The cowboys followed him; one of them was a lord known as Charlie, who was very much in love with Jane, the rest were rich and restless and young. Craig saw with no surprise at all that one of them was Arthur Hornsey. The vaquero was an Arab. His costume was the gaudiest of the lot, and he wore it with a lack of self-consciousness as complete as Simmons'.
"What'll it be, gents?" asked the barman.
"Whisky," said Craig, and the barman banged a bottle and two shot glasses in front of Simmons and himself. The others asked for beer, and the foaming glasses skidded down the bar to them. The vaquero and Jane drank sarsaparilla.
Simmons poured, and Craig and he touched glasses, then swallowed their drinks at a gulp. Craig noted with relief that it was Scotch, not redeye. Simmons poured again, and this time saloon etiquette allowed a man to sip.
"I really am sorry about the bull," said Simmons. "That fool of a butler must have misunderstood what I told him. Caesar always goes for men on foot. He should have known that. These foreigners—"
"Ah," said Craig, as if everything had been made clear. "Foreign, is he?"
"Yugoslav. I met his father during the war," said Simmons. "Still—as long as you're all right?"
"I'm fine," said Craig, and turned to Jane. "It was you I came to see."
"Oh?" said Simmons.
"I'm from the Foreign Office," Craig said. "It's about that Chinaman—"
"That'll keep," Simmons said. "I've been waiting for weeks to play cowboys."
"It's urgent," said Craig. "I should get back to London."
"On Friday?" said Simmons. "The F.O.'ll be empty now. You must stay till Monday, my dear chap. I insist. Anyway, it'll give you more time to talk to Jane."
"Please stay," said Jane. "It's the least we can do after—"
Craig looked at the gambler clicking cards as the blues chords pounded their sorrow. This was the dream world the orphanage had shown him at strictly rationed intervals, the world where the cowboy climbed his horse and rode off to where there were no more problems. The world, it was obvious, that Jane loved to live in, and so he had no choice. He must live in it, too.
"It's awfully good of you," said Craig, talking Foreign Office.
"Glad to have you," said Simmons. "I'll lend you some kit."
So Craig too faced the world in a blue gingham shirt and denims, cowboy boots, and a black plains hat with a silver band, Simmons found him a gunbelt, too, a wide strip of leather polished black, with a cutaway holster and a pigging string to tie it to his thigh. Then he found him a gun in the sheriffs office, which was an armory of racked shotguns, Winchesters, and one enormous and terrifying Sharps buffalo rifle. The gun he chose was a rimfire Colt .45, picked, it seemed, at random from a collection that swung by their trigger guards from nails driven into the wall. Craig broke it, spun the magazine, snapped it together, and sighted along its six-inch barrel.
"Are we going to fire these things?" he asked, and Simmons nodded.
"Then I'd rather have that one," said Craig.
He picked out a Smith and Wesson .38, slimmer, more compact than the huge Colt .45, but far more accurate, with all the stopping power that anyone could need; the great-grandfather of the weapon Craig still used, longer in the barrel, heavier in the butt, yet still familiar. Simmons watched him check it, try its sight and weight, then thrust it into the holster.
"My men'll think you're a sissy," he said. Craig pushed back his hat and stared at him gently.
"I hope not," he said, and his voice was so exactly the voice of the tall Texan who's a stranger in town that again Simmons laughed aloud.
"Come on," he said. "There's a lot to do before dark."
It never occurred to anyone to ask whether he could ride, but Craig took care to choose the oldest cow pony he could find in the remuda, and clung on grimly while the others galloped and swerved, threw and hog-tied bull calves, and roped a frantic longhorn that had cost Simmons a fortune in freightage. Then they rounded off the afternoon by holding up the Wells Fargo stage, killed the man riding shotgun with blank cartridges, then formed a posse (Simmons acting as sheriff) and arrested themselves. And throughout the whole crazy business, the Arab vaquero rode with a deadly skill that riveted Craig's attention: he was the most superb horseman he had ever seen, and Simmons was frantically trying to conceal his jealousy. To be good at what he undertook would never do for Simmons; he had to be superb. In his dealings with his daughter, for example, it wasn't enough that she should love him, she had to adore him. For the same reason he chased after Hamid Medani, time after time, and finished second. To Craig his good-natured laughter was as false as a whore's promise, but it wasn't his business, and he plugged on in the rear and left all the decisions to the horse, who was grateful for it.
At the end of the day, while the light still lasted,
they rode over to a walled area with a safety barrier that was a shooting range. The targets were the classic ones, tin cans, and by the time Craig arrived the others were blasting away, the .45's booming like cannon. Their kick was tremendous, and their impact, when they hit anything, reminded Craig of battering rams, but their lack of accuracy was appalling. Medani didn't hit a can once. Then it was Simmons's turn, and he was very good indeed, hitting the can four times out of five. (No one in his right mind leaves a shell in the chamber the hammer rests on.)
Simmons grinned, slapped Medani on the shoulder, and looked up at Craig.
"You and your sissy gun. Beat that, John," he said.
Craig went up to the barrier and wondered whether he should do as Simmons said. If he failed, Simmons would like him and that might be usefuclass="underline" if he beat him, Simmons might get angry, and an angry man can be very vulnerable indeed. Craig took the Smith and Wesson slowly, carefully from its holster, and the young men tittered, then stopped, ashamed. Rich, restless young men don't titter at those less fortunate then themselves. Craig ignored them, taking his time, settling his balance, the gun barrel pointed like a prosecutor's finger. The Smith and Wesson had a sharper bark than the Colt's smothered boom, and it cracked out five times in a steady rhythm of fire. The first shot cut low into the can, sending it spinning in the air; the other four kept it there, bouncing like a ball from shot to shot. When it fell, there were five holes clean through it. Behind Craig a young man whistled, and Medani touched his arm.
"I think you have done this before," he said. "Eh Christopher?"
"You surprised me," said Simmons. "The Foreign Office has hidden talents."
"I used to shoot for the navy," said Craig, and it was true in a way. He had shot for the navy—all sorts of people.
Simmons said: "Let's change now. It'll be chow time soon."
Craig, Medani, and the rest of the young men changed in the bunkhouse. Simmons and his daughter went to the ranch house. The bunkhouse had showers and electric razors, and the broadcloth pants, white shirts, and string ties that cowboys wear on their night off. Craig stripped and changed with the others, then sat apart and began to clean the Smith and Wesson. Hornsey came up to him, watched the deft fingers busy with oil and rags.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Craig," he said.
"Yes, indeed," said Craig. "How's Lancaster University?"
"I'm on leave of absence," Hornsey said. "I'm doing research into abnormal behavior patterns and their impact on conventional morality."
"You picked a good spot for it," said Craig.
"Here?" The idea delighted Hornsey. "I couldn't do it here. Jane invited me." He paused. "You're an awfully good shot."
"Thank you."
"Better than Jane's father." The idea seemed to amaze Hornsey. "I cheated," said Craig. "I used a better gun."