“You make it sound like a foregone conclusion,” Eli commented.
“Just because I steal horses for a livin’ doesn’t make me stupid,” Curly said amiably enough. “Wildcats like me don’t generally die in bed with their boots off. I reckon when my turn comes, I’ll go out with a smokin’ hogleg in my hand and a song in my heart.”
Eli grinned. That was another thing about Curly: He could say the strangest things.
“I envy you, Brandenberg.”
“Sure you’re awake?” Eli joshed. He didn’t see where his life was so great. Oh, he had a roof over his head, and he never went hungry, but that’s the most that could be said. “My life would bore you silly.”
“That it would,” Curly agreed. “But you’re not always lookin’ over your shoulder. You can go anywhere you want without havin’ to worry a lawman is goin’ to walk up behind you and put a gun to your head.”
Brock Alvord came to the counter. “That’s not the worst of it,” he threw in. “You don’t have every Indian in four territories after your scalp. And now that the bounty on our heads is so high, manhunters will be crawlin’ out of the woodwork.”
Kid Falon heard that last comment. “How do we know this soddy won’t try to collect the bounty for himself?”
“Why don’t we let Eli answer that?” Alvord said.
Eli had the johnnycakes heaped high on a plate, and he turned from the cookstove to carry them to the table. “It don’t make me no nevermind what other folks do. You boys have never done wrong by me, and I believe in lettin’ every man skin his own skunk.”
“I don’t trust you,” Kid Falon declared. “I have half a mind to put a slug in you just so you’ll know what you’ll get if you ever cross us.”
Brock Alvord rubbed his white Vandyke. “You’ll do no such thing. Eli’s is one of the few places we can come where we don’t have to sleep with one eye open. Throw down on him, and you’ll answer to me.”
Never in a million years would Eli have believed anyone could talk like that to Kid Falon and get away with it, but all the Kid did was scowl and slump in his chair. Eli suspected that Brock Alvord better be mighty careful. There might come a time when the Kid refused to back down when he was on the prod, and Alvord would be in trouble.
Curly Means sniffed a few times and hurried over. “Those cakes sure do set my mouth to waterin’. You missed your callin’, Eli. You should have been a cook.”
John Noonan produced his new bone-handled knife, jabbed the tip into a cake, and took a bite. “They’d be better with honey.”
“I’m plumb out,” Eli said, when in reality he had some stashed in a cabinet. “Sorry.”
Big Ben Brody stuffed two of the cakes into his mouth and chomped like a starved griz on a slab of meat. “My ma used to make cakes like these,” he said, crumbs dribbling over his lower lip. He looked at Alvord. “How soon you reckon before those red-skins get here?”
Eli started. “Indians are comin’ here?” If there was one thing he was scared of, it was hostiles. He couldn’t abide the thought of being taken alive and tortured to death. The things some of those heathens did were horrible beyond mention.
“Don’t wet yourself,” Kid Falon growled. “They’re friendlies. They got wind of our offer and had a whiskey peddler set up a get-together.”
“Offer?” Eli said, returning to the cookstove for the hominy.
It was Brock Alvord who answered. “We get the word out through scouts and whiskey Indians and the like that we’ll pay one hundred dollars for information on herds worth stealin’.”
So that was how they did it, Eli thought. Out loud he said, “Indians turn against their own kind like that?”
“Peel off their skin, and they’re no different than whites,” Brock said. “Down Arizona way, Apaches sign up as scouts to fight their own tribe. Indians are always squabblin’ among themselves. The Arapahos hate the Shoshones, and the Shoshones hate the Sioux, and everybody hates the Blackfeet.” Brock smiled slyly. “How do you reckon we found out about that Crow herd we stole not long ago? A Shoshone told us.”
“No wonder you’ve never been caught, Mr. Alvord. You’re as smart as a tree full of owls,” Eli complimented him.
“My grandpa used to say that brains in the head saves blisters on the feet. And my pa was always goin’ on about how a man can make more money usin’ his head than his back. I learned from them.” Brock helped himself to a cup from a shelf and filled it with piping-hot coffee. “They’d roll over in their graves, though, if they knew how I’d turned out. Pa had high hopes of me bein’ a lawyer or a doctor.”
“My pa wanted me to be a store clerk like him,” Kid Falon said. “He used to slap me silly whenever he caught me playin’ with an old revolver I bought. One day he slapped me once too often, and I shot him in the belly.” The Kid laughed. “You should have seen the look on his face when he died!”
Eli shivered, and not from the breeze wafting in through the open door. He went to close it and felt his heart leap into his throat. A stocky warrior was just outside, a Henry rifle cradled in the crook of an elbow. The warrior had painted himself yellow and wore what appeared to be a small stuffed prairie dog in his hair. “Brock! We’ve got company!” Eli hastily backpedaled behind the counter.
The Hoodoos acted as surprised as Eli. The Kid stood, his hands over his Colts. John Noonan and Big Ben also pushed to their feet. Curly Means was ladling hominy onto a plate and stayed in his chair.
“Sunset!” Brock Alvord declared, offering his hand white-man fashion. “We didn’t figure to see you until noon.”
Eli had no idea which tribe the warrior was from. His gut balled into a knot when Sunset entered, but that was nothing to the flip-flops his stomach did when four more Indians followed.
“What’s this?” Brock said. “I thought there were only goin’ to be you and your cousin.”
Sunset moved so the other warriors could file to the counter. All were carrying rifles, and all had knives. “My cousin and his brothers come. It is not safe for just one or two of us. Whites shoot at Indians on sight.”
“Can you blame them?” Kid Falon asked in ill-concealed contempt. He might have said more, but Alvord motioned for him to hush up.
“Have a seat,” Brock urged the yellow warrior. “We’d be happy to have you join us for breakfast.”
Sunset said something in his own tongue to the other warriors, then took the seat Alvord indicated. He sat stiffly, as one unaccustomed to chairs, and placed the Henry across the chair’s arms.
“Have a cake.” Brock handed him one.
After a nibble to test the taste, Sunset smiled and inhaled the johnnycake. Eli had more ready and set them on the counter. He stepped back quickly when a warrior’s bronzed hand almost brushed his. Being that close to them made him want to curl up into a ball and scream.
“Now then.” Brock Alvord turned a chair around and straddled it. “Suppose we get down to business. Sam Crotchet let on that you might know where we can get our hands on a herd.”
The name jarred Eli’s memory. Crotchet was a crusty old whiskey peddler who had been arrested twice for selling watered-down firewater to Indians but never learned from his mistakes.
“Maybe so,” Sunset said. “Crotchet say you pay one hundred dollars to learn where horses are.” He slid a palm toward Alvord.
“Not so fast. That’s not how this works. I wasn’t born on crazy creek. You give me the information, and if I think you’re talkin’ straight tongue, I’ll give you the money. But not before.”
“What stops you from cheating me?”
“That works both ways,” Brock observed. “Look. Crotchet told me you can be trusted. That you don’t hate whites like a lot of Cheyenne do. But if you’re worried about being buffaloed, we’ll call this off right now.”