Chapter 2

Hanson’s Steak House is to my liking, not too fancy, not too rough. I order beefsteak with potato, biscuits, and coffee. Later, I’ll add apple pie. I sit at a corner table by my request, back to the wall, a habit from my lawman days. I enjoy watching people come and go, see a fair number of good-looking men, and am given the eye more than once. This makes the “turning forty” business easier to swallow.

When the meal is done, I don’t hurry out. Another cup of coffee takes me into night proper, darkness failing to dampen Durango’s spirit. It’s near nine when I finally go out to stroll around. I gawk at stores and music halls, everything a man could want. After an hour or so, I spot a fellow leaning against a post in such a way as to present himself, hip thrust forward just enough to draw attention to his privates. Light from a restaurant spills across him, and I get that he’s taken that position to show himself particularly well. He’s a looker and knows it, and I am tempted, highly tempted, yet I pass him by. Foolish, I decide, as I enter a saloon. Foolish to suddenly develop some kind of loyalty to Jack Hinch, who likely doesn’t know I’m even alive. But that’s the way it is.

The saloon is no better. As I stand at the bar and survey the room, I spot not one, but two men letting me know they go my way, and I have to wonder what they see that makes them show themselves. Nobody else likely sees it, but there we are in this silent dance, offers flying across the room, and only a nod required to get to it. I turn to the bar, throw back my whiskey, and get another.

By the time I return to my hotel room, I’m half drunk, happily so. Liquor can be a man’s enemy, but at times a friend, and tonight it’s a welcome companion. When I climb into bed I don’t care on Jack Hinch or anyone. I just want sleep.

* * * *

The headache next morning is familiar—and tolerable. I get myself going, pick up my clean clothes at the desk, stuff them into my bedroll, pay my bill, and head to breakfast. Coffee revives me, appetite coming on. I put away eggs, bacon, potatoes, and biscuits before heading to the livery.

Ned is eager to get going, snickering as I tie on my gear. Once astride, I feel him shake with promise of another good ride. Wish I felt as much.

We ride along the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains and I enjoy the cool as we climb off the desert flat that plagued me from Arizona to New Mexico. I welcome the green, though it’s slower going up here, taking care among tall trees and cold rivers.

It’s mid-afternoon when I ride into Gunnison, which has grown in my absence. A man gains years; a town gains size. The place seems twice as big, and the railroad station, new about the time I left in ‘82, remains busy, with cattle pens plentiful. I wonder if Jack is still shipping stock from here.

I could ride on to the ranch, but don’t just yet. I tie Ned at a water trough, then walk around Gunnison, noting places known and those added. Folks knew me here. I’d worked on the ranch four years, and Jack and me had hit town many a Saturday night, cutting loose as men will do. I pass the Gold Dust Saloon, a favorite of ours. Don’t want that now. I get a ham sandwich and beer at a lunch counter and ask the man if Marshal Booker’s still around.

“Nope. Died a few years back. Heart problem. It’s Marshal Dunn now.”

“That a fact,” I say. “How about Jack Hinch? Had a ranch hereabouts.”

“Still has it. Jim, his brother, is gone, but Jack still runs things.”

“What happened to Jim?” I ask.

“Took sick. Don’t recall what with. Went quick.”

The fellow moves off, leaving me to try and picture Big Jim Hinch, as he was known, in a sick bed. He was well over six feet tall, big as a bear, nice fellow. After what I’d put Jack through, it’s a shame he’d had to suffer the loss of his brother.

There is finally no stalling. “Shit or get off the pot,” I can hear my Pa say, so I fetch Ned and we ride on.

The area is familiar, of course. Trees may be taller, but some have gone the other way and died. Ned walks the road like he knows it, leading me to consider he does, through me. I pat his neck and he snorts a reply. Soon we’re beside the Arkansas River, which guides us to the ranch sitting alongside.