That girl's a lady." Shanaghy shrugged. "Anybody can want money, and I've seen some pretty cold-blooded ladies. I've seen them at cockfights and dogfights, real bluestockings, and enjoying every minute of it." He walked out again on the street. Right now he was wishing he had a friend, any kind of a friend. He was wishing he could talk to McCarthy or Old Smoke Morrissey, or that old-timer who taught him to use a six-shooter. He needed somebody he could talk to ... and he had no idea whether Greenwood could be trusted or not. He thought of Holstrum, but the storekeeper was a quiet, phlegmatic sort not likely to be of any help. Carpenter ... ? He turned toward the smithy, suddenly aware that he had heard no ringing of the hammer for some time. He walked more swiftly as he neared the smithy, and suddenly saw a woman standing in the entrance, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked his way. "Are you Tom?" she said as he walked up. "I'm Mrs. Carpenter." " I was looking for your husband." "So was I.
