“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Houser. But if you have been losing cattle, I think ’tis unlikely that other ranchers be the rustlers. I know nearly all of them, ’n consider all of them to be good and honest men.”
“You certainly have more faith in your fellow man than I,” Houser said. “But then, of course, before I entered the cattle industry, I was a lawyer and, in that position, witnessed the dregs of all mankind.”
“Aye, I can see how that might color your perception.”
Houser put a dab of brown mustard on his egg roll. “Not to worry, however. I have been giving this a thought, and soon will be making a proposal to the other ranchers of the valley.”
Chapter Nineteen
Warm Springs, Wyoming
Bodine dismounted in front of the Clayton and Barr livery.
“Yes, sir?” he was greeted. “You want to board your horse?’”
“Where am I?”
“You are in the wonderful community of Warm Springs.”
“What state?”
The man chuckled. “You really are lost, ain’t you? Well, sir, you’re in Wyoming, but we ain’t a state yet. There’s them that says we won’t never be a state, but most folks thinks that we will. But like I said before, are you a-wantin’ to board your horse? Or was you just wantin’ to find out where at it is that you are?”
“I want you to board my horse.”
“That’ll be fifty cents a night with hay, six bits if you want your horse to have oats.”
“Hay is good enough for ’im,” Bodine said.
“In advance.”
“Here’s for two nights.” Bodine gave him a dollar, then looked down the street. There were three saloons interspersed with the other business buildings.
“Which one o’ them saloons is the best?” he asked.
“Well, sir, you can get food in all of ’em. But the one that serves the best food is Lamberts. The best whiskey is at the Red Star Saloon, ’n the most accommodatin’ women is at Frog City.”
Bodine chose Frog City, and was greeted as soon as he walked in the door by someone saying, “Hello, cowboy.”
At first, he didn’t know who said it, then he saw a parrot in a cage, and never having seen one before, he went over for a closer look.
“Hello, cowboy,” the parrot said again.
Bodine was fascinated by the parrot, but he saw something in the bottom of the cage that caught his interest right away. The bottom of the cage was lined with an old newspaper, and a visible story said, Lucien Bodine killed in Chugwater.
Since he was obviously still alive, he realized that the story must be about his brother.
Bodine smiled. If people thought he was dead, it would give him an opportunity to move around without fear of some old reward poster getting in the way.
* * *
At Twin Peaks Ranch, Brad Houser was having lunch with his brother.
“I’m going to have to give you a new name,” Houser said. “You are wanted as Thomas Jefferson, you are wanted as Ray Kellerman, and now you are wanted as Sid Shamrock. I can’t take a chance of being connected with any of those names.” Brad chuckled. “You are running out of names, little brother, it’s getting hard to keep up with them.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who made me give up my real name.”
“You’re the one that killed Angus Duncan. And Thomas Jefferson was no more your real name than John Tyler was mine. It was the nature of our mother’s . . . let us call it, profession . . . that she didn’t always know who got her pregnant. And, as she had an interest in past presidents, we were each named for one. I got rid of the name she gave me as soon I could. I needed nothing to remind me of the whore who, by accident, was our mother.”
“Yeah, but then you wound up changin’ that name, too,” Shamrock said.
“Names are like shoes. You can put them on, or take them off as is convenient for the circumstances.”
“What new name are you givin’ me?”
“Harris. Paul Harris.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“It don’t stick with you like the name Shamrock does.”
“Think about it, brother. Do you really want a name that sticks with you? A name that people, and the law, can remember? Or would you rather have a name that people can forget as soon as they hear it?”
“Yeah, that’s why you got rid of your old name, ain’t it?”
“Tell me, Thomas, just how many men have you killed?” Houser said, without responding directly to Houser’s question. “Excuse me, I mean Paul. I had better get used to saying it, and you need to get used to hearing it. How many men have you killed?”
“I don’t know. Six, maybe, seven. I ain’t exactly kept count. I ain’t kilt as many as Knox has. He told me he’s kilt twelve men.”
“Do you think you could kill him?” Houser asked. “Knox, I mean.”
“Are you asking me if I’m faster ’n he is? I mean, that would be damn funny, comin’ from you.”
Houser shook his head. “I didn’t ask if you were faster. What I want to know is, could you kill Knox if there was no chance of him killing you?”
“You mean could I shoot the son of a bitch in the back? Yeah, I wouldn’t have no problem with that.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Why do you ask? Do you want me to kill him?”
“Not yet,” Houser replied. “But he has given me some indication that the time may come when I find it necessary to get rid of him.”
“What about them other two? Malcolm and Dobbins?”
“They are followers,” Houser said. “Without Knox, they will need someone to follow.” Houser smiled. “That will be you.”
“What about Turley? You want me to kill him, too?”
“No. This is a cattle ranch, and everything else I am doing is designed to make the ranch bigger and more productive. Neither you, nor Jaco, nor any of the men
