snowfall, and the serving spoon stood up like a soldier at attention in the middle of the bowl. The carrots were soaked with melted butter with a touch of garlic, an’ they tasted just fine.
Lucas wiped his mouth with his sleeve and chuckled.
“What?”
“Ain’t real hard seein’ you et in stir.”
Will was confused for a moment and then looked down at the table and at his right hand. His left arm was wrapped protectively around his plate, his hand in a tight fist. When he used the knife to cut his steak, Lucas saw that the handle was tucked into Will’s palm and that the blade was between his thumb and forefinger, ready to attack in any position.
Will chuckled softly. “Ol’ habits die hard. In Folsom, a man who doesn’t guard his plate is gonna go hungry.”
“You have much trouble inside—’sides killin’ that fella?” Lucas asked.
“Everybody has trouble in a prison like Folsom,” Will said. “Some real bad boys in there. Show some weakness an’ you’ll end up bent over a barrel with your drawers down.”
“What about the guards?”
“The screws? They’d be first in line at the barrel.”
Lucas began to speak but stopped. The two men finished their meals and called to Millie for another tray of beer.
“You got somewhere to stay while you’re in Dry Creek?” Lucas asked. “Thing is, I got a decent li’l room up in my hayloft I usta live in ’fore I was married. It’s got a real bed. It’s a tad warm durin’ the day, but cools down good at night.”
“I’ll take it an’ pay up when I leave. Thanks.”
Lucas wiped foam from his mouth with his sleeve and looked down at the table, avoiding Will’s eyes. “About Hiram’s farm . . . ,” he began.
“What about it?”
“Ain’t no reason to go out there, Will. None ’tall.”
“I gotta pick up a trail somewhere.”
“Nothin’ to pick up,” Lucas said. “We had rain since, and some hard wind. Anyways, the sonsabitches headed for Mexico with the beef, jus’ like they always do.”
“OK.”
“You’re goin’ anyhow, right?”
“Yeah—if you’ll rent me a horse. Slick’s gonna be on vacation for a bit.”
“I don’t have nothin’ with the class of your Appy, but I got a couple head of good horses got some manners an’ will take you where you want to go.”
“Sounds good. Say—ain’t it about time to have us some more beers?”
“
The ringing and clanging of Lucas’s work the next morning as he shaped a piece of stock felt and sounded like he was using Will’s head for his anvil. “Damn,” he grunted, sitting up very slowly. He noticed he was wearing only his left boot. The right one rested next to the bed. As he leaned forward to tug the boot on, a spinning dizziness captured him. He lowered his head between his knees and sucked in deep drafts of air. Quite slowly the earth ceased spinning. He sat up again, found his hat next to where the boot had been, and put it on. He had no recollection of what had happened after the steak dinner and the ocean of beer he had poured down.
“You didn’t quite make it.” Lucas grinned as Will stepped slowly down the ladder. “There’s prolly some beer left in town, an’ last night you swore you was gonna drink all there was.”
Will stumbled to the water barrel, doused his face and head, drank deeply, and then vomited the water next to the barrel. “Damn,” he grumbled, “you musta had as much beer as I did last night, an’ here you are workin’ away, makin’ more goddamn noise than a locomotive hittin’ a brick wall.”
“I’m used to it,” Lucas said. “Hell, you jus’ was sprung from four years in hell. You gotta build up what they call ‘tolerance.’ ”
Will rolled a smoke with slightly trembling fingers, lit it with a wooden lucifer he snapped to a flame with his thumbnail, and inhaled deeply. “Damn,” he said.
“You’re lookin’ a mite shaky,” Lucas said. “Have you a belt from my bottle an’ you’ll be fine—hair o’ the dog.” Lucas tossed the half-empty quart to Will. Will grimaced but was able to choke down a good slug—and keep it down. The results were almost instantaneous.
“Hard to git it down, but it sure does the job,” Will said. He held his hand in front of him: it was rock steady.
“What’re you gonna do today?” Lucas asked after helping himself to a suck at the bottle.
“Well,” Will said, “I’m gonna buy me a Winchester Model 1873—the .32-caliber, lever-action model—an’ a whole lot of ammunition, an’ then sight her in. I’ll pick up a couple hundred rounds of .45s—Remington, not that army crap. I gotta see can I still draw an’ shoot. It’s been a long goddamn time.”
“That 1873’s a fine rifle,” Lucas said. “They come kinda dear, though.”
“Well, it’ll be the second one I’ve owned. The first one took a round in the lever mechanism that warped it all up the time the law got me. You’re right, though—the ’73’s a hell of a weapon. That first one of mine never jammed or screwed up the six years I carried it. Oh—I need to rent a horse, too.”
“
Will fetched the buckskin from his stall and put him in crossties. He worked the horse over with a currycomb and brush, checked all four hooves. The gelding was put together nicely: broad chest, slanting pasterns, good-sized rump, and prominent withers. Slick’s saddle fit the buckskin well. Will noticed that the horse didn’t suck air to bloat up a bit when Will pulled the cinches—always the sign of a willing cayuse. Will led him out of the barn, climbed into the saddle, and headed for the mercantile.
The store smelled good, just as most mercantiles did. The scents of leather, gun oil, the tang of the bundles of new shovels, picks, and axes, tobacco, new denim, and the barrels of apples and buffalo jerky combined, merged, into a partnership of promises of new goods that’d get the job done—whatever the job was.
Will knew he was wasting his breath, but he asked the clerk anyway, “I don’t suppose you got a Sharps?”
“Wish I did, but I ain’t,” the shop keep er said. “What the armies—both sides, mind you—didn’t snap up, the wooly hunters bought.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Will said, and walked over to a long rack of rifles, his boots loud on the polished wood floor. He pulled out a Winchester ’73, held it to his shoulder, worked the lever, and dry-fired it. He put it back and tried another and then another. He settled on the fourth one.
“Somethin’ wrong with them first three you tried?” the clerk asked, curious.
“Not a thing. But this one here feels like it was made for me. That’s somethin’ a man knows when he’s choosin’ a rifle or a pistol. Know what I mean?”
“No,” the clerk admitted, grinning, “but I’ll take your word for it.”
Will bought a couple hundred rounds of .32-caliber cartridges and a hundred .45s for his Colt. He’d been lucky to get his pistol back when he was released from Folsom. Ordinarily, its bone grips and filed-down front sight would have caught a guard’s eye, and the pistol and gun belt would have gone home with him. Will’s weapon was buried in a pile of beat-up rifles and shotguns and, beyond being dusty, was in fine shape. He set the rifle on the counter and began to walk the aisles of the mercantile, picking up a good bedroll, a poncho, a nine-inch knife in a sheath to carry in his boot, a little derringer .25 for his vest pocket, four canteens, a handful of stogies, and a few packs of Bull Durham. Finally, he bought a pair of denim pants, a set of long johns, and a good work shirt. The clerk let him change in the back of the store. Will tossed his old clothing into a trash barrel. The pants felt like slabs of wood against his legs, but he knew they’d break in soon enough.
The clerk, grateful for the big sale so early in the day, tossed in a rifle-cleaning kit and a can of gun oil for free. Will paid up and hauled his purchases out to the hitching rail. He tied the bedroll snugly behind the cantle of the buckskin’s saddle, distributed the ammunition into the right and left saddlebags, and slid the rifle into the
