even over in Denver. And he is one hell of a good poker player. He can deal a deck of cards, I tell you. Why, he’s so good they don’t even let him play in the games at the saloons.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is! Red almost always wins.”
“No man’s luck runs that pure,” Smith said. “He must give it a little nudge with a card off the bottom or some other such thing.”
“I expect so, but Red isn’t a man to be accusin’ of anything. If he’s drinkin’ or feelin’ low, he’ll shoot a man without needing much of a reason.”
“And there’s no law up here to arrest him.”
“That’s right! So people just sort of tread easy around Red. If you know what I mean.”
“Sure I do.” Smith sipped his whiskey. “Red ever get married?”
“Nope, but he’s got a real handsome Indian. Her name is Betty and she’s a half-blooded Ute. Damn pretty woman too. Red once killed a man that stared at Betty too long. Did it right across the street in front of the hotel. Now nobody so much as sneaks a peek at Betty.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Smith said.
“Oh, if you’re old friends, I guess Red will cut you some extra slack. Just don’t stare at Betty, and when Red starts to drinking real bad, find somewhere else to be. Understand ?”
“I sure do,” Smith said, dropping his feet from the empty chair and standing. He patted his distended belly, saying, “That was a real fine meal.”
“Glad you liked it. Stop by again the next time that you are passing through and say hello.”
“I will,” Smith promised.
“And don’t let them cowboys get you on the prod. They’re just dumb kids. We don’t see a lot of strangers up here, so they have a tendency to gawk a little.”
“Sure,” Smith said, belching and heading for the door. “What did you say the name of his ranch was? The Rocking B?”
“Naw, that’s the ranch that I worked on down in New Mexico. Red’s ranch is called the Bar S. It’s the last one on the south end of this valley. He’s got some big cottonwoods planted around a nice house and has a big barn with a bunch of busted-down wagons all around. His dog is a hound and he’ll wail when he sees you comin’ into the yard.”
“I’ll find it.”
“You can’t miss it. Just stay to the road and it’s the last spread on the right. And say hi to Red and Betty for me … well, Red anyway.”
“I’ll do it,” The Assassin said as he went out and climbed onto his waiting horse. “You just damn sure bet on that.”
Chapter 12
The moon was up and the coyotes howling by the time The Assassin reached the end of South Park. He reined his horse in beside a tiny weathered sign, and had to strike a match to read a Bar S brand burned in wood.
Smith shook his head. “Not too impressive for a ranch sign. I’m thinkin’ that you don’t want to attract any passin’ strangers, huh, Red?”
The cottonwoods were bathed in moonlight, and Smith could see lamplight in the windows of the Bar S ranch house, which was located about a half mile from the road. The dark silhouettes of busted wagons reminded Smith of animal carcasses he’d seen one spring after a real bad Montana winter.
They got a hound dog, Smith thought. That fella at the cafe said they had a hound dog and he’ll start bayin’ just as soon as I put a foot on their property. I can bet on that. So what should I do? Hole up and wait for Skoal to come to town and then ambush him? Be less risky than riding up there in the dark and givin’ him some warning.
Smith yawned. He shouldn’t have had those two water glasses of whiskey because they’d made him sleepy. He wasn’t in any shape for a gunfight, that was for certain.
Smith drummed his heels against his horse’s ribs and continued on down the road to the end of South Park. Then he reined west and made his horse pick its way through the rocks and the pines. He would hole up somewhere in these mountains, up and behind Skoal’s ranch house. He had food and water. He could wait out Red for a day or even two. By then, he was sure that Skoal would unwittingly offer himself as a target. After that, he’d go down to the ranch and maybe even have some fun with Betty.
Smith slept late on his soft bed of pine needles. The sun was high on the eastern horizon when he pushed himself up to his elbows and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. He stretched, yawned, and climbed stiffly to his feet, eager to get a good look at the Bar S Ranch spread.
The house was bigger than he’d judged last night, and it had a nice front porch. Most interesting, however, was the activity that was taking place in the ranch yard. Smith moved a little further down the hill and then sat on a rock. He squinted into the morning sun and saw that there were three men at work on one of the old wagons, which was missing a wheel. A fourth man—or maybe the Ute woman—was over by the corral saddling a black horse.
It was almost impossible to tell which of the men below was Red Skoal. The outlaw was of average size and build so he didn’t stand out any. He had reddish-brown hair and a beard, but everyone in sight was wearing a hat and three of them had beards.
The Assassin hunkered down to await what would transpire. By and by, the one with the black horse rode off with a dog following along behind. They were heading north. The dog was big with short hair, and Smith figured it was the hound. An hour passed before Smith moved back up to his camp to feed his horse a bait of oats. He ate some dried beef and hardtack, and wished he could light a fire and boil some coffee. Fortunately, the day was warm, but there were some dark storm clouds to the north. Unless he was reading the signs wrong, Smith figured it was going to storm. Well, that was fine too. By then, he’d be in Red Skoal’s house, most likely also in his bed enjoying the Ute Indian woman.
