Swinton took offense, as Pendergast knew he would. “You think I hang shit like that on my wall if I don’t know how to fire it?”
“Anyone can pull the trigger on a weapon,” Pendergast said, sipping his coffee.
“I fire almost every weapon I own at least once a week.”
Pendergast pointed to the handgun cabinet. “What about that Super Blackhawk?”
“That’s a fine weapon. Updated Old West.” He got up, took it down from the rack.
“May I see it?”
He handed it to Pendergast. He hefted it, sighted, then opened the barrel and dumped out the ammo.
“What you doing?”
Pendergast picked up one of the rounds, inserted it back in the barrel, gave it a spin, then laid the revolver down.
“You think you’re tough, right? Let’s play a little game.”
“What the hell? What game?”
“Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. And I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
Swinton stared at him. “Are you stupid or something? I can see the fucking round isn’t even in firing position.”
“Then you’ve just won a thousand dollars. If you pick the gun up and pull the trigger.”
Swinton picked the gun up, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger. There was a click. He laid it down.
Without a word, Pendergast reached into his suit-coat pocket, pulled out a brick of one-hundred-dollar bills, and peeled off ten of them. Swinton took the money. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Yes, I am crazy.”
“Now it’s your own damn turn.” Swinton picked up the revolver, spun the barrel, laid it down.
“What will you give me?”
“I don’t got no money, and I ain’t giving you back the thousand.”
“Then perhaps you’ll answer a question instead. Any question I choose to ask. Absolute truth.”
Swinton shrugged. “Sure.”
Pendergast removed another thousand and put it on the table. Then he picked up the gun, placed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. Another click.
“And now for the question.”
“Shoot.”
“Your great-great-grandfather was a miner in Roaring Fork during the silver boom days. He knew quite a bit about a series of killings, allegedly done by a man-eating grizzly bear, but in actuality done by a group of crazy miners.”
He paused. Swinton had risen from his chair. “You’re no damn magazine writer! Who are you?”
“I am the one who is asking you a question. Presuming that you’re a man of honor, I will receive an answer. If you wish to know who I really am, that must await the next round of the game. Provided, of course, you have the fortitude to continue.”
Swinton said nothing.
“Your ancestor knew more than most people about those killings. In fact, I think he knew the truth — the entire truth.” Pendergast paused. “My question is: What isthe truth?”
Swinton shifted in his chair. The expression on his face went through several rapid changes. He exposed his ferrety teeth several times, his lips twitching. This went on for a while, then at last he cleared his throat. “Why do you want to know?”
“Private curiosity.”
“Who are you gonna tell?”
“Nobody.”
Swinton stared hungrily at the thousand dollars sitting on the table. “You swear to that? It’s been a secret in my family for a long, long time.”
Pendergast nodded.
Another pause. “It started with the Committee of Seven,” Swinton said at last. “My great-great-granddaddy, August Swinton, was one of them. At least, that’s what was passed down.” A tinge of pride edged into his voice. “As you said, those were no grizzly killings. They was done by four crazy bastards, former smelter workers, who were living wild in the mountains and had turned cannibal. A man named Shadrach Cropsey went up to track the bear and discovered it wasn’t a bear at all, but these fellers living in an abandoned mine. He figured out where they were holed up and then pulled together this Committee of Seven.”
“And then what happened?”
“That’s a second question.”
“So it is.” Pendergast smiled. “Time for another round?” He picked up the revolver, spun the cylinder, and laid it down.
Swinton shook his head. “I can still see the round, and it ain’t in the firing chamber. Another thousand bucks?”
Pendergast nodded.
Swinton picked up the gun and pulled the trigger again, put it down, held out his hand. “This is the dumbest damn game I ever saw.”
Pendergast handed him a thousand dollars. Then he picked up the gun, spun the barrel, and without looking at it put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Click.
“You really are one crazy motherfucker.”
“There appear to be a great many like me in this area,” Pendergast replied. “And now for my question: What did Shadrach Cropsey and this Committee of Seven do then?”
“Back in those days, they handled problems the right way — they did it themselves. Fuck the law and all its bullshit. They went up there and smoked those cannibals. The way I heard it, old Shadrach got his ass killed in the fight. After that, there weren’t no more ‘grizzly’ killings.”
“And the place where they killed the miners?”
“Another question, friend.”
Pendergast spun the barrel, placed it on the table. Swinton eyed it nervously. “I can’t see the round.”
“Then it is either in the firing chamber or in the opposite chamber, hidden by the frame. Which means there is a fifty — fifty chance you will live.”
“I ain’t playing.”
“You just said you would. I didn’t imagine you were a coward, Mr. Swinton.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the brick of hundreds. This time he peeled off twenty. “We’ll double the stakes. You will receive two thousand — if you pull the trigger.”
Swinton was sweating heavily. “I ain’t gonna play.”
“You mean, you pass on your turn? I won’t insist.”
“That’s what I mean. I pass.”
“But I do not pass on my turn.”
“Go ahead. Be my fucking guest.”
Pendergast spun the barrel, held the revolver up, pulled the trigger. Click.He put it down.
“My final question: Where did they kill the miners?”
“I don’t know. But I do have the letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one that got passed down to me. It sort of explains things.” He rose from his creaking chair and shuffled off into the dim recesses of the cabin. He returned a moment later with a dusty old piece of yellow paper sandwiched in Mylar. He eased himself back down and handed the letter to Pendergast.
It was a handwritten note, undated, with no salutation or signature. It read:
mete at the Ideal 11 oclock Sharp to Night they are Holt Up in the closed Christmas Mine up on smugglers wall there are 4 of them bring your best Guns and lantern burn this Letter afore you set out
Pendergast lowered the letter. Swinton held out his hand, and Pendergast returned it. Swinton’s brow was still beaded with sweat, but the look on his face was pure relief. “I can’t believe you played that game without ever looking at the cylinder. That’s just crazy-ass dangerous.”
Pendergast dressed again in his coat, scarves, and hat, and then took up the revolver. He opened the cylinder and let the .44 magnum round drop into his hand. “There was never any danger. I brought this round with me and substituted it for one of yours after I unloaded the gun.” He held it up. “It’s been doctored.”
Swinton rose. “Mother fucker!” He came at Pendergast, drawing his carry, but in a flash Pendergast had shoved the round back in and rotated it into firing position, pointing the Blackhawk at Swinton.
“Or maybe I didn’tdoctor it.”
Swinton froze.
“You’ll never know.” Pendergast picked up his own Les Baer, and — while covering Swinton with it — removed the round from the Blackhawk and put it in his coat pocket. “And now I will answer your earlier question: I’m not a magazine writer. I’m a federal agent. And there’s one thing I promise you: if you lied to me, I’ll know it, sooner rather than later — and in that case, none of your weapons will save you.”