Smith shook his head. “It sounds like a tragic time for you. Did your aunt at least recover?”
“No. She died that same winter.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“And what happened then?”
“I went to work in a cantina,” Betty said, her eyes clouding with sadness. “I worked there several years. I … I had many men, some good but most bad. And I lost a baby. I almost died, and then Red found me and took me to the Bar S, where I have lived ever since.”
“Were you really happy living with him?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no,” Betty said after a long pause. “You see, Red Skoal was mostly nice to me. He saved my life, but I knew that he was an outlaw and had killed many men. And sometimes, when he drank too much, he was very rough with me, but he was always sorry the next morning.”
“And you don’t blame me for killing him?”
“No, because he was one of the men that killed your family. He told me about that, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear of it,” Smith said, shaking his head back and forth. “Not ever.”
She kissed his pale cheek. “I will never speak of that or of Red again. You have my word of honor.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “And I promise I will treat you with kindness.”
“Maybe that is not enough for me now. Eh?”
Smith knew what she wanted to hear, and he said, “All right, I love you, Betty. I will always love you.”
“And be faithful?”
“Yes.”
“And even marry me?”
He glanced sideways at her with a big smile. “Of course. It would make me very proud to have you for my wife.”
Betty radiated happiness. “Maybe I can even give you another fine son.”
Smith opened his mouth to tell her that he did not want another son. That it was all his heart could stand to risk loving another woman. But when he looked very deep into Betty’s eyes, he knew he could not tell her this because she very much wanted a son of her own. So he nodded in agreement and pretended not to notice when she wiped away her tears.
Cortez was a burgeoning livestock center where one was as likely to meet outlaws as cowboys or Indians. The Navajo and Hopi peoples mixed and traded freely with whites and Mexicans, and the architecture of the town was a mix of frontier shanty and old Santa Fe adobe. When Jim Smith and Betty drove up the center of town, they hardly attracted a glance because the townspeople were accustomed to seeing a lot of passing strangers.
“I’m not going to waste any time in asking for their whereabouts,” Smith announced. “My experience is that the news of our arrival will travel fast. The best thing to do is to find the Marble brothers before they even know we’re looking for them.”
“They might be watching us right now,” Betty said nervously. “They know that I was Red’s woman.”
“Well,” Smith replied matter-of-factly, “that can’t be helped. Let’s just hope we see them before they see us.”
Smith left his team at a livery and collected their few traveling bags. After getting directions to a suitable hotel, he said, “We’re old friends of Tom and Dave Marble. Would you happen to know if they’re in town?”
“I saw Dave yesterday,” the liveryman announced. “But not Tom. I heard that they’ve had a little parting of the ways.”
“Oh?”
“You see, Dave got drunk and cut Tom’s cinch almost clean away as a practical joke. When Tom started to gallop out of town, his cinch broke and he took a real bad spill. Nearly broke his neck.”
“Some practical joke.”
“Yeah,” the liveryman agreed with a shake of his head. “Anyway, it knocked Tom out cold and everyone hoped he was dead. But he wasn’t. And when he came around and learned that his own brother had cut his cinch, they had a real donnybrook. Fought up and down the street and tore up the Medallion Saloon. Tom was always the toughest of the pair, and he just beat the living hell out of Dave. Then he took Dave’s good cinch to replace his own and galloped out of town.”
“Where did he go?” Smith asked.
“Out to their place about ten miles west of town, I reckon,” the liveryman said. “I ain’t seen their spread, but I hear it has a cabin and a good spring. He and some Indian are huntin’ wild horses. I’ve bought a few of ‘em myself. Pretty good animals, for mustangs.”
“Where is Dave right now?” Betty asked.
“My guess he’s drinkin’ and playin’ cards back at the Medallion Saloon. That’s his usual hangout.”
Smith pivoted to gaze down the street. “That the one?” he asked, pointing.
“‘Yep. But there’s no ladies allowed inside,” the liveryman said, eyes coming to rest on Betty. “Just whores, ma’am.”
