“’Kay.” York took off his battered hat and ran fingers through his tousled hair. “DeBeers?”
“Yes, York?”
“Let’s you and me get the hell gone from this damn place!”
12
There was no doubt in Smoke’s mind that York was serious and was no part of Davidson’s scheme of things in or around Dead River. The young cowboy was no outlaw and had made up his mind never to become one. But Smoke had three days to go before the deadline was up and the posse would strike. He had a hunch that would be the longest three days of his life. He looked at York for a moment before replying.
“I’m just about through sketching Davidson. He has indicated that he would allow me to leave after that.”
“Like I said before—and you believed him?”
“I have no choice in the matter.”
“I guess not. But I still think you’re draggin’ your boots for some reason. But I’ll stick around just to see what you’re up to. Don’t worry, DeBeers. I’ll keep my suspicions to myself.”
Again, Smoke had nothing to say on that subject. “What are you going to do on the outside, York?”
York shook his head. “I don’t know. Drift, I reckon. I just ain’t cut out for this kind of life. I think I knowed that all along. But I think I owe it to you for pointin’ it out.”
“Stay out of sight, York.” Smoke picked up his sketch pad. “I have to go sketch Davidson. Even though I certainly don’t feel up to it.”
“What if Davidson won’t let you leave here like he says he will?”
“I don’t know. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Bridges don’t worry me,” York said glumly. “It’s that damn guarded pass that’s got me concerned.”
The next two days passed without incident. York stayed at Smoke’s camp—and stayed close. Smoke continued his sketching of Rex Davidson, and his opinion that the man was a conceited and arrogant tyrant was confirmed. The man remained friendly enough—as friendly as he had ever been to Smoke—but Smoke could detect a change in him. He appeared tense and sometimes nervous. And there was distance between them now, a distance that had not been there before. Smoke knew that Davidson had never really intended to let him leave. He did not think that Rex suspected he was anything except the part he was playing, what he claimed to be. It was, Smoke felt, that Rex had been playing a game with him all along; a cat with a cornered mouse. A little torture before the death bite.
“I’m becoming a bit weary of all this,” Davidson suddenly announced, breaking his pose. The afternoon of the sixth day.
“Of what, sir?” Smoke lifted his eyes, meeting the hard gaze of the man.
“Of posing, fool!” Davidson said sharply. “I have enough pictures. But as for you, I don’t know what to do about you.”
“Whatever in the world are you talking about, Mr. Davidson?”
Rex stared at him for a long moment. Then, rising from the stool where he’d been sitting, posing, he walked to a window and looked out, staring down at his outlaw town. He turned and said, “I first thought it was you; that you were the front man, the spy sent in here. Then I realized that no one except a professional actor could play the part of a fool as convincingly as you’ve done…and no actor has that much courage. Not to come in here and lay his life on the line. So you are what you claim to be. A silly fop. But I still don’t know what to do with you. I do know that you are beginning to bore me. It was the Indian. Had to be. The marshals hired the Indian to come in here and check on us.”
“Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But Smoke knew. Somewhere in the ranks of the marshals or the sheriffs or the deputies, there was a turncoat. Now he had to find out just how much Rex Davidson knew about the plan just twenty-four hours away from bloody reality.
And stay alive long enough to do something about it, if he could.
“That damn woman almost had me fooled,” Davidson said, more to himself than to Smoke. He had turned his back again, not paying any attention to Smoke. “It was good fun torturing her, DeBeers; I wish you had been here to see it. Yes, indeed. I outdid myself with inventiveness. I kept her alive for a long time. I finally broke her, of course. But by the time I did, she was no more than a broken, babbling idiot. The only thing we learned was that the marshals were planning on coming in here at some time or the other. She didn’t know when.”
“Sir, I—”
Davidson whirled around, his face hard with anger. “Shut your goddamn mouth, DeBeers!” He shouted. “And never interrupt me when I’m speaking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, she was raped—among other things. The men enjoyed taking their perversions upon her.” He was pacing the room. “Repeatedly. I enjoyed listening to her beg for mercy. Dagget can be quite inventive, too. But finally I wearied of it, just as I am rapidly wearying of you, DeBeers. You’re really a Milquetoast, Shirley. I think I’ll put you in a dress and parade you around. Yes. That is a thought.”
Smoke kept his mouth shut.
Davidson turned back to the window, gazing out over his town of scum and filth and perversion. “I have not left this place in years. I stay aware of what is going on outside, of course. But I have not left this valley in years. It’s mine, and no one is going to take it from me. I will not permit it. I know an attack is coming. But I don’t know when.”
Smoke knew then why the sudden influx of outlaws. Somehow, probably through outriders, Davidson had gotten the word out to them: If you want to save your refuge, you’d better be prepared to fight for it.
Or something like that.
With King Rex, however, it had probably been put in a much more flowery way.
“Ah, sir, Your Majesty?” Smoke verbally groveled, something he was getting weary of.
