The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,71

in the stew for his liking. “You just never know.”

“Hey, Parson, what was that pretty little woman’s name at the White Dove Saloon?”

Parson frowned. “Lord have mercy, Henry, I told you then and I’m tellin’ you now, you’re too old for such foolin’ around.”

Henry snorted. “A man is too old for foolin’ only after he’s been planted six feet under. Besides, I didn’t say I was gonna go see her. I was just tryin’ to remember her name.”

Parson swatted at a stray spark from the fire that had come too close to his beard, then leaned against the tree at his back and looked up at the night sky.

“As I recall, I believe her name was Leticia.”

Henry shook his head. “No, that weren’t it.”

Parson’s frown deepened. “Yes, it was. I remember because I had an aunt named Leticia. She always smelled like moth balls and licorice.” Then he added. “I’m speakin’ of my aunt… not the saloon girl. However, I may have heard that bartender call Letty.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “That’s it! Letty! Everyone was calling her Letty.” He leaned over and pointed a finger in Parson’s face. “By golly, the only way you would have knowed that about her name is if you visited her, too.”

“Personal matters are best left unspoken,” Parson said shortly.

Henry slapped his leg and whooped so loud it spooked the horses tied nearby.

“By golly, you old fart! You gave her a poke, too.”

Parson’s mouth pursed angrily, but he refused to comment further. Instead, he emptied the contents of the coffee pot into his cup and sloshed it around for effect. It was useless. No amount of stirring would thin down Henry Wainwright’s coffee. It was dark and bitter, but in a pinch, was a fairly good substitute for antiseptic, should one be needed. He took a long swig of the black drink, coughing once before it slid on down his throat.

Substantial. That’s what Henry’s coffee was. Substantial.

Unexpectedly, Parson shuddered. The action came upon him without warning, like the time he’d sensed the blue norther of ’44 that froze the ears off his mule. Without thinking, he looked up from his cup and out into the darkness beyond Henry’s shoulder, as if he expected something—or someone—to materialize before them.

At that moment, firelight reflected off of Parson’s eyes, giving them a strange and god-like appearance. Had flames suddenly shot out of Parson’s mouth, Henry would not have been surprised. Startled by the image, he flinched, and in doing so, forgot all about the whore at the White Dove Saloon and spilled what was left of his stew into his lap.

“Shit!” he shouted, and began brushing at the hot stew he’d inadvertently dumped on his britches before it boiled his balls.

Parson frowned. “Profanity is the curse of—”

“Dammit, Parson. Just shut the hell up, all right? That stuff was hot, that’s all.”

Parson grinned. He loved to get Henry’s dander up. It was Parson’s private opinion that it kept the blood flowing in the old bastard.

“Better get some sleep soon,” Parson said, scraping what was left of the rabbit stew into the fire. “These Rockies are higher than they used to be.”

Henry snorted.

Before long, the two old men had fallen sound asleep, each lost in similar dreams of times gone by—of valleys where rivers flowed swift and sure, where game was rich, and the only sounds of humanity were the sounds of a man’s own voice.

By daybreak they were gone.

Just before nightfall on the seventh day into their trek, they entered a canyon they’d never traversed before, following it to the face of a mountain and then packing up through the gap Henry found in the rocks. It took the better part of a day to move through the pass and when they emerged, they found themselves several hundred yards from a towering precipice. Henry yanked his hat from his head and slapped it against his leg in disgust.

“All this way and it warn’t nothin’ but a dead end.”

Parson dismounted, relishing the opportunity to stretch his legs. “Maybe so, maybe not,” he said, and walked toward the edge of the cliff.

The closer he got, the wider his eyes became. When he was standing on the edge, he took off his hat and held it against his breast in a gesture of respect for the wonder of God’s creation.

“Praise the Lord,” he said softly, then started to grin. He jammed his hat back on his head and began frantically waving for Henry to come see. “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!”

Henry started