Blasingame settled back, his voice suddenly gentle. “I'm just wondering what you've got on your mind, Nate. That boy looks up to you; any fool can see that. You can make out of him just about anything you want. I hope it's not a hardcase gunman.”
Nathan came stiffly to his feet, “Are you through, Marshal?”
Blasingame sighed wearily and said nothing.
There was a small game going in Surratt's place when Nathan got there, but he ignored it and went to the bar. The saloonkeeper gave him a curious look when he asked for a bottle and took it to a vacant table. From the corner of his eye, Surratt watched Blaine pour a tumbler half full and down it in two choking gulps.
The raw whisky set off a blaze in Nathan's stomach but did little to chase the scare that Blasingame had given him. Damn them, why couldn't they mind their own business?
But it wasn't Blasingame so much, nor Beulah—they only helped bring this real trouble home to him. It was what Jeff had done; that was the thing that frightened him. Oh, he hadn't shown it in front of the marshal, but the knowledge that the thirteen-year-old boy had actually intended to fight a pistol duel— I'll have to talk to the boy, Nathan thought. I'll have to make him understand that guns are not to be taken lightly. Guns are meant to be used as a last resort, when everything else fails.
The chill of winter was in his belly when he thought of his son facing up to old Feyor Jorgenson, pulling a revolver on him. It's a thousand wonders, he thought, that Jeff didn't kill him. That was the worst thing that could happen to a man, Nathan knew—except to get killed himself.
Nearly half the whisky was gone now and Nathan felt limp and soured with it.
Nathan had been sitting at the table for about an hour when the drifter came into Surratt's place and had several drinks at the end of the bar. For a moment Nathan thought that he had seen the stranger before someone he had seen in New Mexico, maybe, or down below the Big River.
Then he realized that he had never seen the man in his life. The drifters ran to type, and Nathan had seen plenty of his kind at various times, riding the high ground, living away from the law up in the Indian Nations. That was the thing that confused him. It was the type he knew, not the man.
From habit, Nathan scanned the hitch rack outside the saloon, spotted a trail-weary dun with an expensive rig, a Winchester Model 7 snug in a soft leather boot. Nathan smiled thinly, knowing that he had pegged the man right.
The stranger was about fifty, his leathery face as sharp as a hatchet, his dirty gray hair long and shaggy. He was covered with trail grime, and was many days past needing a shave. Nathan did not know him, but he could feel that this drifter was a good man not to pick trouble with. A red handkerchief had been tamped loosely into his holster to protect his converted Frontier from dust—a precaution taken only by specialists.
After several silent minutes at the bar, the stranger counted out what he owed and walked out.
A vague uneasiness settled around Nathan after the drifter had gone.
SHORTLY BEFORE FOUR o'clock that afternoon Beulah Sewell gathered up her sunbonnet and wicker basket and headed for Sam Baxter's store to buy rations for the rest of the week. On her way to the store she stopped at her husband's tin shop.
Wirt was working on a windmill, a rush order for one of the grangers, and the back of the shop was cluttered with other work that had to be put off. Beulah sniffed.
“If you ask me, it's time you put Jefferson back to work.”
Her husband's mouth was a grim, thin line. “Mr. Jeff Blaine,” he said sourly, “has decided he's above tin working.”
“What that boy needs is a sound thrashing,” Beulah snapped.
Her husband looked at her. “You're not forgetting Feyor Jorgenson so soon, are you, Beulah?”
His wife's small eyes sparked. Wirt had not dared mention Nathan Blaine's name since the affair on the creek, and now he wished that he hadn't mentioned Jorgenson's either. He changed the subject quickly.
“I've been so busy here,” he said, “I haven't had a chance to get to the bank.” From a cigar can he took a small packet of money and handed it to his wife. “Will you stop in at Jed Harper's and deposit that? You'll have to do it before going to Baxter's; Jed'll be locking his doors any minute now.”
Beulah took the money and hid it under the napkin she had in the basket. She nodded stiffly, her jaws tight.
Wirt Sewell shook his head slowly as he watched his wife's small, prim figure move up the plank walk. He had never seen Beulah so worked up before. But maybe things would be better, now that Nathan had moved out of their house.
Jed Harper was just locking the bank's front door when Beulah reached for the big brass latch. Jed was a large, well-fed man with pink cheeks and white hair. He smiled a quick, professional smile.
“Why, hello, Beulah. I was just locking up.”
“Me and Wirt managed to put by a little,” Beulah said confidentially. “We wanted to bank it today, if we could.”
Jed Harper's smile became a bit strained, 'but he stepped aside and swung the door open. “Of course, Beulah. My teller has knocked off for the day, but I can take your money and give you a receipt. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Jed,” Beulah said primly. She followed the banker to a railed partition where Jed eased wearily into a leather chair.
He got out pen and paper and said, “Now how much is it, Beulah? I'll just add it to your and Wirt's account.”
Beulah felt the breath of the street on the back of her thin neck. She thought, Jed left the door open. Now
