yards, watching to see what Smoke did next.
Smoke cut strips of bacon from the slab and peeled and cut up a large potato, dropping the slices into the bacon grease as it fried. He cut off several slices of bread from the thick loaf and then settled down to eat.
He cut his eyes to a large stone and saw his sketch pad, a double eagle on the top page, shining in the rays of the early morning sun.
Cahoon had printed him a note: YOU DO FARLY GOOD DRAWINS. I PASS THE WORD THAT YOU OK. MAYBE SEE YOU IN DEAD RIVER. KEEP THIS NOTE TO HEP YOU GIT IN. CAHOON.
Smoke smiled. Yes, he thought, he had indeed passed the first hurdle.
Smoke drifted south, taking his time and riding easy. He had stopped at a general store and bought a bonnet for Drifter and the packhorse. The packhorse didn’t seem to mind. Drifter didn’t like it worth a damn. The big yellow-eyed devil horse finally accepted the bonnet, but only after biting Smoke twice and kicking him once. Hard.
Smoke’s beard was now fully grown out, carefully trimmed into a fuller Vandyke but not as pointed. The beard had completely altered his appearance. And the news was spreading throughout the region about the goofy-talking and sissy-acting fellow who rode a horse with a bonnet and drew pictures. The rider, not the horse. The word was, so Smoke had overheard, that Shirley DeBeers was sorta silly, but harmless. And done right good drawin’s, too.
And Cahoon, so Smoke had learned by listening and mostly keeping his mouth shut, was an outlaw of the worst kind. He fronted a gang that would do anything, including murder for hire and kidnapping—mostly women, to sell to whoremongers.
And they lived in Dead River, paying a man called Rex Davidson for security and sanctuary. And he learned that a man named Danvers was the Sheriff of Dead River. Smoke had heard of Danvers, but their trails had never crossed. The title of Sheriff was a figurehead title, for outside of Dead River he had no authority and would have been arrested on the spot.
Or shot.
And if Smoke had his way, it was going to be the latter.
Smoke and Drifter went from town to town, community to community, always drifting south toward the southernmost bend of the Purgatoire.
Smoke continued to play his part as the city fop, getting it down so well it now was second nature for him to act the fool.
At a general store not far from Quarreling Creek—so named because a band of Cheyenne had quarreled violently over the election of a new chief—Smoke picked up a few dollars by sketching a man and his wife and child, also picking up yet more information about Dead River and its outlaw inhabitants.
“Outlaws hit the stage outside Walensburg last week,” he heard the rancher say to the clerk. “Beat it back past Old Tom’s place and then cut up into the Sangre de Cristos.”
The clerk looked up. There was no malice in his voice when he said, “And the posse stopped right there, hey?”
“Shore did. I reckon it’s gonna take the Army to clean out that den of outlaws at Dead River. The law just don’t wanna head up in there. Not that I blame them a bit for that,” he was quick to add.
“Nobody wants to die,” the clerk said, in a matter of agreeing.
“I have heard so much about this Dead River place,” Smoke said, handing the finished sketch to the woman, who looked at it and smiled.
“You do very nice work, young man,” she complimented him
“Thank you. And I have also heard that around Dead River is some of the most beautiful scenery to be found anywhere.”
The rancher put a couple of dollars into Smoke’s hand and said, “You stay out of that place, mister. It just ain’t no place for any decent person. And you seem to be a nice sort of person.”
“Surely they wouldn’t harm an unarmed man?” Smoke asked, holding on to his act. He managed to look offended at the thought. “I am an artist, not a troublemaker.”
The clerk and the rancher exchanged knowing glances and smiles, the clerk saying, “Mister, them are bad apples in that place. They’d as soon shoot you as look at you. And that’s just if you’re lucky. I’d tell you more, but not in front of the woman and child.”
“Mabel” the rancher spoke to his wife. “You take Jenny and wait outside on the boardwalk. We got some man- talking to do.” He glanced at Smoke. “Well…some talking to do, at least.”
Smoke contained his smile. He could just imagine Sally’s reaction if he were to tell her to leave the room so the men could talk. A lady through and through, she would have nevertheless told Smoke where to put his suggestion.
Sideways.
The woman and child waiting on the boardwalk of the store, under the awning, the rancher looked at Smoke and shook his head in disbelief. Smoke was wearing a ruffle-front shirt, pink in color, tight-fitting lavender britches —he had paid a rancher’s wife to make him several pairs in various colors—tucked into the tops of his lace-up hiking boots, tinted eyeglasses, and that silly cap on his head.
Foppish was not the word.
“Mr. DeBeers,” the rancher said, “Dead River is the dumping grounds for all the scum and trash and bad hombres in the West. Some of the best and the bravest lawmen anywhere won’t go in there, no matter how big the posse. And for good reason. The town of Dead River sits in a valley between two of the biggest mountains in the range. Only one way in and one way out.”
The clerk said, “And the east pass—the only way in—is always guarded. Three men with rifles and plenty of ammunition could stand off any army forever.”
