Peso kept watch on the trail for an hour. When he got tired of that he walked down into camp and warmed his hands over the little fire. With his small form hunkered down he didn’t look very formidable, until his face lifted to show his proud, dangerous eyes. Peso was looking across the fire at Jack Lime. The firelight reflected from the surfaces of his eyes.
Peso said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“You have made up your mind, no?”
“Just about,” Lime said.
Peso looked at Quirt Ross and then at Perez Orozco. His glance came back to Lime and he said, “And these?”
“I haven’t asked them.”
Peso spat into the fire. Jack Lime sat cross-legged, as close as he could get to the flames without being singed. He had his coat collar turned up in back. When the silence stretched over an interval, Peso’s lips peeled back from his teeth and he said in a soft, breathy voice, “You may do as you wish. Peso has waited long enough. I have the thirst for that mariscal’s blood.”
“Ease down,” Jack Lime murmured. He glanced upward. “We got something else to worry about first. That storm hits us out here, we’re dead.”
Quirt Ross rubbed the stubble of beard that coated his jowls. “If we’d gone back to the Madden place this wouldn’t’ve happened. We’d of had shelter there, at least.”
Peso said quietly. “But Lime was scared of the Mariscal Six, no?”
“No,” Lime said flatly. “Just careful, Peso. It doesn’t pay to take chances with a gent the cut of Jeremy Six. He’s tough and he’s fast. When you face a man like him you got to know just what you’re doing. You don’t do it drunk and you don’t do it in a hurry. You take your time, and pick your spot.”
“He is not so tough,” Peso said. “No man is that tough, amigo. All it takes is one swing of the knife, one pull of the trigger.” He made a quick gesture of finality.
Lime murmured, “You may live a long time, Peso, if you learn that patience is one virtue a man can’t ignore.”
“Aagh,” Peso said in disgust. He waved an angry hand toward the sky. “And with patience you wish to fight the storm, too, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“Man, you are loco in the head.” Peso got up and started to walk around, waving his arms.
Quirt Ross said, “Peso’s right, boss. Ain’t no sense sittin’ here waiting to get snowed in. We got to get under cover someplace.”
Orozco, nursing a bad headache, growled something and Quirt Ross said, “What?”
Orozco roused himself to speak louder. “If we start now we can just about make it to Cavanagh’s ranch before the norther breaks.”
“Good idea,” Quirt Ross said. “Plenty of grub at Cavanagh’s.”
Peso stalked back to the fire. “All right, all right. Then let us go to Cavanagh’s. Let us put the saddles on the horses and go. Vamonos. Ahora—now.”
“Relax,” Jack Lime said. “Were not going to Cavanagh’s.”
Quirt Ross’s head swiveled toward him. Peso spat. Jack Lime said, “We’re going back to Spanish Flat.”
Quirt Ross stiffened. “Right now?”
Lime studied the sky. “Give it another ten minutes. Then we’ll start.”
Peso lunged forward and bent over Lime. “Patience, you say? If we wait ten minutes, amigo, we will be half-drowned in snow by the time we reach the town.”
“That’s what I want,” Lime said.
Peso had a way of flinging himself around violently when he was angry or baffled. “Without guns? Without knives? Is it maybe you have forgot the mariscal took them from us?”
“Guns ain’t hard to find,” said Quirt Ross, and Lime said again:
“Exactly.”
Peso got down on his knee and shook his cupped-open hand before Lime’s face. “Do you know what I think? I think you are a crazy man.”
Lime didn’t flinch. “You want a crack at Six, don’t you? Then play along, Peso. You’ll get your chance at him.” He stretched, getting up slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire. “May as well start saddling those broncs.”
Peso threw his hands up. “You are going to ride into the mariscal’s town without guns? Vaya con Dios. We will be in jail and that will be the end of it.”
“We won’t need guns,” Jack Lime said. “Not for awhile, anyway. Six won’t arrest us. He’ll leave us alone as long as we want him to.”
Quirt Ross said, “You got a magic lamp, or what?” He was in a grouchy frame of mind.
“Just brains, Quirt,” Jack Lime said, smiling gently. “Just brains. Let’s go.”
Along the street drifted little flour-like wafts of snow on gusts of wind. The flakes fell slow and gentle. It was two in the afternoon: the sky was almost black. Lamps burned throughout the town and shutters were up, nailed shut. The storm doors had been hung outside the Drover’s Rest’s batwings at the corner entrance. The air was stinging cold and there was very little activity on the street. A small man with his arms full of cut firewood ran stumbling through the town, taking quick looks over his shoulder, afraid the storm would hit momentarily. One horse stood at the hitch-rail in front of the Drover’s Rest and Hal Craycroft, the bartender, closed the storm doors and walked back to the big poker table. “Sammy, you going to leave your horse out there? Storm’s about to hit.”
