Twisted Hills by Ralph Cotton

these other two horses.”
    â€œI wish he would try,” Roden said. “It would give us a chance to get back our scalps and supplies.”
    â€œIf I thought it would bring him back, I’d build a fire that would light the whole desert,” McCool said with a dark chuckle. “You don’t know the ’pache, fellow—leastwise not like Roden and I do. Right, Roden?”
    â€œRight,” said Roden. “The Injun is long gone. We don’t need to worry about him.”
    Seeing no use in trying to reason with either of the scalp hunters, Sam simply repeated, “No fires,” and started to walk back to the wagon where he had hitched the two horses to the side out of the moonlight and laid his blanket down between them.
    The two men groused back and forth under their breath. Finally Roden called out, “Can we at least smoke some tobacco? I’ve got some curly cigars I’ve been carrying for over two weeks. You’re welcome to one yourself.”
    Sam shook his head and sighed to himself.
    â€œNo smoking either,” he said. “Unless you want to get far enough away from here that nobody will see your fire and follow it to the wagon.”
    â€œIf anybody wanted to find the wagon, there’s a long set of wheel tracks all the way from the hillside where you damn near turned it over,” said McCool, defiantly.
    Sam wasn’t going to bother telling them it wasn’t him who had almost toppled the wagon.
    â€œI want no fire of no kind,” he said, sliding down between the two horses. Inside the wagon the woman had spread a blanket on the bunk bed and gone to sleep.
    â€œI’m smoking me a damn cigar before I turn in, and that’s the long and short of it,” said McCool. He fumbled through his clothes for a tin of matches.
    In the moonlight the sound of Sam’s Winchester cocking broke the quiet night. McCool froze with a match in his hand ready to strike.
    â€œAll right, damn it!” Roden called out to Sam. He snatched the match out of McCool’s hand. “We’ll walk off a ways and smoke. Surely you have no objections to that.”
    â€œSuit yourself,” Sam said, “but your guns are staying here for safekeeping.”
    â€œWe need those guns,” Roden said. “What if something comes out upon us in the night?”
    â€œThat’s a good question,” Sam said. “Good night, gentlemen.”
    â€œGentlemen my ass,” Roden cursed. He snatched up one of the two spare moth-eaten blankets the woman had rummaged from inside the wagon for them. “Come on, Ollie. Let’s take these blankets and make our own camp.”
    â€œWe leave an hour before daylight,” Sam called out quietly as the two turned and walked away.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Seventy yards from the wagon, Roden and McCool sat down side by side on a low flat rock in the purple moonlight. McCool struck one of the long wooden matches along the side of the tin, held the flame to his black cigar and puffed on it as he spoke.
    â€œFor two Mexican pesos I’d kill this greenhorn in his sleep,” he said. “What kind of man fears a half-starved Injun? Especially one who’s seen what we done to his pals.” He blew a stream of smoke as he held the flaring match sidelong for Roden to use. “Making us walk all this way just to smoke a cigar . . . ,” he grumbled.
    Roden puffed his cigar to life and blew out the match.
    â€œI’m glad we did, though,” he said. “This gives us some time to talk about how we’re going to do it.”
    â€œDo what?” said McCool.
    â€œKill this man in his sleep, Ollie, like you just said,” Roden replied.
    â€œThat was just talk,” said McCool. “He’s got our guns, don’t forget.” He puffed on the cigar and blew a stream of smoke up at the starlit sky.
    â€œI ain’t forgot, Ollie,” said