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holding out his right hand. His left, I noticed, wasn’t nowhere near none of his guns. Unless he had some hideaway derringer up his sleeve.
    â€œCome on,” he said. “Meet the boys. We’ve got food that’s more solid than soup, and genuine Tennessee sour mash.”
    My rough hand took his soft one, and he pulled me to my feet.
    â€œName’s Bishop,” I told him—and yes, I thought of using another handle, but hell, he had saved my life, so I reckon I owed him at least that much honesty. “Micah Bishop.”
    â€œWhip Watson,” he said, and he was heading out the back of the wagon, and I was following him.

C HAPTER T HREE
    Outside, gathered around a right cozy fire, assembled the worst-looking bunch of ruffians I’d ever laid eyes on—and I once rode with Sean Fenn. And, well, Big Tim Pruett wouldn’t have never gotten mistook for some handsome thespian. I’d expected to find teamsters. You know, mule skinners and freighting types, ugly, burly men handy with whips and cusswords. Well, they was certainly ugly, and plenty of them I’d call burly, and I suspected that all of them knowed more cusswords than Webster.
    Only I wasn’t so certain I’d call them mule skinners. No, sir, what I’d call them boys was . . . gunmen.
    Squat assassins. Shootists. Man-killers. Vermin.
    A thin, leathery graybeard rose from behind the coffeepot. I thought he might be fetching me a cup of that brew, which sure smelled better than the soup I’d just et, but he come with empty hands. I figured him to be Juan Pedro, and I figured right.
    The sun had just set, so it was still fairly light outside, and that fire was roaring hot, so I got a good look-see at the Mexican. He dressed like a vaquero—or maybe one of them Spanish noblemen— if you savvy what I mean. A dandified silk shirt, tight-fitting black jacket with pretty red and blue braid all up the sleeves and shoulders. Dark blue pants called calzoneras decorated with silver conchos from the hem to the knees. Black boots and spurs with large rowels. And a flat-brimmed, flat-crowned hat of the finest beaver, and a fancy-braided stampede string to keep his hat from flying off.
    I never cottoned to stampede strings. They choked a body’s neck, and too many folks already wanted to put ropes around my neck as it was. Big Tim Pruett always told me that the best way to keep a hat on your head in a windstorm was to buy one that fits snug. Mine, while not much to look at, fit me just fine.
    Juan Pedro also wore a brace of Schofield revolvers in a red sash around his belly. There was a Green River knife stuck inside one of his boot tops, and I could tell by the way his left arm hung and from that bulging fancy jacket that he also kept a smaller revolver in a shoulder harness.
    Juan Pedro, I decided, was a right careful man.
    With a slight bow, he introduced hisself. His name was a lot longer than Juan Pedro, but Juan Pedro was part of that handle. Then his left hand reached into a pocket on his jacket, and he fished out a coin. I knowed it was gold. I could even see the word liberty on the gal’s head, and them stars all around the coin. A gold eagle. Looked to be fresh-minted.
    He spoke some smart Spanish, then started to extend the ten-dollar piece to Whip Watson, but quickly pulled it back.
    â€œAh,” he said, switching to English, “but I believe the bet was that this norteamericano would live to see Calico, Señor Watson. We are a long way from Calico, still.”
    Whip Watson stood a bit behind me, and after that introduction, I wasn’t about to take my eyes off of Juan Pedro, but I heard Watson say, “That was the bet.”
    â€œSo if I kill him now, you would owe me ten dollars.”
    â€œI reckon so.”
    Me? I’m thinking: These are the guys you wanted me to meet?
    Juan Pedro was staring at me then, smiling. He had right pretty teeth. Real straight. Mostly white.