“Dad,” Jedediah asked, “will you teach us how to shoot a gun like that?”
“No.”
“Somebody taught you,” Obadiah said.
“That’s right.”
“Was it your father?” Jedediah.
“No.”
“Who?” Obadiah.
“I did,” Jake said.
“Ah, come on.” Obadiah frowned. “I don’t believe it.”
“Are you calling your Uncle Jake a fibber?”
“Well,” Obadiah said, “I never seen you shoot a gun.”
“Never saw you shoot a gun,” Jedediah corrected.
“Neither of us did.” Obadiah nodded.
“I just don’t want to show off, but when the time comes, you’ll be astonished.”
Benjie came from the stable and approached, spinning out his yo-yo.
Both boys’ eyes widened. This was the first time they had seen him in action with the yo-yo.
“Look at that!” Jedediah exclaimed.
“Want me to show you how to do the yo-yo?”
“Would you, Benjie?” Jedediah asked.
“Sure would. Let’s go over there by that tree.”
They went away together with Benjie doing his stuff.
“They call this ‘walkin’ the dog,’ ” Benjie explained.
“What do you say to that, brother?” Jake asked.
“I say ‘progress.’ ”
Before the two brothers could start inside, they heard a familiar voice and saw a familiar figure, but there was something different about that figure.
“All hail, gentlemen! I was witness to that little demonstration, albeit from a distance. A safe distance. So was Belinda Millay. How do you like my new wardrobe?”
Binky’s wardrobe was new . . . from top to bottom. The latest style bowler, double-breasted dark suit with stovepipe pants, a blazing white shirt with a flowing tie and shiny black patent leather pumps.
“You look elegant.” Jake smiled.
“I am elegant, thanks to my new employer. Have to play the part, you know . . . lend a little class to the joint. And speaking of my new employer, she wonders if you would be so kind as to come by, Big Ike.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Even though it was still well before noon, activity at Belinda’s Emporium had begun to pick up. A few more customers at the bar, a few more poker players at the tables, and three of the saloon girls—Francine, Alma, and Marisa—were in circulation, displaying their wares to whomever might be in the market for a little daytime diversion.
Belinda sat at the corner table playing solitaire. On the table, a bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses.
Binky led Ike Silver through the bat wings and both men proceeded to Belinda’s table.
“Fair lady!” Binky bowed. “In compliance with your request, I bring you Sir Isaac of Silver. Now, if you will excuse me, I haven’t had breakfast yet. Henry!”
Binky walked toward the bar.
“Please sit down, Sir Isaac.”
Ike sat.
“Would you care for a drink?” Belinda pointed. “It’s from Mister Lessur’s bottle.”
“No thanks.”
“Me neither,” she smiled. “I guess you know that everybody in town is already talking about that little demonstration you put on this morning.”
“I guess it couldn’t be kept a secret.”
“Those Keelers are crazy. They’re likely to come back after you.”
“I guess that is likely, but maybe that little demonstration discouraged them.”
“Maybe, but if it didn’t, may I make a suggestion?”
“Certainly.”
“Next time shoot one in the belly. That’ll really discourage ’em.”
“Is that why you asked me to come over?”
“No.”
She pointed to the whiskey bottle on the table.
“He is going to come after you.”
“Lessur?”
She nodded.
“But not out in the open. He’s a devious sonofabitch.”
“Oliver Knight referred to him as a smiling scorpion.”
“Not a bad description. He’s out to own this town, this territory . . . made me an offer for part of this saloon. I didn’t accept.”
“Neither did I.” Ike smiled. “Wanted to buy my wagons.”
“So, we’ve got something else in common.”
“How’s that?”
“We’ve both got something Lessur wants.” She picked up the cards and shuffled.
Ike pointed toward the deck. “I see you keep in practice.”
“Don’t want my fingers to stiffen—ever since that crooked card game I was in over in St. Louis.”
“How did you know it was crooked?”
“I was dealing.”
“Oh,” Ike smiled. “Tell me, how’d you get so good at cards?”
“Lessur asked me the same thing this morning.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No.”
“Then I guess you won’t tell me.”
“Sure I will. My father—”
A man slammed through the bat wings. Big, bearded and dirty.
He let loose a yell.
“Yeahh-hoo! Just spent two months up on a line shack for the Bar Seven. Ain’t seen nothin’ human for sixty days and nights! Got two months pay an’ a powerful cravin’ for whiskey and . . . well, well, well . . .” He strode across the room to Belinda’s table. “If it ain’t my old sweetheart Belinda!”
“No,” she said. “It ain’t your old sweetheart.”
“Sure! You remember me. Krantz. Dutch Krantz. We’re gonna have a drink—for openers.”
“No we’re not.”
“Sure we are. You know how much money I got in my pocket?”
“Hey! What the hell’s a’ matter? Where’s Brady?”
“He’s gone,” Belinda said. “Didn’t you notice the sign outside?”
“Hell no, I didn’t notice no sign, now come on . . .”
Krantz grabbed Belinda’s right arm and started to pull her up. In one swift movement Ike sprang and landed a cannonball fist onto Krantz’s jaw, knocking him backward to the floor, where he instantly reached for his holster as a shot rang out and kicked up sawdust between his legs just south of his crotch.
“Guess where the next one’ll be,” Belinda said, holding a pearl-handled derringer in her right hand. “Now, Mister Krantz, there’s another saloon just up the street. Why don’t you go over there and try your luck?”
“Yeah. Sure. I didn’t mean nothin’.” Krantz made it to his feet and started toward the door. “I didn’t mean nothin’. . . I just . . .”
He just walked out through the bat wings.
The customers in the saloon watched as Belinda Millay replaced the pearl-handled derringer into her garter.
Binky approached, removed his bowler and bowed.
“Was ever woman in such humor woo’d? Did ever woman in such humor rebuff the wooer? I think not!”
“And I think I better be going.” Ike said.
“Don’t you want to hear the story of my life?” Belinda smiled.
Ike smiled back. “Don’t think I could stand the excitement.”
“You are the fellow who painted that sign for Belinda’s Emporium, aren’t you?”
“Well, I’m the only sign painter in town, so I must be. And you’re the fella that did that fancy shootin’ this mornin’.”
“Ike Silver.” Ike extended his hand, as did the sign painter.
“Tom Bixby.” They shook. “What can I do for you, Mister Silver?”
“You know that sign above the general store?”
“I ought to. I painted it.”
“Well, I’d like you to paint another one to replace it.”
“So would I.”
“Good.”
“What do you want the sign to say?”
“Silver and Co. General Store—Supplies—Freighting.”
“Freighting, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Does Rupert Lessur know about this?”
“He does.”
“This could get interestin’. What colors do you like? On the sign, I mean?”
“Leave that up to you.”
“That’s smart. Now, about the sign—I’ll give you two choices . . . and that’ll have to be up to you.”
“Go ahead, Mister Bixby.”
“Ten dollars for the ‘dee-lux’ or five dollars for the ‘good ’nuff’?”
“Dee-lux.”
“That’s smart, too. Have it for you tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“You know, them Keeler brothers is crazy.”
“So I hear.”
“You also know I paint markers, too.”
“What kind of markers?”
“Boot Hill.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mister Bixby, for the future. The distant future. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Freightin’, huh? Say, Mister Silver, would you like to pay in advance?”
“Be glad to, Mister Bixby.”
Isaac Silver was walking north on Bravo Street when the two of them stepped out of the alley and faced him.
The Keeler brothers.