7
“Hell yes,” he slurred, because of course he could! Goddamn! He ran the livery! The car was a livery car.
“I’ll get you a ride.”
Wendell glanced at his friend. His black hair was sticking out all over the place like a scarecrow, and it hit Wendell like a rock to the head. He’d known that Smoke was native, but now he KNEW it.
“You’re a goddam Indian!”
“Last I looked I was.”
“You’re an Indian!” Wendell roared.
Smoke waited for whatever insight was about to be revealed.
“You must be good with a bow.”
“You must be good with a lasso.”
“Couldn’t rope a longhorn if it was standing three feet in front of me,” Wendell roared.
“I can hit a rabbit with a moving wagon.”
“You don’t say!”
Wendell’s mind was gearing up, he could feel it. He twisted in his seat as if to shake up the thoughts and then, by god, one was coming, a piece of fast-ripening fruit and it was going to be perfect! Goddamn the world was a crazy son-of-a-bitch place!
“Ever seen a Wild West Show?”
“This is one right here isn’t it?”
“Yes sir it is!” Wendell chuckled. “Yes it is!”
“Clem, you sure I’m not good for another?”
Clem shook his head from further down the bar.
“Pay off your tab,” he said.“I’m about to do that, Wendell laughed, then turned back to Smoke.
“Could you shoot a bottle off the shelf?”