Turning from the pen, Smoke saw the railroad dispatcher.
“Yes?”
“Your bull has been loaded onto a private stock car,” he said. “I have the bill of lading here. It’s all taken care of.”
“Thanks,” Smoke said, walking over to retrieve the papers.
“A terrible thing, that,” the dispatcher said, nodding toward the cow pen and the dead bull.
“Did you see what happened?” Smoke asked.
“No, sir, nobody did,” the dispatcher said. “Ken and I were in the depot when we heard the shot. When we looked out, we saw the bull lying on the ground.” He shook his head. “It takes a special kind of meanness to kill an animal for no reason,” he said.
When Pogue and Billy Ray Quentin stepped down from the train, they were met by the foreman, Cole Mathers, and two other cowboys from the Tumbling Q.
“Where at’s the bull, Mr. Quentin?” Mathers asked.
“I didn’t get him,” Quentin replied with a growl.
“You didn’t? Why not? Was there somethin’ wrong with him?”
“No, he was a good bull. But some fool by the name of Jensen outbid me.”
“Ha. I didn’t think there was anyone who could outbid you,” Mathers said. “You got more money that Croesus.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t keep it if I throw it away in a foolish bidding war,” Quentin said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Jensen and the seller weren’t in cahoots, bidding against me just to run the price up.” He chuckled. “If they were together, I snookered them, ’cause once it reached a certain point, I quit bidding.”
“Yes, sir. Well, there ain’t never been nobody say you wasn’t smart,” Mathers said.
“Did you bring our horses?”
“Yes, sir, they’re tied up out front.”
“All right, good. Come on, Billy Ray, let’s go home,” Pogue said.
“Pa, I’ll come along later,” Billy Ray said. “I ordered me a pair of boots to be made, and I’m goin’ to go see if Donovan has ’em done yet.”
A little bell attached to the top of the door tinkled as Billy Ray stepped into Donovan’s Leather Goods shop.
“I’ll be right there,” a voice called from the back of the shop.
Donovan was a small man with thinning hair that he kept combed over the top. He was wearing a leather apron with a full pocket, in which he kept some of his tools.
“Ah, Mr. Quentin,” he said. “Come for your boots, have you?”
“Yes,” Billy Ray said.
“I have them right here,” Donovan said, taking a pair of boots down from the shelf. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Billy Ray said. “They are. Let me try them on.”
“Please do,” Donovan invited.
Billy Ray sat down, pulled one of his old boots off, then stuck his foot down in the new boot. It didn’t go on easily, and he worked with it until he finally got it on. Then, when he stood up, he winced in pain as he took a step.
“They are too small!” he said. “You dumb son of a bitch! You made them too small!”
“They are still new, they will loosen up,” Donovan said. “I made them to the exact measurements.”
“I paid good money for these boots! And they don’t fit.”
“They will fit as soon as they are broken in, I assure you.”
Billy Ray sat down and pulled the boot off, then threw it through the front window. The glass shattered with a loud crash.
“Mr. Quentin!” Donovan gasped. “You broke my window!”
“Yeah, and that ain’t all I’m goin’ to break,” Billy Ray said as he picked up a bench, then slammed it into a leather cutter.
After leaving Donovan’s, Billy Ray walked down to the New York Saloon.
“Whiskey,” Billy Ray said to Lloyd Evans, the bartender. “Leave the bottle.”
Evans took a bottle from beneath the bar and put it in front of Billy Ray. Billy Ray pulled the cork with his teeth, then spit it into one of the nearby spittoons.
“Billy Ray, that means you just bought that whole bottle,” Evans said. “There ain’t no way we can re-cork it now.”
“I asked for the whole bottle, didn’t I?” Billy Ray replied with a snarl. He poured himself a glass.
Doc Patterson was standing at the bar just a few feet down from Billy Ray.
