what Lowry said down there.”
“Yes, I didn’t think you looked much like any of the Navajo I’ve ever seen, and there are plenty of them around here. This is supposedly their land, after all.” She turned her attention to Stovepipe and Wilbur. “What about you two? Who are you, and what’s your connection with all this?”
Stovepipe still had his black Stetson in his hand, and when he nudged Wilbur in the ribs with an elbow, Wilbur snatched his battered old hat off his head, too.
“They call me Stovepipe Stewart, ma’am,” the tall, skinny cowboy said. “This here’s my pard, Wilbur Coleman.”
Wilbur opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a nervous squeak.
“You got to pardon ol’ Wilbur,” Stovepipe went on. “He ain’t much for talkin’, especially around beauti-some ladies.”
Lady Augusta didn’t smile, but Sam thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes for a second.
“Go on,” she said solemnly. “Why were you involved in that fight?”
“Because we were sidin’ Sam here,” Stovepipe explained. “Didn’t seem fair to us that so many fellas would jump one lone hombre and give him a thrashin’ ... especially when he was just tellin’ the truth.”
“Then you were sticking up for the underdog.”
Stovepipe nodded.
“Yes’m, you could say that.”
For a moment, Lady Augusta regarded them gravely, then nodded and turned to place the shotgun on a side table.
The sight of the Greener lying there on what was obviously an expensive piece of furniture was a little odd, Sam thought, a good example of the stark contrasts to be found in many frontier towns on the edge of civilization.
“I can respect such behavior,” Lady Augusta said, “although my tolerance is strained when it results in damage to my saloon. You gentlemen are forgiven for your part in the hostilities.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Now ... what about the Indians? You don’t believe there’s any truth to what Pete Lowry said, Mr. Two Wolves?”
“I don’t know for sure because I wasn’t there,” Sam admitted, “but it seems pretty unlikely to me that people who have been mostly at peace with the white men for more than fifteen years would risk starting a war again.”
“But what if they’re starving? What if they had to have those cattle in order to feed their families?”
She had a point there, Sam thought. Fifty cattle would feed Caballo Rojo’s people for quite a while.
But that isolated canyon where the Navajo lived was two days’ ride from here, and Sam hadn’t heard Caballo Rojo, Juan Pablo, or any of the other warriors talking about raiding a ranch in the near future, or any other time, for that matter.
It hadn’t appeared to Sam that the band was running short on food, either. Everyone seemed reasonably well- fed. Between the sheep they raised, the crops they grew, and the deer that roamed the area, none of the Navajo should have gone hungry.
They wouldn’t have risked everything by attacking the Devil’s Pitchfork. Sam was sure of it.
“I just don’t see it happening that way,” he told Lady Augusta. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“What other explanation is there?” she asked. “Or do you believe the incident never occurred?”
Stovepipe said, “You mean maybe Lowry and his boss made the whole thing up? Why would they do that?”
She smiled at him.
“You tell me, Mr. Stewart.”
Stovepipe shook his head and said, “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t. This whole business don’t make heads nor tails to me.”
“Well, it’s really none of my affair. I was just curious what nearly got my saloon busted all to pieces, as you ruffians might say.” She went to the door and opened it. “There’s a door at the end of the hall that leads to the rear stairs. I suggest the three of you depart that way, rather than going through the main room downstairs. In fact, I insist upon it. Mr. Lowry and his friends may still be down there, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened earlier.”
“Neither do we, ma’am,” Sam assured her as he got to his feet. Stovepipe and Wilbur followed suit.
“It was an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Stovepipe said. Beside him, Wilbur gulped, opened his mouth to say something, gulped again, and made a few incoherent noises. Stovepipe nodded toward his friend and added, “Wilbur says likewise, Your Ladyship.”
“You’re all welcome in the Buckingham Palace Saloon,” she told them, “but not until the boys from the Devil’s Pitchfork are gone. Agreed?”
Sam nodded and said, “That’s fine with me. One run-in with Pete Lowry is plenty.”
They stepped out into the corridor. As they did, Wilbur seemed to gather his courage. He turned around and said, “It sure was a pleasure to—”
Unfortunately, Lady Augusta had already closed the door behind them, so she couldn’t hear him. Wilbur stopped and looked crestfallen.
Stovepipe clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come along, old hoss. Maybe you’ll have another chance to talk to the lady some other time.”
