“He’s a good horse,” Matt said.
Collins’s smile broadened, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“So, I guess we need to talk price now,” he said.
Matt patted the horse again, then began to remove his saddle.
“Oh, there’s no need for you to remove your saddle,” Collins said. “As soon as we close the deal, you can ride him away from here. Yes, sir, you are getting yourself one fine animal.”
Matt looked at the horse, and thought of him standing there, even though he had whistled for him. It hadn’t been that important today, but suppose it had been a matter of life or death. What, then, if he had a horse who could not respond to his whistle? And, he realized, it wasn’t a matter of training. He had never trained either one of the Spirits—they had both possessed an innate understanding, a quality that, obviously, this horse did not have.
“I don’t think I want him,” Matt said.
The proprietor’s smile was replaced by an expression of disappointment and surprise.
“What are you talking about? He is the best horse I’ve got, and you said yourself he was a good horse.”
“He is a good horse,” Matt said. “He just isn’t the right horse.”
“He’s not? What is the right horse? Tell me, and I’ll make sure you get one that is right.”
Matt held the saddle draped over his shoulder.
“How are you going to do that?” Matt asked. “You just told me this was the best horse you had.”
“Well, I—” The proprietor started to say, then changing his thought in mid-sentence, went on. “I’ll tell you right now, you ain’t goin’ to find yourself no better horse in Salida. No, sir, nor none better in Fremont County, I’m a’ thinkin’.”
“I think you may be right,” Matt said.
The proprietor, thinking he had won Matt over, smiled again. “Well, then, you need a horse and I’ve got a horse, so let’s do a little business.”
“Thank you, no, I believe I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Where? You just now agreed with me that there ain’t no better horse in the whole county.”
“I did, didn’t I? I suppose that’s why I’m going up to Eagle County.”
“Eagle County? What’s up there?” the perplexed proprietor asked.
“Sugarloaf Ranch,” Matt replied.
Leaving the livery stable, Matt returned to the depot, where he bought a ticket for Big Rock. Then, with three hours to kill before the train was due to leave, he crossed the street to the saloon.
“Son of a bitch, that’s him!” Meacham said when he saw Matt come into the saloon. He and Witherspoon were sitting at a table on the opposite side of the stove from the bar.
Witherspoon turned in his chair and saw Jensen order a beer.
“Will he recognize you if he sees you?”
“He saw me on the train coming up from Pueblo,” Meacham said. “But I don’t think he knows I’m the one that’s been trying to kill him.”
“Been trying? You mean there was another time before we tried out on the road?”
“Yeah, back in Pueblo,” Meacham said. He told of trying to shoot Matt in his bed in the hotel, only to get the two men who were with him killed.
“I planned to kill him on the train,” Meacham said, “but I never got the chance.”
“You know your problem?” Weatherspoon asked.
“What?”
“You’ve been sending boys to do a man’s job.” Meacham stood up.
“What are you going to do?” Meacham asked.
“I’m goin’ to kill Matt Jensen, and make myself five hunnert dollars,” Witherspoon said.
“Not in here, you ain’t.”
“You want him dead, don’t you?”
“Yes, but this ain’t the place to do it.”
“Dead is dead, and one place is as good as another,” Witherspoon said as he slipped a knife from a sheath on his belt.
Meacham shook his head. “No, I don’t have a stake in this,” he said. “Not in here.”
“Oh you’ll have a stake in it, all right,” Witherspoon said menacingly. “In fact, you have a five-hundred-dollar stake in it.”
Witherspoon moved to the middle of the saloon floor, then stopped about twenty feet behind Matt.
Matt had just taken a drink of his beer when suddenly a knife flashed by in front of him. The blade buried itself about half an inch into the bar with a thocking sound. After that, the handle vibrated back and forth.
