Sucking in a long breath he came out of it, following the prisoner, pushing him into one of the cells, yanking the grill shut. He wiped the sweat off his neck and tramped on up the corridor. “A fine thing, peon, rambling around this place with a gun in your hand. You trying to get yourself shot?” The other fellow laughed. “The gun is yours. I got your horse too. How does it feel, packing the tin in this town?” Frank took the gun and put it away between belly and trousers. “For eighty a month you got the chance to find out.” “Not me. I’m comfortable — ” “You only think you are.” Frank, turning, rummaged in the desk, got his hand on what he wanted and tossed a nickel-plated star at the other. “Pin it on, bucko. You’ll find it beats misbranding cattle.” The man rubbed his nose, staring at Frank like he was trying to figure out just how much of that was meant. He was short for this country, heavy-built and dark with a bristling mustache that hid his mouth. He thought and spoke in the manner of a gringo but his name was Chavez and, mostly, folks eyed him with their heads to one side.
