came a cottony voice from the rear window. Everyone but Whitey Grey whirled to see a handsome man leaning inside the back window, a deadly Remington revolver pointed at the albino’s back. Grey had too much experience to spin. He just muttered an oath, and took his finger off the Winchester’s trigger. “Put the rifle down, Whitey,” the man said. “Or I’ll put you down.” With another curse, Whitey Grey let the Winchester topple out the window. Slowly, raising his hands slightly, he faced the gunman. I knew this dark-haired man, but couldn’t place him until he climbed through the window, lithe as a cat. “It’s all right!” he yelled to the man on horse-back. “And the coffee’s on!” He wore a black hat, red shirt, and canvas jacket, sporting two holsters on a shell belt around his slim waist, and gray trousers tucked inside tan boots with mule-ear pulls flapping on the sides. The boots. I’d seen him trying them on back at Mr. Shankin’s store in Shakespeare. “Comfortable,”
