did not know if that was an asset or liability. He knew caution, for no man lived by the gun without knowing what was about him at all times. But Smoke, since age sixteen, had seldom if ever at all experienced anything even remotely akin to fear.
He sat down on his ground sheet and blankets and calmly set about making a pot of coffee. He looked up at the sound of boots striking the gravel. Brute Pitman stopped a few yards away, grinning at him.
“Go away, Bruce. The smell of you would stop a buzzard in flight.”
Brute cussed him.
Smoke smiled at him.
“I’m gonna enjoy hearin’ you holler, pretty-boy,” Brute told him, slobber leaking past his fat lips. “With you, I’m gonna make it las’ a long time.”
Smoke made no reply, just sat on the ground and stared at the hulking mass of perversion. He allowed his eyes to do the talking, and they silently spoke volumes to the big slob.
Brute met the gaze and Smoke’s smile was wider still as something shifted in the hulk’s eyes. Was it fear touching Brute’s dark eyes? Smoke felt sure that it was, and that thought amused him. Brute Pitman was like so many men his size, a bully from boyhood. He had bulled and heavy-shouldered his way through life, knowing his sheer size would keep most from fighting back. But like most bullies, Brute was a coward at heart.
“Something the matter, Brute?”
That took him by surprise. “Huh! Naw, they ain’t nothin’ the matter with me, sissy-boy. Nothin’,” he added, “that come night won’t clear.”
“You best watch the night, Brute,” Smoke cautioned. “Night is a time when death lays close to a man.”
“Huh! Whatda you talkin’ ’bout now, pretty boy. I don’t think you even know. I think you so scared you peein’ your drawers.”
Smoke laughed at him. Now he didn’t care. It was too close to the deadline to matter. By now, the men from the posse would be approaching the ranch and would be changing horses for the last time before entering the mountain pass. Already, the Utes would be slipping into place, waiting for the guards to change.
Everything was in motion; it could not be stopped now.
“Get out of my sight, Brute. You sickin’ me.”
Brute hesitated, then mumbled something obscene under his breath and walked down the small hill. Twice he stopped and looked back at Smoke. Smoke gave him the finger, jabbing the air with his middle finger.
“Crazy!” Brute said. “The bassard’s crazy! Done took leave of his senses.”
Smoke heard the comment and smiled.
Brute met Cat Ventura on his way down. The men did not speak to each other. Cat stood over Smoke, staring down at him.
“I would wish you a good afternoon,” Smoke told him, “but with you here, it is anything but that.”
Cat stared at him, ignoring the remark; Smoke was not sure the man even knew what he meant by it. “I seen you somewheres before, artist,” the gunfighter, outlaw, and murderer said. “And you wasn’t drawin’ no pitchers on paper, neither.”
“Perhaps if you dwell on it long enough, it will come to you in time, Mister-whatever-your-name is. Not that I particularly care at this juncture.”
“Huh! Boy, you got a damn smart mouth on you, ain’t you? I’m Cat Ventura.”
“Not a pleasure, I’m sure. Very well, Mr. Meow. If you came up here to ask me to sketch you, my studio is closed for the time being. Perhaps some other time; like in the next century.”
“You piss-headed smart ass! When the time comes, I think I’ll jist stomp your guts out; see what color they is. How ’bout that, sissy-pants?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Purr. I really have my doubts about you doin’ that.”
Before he turned away to walk back down the hill, Cat said, “I know you from somewheres. It’ll come to me. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll certainly be here.”
Smoke lay on his ground sheet and watched a passing parade of outlaws visit him during the next few minutes. Some walked up and stared at him. A few made open threats on his life.
He would have liked to ask why the sudden shift in their attitude toward him, but he really wasn’t all that interested in the why of it.
Smoke checked the mountain sky. About three hours until dusk. He rose from the ground and got his fishing pole, checking the line and hook. Jake and Shorty and Red had been watching him, hunkered down at the base of the hill. Out of the corner of his eyes, Smoke saw them all relax and reach for the makings, rolling and lighting cigarettes. He stepped back into the timber behind his camp, as if heading for the little creek to fish and catch his supper. Smoke assumed his line of credit at the Bon Ton Cafe had been cut off. The food hadn’t been all that good anyway.
Out of sight of the trio of outlaws, Smoke dropped his pole and walked toward the center of town, staying inside the thin timber line until he was opposite the privy and the pile of lumber behind the saloon. He quickly stepped to the lumber, moved a couple of boards, and spotted the rolled-up packet.
The back door to the saloon opened, a man stepping out. “What you doin’, boy? Sneakin’ around here. You tryin’ to slip out, pretty-pants?”
Smoke looked up as the man closed the door behind him and walked toward him. His hand closed around a sturdy two-by-four, about three feet long and solid. “Just borrowing a few boards, sir. I thought I might build a board floor for my tent. Is that all right with you?”
