Haskell figured that either a freight train had finished hauling a load down from the mines, or there’d been a shift change at the mines themselves. Maybe both. So he wouldn’t run over anybody, Haskell walked the black through the dense crowd of loud, rambunctious, bearded men in canvas pants, heavy boots, and suspenders. Most were smoking and/or drinking, and at the moment there was no shooting. There were plenty of women flaunting their wares. In fact, Haskell saw several pairs of bare breasts flashed from open tent flaps or whorehouse balconies. He was glad he’d had his ashes so thoroughly hauled that none of the tender lovelies was overly tempting. What was tempting—had him downright drooling, in fact—was the smell of roasting meat scenting the billowing wood smoke wafting around him. Sometimes the eye-stinging smoke clouds were so heavy they blocked out the stars. Haskell had to get his belly padded out before starvation did him in, but he needed to get his horse tended to first.
