“You’re not feeling well, Mister Slate?”
“Something’s wrong. I don’t quite know what, or why, but I’m feeling decidedly ill at ease.”
Jonathan Crowley adjusted his wide brimmed gambler’s hat and looked around carefully. “In the time I’ve known you I’ve run across remarkably little that put you under the weather.”
“Indeed, sir. It is a rarity.” Slate’s soft southern drawl was more pronounced. “And one I daresay I do not enjoy.”
“Close your eyes, Mister Slate.”
The man did as Crowley suggested.
“Now, tell me what you feel both in your body and outside it.”
To most, the conversation would have seemed foolishness, but Lucas Slate knew better. He was changing and his changes included some very devilish alterations to his senses. He could often see past the lies that presented themselves to most people, and he could occasionally feel much more than he should have been able to consider.
“Well now…”
Crowley said nothing, but he watched the man very carefully.
Slate turned his head slowly to the left and tilted his ear higher, as if trying to catch a sound. “Well now,” he repeated. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“What might that be, Mister Slate?”
“I can hear something. Sounds almost like music, but nothing that makes sense.”
Crowley nodded slowly. All around them people were going on about their business and giving a wide berth to the two of them. “Then I might suggest you investigate. Shall I come with you?” He made the offer already knowing the answer.
“Not at this time, Mister Crowley. Though perhaps I could count on you to remain within shouting distance.”
Crowley nodded again. “I expect I can make myself available to you, should the need arise.”
Crowley turned his horse away and started on a parallel course. The smile dropped from his face as he merged with the people moving about the bustling area.
Crowley knew that if you sit long enough, people tell the most amazing stories. It wasn’t hard to find a place that was selling food, but finding one where the food wasn’t dubious was more of a task. Still, Crowley managed well enough.
There was a tent not far from the first stable that had slices of roast beef, a thin gravy, and potatoes for a few pennies. A single penny bought a plate of beans from a pot that looked diseased. The establishment also had a bar, and that almost always guaranteed conversation. Crowley bought his food and settled in to listen.
Most of the people were talking of only two noteworthy things. The first was the silver in the area — amazing how many wanted it and how desperately they were willing to search for instant wealth. The other major topic of conversation was the ongoing Indian wars.
War might have seemed too harsh a word for some, but Crowley didn’t think so. There were soldiers moving through the area, and they were there for the main purpose of pushing any red men they saw onto the reservations they had set aside.
Crowley had no idea why. Until a little over a year earlier he’d made a very strong point to stay well away from human beings in general, and while he was once again obligated to deal with people, he had no desire to get involved in their politics. One thing hadn’t changed in his time on the planet: people got together and made messy political situations and then other people came along and tried to fix them. In the process there was normally a great deal of bloodshed. He didn’t worry about politics. He worried about the things that tried to break into the world and take it for themselves.
A man standing a few feet away from him was speaking. The man was short, stout, and stank. He needed a bath far more than he needed a whiskey, but the drink was what he was after and what he was enjoying.
“Big as a bear,” Stinky said, “and white as snow, and looking around like he’s waiting to kill something.”
Crowley could guess whom the man was speaking about.
The man pouring whiskey was taller, leaner and looked about as friendly as an executioner. Still, he nodded and poured and listened.
“Thing is, all the Indians is looking at him like he’s gonna kill ‘em and cook them up for dinner.” The thickset man smacked his lips noisily and slurped down his whiskey like it was water. His mustache, desperately in need of a trimming, trembled as he spoke. “Far as I can see that would be an improvement.”
Crowley kept his tongue. Ultimately, he didn’t much see a need to involve himself in the discussion. Still, it was interesting to hear.
When the bartender finally spoke it was softly, but with an edge. “Don’t much care for the Indians, but I’m just fine keeping the army out of here, too.”
“Oh to be sure,” Stinky said. He had a sloppy smile on his face and he nodded his head so hard Crowley wondered how it managed to stay attached. “Any ways you look at this situation, I prefer to avoid having a hundred soldiers coming along and shooting the hell out of everything again. I already had that problem in Maryland, Virginia, and in Alabama. I’m done with men in uniform.”
Crowley snorted at that, not even trying to suppress the noise.
Stinky looked his way. His brow knitted. “You think soldiers are a good idea, mister?”
“No. I just don’t think men in uniform will ever go away.”
“How you figure?”
Crowley cut a piece of beef and chewed on it for a moment before answering. “You have silver mines here. People are staking claims and digging and some of them are making money. Those people are going to want to protect what is theirs, so they’ll either hire men in uniforms to protect it, or they’ll demand men in uniforms to protect it. Either way, you’re going to get men in uniforms. Then you have your Indians, who maybe don’t care about the silver and maybe do, but either way probably don’t like getting pushed from place to place. They’re going to get upset sooner or later and they’re going to push back, and sure enough, more men in uniforms will come along to stop that from happening. I believe that’s why you currently have men in uniforms heading in this direction.”
Stinky looked at him for a long moment and then a smile broke on his face. He had a good smile. It made his face round and cheery. “Mister I like you. Let me buy you a drink.”
“By all means,” Crowley said. “But I’d ask you to do me the kindness of standing downwind. I’m still eating and you have a ripe odor on you.”
Might be that some people would have taken offense to that, but stinky did not. Instead he laughed. “It’s been a long few days riding to get here. Haven’t found the baths yet.”
The bartender pointed. “That way. Three doors down.”
Crowley finished his meal and Stinky, who had forgotten all about the offer of a drink, went to get himself cleaned up. Really, that was better for everyone involved.
Captain Henry Folsom looked around the settlement and glowered from under the brim of his Hardee hat. The men with him were tired and hungry and they needed supplies. He wasn’t overly fond of the way the place looked, but they would simply have to work with what they had available.
There were Indians moving among the people in the camp and he didn’t much care for that. His job was to make sure the Apache stayed where they belonged and that was a task he took very seriously.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Folsom spoke clearly, with a hard, barking note in his voice that perfectly matched his disposition. “Find stables and a spot upwind from this filth.”
“Upwind, sir?” Barnes asked.
Barnes was one of those people Folsom always found offensive: they’d all been on the road just as long, but Barnes was neat and clean and not a hair was out of place.
“I have no desire to smell the people here if they reek as badly as the area looks.”