“You didn’t think we was goin’ to do only that one in Gothic, then quit, did you?” Dinkins asked.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know. I mean the first one sure didn’t turn out well now, did it?” Parnell said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Smoke had been on the trail for two days, but so far he had no leads on where the bandits were, or even where they were going. He saw a small town rising ahead of him. He hadn’t happened on the town by accident. He knew it was there, and he knew, too, that the men he was looking for would be in a town somewhere. Because towns were few and relatively far between, he was prepared to search every town until he found them.
As he approached the town Smoke decided to get a haircut. He had to find someone talkative enough to engage in conversation if he was going to find out any information. He didn’t know anyone more talkative than a barber. He wasn’t in desperate need of a haircut, but he could use one.
Emerson Bates had his chair tipped back against the rip-sawed boards that made up the false-front of Wong’s Laundry. He liked sitting there, because he lusted after the Chinaman’s two daughters. Of course, he had never been able to act on his lust. They were not whores, and he could not get them to show any interest in him. At the moment, his feet were wrapped around the front legs of the chair and his hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The sun was almost dead overhead so there were no shadows on the street. It was the hottest time of the day which meant most citizens stayed out of the sun as much as they could.
Bates was a deputy sheriff and the only one out in the noonday sun. The other deputies and the sheriff were in the saloon drinking beer and playing cards.
Bates heard the hollow, clumping sounds of a single rider and looked toward the south to see a horseman coming into town. Tipping his chair forward Bates stood up and watched as the rider came farther into town. Just across the street from the Chinese laundry, the rider pulled up, then dismounted in front of Max’s Barbershop.
As Smoke was tying his horse off at the hitching rail, the barber stepped out through the door of his shop. “Yes, sir.” He smiled at his potential customer as he stood with a damp towel draped across his shoulder. “Would you be wanting a haircut and a shave?”
“Just a shave,” Smoke answered. “From the sign outside, you would be Max, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, Max Gibbs is the name, and this shop, such as it is, is all mine. And you would be?”
“Smoke Jensen.”
“Smoke Jensen! My, what a privilege it will be to serve you, Mr. Jensen. Yes, sir, I have read about you.” Max stepped back into his shop and invited Smoke in with the motion of his arm. “Please, step inside.”
The barber shop was very small, just barely large enough to accommodate the barber chair and a small, leather covered settee where customers could wait their turn.
“You’ll be wantin’ to wash some of the trail dust off your face, I expect,” Max said. “There’s a wash basin on that table there. Help yourself. That comes with the price of the haircut and shave.”
“Thanks,” Smoke said as he took advantage of the barber’s offer. “How much is a shave?”
“Shave and a haircut is two bits,” the barber answered. “But seein’ as you are just getting’ a shave, it will only be a dime.”
“Tell you what. I only want the shave, but suppose I pay you for both anyway.” Smoke flipped the barber a quarter.
“Thank you, sir! Here, have a seat.”
Smoke took his seat in the single chair.
“You just passing through, are you, Mr. Jensen?” Max picked up a cup and brush and began working up a lather.
“Yes. I came through Gothic a couple days ago. I guess you heard about what happened over there. I’m talking about the bank robbery.”
“Oh, indeed we have heard about it over here. It was in the newspa—” Max stopped in mid-sentence. “Oh, my, the lady who was shot. That was your wife, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How is she, if I may ask?”
“Thank you for asking. She is much better.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Max said.
“I have,” Smoke replied.
“You know, to those of us over here, that bank robbery and the shooting was particular upsetting, considerin’ the Slater brothers.”
“Slater brothers?”
“Travis and Frank Slater. They used to live here. They was our neighbors, you might say. And now they are riding with Dinkins. I don’t tell you that as a point of pride, by the way. The truth is, them two boys never was no good. They was working for Chance Carter, a rancher just south of town. Mr. Carter had him a fifteen-year-old daughter, prettiest little girl you ever seen. Well, one day Mr. Carter an’ his daughter both turned up dead, and the Slater brothers both turned up missin’.”
“So you are saying that the Slater brothers killed Mr. Carter?” Smoke asked.
“Yes, sir, I reckon I am sayin’ that. Of course, we don’t none of us have no proof or nothin’ like that. But Frank and Travis Slater never was no count a-tall. Mr. Carter turned up dead, and them two no accounts turned up missin’.”
