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We made camp in a tangle of cottonwoods and Baxter built a fire in a daze. Hap cooked up some venison beefsteaks and Frank looked after the exhausted horses. Except for Horse. Horse had eyes only for me, which annoyed Frank because he didn’t think horses should have such opinions. So I got out a buffalo udder bowl that Scout had given me and filled it with melted snow and let Horse stick his snout in it and lick some up. Then I brushed him down and felt about him for saddle sores.
It was pretty quiet. Without Merle, Baxter wasn’t chatty, and Frank was never chatty, so we ate in silence.
“You like your job?” I asked Hap because I can’t not talk. I’m genetically incapable of long periods—or even short periods—of silence. As I might have mentioned, it’s why I’m a saloonkeeper: there’s a
