Dewey and Waco Charlie were experiencing a lull in their careers as cowboys. They had recently worked for Isinglass, but when he ordered them to move to one of his Texas divisions they concluded they didn’t care to travel in that direction and had quit and drawn their pay, planning to go to California, where they heard there were fine opportunities for experienced hands. Then, upon reaching Greasy Corners, they had quickly succumbed to the idle life.

“It’s a long way to California,” Dewey observed one evening. “We may just wait till next year to try her.”

Waco Charlie, once he got used to me, had become almost loquacious. “Might try her next year,” he said.

The third day, two more disenchanted Whiskey Glass cowboys drifted into town. Isinglass had ordered them to help the fencing crew for a day or so; this affront to their positions as sovereign horsemen was too much, and they had decided to head for Powder River.

“Old Whiskey don’t own that state yet,” Grady Lee, the older of the two, said.

Apart from a few speculations about the topography of Wyoming, their talk was all of Billy Bone, the most hunted killer in the West. The three appeared shocked when informed that Billy had been in that very saloon only a few days previously.

“Well, he better skedaddle, that little varmint,” Bob Blocker, the other cowboy, said. “Tully’s getting up a posse, and Long Dog’s around somewhere.”

“If that’s all, it won’t be enough. Billy’s swift and well armed,” Dewey Sharp volunteered.

“But it ain’t all, them’s just the small fry,” the cowboy said. “Bloody Feathers has vowed to kill him for murdering that little Indian, and Old Whiskey’s thinking of going after him himself.”

Waco Charlie turned white at the mention of Bloody Feathers—he was sensitive to the mention of blood, even in a name, it appeared.

“If Bloody Feathers was ever to get after me, I’d cut my own throat, just to save time and worry,” Dewey Sharp said.

“I guess they’ll catch little Bill somewhere then,” Bob Blocker allowed.

“They’ll catch him here,” La Tulipe said. Then she went back to popping at her pipe.

The cowboys looked startled, and I was also a trifle surprised—I supposed Billy and Cecily were on their way to Chicago already.

“But he ain’t here, is he?” Grady Lee asked, peering nervously into the corners of the bar.

“He’s on his way back now,” La Tulipe said, a gleam in her old eyes.

Dewey Sharp certainly didn’t welcome that news.

“Dern, Powder River let her buck!” he said, coining a phrase that was to echo through the West for decades. “When do we start?”

“But why would little Bill be coming back here?” Bob Blocker asked La Tulipe.

“Because we’ve saved him a grave,” the old woman said.