“You got no reason to,” Palmer said. He took another gamble. “In fact, to prove that, I take back what I said. You hang on to that rifle, miss. That way, if I do anything to show that I’ve been lyin’ to you, you can shoot me then.”
“I would be more inclined to believe you if you got off my brother.”
Palmer looked down at the man he had pinned to the ground. “How about it, mister?” he asked. “If I let you up, are you gonna behave?”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” the man said between clenched teeth.
“There’s always a choice, friend. Sometimes we make good ones, and sometimes we don’t.” Palmer eased the revolver’s hammer back down. “I’m gonna take a chance here and hope I made a good one.”
He pulled the gun away from the man’s neck and stood up, stepping back so that he’d have plenty of room to move if he needed to.
The man sat up and rubbed his neck where the gun barrel had dug in painfully. Palmer kept the revolver in his hand. If the bastard tried anything, Palmer knew he’d have time to shoot him, then plug the girl, too, if he had to.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d much rather get friendly with Charlotte than shoot her.
When he needed to, he could be pretty damned charming. He tried that now, saying, “Look, folks, I just smelled your fire and thought maybe I could get a little coffee and maybe some hot food. Not to mention some company. This is mighty lonely country out here.”
“You were spying on us,” the man accused. “I heard you moving in the brush. You were listening to what we said.”
Charlotte said to her brother, “Then you lied to me when you told me nothing was wrong.”
“Be quiet,” the man snapped.
“Sure, I was eavesdropping,” Palmer admitted. “I wanted to find out who you were and whether you’d be likely to shoot me if I walked into your camp. A man who’s not careful about what he does out here deserves whatever happens to him.”
“You don’t sound like a frontiersman.”
Palmer laughed. “Maybe I ain’t one, not by choice, anyway. I spent most of my life in cities. But I’ve knocked around out here in this big lonely enough to have learned a few things.” He paused. “My name’s Joe Palmer. What’s yours?”
Telling somebody your name usually caused people to let their guard down a little, Palmer knew. He didn’t mind telling these people who he really was. He wasn’t wanted in Canada, and anyway, if he decided that they were a threat to him, he’d just kill them. Simple as that.
After a moment, and with obvious reluctance, the man said, “My name is Joseph Marat.”
Palmer grinned. “See? You’re Joe, and I’m Joe. Just a couple of Joes. That ought to tell you right there we should be pards.”
Marat nodded his head toward the woman. “This is my sister Charlotte.”
Palmer lifted his free hand to the brim of his derby. “Mademoiselle Marat. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“You speak French?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“Not really,” he replied with a chuckle. “I’ve picked up a little, here and there.”
Marat started to get up. Palmer stepped forward and extended his left hand.
“Let me help you there.”
Marat hesitated, then clasped Palmer’s hand. Palmer hauled him to his feet. Marat still seemed suspicious, but the tension in the air definitely had eased.
“Let’s go back to the fire,” Charlotte suggested. “We have a little coffee left, but no hot food. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Palmer told her. “I’m just obliged for the offer of coffee.”
He turned his back on them and started toward their fire, which was visible through the trees. It was a risky move, he knew, but so far tonight his bets had paid off and he was going to continue to ride his luck.
The Marats, brother and sister, followed him. They didn’t shoot him in the back, so he figured that for now, he was ahead of the game.
“Where is your horse?” Marat asked as they reached the clearing where the campfire was burning down to tiny, flickering flames.
“I’ve got a couple of them, a saddle horse and a pack animal,” Palmer replied. “I left them tied up a ways off. When I smelled your smoke, I wanted to check it out, but I knew the horses would make too much racket.” He grinned. “If I had seen that you folks were dangerous, I would have snuck back to my horses and gone around. You never would have known I was there.”
“I knew,” Marat snapped.
Palmer shrugged. “So I’m not much of a woodsman. No offense, but you two don’t exactly look like Daniel Boone, either.”
It was true. All three of them were a little out of place here in this vast wilderness.
Marat took offense at the comment, though. “This is our home,” he said. “We are Metis.”
“Half-breeds, you mean?”
Marat’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “Mixed-bloods. Our ancestry is mostly French, with only a little Indian.”