Sammy Preston looked up from his cards irritably. “Hell, I forgot.” He threw in his hand. “Lousy cards anyhow. Deal me out a few hands. I’ll be back, boys—save my seat.” He got up and walked toward his jacket, hung on a peg by the door. Sammy was wearing gambler-striped trousers and a colorful flap-breasted shirt with a string necktie; the gun on his hip had a pearl handle and his boots were tooled and ornamented in colors. He got into his coat and went outside.
The saloon had no other customers except the four men remaining at the poker table: three ranchers and a stagecoach division manager, all stranded by the storm and intending to wait it out in Spanish Flat. Hal Craycroft pulled a spare chair up to the table, since there was no one to wait on at the bar. He had a look around. The room seemed bigger than it was, when it had no customers. The Drover’s Rest was Spanish Flat’s finest saloon and almost the only one on the main street: most of the barrooms were back in Cat Town. Craycroft took pride in the place; he owned it.
One of the ranchers, Keene, said: “Two cards for you and the dealer takes three. Who’s the bet up to?”
The stagecoach division manager said, “Reckon it’s up to you.”
Keene studied his cards. “Not worth betting these,” he said, and folded his hand. He sat back, a lanky man, cattleman down to his boots. Rolling a cigarette, he said idly to Hal Craycroft, “Sammy Preston ought to hire himself a mother.” It was said without malice.
Craycroft, who was always inclined to look for the best side of a character, said, “Maybe he’ll grow up. Takes longer for some than for others. I give him a few years yet.”
“He’s a rotten card-player,” Keene said, “that’s for sure. How much you figure he’s lost across this table in the past five years?”
“I’d hate to guess,” said Craycroft.
“A good part of old Grat’s fortune, I’d reckon,” Keene said. He stood up and turned to the bar, waving Craycroft down. “Stay in your chair, Hal. I’ll help myself.” Keene went around behind the bar and siphoned beer from the keg into his mug. He glanced at the big stove in back of the room. “Got plenty of coffee? You’re liable to need it.”
“Enough, I hope,” said Craycroft.
The stagecoach division manager raked in the pot and stacked his chips while one of the others shuffled the pack of cards. Keene brought his beer back to the table and dropped a coin in Craycroft’s palm. It was a lazy time except for the quiet suspense caused by the impending storm. Watching the card game, Craycroft felt his lids get heavy.
The door opened and Craycroft looked around idly, expecting to see Sammy Preston returning. But it wasn’t Sammy. It was a thin man in a flat gray hat and a bottle-green coat. Craycroft thought he had seen the face before but he couldn’t place it. He got up reluctantly and moved toward the bar. “Afternoon, stranger. What can I do for you?”
The thin man took off his coat and hat and hung them up deliberately. Craycroft did not miss the two guns strapped to his hips. Not many men wore two revolvers. Those who did usually knew what they were for. The stranger came along to the bar, smoothing down his vest. “Been a cold ride,” he said. “I believe I’ll start with coffee, if you’ve got some.”
From the table, Keene said, “What’d I tell you, Hal?”
“I’ve got some brewing on the stove,” Craycroft said, and carried a cup back across the room. While he filled it and brought it up to the stranger he was puzzling over the half familiar face, the pair of guns, the bleak, guarded eyes. Finally, as he placed the coffee cup before the man, Craycroft said, “You’re January, ain’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Thought I recognized you. Saw you win a pile of money from Doc Holliday once, in Denver.”
“Doc won it all back in Leadville,” Will January said with a very slight smile. “Good coffee.”
Craycroft had a streak of harmless curiosity. “Anything special bring you to Spanish Flat?”
“Only the weather,” January said, and added drily without batting an eyelash, “Even a vulture gets out of the way of a blizzard, you know.”
It was evident the man had his share of sourness. At the poker table, the players were watching and listening with interest. The stagecoach division manager said, “We’re only playing penny-ante, but you’re welcome to join in if you’re a mind.”
“Why,” said Will January, “I’m obliged.” He was a carefully courteous man, but that didn’t fool Craycroft. Watching him move toward the table, Craycroft knew he was looking at a cool, dangerous man.
January sat down in the chair Craycroft had vacated. It faced the door. Craycroft noticed the subtle little shift of the seat, a maneuver that exposed the farthest front window to the corner of January’s vision. Even though the windows were shuttered, the man remained vigilant.
January lifted a few coins from his pocket and put them on the table. The stagecoach division manager, who was banking, changed them into chips. January had a soft melodic voice: “I’m a professional at this. I always warn a man of that before I join his game. You’re playing a friendly game and that’s fine. But with me no game of cards is anything but business, no matter what the stakes are. Does that suit you gentlemen?”
The players looked at one another. The division manager’s shoulders lifted and fell. The rancher, Keene, said, “I reckon it suits us. We’re just passing the time. Maybe watching you we can learn something.”
“Could be,” January agreed judiciously, and waited for the deal.
