“What’s happenin’, Jeff?” the outlaw asked.
“Mr. Davidson tole me to get the kid, York. Says we gotta test him. You know why?”
“Yeah.”
Neither man would elaborate.
Smoke felt he knew what the test was going to involve, and he also felt that York would not pass it. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Smoke wandered on down to the large crowd gathered in front of the saloon and tried to blend in.
The crowd of hardcases and thugs and guns-for-hire ignored him, but Smoke was very conscious of Rex Davidson’s eyes on him. He met the man’s steady gaze and smiled at him.
Davidson waved the crowd silent. “I have decided on a better plan,” he said as the crowd fell quiet. “Forget York; we know he’s a wanted man. There are some of you who claim that our artist friend is not what he professes to be. Well, let’s settle that issue right now. Bring that damned Indian out here.”
Smoke felt sure it would be Lone Eagle, and it was. He was dragged out of the saloon and onto the boardwalk. He had been badly beaten, his nose and mouth dripping blood. But his face remained impassive and he deliberately did not look at Smoke.
“Drag that damned savage to the shooting post,” Davidson ordered. He looked at Smoke and smiled, an evil curving of the lips. “And you, Mr. Artist, you come along, too.”
“Do I have to? I hate violence. It makes me ill. I’d be upset for days.”
“Yes, damn it, you have to. Now get moving.”
Smoke allowed himself to be pushed and shoved along, not putting up any resistance. He wondered if any Indians were watching from the cliffs that surrounded the outlaw town and concluded they probably were.
And he also had a pretty good hunch what the test was going to entail.
The crowd stopped in a large clearing. In the center of the clearing, a bullet-scarred and blood-stained post was set into the ground.
Lone Eagle turned to face the crowd, and when he spoke, his voice was strong. “I do not need to be tied like a coward. I face death with a strong heart, and I shall die well. I will show the white man how to die with honor. Which is something that few of you know anything about.”
The crowd of hardcases booed him.
Lone Eagle spat at them in contempt.
He had not as yet looked at Smoke.
Smoke was shoved to the front of the crowd and a pistol placed into his hand.
“What am I supposed to do with this weapon, Mr. Davidson?”
“Kill the Indian,” Rex told him.
“Oh, I say now!” Smoke protested shrilly. “I haven’t fired a gun in years. I detest guns. I’m afraid of them. I won’t be able to hit the savage.”
Lone Eagle laughed at Smoke, looking at him. “The white man is a woman!” Lone Eagle shouted. And Smoke knew he was deliberately goading him. Lone Eagle knew he was going to die and preferred his death to be quick rather than slow torture, torture for the amusement of the white men gathered around. He might have chosen the slow way had he been captured by another tribe, for to die slowly and with much pain was an honor—if at the hands of other Indians. But not at the hands of the white men. “The silly-looking white man is a coward.”
“You gonna take that from a damned Injun, Shirley?” a man shouted.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Hell, sissy-boy. Kill the bastard!”
Smoke lifted the pistol and pretended to have trouble cocking it. He deliberately let it fire, the slug almost hitting an outlaw in the foot. Smoke shrieked as if in fright and the outlaw cussed him.
The others thought it wildly funny.
“Watch it there, Black!” an outlaw yelled. “He lift that muzzle up some you liable to be ridin’ side-saddle!”
The man whose foot was just missed by the slug stepped back into the crowd and gave Smoke some dirty looks.
“Shoot the goddamn Indian, DeBeers!” Davidson ordered.
Smoke lifted the pistol and cocked it, taking careful aim and pulling the trigger. The slug missed Lone Eagle by several yards, digging up dirt. The outlaws hooted and laughed and began making bets as to how many rounds it would take for Smoke to hit his target.
“Try again, Shirley,” Davidson told him, disgust in his voice.
“What a silly, silly man you are!” Lone Eagle shouted. “If you had two pistols and a rifle and shotgun beside you, you still would not be able to hit me. It is good they are out of your sight. You might hurt yourself, foolish man.”
Lone Eagle was telling Smoke that his weapons had been hidden as planned.
“Shoot the damned Injun, Shirley!” Dagget hollered in Smoke’s ear.
“All right! All right!” Smoke put a hurt expression on his face. “You don’t have to be so ugly about it!”
Smoke fired again. The slug missed Lone Eagle by a good two feet.
