Smoke knew that one-way-in and one-way-out business was nonsense. If he could find some Indians, he’d discover a dozen ways in and out. When he got close to the range of mountains, he’d seek out some band and talk with them.
The rancher said, “There’ve been reports of them outlaws gettin’ all drunked up and draggin’ people to death just for the fun of doin’ it, up and down the main street. Some men from the Pinkerton agency, I think it was, got in there a couple of years ago, disguised as outlaws. When it was discovered what they really was, the outlaws stripped ’em nekkid and nailed ’em up on crosses, left the men there to die, and they died hard.”
“Sometimes,” the clerk added, “they’ll hang people up on meathooks and leave them to die slow. Takes ’em days. And it just ain’t fittin’ to speak aloud what they do to women they kidnap and haul in there. Makes me sick to just think about it.”
“Barbaric!” Smoke said.
“So you just stay out of that place, mister,” the rancher said.
“But Mr. Cahoon said I would be welcome,” Smoke dropped that in.
“You know Cahoon?” The clerk was bug-eyed.
“I sketched him once.”
“You must have done it right. Cause if you hadn’t, Cahoon would have sure killed you. He’s one of the worst. Likes to torture people—especially Indians and women; he ain’t got no use for neither of them.”
“Well, why doesn’t someone do something about it?” Smoke demanded. “They sound like perfectly horrid people to me.”
“It’d take the Army to get them out,” the rancher explained. “At least five hundred men—maybe more than that; probably more than that. But here’s the rub, mister: No one has ever come out of there to file no complaints. When a prisoner goes in there, he or she is dead. And dead people don’t file no legal complaints. So look, buddy… eh, fellow, whatever, the day’ll come when the Army goes in. But that day ain’t here yet. So you best keep your butt outta there.”
Smoke drifted on, and his reputation as a good artist went before him. He cut east, until he found a town with a telegraph office and sent a wire to Boston. He and Sally had worked out a code. He was S.B. and she was S.J. He waited in the town for a night and a day before receiving a reply.
Sally was fine. The doctors had removed the lead from her and her doctor in Boston did not think an operation would be necessary for child-birthing.
Smoke drifted on, crossing the Timpas and then following the Purgatoire down to Slim’s General Store. A little settlement had been built around the old trading post, but it was fast dying, with only a few ramshackle buildings remaining. Smoke stabled his horses and stepped into the old store.
An old man sat on a stool behind the article-littered counter. He lifted his eyes as Smoke walked in.
“I ain’t real sure just perxactly what you might be, son,” the old man said, taking in Smoke’s wild get-up. “But if you got any fresh news worth talkin’ ’bout, you shore welcome, whether you buy anything or not.”
Smoke looked around him. The store was empty of customers. Silent, except for what must have been years of memories, crouching in every corner. “Your name Slim?”
“Has been for nigh on seventy years. Kinda late to be changin’ it now. What can I do you out of, stranger?”
Smoke bought some supplies, chatting with Slim while he shopped. He then sat down at the offer of a cup of coffee.
“I am an artist,” he announced. “I have traveled all the way from New York City, wandering the West, recreating famous gunfights on paper. For posterity. I intend to become quite famous through my sketchings.”
Slim looked at the outfit that Smoke had selected for that morning. It was all the old man could do to keep a straight face. Purple britches and flame-red silk shirt and colored glasses.
“Is that right?” Slim asked.
“It certainly is. And I would just imagine that you are a veritable well of knowledge concerning famous gunfighters and mountain men, are you not?”
Slim nodded his head. “I ain’t real sure what it is you just said, partner. Are you askin’ me if I knowed any gunfighters or mountain men?”
“That is quite correct, Mr. Slim.”
“And your name be?…”
“Shirley DeBeers.”
“Lord have mercy. Well, Shirley, yeah, I’ve seen my share of gunfights. I personal planted six or eight right back yonder.” He pointed. “What is it you want to know about, pilgrim?”
Smoke got the impression that he wasn’t fooling this old man, not one little bit. And he was curious as to the why of that.
“I have come from New York,” he said. “In search of any information about the most famous mountain man of all time. And I was told in Denver that you, and you alone, could give me some information about him. Can you?”
Slim looked at Smoke, then his eyes began to twinkle. “Boy, I come out here in ’35, and I knowed ’em all. Little Kit Carson—you know he wasn’t much over five feet tall—Fremont, Smith, Big Jim, Caleb Greenwood, John Jacobs; hell, son, you just name some and I bet I knew ’em and traded with ’em.”
“But from what I have learned, you did not name the most famous of them all!”
Slim smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. I sure didn’t—Mr. Smoke Jensen.”
6
Over a lunch of beef and beans and canned peaches, Smoke and Slim sat and talked.
