The White Buffalo Page #5

To the Republic.

Well, old timer.

All curried and tame?

Name's James Otis.

Old timer, I'm looking for

a glass-eyed goose hisser

named Charlie Zane.

Princely fellow.

This fella Zane wears a snow white mane,

which got that way

'cause he's scared of redskins.

He's been known to puddle his britches

at a Kiowa war whoop.

You old fiddlefoot!

Charlie, you sure Custer

found gold up there

and not a field of dandelions?

He struck it.

Then what's a backshooting

claim jumper like you

doing here instead of there?

You need gear to dig a mine.

I had to raise a bankroll.

The cats!

All right, gents, come now.

Line up for the...

Place your bets.

You figuring on marshaling

in this one-dog town?

No, I'll never wear the tin again.

I know why you're here.

You're on a scout for the white buffalo.

Old timer, I thought

you were too ripe for fairy tales.

Well, would you believe it

from an eyewitness?

Depends which eye.

Don't cornhole me, young sass!

I was with General Custer when we hit

the nuggets at French Creek

and that lollygagger of a buff

challenged the whole goddamn

Seventh Cavalry to a showdown!

It's all coming true.

What're you prattling about?

Old timer.

Straight tongue.

You really saw a white spike?

Saw him?

Son-of-a-b*tch threw

half a mountain down on me.

Barkeep! Two stiff horns of gin.

And mind you,

none of that pig pee

you spigot out to these swill bellies.

I only sell the fizz, friend.

I don't make it.

Five dollars a bottle.

You insinuating

we're shortshirks in this camp, Mr...

Brady is the name.

There was a defalcating son-of-a-b*tch

down in the nations named Brady.

He sold six barrels to Chief Mo-Wi

and his Comanches.

And after them stinking redskins

got lubricated up,

they made a little war

and wiped out half of my outfit.

That's a hell of a thing, Mr...

Kileen.

Whistling Jack Kileen?

Well, now, look, Mr. Kileen.

The name Brady's as common

as hen sh*t back in the old country.

I ain't your man.

I'm only an old damn harp

out from the States

trying to make a roll.

And to show you the good faith,

gin is on the house.

That's mighty generous.

Maybe too damn generous.

All right, you jaspers,

you've had my table long enough.

- Skedaddle.

- Yeah, you don't say.

I just did.

- Aaron!

- Yup!

Watch those hide hunters.

Sure enough.

Mr. Otis, I'll pay you 500 in gold

if you'll back me

in any play made here tonight.

Who are they?

Where?

Behind your glass eye.

The long bean is Whistling Jack Kileen.

He's the meanest son-of-a-b*tch alive.

I was in Julesburg when I saw him

cut an Indian trader into 300 pieces

for selling a Winchester to Roman Nose.

And the sprag's name is Kid Jelly.

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