Nowadays you’ll hear it said that certain things have a timeless quality—but it was more distinctly a placeless quality that struck me when we pushed into the China Pond. La Tulipe, the old yellow woman, sat on her stool, smoking her pipe; two dusty, drifting cowboys were bargaining with a sad young whore, while Des Montaignes stood behind the bar, chewing tobacco and spitting frequently. The place might have been a hut on the old Silk Road; it might have been in Persia, in Turkey, in Egypt, in old Babylon—any place where sands blow and caravans pass.

The sight of Billy Bone startled the cowboys greatly, though Des Montaignes and La Tulipe didn’t bat an eye.

“Dern, it’s you,” the skinnier of the two cowboys said. He looked distinctly frightened, and I believe all thought of the dispirited whore was immediately driven from his mind. He and his companion both looked somewhat familiar; it turned out they had been in San Jon the day Isinglass and I came in with the wagonload of bodies.

“Why wouldn’t it be me?” Billy asked pleasantly.

I must say the skinny cowboy—his name was Dewey Sharp—proved forthright almost to a fault.

“Why, Bill, you’ve been here about a minute and you ain’t shot us down,” Dewey said with a likable grin. “From what I hear, a minute’s about as long as anyone lasts in your company these days.”

“Dewey, you know I wouldn’t shoot you unless I really needed to,” Billy said, grinning at him. “Who’s your handsome friend?”

“Why, Waco Charlie, ain’t you two met?” Dewey said.

“No, but I’m glad he’s here—we’ll make four at cards,” Billy said.

“You was right, I shouldn’t have crossed the North Canadian,” he said to La Tulipe. “A dern horse nearly killed me.”

“No horse is going to kill you,” La Tulipe said. She seemed glad to see him, although her husband wasn’t.

“You leave, I don’t want you here, Beely!” Des Montaignes said with some vehemence. “You leave or Big Whiskey will come.”

“I didn’t know you were scared of that old cud, Dez,” Billy said, leaning on the bar and staring at Des Montaignes from point-blank range. “A big whiskey is what I’d like to drink,” he added.

Des Montaignes took a couple of dirty glasses from under the bar and poured us both drinks—Billy seldom drank much alcohol, but he gulped this down in a few hasty swallows. For all his boldness, he looked shaky and pale. His leg was a long way from healed, but he had already grown impatient with the crutch and hobbled around without it as much as he could. He didn’t look like a formidable killer—but then, he never had.