“What are you talking about?” he said. “I haven’t even told you my name yet.” Augustine waved a well-manicured hand. “Your name doesn’t matter. You come in here wearing buckskins and boots and a big hat, and you’ve got a Colt strapped on like you’re some sort of gunslinger. But you sip that brandy like a cultured man who’s tasted fine liquor before.” “You’ve got me all wrong, Mr. Augustine. I’m just a drifter.” Augustine smiled like he didn’t believe that for a second, but he said, “Have it your way. So tell me what you’re calling yourself.” “Morgan.” Augustine lifted his snifter of brandy in a salute. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan. It’s not every man who can take Clyde Watkins in a bare-knuckles fight. In fact, I’m not sure anyone in these parts has ever done that before.” “That’d be that miner downstairs?” “That’s right.” The Kid shrugged. “There was a little bit of luck involved. If he hadn’t bitten off the end of his tongue, I’m not sure I would have been able to put him down.”
