13
“Wait a minute,” Wendell said.
“That’s what I said.”
“Well now,” Jake stepped forward blotting out what remained of the sun. The sheriff stood a few steps behind him. “Looks like you fellows are ready to make good on your debt.”
Wendell and Smoke looked at him like a dog would a dishtowel—with complete disinterest.
Clem was directing the crowd away, and someone passed Smoke a bottle. Smoke took a seat next to Wendell and passed the bottle to him after savoring a drink.
“Wait a minute,” Wendell said again. “You said you could shoot a bow.” He reached into his pocket for some tobacco and took his time rolling it. The cigarette he shaped was bent, and the tobacco leaked out the end. Wendell glanced at Smoke as he lit his cigarette.
“I shot it, didn’t I?” Smoke said.
Wendell inhaled the cigarette and let the smoke unfurl inside his lungs. It occurred to him that he could as well be dead as alive right now and that his head would be sore in the morning.
Then Wendell started laughing, but laughing hurt his head.
“Let’s go sit down and have a talk, like civilized men,” the sheriff said, and Wendell swatted toward Jake and the sheriff but didn’t look.
“Jesus Christ," Stanley said. He’d found his way through the crowd and had come to stand next to Jake. Stanley was Wendell’s uncle and currently his nemesis, since he’d been driving the car that startled the horse. He raised his hand in a toast, clearly drunk.
“What the hell are you two halfwits up to?”
“You!” Wendell jumped up and lurched toward Stanley. “If it wasn’t for you and that goddamn car! You goddamn muttonhead!”