Quiet, desultory talk ran around the table. Will January contributed an occasional comment, usually dry and distant, never revealing anything of himself. The game swayed around, no one winning or losing much. Craycroft went around the room trimming lamps and winding the big clock. He checked the cordwood stack in the storeroom and came back into the saloon in time to see Sammy Preston come in the front door. Sammy closed the door and batted a thin flaking of snow from his hat. “Starting to come down out there. No wind, yet.” Sammy hung up his coat and hat and was halfway to the table before he noticed the newcomer. He slowed his pace and narrowed his eyes. “What we got here?”
January was watching him with mild interest. It was clear to Craycroft that Will January had taken Sammy’s measure within two seconds of the time Sammy had entered the room. Keene introduced the two men by speaking their names, and hearing the gambler’s name spoken, Sammy said, “Ain’t I heard of you?”
“It’s possible,” January said. His eyes didn’t stray from Sammy. Craycroft had the feeling January wasn’t afraid of Sammy, but didn’t trust him either.
Sammy took his place at the table, watching January curiously. “Deal me in, boys. January … that’s a funny name. That your horse bedded down in the stables—the palomino?”
“Yes.”
“Nice looking stud. You want to sell him?”
“Not particularly,” January said.
Sammy glanced at his cards and followed the bet. He pressed the point: “What if I said I’d like to buy the palomino?”
“I’ll sell anything,” January said, “if the price is right.”
“What is the price?”
January’s eyes touched Sammy briefly with a cold glance. “To you,” January murmured, “it would be pretty high.”
Sammy sat back in his chair, thinking that over. After awhile he said, “I don’t know as I like that remark.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t trouble me too much.”
Keene murmured, “Back off, Sammy. You’re not talking to a broke-down cowboy.”
January had his cards folded, face-down, in his hand; he flipped over a chip in the pot with the cards and said softly, “It’s up to you. Fold, stay, raise, or call.”
Sammy was sweating. He looked irritably at Hal Craycroft. “Hot in here, ain’t it, Hal?”
“Not particularly.”
A flush of color darkened Sammy’s face and he dropped his cards on the table. “I’ll fold.”
January looked at Keene. “Up to you.”
Keene studied his hand and shook his head. “Not good enough to throw good money after bad,” he said, and threw in his hand. That left it up to the stagecoach division manager, who was a canny card player: he called, and January with a slight shrug laid down a pair of kings. The division manager laughed low in his throat, showed two small pairs, and took in the pot. Sammy Preston cursed. “Hell, I had those kings beat. And I had the two pair beat. That should’ve been my win.”
January said, “You can’t win if you don’t play through to a finish. And let me give you a piece of advice: never tell anybody what was in the hand you threw in.”
Sammy got up, pushing the chair away with the backs of his knees. “Nobody asked for your damned advice,” he said angrily, and tramped across to the bar to pour a drink.
Hal Craycroft murmured in a voice too low to reach Sammy’s ears, “The kid’s had troubles lately. I’d appreciate it if you’d give him some rein.”
January answered without changing expression. “What do you think I’ve been doing, friend? If I’d decided to take him seriously he’d have been dead by now.” January’s bleak eyes lifted unhurriedly and met Craycroft’s. The bartender felt the force of January’s stare: it chilled him down to his boots.
The front door latched open and Marshal Jeremy Six appeared there, outlined in a half-obscurity of slowly falling snow. “Getting bad out here,” Six said to no one in particular, and closed the door. He stayed by the door, evidently not intending to stay but just looking in. He glanced at Sammy Preston, at the bar, and something about Sammy’s sweaty, excited face made Six look around, frowning. “Everything all right, Hal?”
“I reckon.”
But then Six’s eyes swept past Craycroft and settled against Will January. January was sitting very still with one hand out of sight under the card table. His head was thrown back a little and pinpoints of lamplight glittered on the frosty surfaces of his eyes. January and Six looked at each other with recognition and with wary alertness. And after a moment’s drawn silence, Jeremy Six said:
“Well, now, look what we’ve got here.”
January inclined his head very slightly. “Jeremy.”
Six walked straight up to the poker table, drawing the glove off his right hand. Craycroft and Keene slid their chairs apart to make room for Six to stand between them. January’s attention never left Six’s face but a slow smile, ironic and lopsided, settled on January’s mouth. He murmured, “Bounty-hunting, Jeremy?”
“Have you got a bounty on you?” Six answered.
“Not in Arizona.” January’s left hand played with a stack of chips. He seemed distantly amused. “In fact, I’m not wanted for a thing down here, Jeremy.”
Sammy Preston came forward with a tumbler half-full of whisky. He was frowning, puzzled. “What’s he done, Marshal?”
Six ignored him. His heavy glance lay against January and there was little trust in it. He said, “You won’t be going anywhere for awhile.”
“Not with the weather you serve up,” January said.
“Maybe I’ll just check through to Prescott.”
“Do that, Jeremy.” The thin smile was steady.
With evident dislike, Six studied the gambler for a further moment before he turned and went out of the saloon.
Sammy Preston said immediately, “What the hell was that all about?”
Hal Craycroft said, “Mind your manners, Sammy.”
January said calmly, “Sit down, sonny, and let’s pick up this card game.”