days. Based on my size I suppose, together with somebody’s idea of how I move in the ring.”
After that he didn’t say nothin’ a-tall for a good four, five minutes. Longest I could remember him holdin’ his peace since we’d started out ridin’ together.
Me, I couldn’t leave good enough alone.
“Monk Maximilian?” I asked, havin’ to turn my face away to hide the grin I felt spreadin’ out between my ears. I’d already seen how peevish this little gent could get whenever he thought somebody might be laughin’ at him. And here I was, just a frog’s whisker from doin’ it all over again.
Only this time I had a surprise. ’Cause when ole Baldy-Monk had got through castin’ a sharp look in my direction, he started to get tickled his ownself. Finally he just let out with a great big guffaw and slapped his knee with his free hand.
“All right, Barkley,” he said, shakin’ his head and grinning fit to kill. “I guess the game is up.” He chuckled some more, and had to take a deep breath before continuing:
“Martinus Drucker’s the label my ma and pa pinned on me. It’s an honorable name — Grandpa Drucker came to this country after serving as a sergeant in the Napoleonic wars. But different places have different customs, and what a man’s called can have a lot to do with the way local folks act toward him.
“In New York I started out wrestling under the name of Maxey Dugan, then later as Monk Dugan. In Toronto I was Maxime DuBecq. When I moved south after the war I called myself Marsh Dixon in one place, and Milt Davis the next. One time down in Matamoros, I even won a couple of matches as Manuelito Delgado!
“In fact,” Baldy went on, lettin’ his grin fade for a instant, “I guess almost the only time I’ve used my real name since leaving home at thirteen, is when I signed on the rolls of the Seventy-First New York. Maybe that’s because I didn’t want the good Lord to have so much trouble recognizing me in case things didn’t work out and I turned up at the Pearly Gates.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is, this here Perfessor Maximilian handle …”
“… is as phony as all the rest. Or as real, depending on how you look at it. I’d rather you didn’t go telling that to all the rub—, locals we meet along the way though. Ask yourself: Would you buy a bottle of curative elixir from somebody who called himself just plain Monk Drucker?”
Well, the honest truth of it was I wouldn’t buy none of that snake oil tonic from the Pharaoh of Egypt hisself if I met him floatin’ down the Nile with his thousand wives an’ concubines, each a-beggin’ me to have a swaller. I’ve tasted them homemade cure-alls time to time, offered to me by well-meanin’ folks who absolute swore by ’em. But close as I could tell nary one had the healin’ power of two-day-old bayhead whiskey. And without none of the smooth flavor that rotgut offered when it slid past your gullet neither.
I weren’t of no mind to hurt Baldy’s feelin’s, though, now we was finally startin’ to get along. So I just nodded and allowed as how I reckoned he had a point.
We come into the little settlement of Arredonda along about dark, and I’d the idea maybe Perfessor Monk would be wantin’ to stop there and make camp for the night.
Me, I’d already decided what I was goin’ to do if that happened. Which was bid him a thankful farewell and start right on in to hoofin’ it again. I’d no plans a-tall to let Lila an’ them other two scoundrels get any further ahead of me than they already was, and I’d a idea I might manage to come up on their camp somewheres durin’ the night. Then we’d have us a little settlin’ of accounts.
But as it turned out my new-found travelin’ compadre weren’t of a mind to call it a day his ownself just yet. He told me he’d done a fair piece of gettin’ around during the dark hours hereabouts, and he reckoned he knew the trails an’ roads through these Florida woods ’bout good as anybody ’cept maybe a Injun or a moonshiner. Figured the more distance he could put behind hisself now, the less he’d have to cover in the mornin’ before settin’ up shop in Micanopy.
Leastways that’s what he told me. I was startin’ to get the idea Monk Drucker had begun to take more’n just a passin’ interest in this outlaw chase of mine, though I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to do it.
But when he come back from knockin’ at the door of a cabin near the railroad tracks to ask after Lila and her friends one more time, he sort of grinned an’ winked at me. Then he went to rummagin’ through one of them cabinets behind the seat of his wagon, and handed me out a brand-new Smith an’ Wesson pistol in a shiny leather holster.
I glanced at him mighty curious when he done that, but I didn’t ask no questions. I just took it and begun checkin’ her over in the light from this coal-oil lantern Monk had hangin’ up front above the driver’s seat.
She was a beauty, all right: .45 caliber with polished walnut handles, nice feel an’ balance. And a whole heap lighter than my ole Colt Dragoon. It was all I could do to keep from tryin’ her out right there on the spot. But I didn’t figure it’d be a good idea to go alarmin’ the populace that-away, callin’ special attention to myself an’ all. So I just hefted her a couple times, tried the action, and then climbed down from the wagon to strap her on.
Monk couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Well,” he asked, leanin’ forward on his toes, still grinnin’. “What d’ya think?”
I kept my peace whilst I tied the rawhide thongs about my leg. Then I spun on my heel and tried a couple, three fast draws from the hip before lookin’ back over my shoulder at him.
“If she shoots as pretty as she handles,” I answered, “I reckon she’ll do the job just fine.”
When I started to climb back up in the wagon I noticed Monk didn’t move to join me right away. And when he finally did, he was lookin’ at me awful peculiar.
“Y’know, Tate,” he said. We’d both been usin’ first names for awhile now. “I’ve run across a gunfighter or two in my travels, out in Texas and elsewhere. Most of them weren’t especially quick, just a little more ready to shoot than your average man. But among those few who did manage to get their guns into play in a hurry, I’ve never seen anybody do it faster than you did just now.”
He paused to take up the reins and cluck to his mules. After we’d started rollin’, he went on more thoughtful-like: “I hadn’t realized until now that I was in the company of a professional.”
I looked at him from underneath my hat-brim.
“Well,” I replied, “that there ‘professional’ is a interesting word. Most folks would take it to mean the way a gent chooses to earn his livin’. But if it’s your idea I’m some kind of a warrior for hire, I got to inform you you’re flat dead wrong.” I fell silent, keepin’ my eyes on the swaying rumps of the mules out in front of us.
“I’ve drawed fightin’ wages a time or two,” I admitted finally, “whenever the cause seemed right and I needed the work. But mostly I just ride for the brand. If a man hires Tate Barkley he hires all of me, and that means anything I’m able to do middlin’ good. Happens usin’ a gun is one of those. Along with breakin’ horses, whippin’ steers out’n the brush, followin’ a trail, ridin’ night herd, or you name it.”
Monk Drucker nodded and didn’t reply for a couple seconds. Then he glanced at me out of the corners of his eyes and observed, “You’d better douse that lantern. It can be seen for several miles out here in the woods. If that trio’s made camp somewhere up ahead I’d rather we saw their light first, instead of the other way around.”
5
WE WAS HEADIN’ SOUTH now along this narrow sand road, with big old live oaks an’ hickories on both sides, hung over by wild grape and Spanish moss. The frogs an’ other night critters was singin’ so loud the creak an’ rattle