Boag heard boots with spurs on them and he knew it was Jackson and his compadre. He made his simple preparations and watched them walk in.
They didn’t see him at first. They were off guard; Jackson was telling a story:
“… and she says to Ben Stryker, she says ‘That man wanted to give me four dollars to sleep with him!’ and old Ben pulls his iron on the boy and puts two good ones right in his balls. And you know what Ben Stryker did then? He says, ‘I reckon that’ll be a lesson for rich boys that try to come down here and double the price of everthang.’”
They were both bent over laughing their guts out when Jackson picked up Boag in the corner of his vision. Jackson went bolt still and straightened up very slowly. It took his partner a little longer to catch on and then the partner gave Jackson a puzzled look.
Jackson said, “Now, I know you.”
“I’m Boag.”
“That’s mighty nice of you. I expect you’ve got a gun under that table.”
“Two of them.”
“You think that’s fair, boy?”
“I count two of you.”
Sweating, Jackson wiped his palms dry on his buttocks. He was a sag-bellied suety man with droopy jowls and big hard hands. His face was covered with dust and insect bites.
Boag said, “You gents might shuck your irons and sit down here.”
Jackson hesitated and his partner looked at him, but it was all right; Jackson had made up his mind when he hadn’t started for his gun the moment he’d recognized Boag.
Jackson unbuckled his belt carefully and hung it over the back of the nearest chair, waited for his partner to do the same and then they both walked up to Boag’s table, dragged chairs over with their toes and sat down slowly as if they were afraid the chairs were about to explode under their butts.
Boag said, “I know Jackson. What do you go by?”
“Smith.”
“Sure enough,” Boag said. “You folks want a drink?” He nodded his head toward the jug in the middle of the table and Jackson nodded his head and reached out for the jug. Jackson took a swallow and set the jug down. He didn’t offer it to Smith. He just sat turning the jug casually in his fingers, thinking about throwing it in Boag’s face, and Boag said, “Let that thing alone unless you’re ready to drink from it.”
“I’d sure like to try you on, boy.”
“You won’t get the chance,” Boag said. “One white trash more or less ain’t worth dying for. I ain’t got time to waste in disputations with you.”
He was watching Smith out of the edge of his eye. A corded muscle tensed under Smith’s shirt sleeve, his hand was easing toward the edge of the table. Boag reached across and grabbed Smith’s shirt-front and pulled Smith’s face down onto the tabletop. Smith’s teeth clicked, his jaw sagged, his eyes rolled up.
Jackson said drily, “You lied about one of them guns.”
“No, I left it in my lap.”
“Maybe you lied about both of them.”
“You got one quick way to find out, fat man.” Boag smiled amiably. “I got one in here with your name on it, Jackson.”
“What you got against me, boy? What I ever do to you?”
“Sure. Now you can tell me you weren’t one of those guns shooting at me from the riverboat when I went in the water.”
“What if I was? You asked for that.”
“’Course I did,” Boag muttered. “Now let’s talk about Mr. Pickett a while.”
Smith was sitting up. Groggy. Fingering his jaw. His Adam’s apple rode up and down his throat in spasms; his thin face looked sick. “Christ I think you bust my jaw.”
“No,” Boag said. “But it’ll hurt to chew for a week or so. You better stick to soft food.”
He went back to the fat one: “I said let’s talk about Mr. Pickett.”
“What about him?”
“I ain’t greedy, Jackson, I don’t want more than you got. All I want is the name of a place.”
“What place?”
“Where I can find Mr. Pickett.”
Smith snickered and winced and touched his jaw very gently.
Jackson said, “Listen, he double-crossed us the same way he double-crossed you. He tooken off with the gold, him and Ben Stryker and Gutierrez and a couple others. The rest of us scattered and hid out on account we didn’t want them gunning after us one by one.”
Boag smiled a little. “And you expect me to buy that right off the shelf”
“It’s the truth, I can’t hep it. Smith, you tell him.”
“I ain’t likely to believe him more than you,” Boag said. “Now why don’t we try it again. Pretend like I asked the same question and you get to answer it like you never heard it before.”
“Boy, the trouble with you, you don’t wear your hat square on your head. You think we’d be up here in this miserable hole if we had some of that gold to spend?”
“Why don’t you just tell me why you’re up here in this miserable hole.”
“I told you boy, we hiding out from Pickett’s guns.”
Boag sighed. “How long you been riding for Mr. Pickett, Jackson? Twenty years?”
“Twenty-three. And the thanks I get——”
“Let’s us go up in the woods a ways,” Boag said. “We’ll set and jaw.” He rammed one of the revolvers into his belt and plucked the jug off the table. “We’ll take this here for company.”
He stood up waggling the revolver in his right hand. “Back door, gents.”
They went out the door ahead of him and they were ready to jump him when he came through it but he jabbed the pistol-barrel hard into Jackson’s diaphragm and Jackson folded up on the ground and sucked for breath. Boag wheeled toward Smith but Smith wasn’t fighting, he was slithering back inside.
Boag whipped around the doorframe but Smith had reached the table just inside. Smith batted the table back at him and it hit Boag between the knees and the crotch. It didn’t knock him down but it pushed him back from the door and by the time he got in the doorway again and shoved the table aside Smith was diving at the chair where his gunbelt hung. He knocked the chair over with him and went sliding along the floor trying to fumble the six-gun out of leather. Boag was wary of Jackson behind him but he tried to sight a clear shot through the tables and chairs. He didn’t get one before Smith got hold of the gun; Smith was shooting through the toe of the holster and that was no aid to accuracy and after Smith’s second bullet punched into the doorjamb Boag got an unobstructed line on his neck and put a bullet into it.
He didn’t wait to see its effect; what he aimed at, he hit. He spun backward through the door and cocked the revolver and let his voice sing out loud toward the wide round backside of Jackson who was scrambling up toward the pines. “Freeze.”
Jackson stopped and turned. He looked unhappy as a soaked cat.
“Come on back here.”
Jackson started to waddle and Boag flattened his shoulder-blades against the wall beside the open door in case Smith still had enough blood in him to come after him.
Boag said, “Run, you fat trash. Run.”
Jackson started to lope. His belly flopped up and down and his arms pumped. He was short of breath by the time he came up; it had only been thirty yards. Boag said, “Go on inside ahead of me.” He pushed his gun into Jackson’s kidney and marched him inside with an armlock around Jackson’s fat throat.