Kneeling beside the whimpering man, whose face was now a mask of blood, Smith said, “Now, will you finally be kind enough to tell me where I can find Hank Trabert? Or … or do you need some more persuasion?”
The blacksmith’s eyes widened with terror. “No!” he cried, rolling away from the forge and scuttling up against a wall. “He lives about four miles east of town. There’s a big lightning-scorched pine by the side of the road. You’ll see a wagon track heading off the left. They got a little spread up against the cliffs.”
“How many folks are living there?”
“I don’t know. Just the old man and a couple of his sons. Hank is the oldest and meanest, but …”
“Thank you,” Smith said, rising to slap dust from his knees. “See how easy this all would have been if you’d only been courteous and polite at the beginning of our little conversation?”
The blacksmith managed to nod, but cried, “Mister, you’re crazy!”
“No,” Smith said, stepping back into the sunlight. “But have suffered deeply and believe everyone who is rude and coarse needs a good lesson in pain and humility.”
He smiled at the trembling figure. “I think you have learned something here. I think that you will be kinder and more helpful in the future to strangers. Won’t you?”
“Yes! But … but my hand! I can’t work like this!”
“You’ll find a way,” Smith promised. “Believe me, the human spirit has amazing power and you will find a way.
The Assassin strolled back over to his horse and looked around. Leadville had grown since he’d last ridden through about five years ago. Clearly, the mining town was prospering. Why, they’d even built that magnificent structure called the Tabor Opera House just across the street! Perhaps when his mission was all over and every last member of the Marble Gang was dead, he would return to Leadville.
Jim Smith untied his horse. Looking up and down the street, he was about to mount and ride east as a tough- looking young cowboy rode up beside him to dismount and tie his own bay gelding.
“Good afternoon,” The Assassin said pleasantly. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
The cowboy started to walk past without comment, but The Assassin’s fist snaked out to seize his right forearm. Leaning in close so that their eyes were separated by mere inches, The Assassin said, “I said good afternoon. Now, you need to say something like, ‘Yes it is, and have a nice day,’”
The cowboy attempted to pull free, but The Assassin held him as if he were locked in a vise. The cowboy felt cold fear flood through his guts as he gazed into a pair of cold, dead eyes. There was also something very terrifying about this man’s face. The cowboy gulped and managed to say, “Yes, sir, it sure is! And I wish you a nice day!”
“Excellent!” Smith said, breaking into a painful smile and releasing the cowboy. He then mounted his horse and rode away, pleased that he did not have to administer a second painful but important lesson in good manners.
Jim Smith had no difficulty finding the lightning-scorched pine and the road leading up to the Trabert place. It wasn’t much of a place really, just an old cabin, a small, sod-covered barn and root cellar, and some busted-up wagons littering the yard. The only things of value were the four horses in the rickety pole corral and a spooky old milk cow tethered to a long rope—and she’d be worthless except to the Indians for butchering.
“Hello the cabin!” Smith called as he approached to within a hundred yards.
“Who goes there!” an old man shouted, emerging with a shotgun cradled across the crook of his left arm.
“I’m a friend of Hank’s!”
“Who you be?”
“Smith! James Smith. Hank and I rode with the Marble brothers. Have you seen them lately?”
“Nope. Ride on up, stranger.”
Smith rode up to the cabin, eyes shifting around to see if the old man was alone or if there was someone covering him from inside the cabin.
“Hank around?” he asked with a smile.
“No,” the old man replied.
“Sorry to hear that,” Smith said, looking pained. “Who are you?”
“I’m Hank’s pa. Name is Luke.”
“Where did Hank go?”
“He and Ben went off early this morning to get some cattle. Said they’d be back before dark. I expect they will ‘cause neither one of ‘em can cook worth a damn.”
“I’d be obliged if I could buy something to eat myself,” Smith said, dismounting.
“What the hell happened to the lower part of your damned face?” Luke asked, making a face. “You get some kind of rash or something?”
“Yeah,” Smith replied. “Mind if I tie my horse and come inside to eat?”
“As long as you got money.”
“I do.”
“Then come inside and fill your gut. I got some damn good chili cookin’.”
“Much obliged.”
Smith tied his horse, then loosened its cinch. He could feel the old man’s eyes boring into him, but he pretended not to notice.
