His question was answered a moment later when Marshal Drew stepped into the saloon.
“Mr. Jensen?” the marshal called.
One of the four men turned toward the marshal. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. There was a holstered pistol on his right hip, and they way he wore it told Silva that the stories he had heard about Jensen were probably not exaggerated.
“Yes, Marshal?”
“One of the men you brought in was Clyde Beamer. There’s a two hundred fifty dollar reward out on him, so if you’ll stop by my office I’ll issue a voucher that you can cash at the bank.”
“All right, thanks,” Matt said.
“And here I was about to buy the first round,” Morrison said. “Drink up, boys, this round will be on Matt Jensen. With the reward he’s got comin’, he can buy all the drinks for the rest of the night.”
Matt chuckled, then pulled out the money. “All right,” he said. “I wouldn’t want it to get around that I’m cheap.”
Silva studied Jensen over the next several minutes, observing how the others around him seemed to defer to him. He was obviously very popular and well respected. He was a handsome man who appealed to the women, Silva could tell that by the way the bargirls reacted to him and the way he reacted to them, laughing and joking with them, and treating them with respect, despite their occupation. It was clear that Matt Jensen was everything that Silva was not. And soon he would be dead.
As Silva anticipated killing him, he felt a charge of excitement course through his body. He had never been with a woman, had no interest in women, but he had heard it described what a man felt like when he was with one.
Silva was feeling that now.
It was always like this—he would see his subject up close, see him talking, laughing, living, knowing what his subject did not know, that soon he would be dead. Silva’s heart began beating faster, and he closed his eyes and clenched his fist to bring himself under control.
Two days after Matt had killed the two would-be rustlers, William Teasdale arrived at Frewen Castle, driving a carriage to which was tied a horse.
“What is this?” Frewen asked, coming down off the porch to meet him.
“It’s a horse for the boy,” Teasdale said. “You can’t have a boy out here without a horse.”
“You didn’t have to do that, William,” Frewen said.
“I know I didn’t have to,” Teasdale said. “But it is something I wanted to do. He can ride it as long as he is here. When he goes back to England, I’ll send someone over for the horse.”
“Yes, but you heard his mother. She doesn’t want him riding.”
“Moreton, the boy needs a mediator and advocate. I am sure that if Lord Randolph were here, he would be on the boy’s side. You are just going to have to be his surrogate father while he is here. Be strong. Stand up to Lady Churchill.”
“By damn you are right,” Frewen agreed. “And what a wonderful thing for you to do, William, to bring a horse for Winnie to ride. Just a minute, I’ll get him out here.”
A few minutes later, Winnie, with a broad smile spreading across his face, was standing on the front porch looking at the bay Arabian horse.
“That has to be the most magnificent horse in the entire world,” Winnie said.
“Well, young man, he is yours for as long as you are here.”
“Can I ride him right now?”
“Of course you can ride him. That’s why I brought him to you,” Teasdale said.
Winnie walked out to the horse, then, seeing how high the stirrup was from the ground, was a bit confused as how best to mount him.
“Lead the horse over to the steps,” Frewen suggested. “That will be the easiest way to get on, until you learn how.”
Winnie led the horse over the steps, then using the steps, climbed into the saddle. Frewen handed him the reins.
“Winnie! What are you doing?” Jennie asked, coming out onto the front porch at that moment.
“I am going horseback riding,” Winnie replied.
“To what end?”
“Just to be riding.”
“What a waste of time.”
“Mama, no hour of life spent in a saddle is a waste of time,” Winnie said.
“You say that as if you have hours in the saddle.”
“I admit that this will be my first hour, but some day I will have many hours on the back of a horse. And, years from now, when I am old and gray, I can look back on this and say, ‘This was my finest hour.’ ”
“No, I don’t think you should go riding. Please, get down now,” Jennie said.
“Jennie, let the boy ride. I promise you, there is not one American boy in the entire West who is Winnie’s age who is not riding with proficiency,” Frewen said.
