“Oh, honey, you don’t really want us to—” Wanda started to say, but that was as far as she got before Harley, without getting up from his chair, backhanded her. The sound of the slap was heard all over the saloon, and though Wanda gasped in shock and pain, she neither cried out, nor cried.
“I said go away,” Harley repeated.
The four women left.
“You didn’t have to do that, Wes,” Travis said. “I kinda like havin’ the women around.”
Harley glared at Travis, but he said nothing.
“Of course, I reckon if we want the women, we can always ask ’em to come back,” Travis said.
“We need to decide where we’re goin’ to go from here,” Dinkins said.
“I hope you ain’t got no more ideas about holdin’ up another train,” Frank said. “’Cause we sure didn’t get much from the last one.”
“Yeah,” Travis said. “This was about as bad as the bank in Gothic was.”
“You can’t win ’em all,” Dinkins said. “And we ain’t done all that bad. We got six thousand dollars from the bank in Crystal, and another five thousand from the coach hold-up.”
“So what do you have in mind next?” Travis asked.
“I figure we won’t do anything for a while,” Dinkins said. “We got some money, we’ll just stay here until somethin’ else comes up.”
It was nearly ten o’clock, and the night creatures were calling to each other as Smoke stood looking toward Sapinero. The cloud passed over the moon and moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose up like a ghost before him. The main street was fronted on both sides by buildings, more than half of which were dark. The biggest and most brightly lit building was the saloon at the far end of town.
Inside the saloon someone was playing a guitar, and Smoke could hear the music all the way out to the edge of town. The player was good, and the music spilled out in a steady beat with two or three poignant minor chords at the end of each phrase. An overall, single string melody worked its way in and out of the chords like a thread of gold woven through the finest cloth.
Between Delta and Sapinero, he had found ten of the DEAD OR ALIVE dodgers, which were posting a five thousand dollar reward on his head. He had destroyed ever y one of them, but he wondered if there were any reward posters in this town. Well, if there were, he would just have to deal with them.
Smoke passed by a coach sitting in front of the stage depot. The coach was dark and there was no team attached, but it had obviously moved into position to be able to leave town at first light. He heard a cat screech and a dog bark. A baby cried, and a woman’s loud and angry voice cut through the night.
He rode on through the town, the only one out on the street at that hour, and the hollow-sounding clops of his horse’s hooves echoed back loudly from the buildings that stood on either side of the street. He stopped in front of the saloon, then wrapped the reins around the hitching rail before stepping up onto the porch.
Two men came through the front door, laughing and talking as they continued the conversation they had started inside. In the lantern light that spilled out from the interior, Smoke studied them. He had no idea what Bill Dinkins looked like, and he only knew Wes Harley by description. “He’s one of the ugliest men you’ll ever see. His head looks just like a skull, with skin stretched over it,” he had been told.
He knew what Travis and Frank Slater looked like, because he had studied their pictures. He studied the two men as they exited the saloon, their private conversation so intense they took no notice of Smoke.
He didn’t know who they were, but he knew who they weren’t. They were not the Slater brothers.
Once his eyes had adjusted inside, Smoke stepped up to the bar. He didn’t call for the bartender, but waited quietly until he saw him.
When the barman noticed him, he was slightly startled. “Damn, mister, I didn’t see you come in. You been standin’ there long?”
“Not too long,” Smoke answered easily.
“What can I get you?”
“A beer. And some food, if it’s not too late.”
“It ain’t too late if you ain’t none too particular. We got some boiled ham and boiled taters.”
“That’ll be fine.” Smoke paid for the beer, then nodded toward a nearby table. “I’ll be right over there.”
As he was eating his late supper, Smoke noticed a card game going on in a small alcove off the back of the saloon. The players were engaged in an animated conversation and he heard one of them say the name Dinkins.
Smoke lingered over his supper until one of the four players left the game, then he walked to the table. “If you need a fourth player, I would be willing to join you,” he said politely. “But if this is a private game, I have no wish to intrude.”
“There’s an empty chair there, you’re welcome to join us,” one of the players said.
“Thank you.” Smoke pulled out the chair.
“Wait a minute,” one of the other players said quickly. “Before you sit I need to know if you are a saddle tramp, or a man of means.” This was a fat man with heavy jowls and narrow, squinting eyes. He was wearing a tan jacket and a dark brown silk vest. A gold chain stretched across his vest, accenting his girth.
“Why do you ask?” Smoke replied
“The reason I ask is because this isn’t a penny-ante game. I wouldn’t want you to get in here and suddenly realize you was in over your head.”
“Jim is right. We don’t want to take you in, mister, without you knowing what you are letting yourself in for.
