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Before the other three shamblers had a chance to react, Horatio Korman’s revolvers fired—two shots each—and all three went down within a span of as many seconds.
Both of the lurking shooters, the woman and the Ranger, exhaled happily and sat up. Neither was the type to praise effusively, and neither wanted to heap too much kindness upon the other. Both of them had their reasons. But they exchanged a set of friendly glances, which would’ve surprised anyone who knew either of them.
Not that anyone knew about these strange dates. No one except Ruthie, who only suspected … and who had obligingly spread a rumor that Josephine Early was being courted by someone in particular, someone who didn’t want anyone knowing about his interest.
It was practically true.
Korman said, “Fine. I’m down by one. I’ll catch up to you later. But for now, we’ve already shot down more than I can use in a week of Sundays, and the pier is clean. Let’s watch another minute to be sure, and then I’ve got to get to work. I only have four dry plates on me, so that’s all the photographs I can take. ” He sniffed, and pulled out a pouch of tobacco. “Between us, we’ve done the Quarter a favor tonight, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would say that, Ranger. So there’s one more thing we agree on. ”
“If we keep this up, we’ll need more than one hand to add ’em up. ”
“Don’t get your hopes too high. Why didn’t you bring more plates? I thought you were supposed to be researching these things, proving they exist, or whatever it is Austin wants from you. ”
He rolled himself a cigarette and licked the paper to wrap it tight. Then he stuck it in his mouth and talked around it while he answered her question. “For one thing, they’re heavy. For another, they break if I do too much running around. This photography equipment is a goddamn mess. It’s barely worth the trouble, I tell you. I hear there’s a fellow named Eastman who’s working on making something lighter. I hope he hurries up. I look forward to the day I don’t have to tote fifty pounds of spare parts just to get one stinkin’ shot. ” He struck a match on the cargo crate beneath his rear end and lit the cigarette.
“Less trouble than stopping to draw pictures, I expect. You going to keep all that to yourself, or offer a lady a smoke?”
“By all means. ”
“Hand me the pouch. I’ll roll my own. ”
He passed it over to her and watched as she established her own cigarette. He told her, “I’m not much of an artist. And even if I did take the time to sit around on my spurs, twiddling a pencil around a sheet of paper, everyone would say I’d made it all up. But a photograph—that’s evidence, is what that is. ”
“After a fashion. ”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means—pardon me, I’ll need a match, thank you—that no one’s believed you so far, despite your photographs. ” She inhaled, drawing the smoke deep into her chest and closing her eyes happily. “Your evidence doesn’t seem to be working out so well. ”
He argued, “Plenty of people believe me. You believe me. Half of New Orleans believes me, and the other half has its head jammed up its back passage. I know a whole train full of people who believe me—Union soldiers, most of them. I wish to God I knew what they’d told their commanding officers once they got home from Utah. ”
“You don’t know?”
“I can’t get hold of anybody. For one thing, there are political considerations. ” He said the last two words with snideness, clearly copying the tone of someone who’d raised them as a concern. “But there’s at least one fellow who I think would have my back, if someone were to fight me on it. A captain by the name of MacGruder. Problem is, he’s been transferred. No one will tell me where he went to, but wherever he is, I bet nobody believes him, either. ”
“Go figure,” she murmured.
“When I took my leaders back up to the pass at Provo, there was nothing left. Nothing!” he said a little too loudly. “Not a miserable trace of what had occurred, except a shell here and there, or a bullet left lying in the snow. I don’t know who covered it up, but s
omeone, somewhere, did. Someone wants it kept quiet. ”
“But not you. ”
“But not me. And not you either, ain’t that right?”
“That’s right. Not me either. ”
They smoked together in silence, the woman and the Ranger in civilian clothes, a man who’d still never be mistaken for anything but a Texian. When their cigarettes were nubs too small to hold any longer, they snuffed them out on the roof of the container and spent an awkward span of seconds in silence.
Finally, Josephine said, “I’m not trying to help Texas. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m not trying to save New Orleans. I guess that makes us about even. ”
“I don’t even trust you. ”
“The feeling’s mutual. ”
