pistol, and a good rifle. He was young and full of fire and vinegar ... so what was there to worry about?
Smoke told him he was drifting on up into Montana. Beans allowed as how that was as good a direction as any to go, so they pulled out before dawn the next day.
With his beat-up clothes and his lip concealed behind a mustache and his hair now badly in need of a trim, Smoke felt that unless he met someone who really knew him, he would not be recognized by any who had only bumped into him casually.
“You any good with that short gun? ’ Smoke asked.
“Man over in Utah didn’t think so. I rattled my hocks shortly before the funeral.”
Now, there was two ways to take that. “Your funeral or his?”
“He was a tad quicker, but he missed.”
’Nuff said.
On the third night out, Beans finally said what he’d been mullin’ about all day. “Kirby ... there’s something about you that just don’t add up.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Now, to someone who just happened to glance over at you and ride on, you’d appear to be a drifter. Spend some time on the trail with you, and a body gets to thinkin’.”
Smoke stirred the beans and laid the bacon in the pan. He poured them both coffee and waited.
“You got coins in your pocket and greenbacks in your poke. That saddle don’t belong to no bum. That Winchester in your boot didn’t come cheap. And both them horses are wearin a brand like I ain’t never seen. Is that a circle double snake or what?”
“Circle Double-S.” As his spread had grown, Smoke had changed his brand. S for Smoke, S for Sally. It was registered with the brand commission.
“There ain’t no ‘S’ in Kirby.” Beans noted.
“Maybe my last name is Smith.”
“Ain’t but one ‘S’ there.”
“You do have a point.” Beans was only pointing out things that Smoke was already aware of. “How far into Montana are you planning on going?”
“Well,” Beans grinned, “I don’t know. Taggin’ along with you I found that the grub’s pretty good.”
“You’re aware of the impending range war in Montana?”
“There’s another thing that don’t ring true, Kirby. Sometimes you talk like a schoolteacher. Now I know that don’t necessarily mean nothin’ out here, but it do get folks to thinkin’. You know what I mean?”
Smoke nodded and turned the bacon.
“And them jeans of yours is wore slick on the right side, down low on the leg. You best get you some other britches or strap that hogleg back on.”
“You don’t miss much, do you, Beans?”
“My folks died with the fever when I was eight. I been on my own ever since. Goin’ on nineteen years. Startin’ out alone, that young, a body best get savvy quick.”
“My real name is Kirby, Beans.”
“All right.”
“You didn’t answer my question about whether you knew about the range war?”
“I heard of it, yeah. But I don’t hire my gun. Way I had it figured, with most of the hands fightin’, them rich ranchers is gonna need somebody just to look after the cattle.” He grinned. “That’s me!”
“I’d hate to see you get tied up in a range war, Beans,’cause sooner or later, you’re gonna have to take a stand and grab iron.”
“Yeah, I know. But I don’t never worry about bridges until I come to them. Ain’t that food about fitten to eat?”
They were lazy days, and the two men rode easy; no reason to push. Smoke was only a few years older than Beans—chronologically speaking; several lifetimes in experience—and the men became friends as they rode.
Spring had hit the high country, and the hills and valleys were blazing in God’s colors. The men entered Johnson County in the Wyoming Territory, rode into Buffalo, and decided to hunt up a hot bath; both were just a bit on the gamey side.
After a bath and a change of clothes, Smoke offered to buy the drinks. Beans, with a grin, pointed out the sign on the barroom wall: “Don’t forget to write your mother, boys. Whether you are worth it or not, she is thinking of you. Paper and inveelopes free. So is the picklled eggs. The whiskey ain t.”
“You got a ma, Kirby?”
“Beans,
“I mean ... is she still alive?” He flushed red.
“No. She died when I was just a kid, back in Missouri.”
“I thought I smelled a Missouri puke in here.” The voice came from behind them.
Smoke had not yet tasted his whiskey. He placed the shot glass back on the bar as the sounds of chairs being pushed back reached him. He turned slowly.
