“How’d you know me, Slim? I’ve never laid eyes on you in my life.”
“Just a guess. I’d heard people describe you ’fore. And I knowed what went on up on the Sugarloaf, with them gunnies and your wife; I figured you’d be comin’ on along ’fore long. But what give you away was your accent. I’ve had folks from New York town in here ’fore. Your accent is all wrong.”
“Then I guess I’d better start working on that, right?”
“Wrong. What you’d better do is shift locations. You ain’t never gonna talk like them folks. You best say you’re from Pennsylvannie. From a little farm outside Pittsburgh on the river. That ought to do it. If you’re just bounded and swore to go off and get shot full of holes.”
Smoke let that last bit slide. “How’s Preacher?” He dropped that in without warning.
Slim studied him for a moment, then nodded his head. “Gettin’ on in years. But he’s all right, last I heard. He’s livin’ with some half-breed kids of hisn up in Wyoming. Up close to the Montanie line.”
“It’s good to know that he’s still alive. But I can’t figure why he won’t come live with me and Sally up on the Sugarloaf.”
“That ain’t his way, Smoke, and you know it. He’s happy, boy. That’s what’s important. Why, hell, Smoke!” he grinned, exposing nearly toothless gums. “They’s a whole passel of them ol’ boys up yonder. They’s Phew, Lobo, Audie, Nighthawk, Dupre, Greybull—two/three more. Couple of ’em has died since they hepped you out three/four years back.”
Smoke remembered them all and smiled with that remembrance.
“Yeah,” Slim said. “I’m thinkin’ hard on sellin’ out and headin’ up that way to join them. Gettin’ on in years myself. I’d like to have me a woman to rub my back ever now and then. But,” he sighed, “I prob’ly won’t do that. Stay right here until I keel over daid. But Preacher and them? They happy, boy. They got their memories and they got each other. And when it’s time for them to go, they’ll turn their faces to the sky and sing their death songs. Don’t worry none ’bout Preacher, Smoke. He raised you better than that.”
“You’re right, Slim.” Smoke grinned. “As much as I’d like to see him, I’m glad he can’t see me in this get-up today.”
Slim laughed and slapped his knee. “He’d prob’ly laugh so hard he’d have a heart attack, for sure. I got to tell you, Smoke, you do look…well…odd!”
“But it’s working.”
“So far, I reckon it is. Let’s talk about that. You got a plan, Smoke?”
“About getting into Dead River?” Slim nodded. “No. Not really. But for sure, I’m going in like this.”
Smoke did not hesitate about talking about his plans to Slim. He could be trusted. Preacher had told him that.
“Might work,” Slim said.
“The outlaws think they’ve got everybody convinced there is only one way in and one way out. I don’t believe that.”
“That’s a pile of buffalo chips! You get on with the Utes, don’t you?”
“Stayed with them many times.”
“White Wolf and a bunch of his people is camped over just west of Cordova Pass. The word is, from old-timers that I talked to, White Wolf’s braves make a game out of slippin’ in and out of Dead River. White Wolf ain’t got no use for none of them people in there. They been hard on Injuns. You talk to White Wolf. He’s an old friend and enemy of Preacher.”
Smoke knew what he meant. You might spend a summer with the Indians and the winter fighting them. That’s just the way it was. Nearly anyone could ride into an Indian camp and eat and spend the night and not be bothered. ’Course they might kill you when you tried to leave. But at least you’d die after a good night’s sleep and a full stomach.
Indians were notional folks.
“I did meet and sketch and convince some outlaw name of Cahoon.” He showed Slim the note.
The old man whistled. “He’s a bad one; ’bout half crazy. Hates Injuns and women; ain’t got but one use for a woman and you know what that is. Then he tortures them to death. How’d you meet him?”
Smoke told him, leaving nothing out. Slim laughed and wiped his eyes.
“Well, you can bet that Cahoon has told his buddies ’bout you plannin’ on comin’ in. And you can bet somebody is right now checkin’ on your back trail. And they’ll be here ’fore long. So you best draw me two or three of them pitchers of yourn and I’ll stick ’em up on the wall.”
Smoke spent several days at Slim’s, relaxing and learning all that the old man knew about Dead River, Rex Davidson, and the man who called himself Dagget.
And Slim knew plenty.
They were the scum of the earth, Slim said, reinforcing what Smoke had already guessed. There was nothing they would not do for money, or had not already done. Every man in Dead River had at least one murder warrant out on his head.
That was going to make Smoke’s job a lot easier.
“Smoke, if you do get inside that outlaw stronghold,” Slim warned him, “don’t you for one second ever drop that act of yourn. ’Cause ifn you do, sure as hell, someone’ll pick up on it and you’ll be a long time dyin’.
“Now, listen to me, boy: Don’t trust nobody in there. Not one solitary soul. You cain’t afford to do that.
“Now personal, Smoke, I think you’re a damn fool for tryin’ this. But I can see Preacher’s invisible hand writ all over you. He’d do the same thing.” He eyeballed Smoke’s foppish get-up and grinned. “Well, he’d go in there; let’s put it that way! I ain’t gonna try to turn you around. You a growed-up man.”
