'Hell,' The Preacher said, 'we was the town at first. Then the mine went dry, and all the fucking yuppies moved in. There's the money. Might as well take it.'
'Whether they want to give it or not.'
'You think lambs want to get eaten by wolves?' The Preacher said.
'So are you really a preacher?'
'I preach,' he said.
'What?'
'What do I preach?'
'Un-huh.'
'I preach self-reliance,' he said. He didn't seem to be kidding.
'You and Emerson,' I said.
'Who's Emerson?'
'One of the Concord Transcendentalists,' I said.
He frowned. I seemed to be serious.
'Are you fucking with me?' The Preacher said.
'Sometimes I can't help myself.'
He stared at me like some kind of reptilian predator. I could feel it in the small recesses of my stomach.
'Could get you hurt really bad,' he said.
'How long you been here?' I said.
'I come here about three years ago,' The Preacher said. 'Found a bunch of degenerate bums, no rules, no ambition, fighting each other over booze and dope and women. I put in some rules, turned them into something.'
'What rules?'
'No dope. No hard booze. No fighting with each other. No unattached broads. Any women come here, the man that brought them is responsible for them. You fight with one of us, you fight with all of us.'
'You gave them pride,' I said.
He studied me again. This time, his gaze was no less reptilian, but it wasn't predatory.
'Yeah,' he whispered, 'you might say so.'
'Probably got some for yourself,' I said.
He stared out over the desert flats below us, for a time. The heat shimmered up over the town.
'You might be a smart fella.' he said after a time.
'I might be,' I said.
He looked closely at his fingertips as he rubbed them together. The temperature was ferociously hot. I knew I was sweating. But the sweat evaporated almost instantly in the dry air.
'I come in here,' The Preacher said, 'these people were lying around here like zoo animals.' he said. 'Farting, fucking, fighting over the women. Dope, booze. They ran out of money they'd boost something in town, or beg. Nobody cleaned the barracks. Nobody washed themselves. The place stunk.'
I nodded.
'You know Buckman?' I said.
'I knew him.'
'Know his wife?'
'Enough,' The Preacher said.
'You got any thought who shot him?'
'You're like a fucking dog with a fucking bone,' The Preacher said. 'Maybe she shot him.'
'Mrs. Buckman?'
'Could be.'
'Got any reason to think so?'
The Preacher laughed his dry, ugly laugh. 'Cherchez la fucking femme,' he said. 'Ain't that right?'
Him too.
'Sometimes.'
'More than sometimes,' The Preacher said. 'Broads are trouble.'
'I take it you're not a feminist,' I said.
'A what?'
