FOUR
Clint met Dixon in front of the post office as the man locked the door.
“Anything of value in there?” he asked.
“Letters, my friend,” Dixon said. “Just letters.”
They started walking.
“You know, I really liked it when the pony express was operating,” Clint said.
“They figured out a better way real quick,” Dixon reminded him. “You can’t believe how fast the mail gets cross-country now.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t get much mail,” Clint said.
“You don’t stay in one place long enough for a letter to reach you.”
“That’s true.”
“Turn here,” Dixon said. “This place has the best steaks in town.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “but does that mean that they’re good?”
“You’ll find out.”
The steaks were good. Once again, however, as with the café, the coffee was lacking.
“Is there good coffee in town?” Clint asked.
“What’s wrong with this coffee?” Dixon asked.
“Not strong enough.”
“That’s right. You like that really strong trail goop that you make.”
“I make good coffee.”
“Yeah,” Dixon said, “if you want to get the paint off a building.”
“Shut up and eat your steak.”
Over the meal they caught up with each other. Dixon, while younger than Clint, had become weary of the life of a scout, a life in the saddle, which was why he’d decided to become a rancher, and then a postmaster.
“Did you say you were at the hotel?” Dixon asked.
“Yes, the Stetson.”
“Why don’t you come back to the ranch with me and stay there? It’ll save you some money.”
“Have you got a wife?”
“What? A wife? No, no wife. Just me and some ranch hands.”
“In the morning you’ll have to come back here to the post office, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, no offense, but I think I’d rather be in town so I can find something to do.”
“Yeah,” Dixon said, “I can see where you’d want that. You gonna stay long?”
“I’ve ridden a long way, so I thought I’d let my horse rest a few days.”
“Good,” Dixon said. “We still have time to catch up.”
“Right.”
“Maybe play some poker.”
“You got a game going?”
“Nothing regular, but I’m sure there are games in the saloons.”
“How many saloons?”
“Three that have gaming,” Dixon said, “a couple just for drinkin’. A whorehouse, too, but you still don’t use those, do you?”
“No.”
“Never understood that myself, but then you’ve never had a shortage of women, have you?”
“I guess not,” Clint said.
“How’s that work?”
Clint shrugged. “Women like me.”
“That’s obvious,” Dixon said. “They don’t like me much.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know how to talk to them,” Dixon said. “Even when a woman comes into the post office, I get nervous. So whores are good enough for me. You don’t have to talk to them.”
“I suppose that’d be a plus in your situation,” Clint said.
“How is it you know what to say to ’em?” Dixon asked.
Clint shrugged and answered, “I just say what comes into my head.”
“And it’s the right thing?”
“Usually.”
“You’re lucky, then.”
Clint decided to change the subject from women.
“I dropped in on your sheriff.”
“Garver?” Dixon said with a look of distaste. “He’s not much of a lawman. In fact, I think he’s downright crooked.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I don’t want to,” Dixon said. “It’s not my job.”
“You can live in a town where you know the law is crooked?”
“Long as I don’t have to deal with him,” Dixon said. “Look, I stay at my ranch, or I stay in the post office. I don’t go lookin’ for trouble.”
“I suppose I can understand that,” Clint said. “You’ve had your share over the years.”
“And most of the time I went lookin’ for it,” Dixon said. “Like scoutin’ for the Army. That’s just always lookin’ for trouble.”
“And hunting buffalo?”
“Now that was the life,” Dixon said. “As long as you weren’t greedy and left enough for the Indians, but men like you, me, and Bat Masterson were the only ones who wasn’t greedy. And now the buffalo are gone.”
“I know,” Clint said, shaking his head, “it’s a damn shame.”
Dixon nodded his agreement, and they ordered pie.
