Chapter 12
The two months passed more quickly than Steve had anticipated. He’d assisted the sheriff when the man had asked for his help, earned a good deal of cash money playing cards, and caught up on his sleep. And if someone had caught his eye, he would have found some companionship. However, no one had caught his eye. He steadfastly avoided thinking of the young man he hadn’t seen in five years, and whose father still hadn’t written he’d come home. Come to think of it, he hoped Mr. Browne was all right. He hadn’t responded to Steve’s last letter.
Now, however, the time had come for him to get himself organized. He went to the stable, took down Shotgun’s pack frame, and began to check the cinches, whistling a favorite song of Sharps’s as he worked.
“I beg your pardon.” The voice was
