The road he was on twisted and climbed and narrowed dramatically.
The road was just wide enough for a wagon and maybe a horse to meet it, coming from the other direction. Another wagon, and somebody would have to give. But where? Then Smoke began to notice yellow flags every few hundred yards. A signal for wagon masters, he supposed, but whether they meant stop or go, he had no idea.
He had ridden a couple of miles, always west and always climbing, when a voice stopped him.
“Just hold it right there, fancy-pants. And keep your hands where I can see them. You get itchy, and I’ll blow your butt out of the saddle.”
Smoke reined up. Putting fear into his voice, he called, “I mean you no harm. I am Shirley DeBeers, the artist.”
“What you gonna be is dead if you don’t shut that goddamn mouth.”
Smoke shut up.
The faint sounds of mumbling voices reached him, but he could not make out the words.
“All right, fancy-britches,” the same voice called out. “Git off that horse and stand still.”
Smoke dismounted and stood in the roadway. Then he heard the sounds of bootsteps all around him: There was Hart, the backshooter; Gridley, who murdered his best friend and partner, and then raped and killed the man’s wife; Nappy, a killer for hire. There were others, but Smoke did not immediately recognize them, except for the fact that they were hardcases.
“Take off that coat,” he was ordered, “and toss it to me. Frisk ’im, Nappy.”
Smoke was searched and searched professionally; even his boots were removed and inspected. His pack ropes were untied and his belongings dumped in the middle of the road.
“Oh, I say now! Is that necessary, gentlemen?”
“Shut up!”
Smoke shut up.
His belongings were inspected, but his bag of dirty underwear was tossed to one side after only a glance. Luckily the bag landed on a pile of clean clothes and the weight of the .44 did not make a sound.
So far, so good, Smoke thought.
Finally, the search was over and the men stared at him for a moment. One said, “I reckon Cahoon and them others was right. He ain’t got nothing but a pocket knife. And it’s dull.”
“Is my good friend Cahoon in town? Oh, I hope so. He’s such a nice man.”
“Shut your mouth!”
“What about it, Hart?”
“I reckon some of us can take silly-boy on in.”
“I say,” Smoke looked around him at the mess in the road. “Are some of you good fellows going to help me gather up and repack my possessions?”
The outlaws thought that was very funny. They told him in very blunt language that they were not. And to make their point better understood, one of them kicked Smoke in the butt. Smoke yelled and fell to the ground. Drifter swung his head and his yellow eyes were killer-cold. Smoke quickly crawled to the horse and grabbed a stirrup, using that to help pull himself up, all the while murmuring to Drifter, calming him.
Rubbing his butt, Smoke faced the outlaws. “You don’t have to be so rough!”
“Oh, my goodness!” Gridley cried, prancing about to the laughter of the others. “We hurt his feelin’s, boys. We got to stop bein’ so rough!”
And right then and there, Smoke began to wonder if he would be able to last a week.
He calmed himself and waved his hand at his pile of belongings. “I say, as you men can see from your trashing of my possessions, I am low on supplies. Might I be allowed to continue on to Dead River and resupply?” He had left most of his supplies at the head of the Sangre de Cristo creek.
“Cahoon was supposed to have given you a note,” a man said. A hardcase Smoke did not know. “Lemme see the note, sissy-pants.”
“I am not a sissy! I am merely a man of great sensibilities.”
“Gimme the goddamn note!”
The note was handed over and passed around.
“That’s Cahoon’s writin’ all right. What about it, Hart, it’s up to you?”
“Yeah, let him go on in. He can draw us all, and then we’ll have some fun with him.”
Smoke caught the wink.
“Yeah. That’s a good idee. And I know just the person to give him to.”
“Who?” Nappy asked.
“Brute!”
That drew quite a laugh and narrowed Smoke’s eyes. He had heard of Brute Pitman. A huge man, three hundred pounds or more of savage perversions. He was wanted all over the eastern half of the nation for the most disgusting crimes against humanity. But oddly enough, Smoke had never heard of a warrant against him west of the Mississippi River. Bounty hunters had tried to take him, but Brute was hard to kill.
