"If he's here, I'll find him," Max answered. "This is where he's supposed to be. Then I'll go down into West Texas an' get the other one."
Farrar was silent for a moment. "Well, dressed like that, you better look out he don't recognize you and find you first."
"I'm hopin' he does," Max said quietly. "I want him to know what he's dyin' for."
Farrar turned away from the bleak look in the boy's eyes and picked up a shirt. Max waited quietly for him to finish dressing. "I'll pick up my time now, Mr. Farrar," he said when the man had pulled on his trousers.
Farrar walked over to the dresser and picked up his poke. "There you are," he said. "Four months' pay – eighty dollars – an' the sixty dollars you won at poker."
Max put the money in a back pocket without counting it. "Thanks, Mr. Farrar."
"Sure I can't talk you into comin' back with me?" Farrar asked.
"No, thank you, Mr. Farrar."
"You can't keep all that hate in your soul, boy," the older man said. "It ain't healthy. You'll only wind up harmin' yourself."
"I can't help that, Mr. Farrar," Max said slowly. His eyes were empty and cold. "I can't ferget it's the same breast that fed me that bastard's usin' to keep his tobacco in."
The door closed behind him and Farrar stood there staring at it.
Mary Grady smiled at the boy. "Finish your whisky," she said, "while I get my dress off."
The boy watched her for a moment, then drank the whisky quickly. He coughed as he went over to the edge of the bed and sat down.
Mary looked over at him as she slipped the dress up over her head. "How are you feelin'?"
The boy looked at her. She could see the vagueness already in his eyes. "All ri', I guess," he answered. "I ain' used to drinkin' so much."
She came over and stood looking down at him, her dress over her arm. "Stretch out and shut your eyes. You'll be all right in a few minutes."
He looked up at her dumbly, without response.
She put out her hand and pushed his shoulder. A hint of awareness sparked in his eyes. He tried to get to his feet, his hand locked around the butt of his gun, but the effort was too much. He collapsed, falling sideways across the bed.
Expertly Mary bent over him and lifted his eyelid. The boy was out cold. She smiled to herself and crossing to the window, looked out into the street.
Her pimp was standing across the street in front of a saloon. She raised and lowered the shade twice in the agreed signal and he started toward the hotel.
She was dressed by the time he got up to the room. "You took long enough gettin' him up here," he said surlily.
"What could I do?" she said. "He wouldn't drink. He's just a kid."
"How much did he have on him?" the pimp asked.
"I don't know," Mary answered. "The money's in his back pocket. Get it an' let's get out of here. This hotel always gives me the creeps."
The pimp crossed to the bed and pulled the money out of the boy's back pocket. He counted it swiftly. "A hundred and thirty dollars," he said.
Mary went over to him and put her arms around him. "A hundred and thirty dollars. Maybe we can take the night off now," she said, kissing his chin. "We could go over to my place and have a whole night together."
The pimp looked down at her. "What? Are you crazy?" he rasped. "It's only eleven o'clock. You can turn three more tricks tonight."
He turned to look down at the boy while she picked up her pocketbook. "Don't forget the bottle of whisky," he said over his shoulder.
"I won't," she answered.
"He don't look like no cowboy," he said. "He looks more like an Indian to me."
"He is," she said. "He was looking for some guy who had a tobacco pouch made from an Indian woman's skin." She laughed. "I don't think he even wanted to get laid. I got him up here by lettin' him think I knew who he was lookin' for."
The pimp looked down thoughtfully. "He's carryin' a gun, too. It should be worth somethin' to the guy he's lookin' for to know about him."
"You know who he's lookin' for?"
"Maybe," the pimp said. "C'mon."
It was almost two o'clock in the morning before the pimp found the man he was looking for. He was playing cards in the back of the Golden Eagle.
The pimp touched him on the shoulder cautiously. "Mr. Dort," he whispered.
"What the hell do you want?"
The pimp licked his lips nervously. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dort," he apologized quickly. "I got some information that I think you ought to have."
The pimp looked around the table nervously. The other men stared at him. "Maybe it's better private like, Mr. Dort," he said. "It's about that tobacco pouch."
He pointed to the table where it lay.
Dort laughed. "My Injun-tit tobacco pouch? Somebody's allus tryin' to buy it. It ain't for sale."
"It's not that, Mr. Dort," the pimp whispered.
Dort turned his back to him. "What the hell are you tryin' to tell me?"
"I figger it's worth somethin'- "
Dort rose swiftly. He grabbed the pimp's jacket and slammed him tightly against the wall. "What should I know?" he asked.
"It should be worth something, Mr. Dort," the pimp said, his eyes wide in fright. Dort was one of the worst killers in town.
"It'll be worth something," Dort said menacingly. "If you don't talk real quick- "
"There's an Indian kid in town lookin' for you," the pimp said in terror. "He's packin' a gun."
"An Injun kid?" Dort questioned. Slowly his grip relaxed. "What did he look like?"
Quickly the pimp described Max.
"His eyes, was they blue?" Dort asked harshly.
The pimp nodded. "Yeah. I saw them when he picked one of my girls up in the saloon. That's how come I didn't know he was Indian at first. You know him?"
Dort nodded without thinking. "I know him," he said. "That was his mother's."
All their eyes were on the tobacco pouch now. Dort picked it up and put it in his pocket.
"What're you goin' to do?" the pimp asked.
"Do?" Dort repeated dully. He looked at the pimp, then at the table of men around him. He couldn't run away now. If he did, everything would be gone. His reputation, his position in this oblique society.
"Do?" he said again, this time with growing strength and conviction. "I aim to do what I shoulda done a year ago. Kill him." He turned back to the pimp. "Where is he?"
"I'll take you to him," the pimp said eagerly.
The others at the table looked at each other for a moment, then silently got to their feet. "Wait for us, Tom," one of them called. "This oughta be some fun."
When they got to the hotel, Max had already left. But the hotel clerk told them where they could find him tomorrow. At the stockyards at two o'clock. The clerk was supposed to meet him there and collect a dollar for the room.
Dort threw a silver dollar on the counter. "There's your dollar," he said. "I'll collect it for you."
Farrar leaned against the fence, watching Max cut the prime steers into the feed pen. A man was leaning on the fence next to him. "That boy's got a sixth sense with a horse," Farrar said, without looking at him.
The man's voice was noncommittal. "Yeah." He finished rolling a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. "Got a match?"
"Why, sure," Farrar said, reaching into his pocket. He struck a match and held it toward the man. His hand froze as he saw the tobacco pouch in his hand.
The man followed his gaze. "What you lookin' at?"
"That tobacco pouch," Farrar said. "I ain't seen nothin' like it."
The man laughed. "Ain't nothin' but an ol' squaw tit," he said. "They the best things for keepin' tobacco moist an' fresh. They ain't much for wear, though. This one's gettin' awful thin."
Suddenly, Farrar turned from the fence to signal Max. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said.
There was a rustle of movement behind him and Farrar became aware of the other men. He watched helplessly as Max dropped the gate on the last of the steers and rode over to them.
Max got off his horse and tied it to a post. "All finished, Mr. Farrar," he said with a smile.