'You The Preacher?' I said.
The man nodded once. He was slender and pale and hairless. He had no eyebrows and there was no hint of a beard. He ware a black dress shirt buttoned to the neck, black slacks and black sandals with black socks. Consistent. He had very little chin. His mouth was thin and sharp and sort of underslung, like a shark's.
'I'm trying to find out who shot a man named Steven Buckman.'
The Preacher nodded again, once.
'Do you know who did it?' I said.
The Preacher stared at me without speaking. I waited.
Finally he said, 'You come out here alone?'
His voice was raspy, and so soft I could barely hear him. But it had a discernible chill.
'I did.'
'Who hired you to bother us about Buckman?'
'Nobody,' I said. 'I'm just a nosy guy.'
'We could stomp it out of you.'
'Some of you would get hurt,' I said.
The Preacher smiled, sort of. He probably meant it to be a smile.
'You got a pair of balls,' he said softly. 'I'll give you that:'
'Thank you,' I said. 'Can we sit somewhere and talk?'
The big man with the long hair said to The Preacher, 'Want me to stomp his ass?'
'Not yet, Pony.'
We all stood without saying anything. It was like one of those awkward pauses in routine conversations where everyone is frantically thinking of something to say.
'We'll take a walk,' The Preacher said.
He came down off the veranda. Pony came right behind him. The Preacher shook his head.
'Just me and him,' The Preacher said.
Pony looked a little hurt. But he stayed where he was. The Preacher nodded at me, and we walked around the house. There was a view back there. The land dropped away sharply, almost a cliff, and the town and the desert beyond it stretched out like a Bierstadt painting. There was a wooden bench near the edge of the drop-a wide plank nailed on the top of two tree stumps.
'Sit,' The Preacher said.
'Nice view,' I said.
'Un-huh.'
It was a strain listening to The Preacher's barely audible voice.
'You know who shot Steve Buckman?' I said.
'What I know,' he whispered, 'and what I'll tell you ain't got much to do with each other.'
'What do you know about me?' I said.
'Your name's Spenser. You're a private shoo-fly from Boston. Somebody hired you to see who killed Buckman.'
'You know a lot,' I said.
'I'm supposed to,' he said.
'So you have sources in town,' I said.
The Preacher was staring out at the view. He had high, narrow shoulders, I noticed. When he sat they sort of hunched up so that seen from below, he'd look like a gargoyle on a medieval tower.
'You let everybody know pretty quick,' The Preacher said, 'what you was doing here.'
I nodded.
'I figure that was on purpose,' The Preacher said. 'I figure you're poking a stick into the hornets' nest. See what comes flying out.'
'Un-huh.'
'And now you come poking up here.'
'Seemed a good place to poke,' I said.
'If you don't get stung.'
'Exactly,' I said.
The Preacher made his dreadful smile face again.
'What I'm wondering about is how she picked you, all the way from Boston. You famous?'
