The train had an extended stop in Denver, but it was still the dark of the morning and Smoke dozed in his seat, barely aware of the stop. It was nearly noon by the time he reached Cheyenne, and after making certain that his horse was off-loaded and put in the stable to be ready for the next leg, Smoke checked his saddlebags with the stationmaster, then found a saloon where he could kill a few hours. “Do you serve meals here?” he asked. “Ham, fried potatoes, and biscuits,” the man behind the bar replied. He was wearing a white shirt with sleeve garters, and a string tie. “Not sure what kind of pie we have today. I think it’s apple.” “Sounds good enough, I’ll take it,” Smoke said. He pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there.” “All right,” the bartender replied with a nod. Smoke glanced toward two young men who were standing at the far end of the bar. This wasn’t the first time he noticed them. He had seen them when he first stepped into the saloon. And though he had never seen these two particular men before, he had seen men like them in saloons and bars from Montana to New Mexico and from Kansas to California.
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