The country was so rugged and unsettled that the men could not make the trading post that day. They camped along a creek and dined on fresh fish caught with their hands, Indian style.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Jim asked after watching Smoke catch their supper by hand.
“I was raised by mountain men, Jim. A very independent and self-sufficient bunch.”
“I’ve met a couple of real old men who was mountain men. I saw something in their eyes that made me back off and talk right respectful to them.”
“Wise thing to do. A mountain man isn’t going to take much crap from anybody.”
They ate until they could hold no more, then rolled up in their blankets, using saddles for pillows, and were up before dawn, making coffee and talking little until they’d shaken the kinks out and had a cup of coffee you could float nails in.
“Who runs this trading post?” Smoke finally asked.
“Don’t know no more. Man by the name of Smith used to run it. He might still. Smith ain’t his real name. He’s a bad one. Have to be bad to run a place like that. Got him a graveyard out back of hard cases who tried to steal from him or brace him over one thing or another.”
“Fast gun?”
“Nope. Sawed-off shotgun. And he don’t hesitate none in usin’ it, neither. He’s got the worst whiskey you ever tried to drink. I think he adds snake heads to it for flavor. And I ain’t kiddin’.”
“I think I’ll stick with beer.”
“That would be wise.”
They rolled their blankets in their ground sheets and were in the saddle as the sun was struggling to push its rays over the mountains.
They followed the tracks, and they led straight to the trading post on the north fork of the Flathead River. Both men had taken off their badges, had dusty clothing from the trail, and had not shaved that morning. Both of them had heavy beards, so they were beginning to look a little rough around the edges.
“If Smith is still here, is he going to recognize you?” Smoke asked.
“Probably. But he ain’t gonna say nothing except howdy, ’til he figures out what I might be up to. How are we going to play this?”
“You just follow my lead.”
“I’s afraid you was gonna say that.”
The men put their horses in the big barn behind the long, low trading post and unsaddled them, carefully rubbing them down and giving them a good bait of corn. 25
“Yep,” Jim said. “Smith is still here. You ever seen such outrageous prices?”
“It’s the only game in town, partner.”
“You called that right.”
Smoke lifted the right rear hoof of each animal until he found the one with the chipped shoe. He smiled up at Jim. “We found our man.”
“Men,” Jim corrected. “I count six of them.”
Smoke straightened up and, with a grin on his face, said, “Hell, Jim, don’t look so glum. We got them outnumbered.”
“If that’s the way you count,” Jim said soberly, “I shore am glad you don’t count out my payroll!”
17
The men took the leather thongs off their guns and stepped up onto the rough porch. With Smoke in the lead, they entered the dimly lit old trading post. The smell of twist tobacco all mixed in with that of candy, whiskey, beer, and ancient sweat odors that clung to the walls and ceiling hit them. They walked past bolts of brightly colored cloth, stacks of men’s britches and shirts, and a table piled high with boots of all sizes. They passed the notions counter, filled with elixirs and nostrums that were guaranteed to cure any and all illnesses. Most of them were based with alcohol or an opiate of some type, which killed the pain for a while.
Smoke and Jim stopped at the gun case to look at the new double-action revolvers.
“Pretty,” Jim said.
“I don’t like them,” Smoke said. “The trigger pull is so hard it throws your aim off. And if you have to cock it, what’s the point of having one of those things?”
“Good question,” his deputy agreed. “They look awkward to me.” Something on the nostrum table caught his eye and he picked up a bottle of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. He read the label, blushed, and put the bottle down. “The things they put on labels. I declare.”
“Sally swears by it. Says it works wonders.”
“You ever tasted it?”
“Hell, no! I did taste some Kickapoo Indian Sagwa a couple of years ago, back east.”
“Did it work?”
“It tasted so bad I forgot what I took it for.”
Smiling, the men stepped into the bar part of the trading post and walked up to the counter, in this case, several rough-hewn boards atop empty beer barrels.
