and me, we made them all. The Morgue , the Bucket of Blood, the Palace, the Chicken Coop, an d Murphy's Exchange. All of them wide open. Crowded , too.
Soapy Smith was there, a fellow we were to hear a lo t about later. Young Bat Masterson was in town, and Do c Halliday drifted through, bound for Texas. Kit Carso n was there for some time, and one of the Bents from dow n New Mexico way.
One night after we got back to the hotel Mustang an d me were having supper when he nudged me.
"Rye, there's a dude got his eye on you. He's bee n studying you for some time now. You ain't been in n o trouble back East, have you?"
Mustang, he was a blond fellow with a lean, toug h face. No gun slinger, but a mean man to face in a fight , and game as they come. He was also a man very sharp t o notice things, so when I could, I glanced around.
This tenderfoot sat across the room. He was a tall ma n with black hair, gray at the temples, and mighty handsome.
Maybe he was fifty years old, but dressed real fine. Whe n I looked around he saw me and our eyes held for a moment, and then he got up and started across the room.
I wasn't duded up as I had been in New Orleans. M y fancy clothes were all packed away. Nonetheless, I didn' t look so bad, I guess. I had on those black calfskin boots , a gray wool shirt with a black string tie, and a black , braided short coat that I'd picked up in Texas. It was cu t Mexican style. And I had on my gray pants, tucked int o my boots.
Without looking again, I tried to place the stranger. H e might be a gambler, but somehow that didn't fit, either.
And at a quick glance my guess was that he wasn't packin g a gun.
He paused alongside the table. "I beg your pardon.
My name is Denison Mead."
I got up. "I'm Ryan Tyler," I said, "and this here' s Mustang Roberts. Will you sit down?"
"Thank you." He sat down and motioned for his bottl e of wine to be brought to our table. "I'm a lawyer," h e said, "representing a mining company. I've been lookin g over some gold properties."
"Sounds prosperous. I've been dealing in cows."
"Texas?"
"Lately."
We talked a mite, just casual conversation. He ha d nothing to say about his reason for joining us. He wa s pleasant enough, yet I had an idea he was fishing fo r something, something he wanted to know. He didn't as k many questions, but he had a way of getting a man t o talk. But I hadn't played poker for nothing. I wasn' t going to tell him anything more than I wanted to. O n the other hand, I'd nothing to conceal.
"This country your home? Or is it Texas?"
"I'm drifting," I said. "No home, properly speaking , but I aim to get a little home over in the mountains. A r anch, I've got in mind."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "About twenty? Or twenty-one?"
"Twenty," I said.
We talked some of cattle, and he gathered I'd recentl y been in Kansas City and New Orleans.
"Were you born out here?"
It came quickly, but it slid into the conversation i n such a way that I became suspicious. Something abou t the way he said it made me believe this was what he ha d been planning to ask all the time.
I was getting uneasy. That shooting in New Orleans , now. That was off my home grounds, and they looke d at things different there than out here. Unless somebod y had stolen the gun, they would have found Woods wit h a pistol in his hand, but no telling what Chris Lilli e might tell the law. Still, he was apt to tell them nothing.
Not his kind.
"No, sir," I said finally, "I was born in Maryland. O r so my pap told me. Lived in New York when I was a boy , then in Missouri and Kansas."
"You've traveled a good bit." He paused, and me, I' m good at reading sign. I can read it on faces as well a s on the ground, and that's why I play a fair game of poker.
And right then I had a feeling this was another questio n he'd been building up to.
"You've no home," he said. "Wouldn't you say you r home was where your parents were?"
"Ma died on the way West," I explained. "Pap wa s killed by
Soapy Smith was there, a fellow we were to hear a lo t about later. Young Bat Masterson was in town, and Do c Halliday drifted through, bound for Texas. Kit Carso n was there for some time, and one of the Bents from dow n New Mexico way.
One night after we got back to the hotel Mustang an d me were having supper when he nudged me.
"Rye, there's a dude got his eye on you. He's bee n studying you for some time now. You ain't been in n o trouble back East, have you?"
Mustang, he was a blond fellow with a lean, toug h face. No gun slinger, but a mean man to face in a fight , and game as they come. He was also a man very sharp t o notice things, so when I could, I glanced around.
This tenderfoot sat across the room. He was a tall ma n with black hair, gray at the temples, and mighty handsome.
Maybe he was fifty years old, but dressed real fine. Whe n I looked around he saw me and our eyes held for a moment, and then he got up and started across the room.
I wasn't duded up as I had been in New Orleans. M y fancy clothes were all packed away. Nonetheless, I didn' t look so bad, I guess. I had on those black calfskin boots , a gray wool shirt with a black string tie, and a black , braided short coat that I'd picked up in Texas. It was cu t Mexican style. And I had on my gray pants, tucked int o my boots.
Without looking again, I tried to place the stranger. H e might be a gambler, but somehow that didn't fit, either.
And at a quick glance my guess was that he wasn't packin g a gun.
He paused alongside the table. "I beg your pardon.
My name is Denison Mead."
I got up. "I'm Ryan Tyler," I said, "and this here' s Mustang Roberts. Will you sit down?"
"Thank you." He sat down and motioned for his bottl e of wine to be brought to our table. "I'm a lawyer," h e said, "representing a mining company. I've been lookin g over some gold properties."
"Sounds prosperous. I've been dealing in cows."
"Texas?"
"Lately."
We talked a mite, just casual conversation. He ha d nothing to say about his reason for joining us. He wa s pleasant enough, yet I had an idea he was fishing fo r something, something he wanted to know. He didn't as k many questions, but he had a way of getting a man t o talk. But I hadn't played poker for nothing. I wasn' t going to tell him anything more than I wanted to. O n the other hand, I'd nothing to conceal.
"This country your home? Or is it Texas?"
"I'm drifting," I said. "No home, properly speaking , but I aim to get a little home over in the mountains. A r anch, I've got in mind."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "About twenty? Or twenty-one?"
"Twenty," I said.
We talked some of cattle, and he gathered I'd recentl y been in Kansas City and New Orleans.
"Were you born out here?"
It came quickly, but it slid into the conversation i n such a way that I became suspicious. Something abou t the way he said it made me believe this was what he ha d been planning to ask all the time.
I was getting uneasy. That shooting in New Orleans , now. That was off my home grounds, and they looke d at things different there than out here. Unless somebod y had stolen the gun, they would have found Woods wit h a pistol in his hand, but no telling what Chris Lilli e might tell the law. Still, he was apt to tell them nothing.
Not his kind.
"No, sir," I said finally, "I was born in Maryland. O r so my pap told me. Lived in New York when I was a boy , then in Missouri and Kansas."
"You've traveled a good bit." He paused, and me, I' m good at reading sign. I can read it on faces as well a s on the ground, and that's why I play a fair game of poker.
And right then I had a feeling this was another questio n he'd been building up to.
"You've no home," he said. "Wouldn't you say you r home was where your parents were?"
"Ma died on the way West," I explained. "Pap wa s killed by
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