“Look at the way he rides, the dern old sack of oats,” Billy said, as the slouching old man arrived.

Indeed, Isinglass did not cut a graceful figure in the saddle. He slumped as if the horse were a kind of open-air stagecoach; he had not even bothered to adjust his stirrups correctly—his feet dangled, only now and then touching a stirrup rung. I have seen farmers in Pennsylvania look as awkward in the saddle; but the farmers had not crossed and recrossed the endless prairies as Old Whiskey had done constantly in his long life.

Des Montaignes, looking as furious and filthy as ever, had come outside carrying a rusty 10-gauge shotgun. He was squinting a little in the bright sunlight.

Isinglass was intent on undoing the leather strings that held his quart jar in its pouch; he practically rode over Des Montaignes—would have, had the horse not stopped of its own volition.

Isinglass lifted the empty quart jar from a bulky, well-padded leather pouch, and handed it down to Des Montaignes.

“I’ll take a refill, Mister, if you stock whiskey,” he said. “I’ll caution you not to drop it—it’s my only jar.”

He seemed scarcely to notice the crowd of men, all bristling with arms, who stood in the street.

Des Montaignes, to everyone’s surprise, propped the shotgun against the adobe wall of his saloon and went inside with the jar.

Isinglass didn’t seem to find the man’s compliance surprising—no doubt, to him it appeared quite natural that any man he came across would do whatever he requested.

He seemed to feel no need to make light conversation, or heavy conversation either, merely sitting in a restful indifferent way on the scrubby black horse until Des Montaignes reappeared with the jar full of raw liquor.

“Obliged,” Isinglass said politely, not offering to pay. He lifted the jar and took a long swallow. Then he wiped his mouth thoughtfully, a few amber drops of liquor spotting his full, graying beard.

“Are you the man with the yellow wife?” he asked.

“Yellow,” Des Montaignes admitted.

“I’ve heard a story about you,” Isinglass said. “They say the last time you washed was when a horse pitched you into the Missouri River eight or ten years ago. Now that I’ve had a look at you I see the story’s accurate.”

He took another long drink and then carefully eased the jar back into its pouch.

“They say that wife of yours tells fortunes,” he said when he had resettled his jar to his liking.

“She knows the past and the future,” Billy Bone said loudly. Sometimes he would simply burst out, as if seized with the need to call attention to himself.

Isinglass’s eyes were so deep-set you could hardly see them, but when you did they flashed a hard glint.