As they drank their coffee, Monte leaned back and said, “All right now, boys, tell me all about your adventures up there north of the border.”
“First, Monte,” Smoke said, “I want to know if you’ve heard from Sally.”
“Oh, dagnabit, I almost forgot,” Monte said. “I got a wire yesterday that said she’d gotten your telegram saying you were on your way home. She said her father is doing much better and she will probably be here in the next week or so.”
Smoke didn’t answer, but the smile on his face showed he was pleased at the news. Before he’d left for Canada a few months back, his wife Sally had gone back East to be with her ailing father. Smoke was glad to hear the man was better and that she’d be home soon, for he missed her terribly.
Pearlie stuck a cigarette he’d built into his mouth, leaned back as he got it going, and proceeded to give a slightly exaggerated account of the men’s adventures in the Canadian wilds over the past six months. He ended his narrative with the tale of the train robbers. “And Cal here actually got into the gunfight with us without getting wounded, if you can believe that!” Pearlie said, taking a breath and finally getting around to sampling his coffee, which was cooling by now.
Cal unconsciously reached under the table and rubbed the sore spot on his thigh where he had in fact been slightly wounded, something he’d managed to keep from his friends. It wasn’t his fault that bullets just naturally seemed to seek him out, no matter how careful he was in the gunfights. Luckily, though he was a frequent target, none of the wounds had been overly serious.
Monte laughed and slapped Cal on the back. “Well, now, that is something. Maybe your luck’s changing, Cal,” he said just as Andre appeared followed by two waiters with platters of heaping food in their hands.
Pearlie hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed his hands together. “All right!”
Andre caught Louis and Smoke’s eyes and winked. “I am glad to see that you are so hungry, Monsieur Pearlie,” he said, nodding his head.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse, Andre,” Pearlie said, straining in his chair trying to look and see what the platters held.
“That is good, my friend, for I have just acquired a new supply of frog legs and escargot from my supplier in Denver this very morning.”
Pearlie made a face and sat back in his chair. “Uh, Andre, no offense, but I think I’ll just skip the frog legs and try some of that es-car-go, or whatever it is. It shore smells good, I’ll tell you that.”
“And I assure you, Monsieur, it will be a taste you will never forget, especially when you dip the little creatures in the melted butter I’ve made.”
“Uh . . . did you say somethin’ ‘bout little creatures, Andre, or did I misunderstand?” Pearlie asked, his face suddenly showing signs of suspicion.
“But, Andre. Just what are es-car-go?”
“Snails, my friend, large, plump, juicy snails,” Andre replied.
Pearlie put his hand over his mouth and started to get up from the table until he saw what was on the platter the waiter was setting down.
He grinned and pointed. “That looks like beefsteak to me, Andre.”
Everyone at the table laughed, even Pearlie, and they all grabbed knives and forks and dug in.
FOUR
Macklin took Jacoby by his hotel, arranged for him to get a room there and dropped off his luggage, and then showed him to a restaurant that served both liquor and food.
While they drank a glass of whiskey and waited for their food orders to arrive, Jacoby told Macklin about the gunfight on the train between Jensen and his friends and the outlaws who’d outnumbered them.
Jacoby shook his head and drained his glass, sleeving whiskey off his lips with his arm. “It was the damnedest thing I ever seen, Mac,” he said, his eyes wide with wonder. “One minute Jensen an’ his friends are standing there in front of maybe ten outlaws, an’ ‘fore you could spit, they hands was full of iron and they was blasting the shit outta those hombres.”
“Just because a man’s an outlaw don’t necessarily mean he’s fast on the draw, Carl.”
“That’s just it, Mac. All of them bandits already had their guns in their hands when Jensen and his men drew down on ‘em.”
“And you’re sayin’ none of those outlaws managed to draw any blood?”
Jacoby held his glass up and pointed at it so the waiter would bring him another. “That’s just what I’m saying, Mac. Jensen and his men walked away from that fracas clean as a whistle. And what was even more funny is they didn’t wait for the bandits to make a play at them or try to take their money. They went looking for the outlaws as if they kind’a enjoyed the thought of a good fight.”
Macklin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Jacoby. “Just what are you sayin’, Carl? You sayin’ Jensen is faster on the draw that Johnny MacDougal was?” he asked, his face showing his doubt that such could be the case.
“Hey, Mac, I’m telling you the truth,” Jacoby insisted. “I know Johnny was fast with a six-killer ‘cause I’ve drawed against him in contests before, but Jensen is faster, by a long shot!”
Macklin stroked his jaw as he let his eyes drop to stare into his whiskey. “So, you think it may’ve been a fair fight when Jensen shot Johnny down in Pueblo?” he asked, keeping his voice low so the nearby diners wouldn’t hear him mention Jensen’s name.
Jacoby shrugged. “Hell, I weren’t there, Mac, so’s I can’t say for certain. All I know is Jensen could snatch a
