“We can’t spend a night here,” Nicky urged.
“Don’t say ‘can’t,’” admonished Tom. “Look at this man. He’s said ‘can’t’ or ‘don’t’ to everything we ask him. That’s what ‘can’t’ gets you to—it breaks down everything you try to accomplish. Say ‘we won’t!’”
“Then, ‘we won’t,’” Nicky grinned.
“Mister,” Tom turned to the old man, sniffling and slumped down on the sand as though unable to sustain himself on his two legs, “you can tell us, I guess, what we want to know. Is there anybody in this place named Mort Beecher?”
The man looked at him dully.
“I don’t remember any names,” he replied.
“Well,” urged Nicky, “was there any white man besides you here?”
“Yes,” the other responded, “I guess you wouldn’t give me another smoke, would you?” He looked toward Bill. “Or something to—” he made a suggestive movement as if tilting a glass. “No—I guess nobody would give nothing to me no more.”
“There was another white man here,” Nicky persisted. “Was his name Mort Beecher?”
“I don’t recall his name. I can’t remember if he ever told me.”