The man looked at him, an odd shift to his eyes. “Dead River?”
“Yes! That’s it! Thank you!”
Drunk as he was, the man was quick in snaking out a pistol. He eased back the hammer and pointed the muzzle at Smoke’s belly.
5
Smoke dropped his sketch pad and threw his hands into the air. He started running around and around in a little circle. “Oh, my heavens!” he screamed, putting as much fright in his voice as he could. Then he started making little whimpering sounds.
The outlaw—and Smoke was now sure that he was—smiled and lowered his gun, easing down the hammer. “All right, all right! Calm down ’fore you have a heart attack, pilgrim. Hell, I ain’t gonna shoot you.”
Smoke kept his hands high in the air and forced his knees to shake. He felt like a total fool but knew his life depended on his making the act real. And so far, it was working.
“Take all my possessions! Take all my meager earnings! But please don’t shoot me, mister. Please. I simply abhor guns and violence.”
The outlaw blinked. “You does what to ’em?”
“I hate them!”
“Why didn’t you just say that? Well, hell, relax. Don’t pee your fancy britches, sissy-boy. I ain’t gonna shoot you. I just had to check you out, that’s all.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t understand. May I please lower my hands?”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t start beggin’. You really is who you say you is, ain’t you?” His brow furrowed in whiskey- soaked rumination. “Come to think of it, just who in the hell is you, anyways?”
“I am an artist.”
“Not that! What’s your name, sissy-britches?” He lifted the jug and took a long, deep pull, then opened his throat to swallow.
“Shirley DeBeers,” Smoke said.
The outlaw spat out the rotgut and coughed for several minutes. He pounded his chest and lifted red-rimmed eyes, disbelieving eyes to Smoke.
“Shirley! That there ain’t no real man’s name!”
Smoke managed to look offended. What he really wanted to do was take the jerk’s guns away from him and shove both of them down his throat. Or into another part of the outlaw’s anatomy.
“I will have you know, sir, that Shirley is really a very distinguished name.”
“I’ll take your word for that. Get to sketching, Shirley.”
“Oh, I simply couldn’t!” Smoke fanned his face with both hands. “I feel flushed. I’m so distraught!”
“Shore named you right,” the outlaw muttered. “All right, Shirley. If you ain’t gonna draw my pitcher, sit down and lets us palaver.”
Smoke sat down. “I’ve never played palaver; you’ll have to teach me.”
The outlaw put his forehead into a hand and muttered under his breath for a moment. “It means we’ll talk, Shirley.”
“Very well. What do you wish to talk about?”
“You. I can’t figure you. You big as a house and strong as a mule. But if you’re a pansy, you keep your hands to yourself, you understand that?”
“Unwashed boorish types have never appealed to me,” Smoke said stiffly.
“Whatever that means,” the gunhawk said. “My name’s Cahoon.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.”
“What’s your interest in Dead River, Shirley?”
“I really have no interest there, as I told you, other than to sketch the scenery, which I was told was simply breathtakingly lovely.”
Cahoon stared at him. “You got to be tellin’ the truth. You the goofiest-lookin’ and the silliest-talkin’ person I ever did see. What I can’t figure out is how you got this far west without somebody pluggin’ you full of holes.”
“Why should they do that? I hold no malice toward anyone who treats me with any respect at all.”
“You been lucky, boy, I shore tell you that. You been lucky. Now then, you over the vapors yet?”
“I am calmed somewhat, yes.”
“Git to sketchin’, Shirley.”
When Smoke tossed off his blankets the next morning, the outlaw, Cahoon, was gone. Smoke had pretended sleep during the night as the outlaw had swiftly gone through his pack, finding nothing that seemed to interest him. Cahoon had searched one side of the pack carefully, then only glanced at the other side, which held supplies. Had he searched a bit closer and longer, he would have found Smoke’s twin Colts and the shotgun.
Smoke felt he had passed inspection. At least for this time. But he was going to have to come up with some plan for stashing his weapons close to Dead River.
And so far, he hadn’t worked that out.
Cahoon had left the coffee pot on the blackened stones around the fire and Smoke poured a cup. He was careful in his movements, not knowing how far Cahoon might have gone; he might well be laying out a few hundred
