“First rattle out a the box with some irrigation,” Oatha said.
Joss set up a tumbler and a glass of beer as he reached the bar.
“What are you doin here?” she whispered. “Thought you wasn’t comin back ’til tomorrow.”
“There was a big goddamn spoke in the wheel.”
“What?”
“Unexpected company up at the Sawblade. We was followed by Ezekiel Curtice and that doctor.”
“Russ Ilg?”
“Didn’t catch the man’s name, but we had quite a scrape. Billy shot ’em both, and that makes seven dead in less than a day. We need to quit the flats right now, while the gate’s open.”
Joss took out her makings, rolled a cigarette, pulled a punk from her prayer book—just a sulfur-tipped splinter of wood. She lifted her shirt, struck the match against the middle button of her canvas trousers, then lit the quirly, smoke ascending into the bleary light of the kerosene lamp above the bar. Oatha took up the glass and drank, chased it.
“He’s fair sobered,” Joss whispered, motioning to the deputy. “Wasn’t gonna get him really stewed ’til tomorrow, like we discussed.”
“You got that big bowie under the bar? One you almost shoved through my ear this mornin?”
Joss grinned, blew a stream of smoke into his face.
“That should get the job done.”
“What about . . .” Joss cocked her head toward Lana.
“You ain’t got all attached to that she stuff, have you?”
“You ain’t touchin her, Oath. Let me just send her on home.”
“Fine.”
“What about Billy?”
“What about him?”
“He comin with us?”
“Sure, he’s comin. Gonna try to straighten that balky bitch a his out first.”
“And if she don’t straighten?”
“Well, she knows, and he knows that won’t stand.”
“You reckon that scrub’ll kill his wife? Just like that?”
“I think you might be surprised.”
“I’m still gonna be the one to deal with him for goin rough on ol ’Bart. You ain’t forgot that, have you?”
“Jesus Christ, kinky, cut the boy some—”
“You ain’t got all attached to your pard, have you?”
“No, but Billy done all right today. Ain’t no scissorbill. Boy’s got some sand. Kilt both those men up there like it weren’t nothin, shined, and he’s payin a visit to their wives as we speak.”
“And I give a solitary shit why?”
“Look, we’ll need his help gettin out a town, loadin up everthin at the pass. Drivin the burros down the other side. You can ’dobe-wall him in the tall timber, ’fore we get to Silverton. Don’t you worry those pretty black eyes.”
“Condescend to me one more time.”
“Christ, you’re in a sod-pawin mood.”
“And what if his wife and kid come along?”
“Well, I guess they won’t see Silverton, neither.”
“I want no part a killin that little girl.”
“Then you’ll have no part of it. Pour me another’n. Oh, f**k it, just give me the bottle.” Joss pushed it forward and Oatha thumbed off the cork, swallowed two mouthfuls.
“I gotta say,” Oatha said when he’d finished. “I’m consternated about the future a our association.”
“And why’s that?” Joss took back the bottle and drank.
“You know I love you, so don’t go gettin your underpinnings in a big f**kin knot when I say this.”
“What, goddamn it?”
As he plunged the blade, he heard something outside, the knife point stopping three inches above the man’s heart.
Oatha glanced back at Joss. “The f**k is that?” he whispered.
He set the knife on the bar, walked to the door, cracked it open.
It was late afternoon, the sky clearing, and though the sun had already dipped below the canyon walls, he could see its long rays coppering the distant bladed rock at the pass, two miles south and two thousand feet above.
Stephen Cole tore down Main Street, hell for leather through waist-deep snow, his horse kicking up clouds of powder, and the Bible-puncher shouting as if the apocalypse were upon them, “They’re coming! They’re coming!”