Cecily Snow dismounted from her thoroughbred, nodded coolly to me, and promptly engaged the four Whiskey Glass cowboys to help set up her tent—or, to be accurate, her father’s tent; I noted a number of mentions of it when I finally read Lord Snow’s engaging book, Shooting in Simla, some years later.

It was, of course, a magnificent tent. Billy and Cecily had ridden in accompanied by four pack mules, one of which carried only the tent; another was loaded with foodstuffs; a third with Cecily’s clothes; and the last with her easel, paints, and botanical books. The eloping couple obviously did not intend to travel particularly fast.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring Mahmood,” I said to Cecily when I saw the tent—it was the sort of tent that usually comes with a full complement of coolies.

“Couldn’t—the old brute hung him. He finally figured out about the wineglasses,” she said cheerfully.

La Tulipe hobbled out of the China Pond and muttered a few French I-told-you-sos over the carcass of her old mate; then she motioned for me to take a leg, she took the other, and the two of us dragged the man away with the same lack of ceremony that had characterized his own treatment of the suddenly dead. La Tulipe did indicate that she might offer the cowboys a few free drinks if they’d dig the grave.

I felt a little queasy and a good deal in need of a wash, so I headed for the Pecos. By the time I was clean, and reasonably settled in my stomach, the tent had been set up not far from the river, and Cecily had arranged her easel and was sketching a small yucca plant.

“I’ve never satisfied myself about these yucca, Ben,” she said when I strolled up. “They are remarkably subtle.”

“Where’s Billy?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s taken one of his headaches—I’ve made him go to sleep on a cot,” Cecily said. “Imagine that squalid creature upsetting Billy like that. He’s rather a delicate boy, really. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, his health varies,” I said. “But that won’t be the case much longer if the two of you plan to stay here.”

“Oh?” Cecily said, with a hint of froideur in her voice. “I suppose you consider that you’re the very one to stabilize him.”

“Hardly,” I replied. “What I meant was his health won’t vary much once he’s dead. And Billy will soon be dead if you stay here. Several of the most accomplished killers in the West are looking for him now, and two horses and four mules leave a rather obvious track.”

“Phoo, I’ve mussed up this drawing hopelessly,” Cecily said, ripping it off her easel. “It’s your fault, Ben. Shall we take off our clothes and go swimming?”