive person…”
“A what kind of person?”
“Perceptive. That means I have a keen insight, or understanding, of things.”
“Terrible to be as ignorant as I am,” Buck said.
Sally did not pursue that, for she did not believe Buck to be an ignorant person. Just a person who was hiding something. For whatever reason.
“And your insight tells you what about me, Sally?”
“That you don’t fully trust me.”
“I don’t fully trust anybody, Sally. Out here in the west, trust is something that has to be earned. It has to be that way ’cause your life might depend on it.”
“Yes. I’ve heard that from several people since I’ve been out here.”
“It’s very true. You have a lot of outlaws working out here. You have a half-dozen Indian tribes on the warpath. Long as you stay close to Bury, you probably won’t have to worry about the Indians attacking. It’s too big for them. But get a mile away from town, and your life is in constant danger. You’ve got to know the man or men you ride with. Will they stand with you or turn tail and run? See what I mean about earning trust?”
“Yes. I suppose so. I won’t tell you what else my insight tells me about you, Buck. Not until I’ve earned your trust. Do you suppose that will happen?”
“I imagine so.”
Buck checked in with the Big Three’s office manager, the office located in a building in the center of town, and told the dour-faced and sour-dispositioned little man he was riding out; be gone for a day or two. Give his horse some exercise.
MacGregor grunted and told Buck to be back day after tomorrow. He had to ride south to deliver a pouch.
“I’ll be back.”
