Even with McAllen and another Pinkerton beside me, I felt my body relax as we moved to the safety of shelter. It occurred to me that my patina of bravery might be thinner than I was ready to admit. At first glance, I did not see Jeff Sharp, because my attention centered on Jeremiah. He stood at the counter, helping a woman who looked worn out, even though she was probably only in her thirties. I was wondering how I could reestablish my friendship with my old whist partner when, to my surprise, Captain McAllen asked, “Are you here to talk to Jeff Sharp?” I spotted Jeff sitting on the far side of the potbelly stove, reading what looked like a legal document. “Yes. Do you know him?” “We’ve run into each other a few times.” “Professional or social?” McAllen lowered the rifle and held it by the stock, close to his thigh. “Both.” When he walked directly over to Sharp, I guessed that McAllen’s friends did not describe him as a talkative sort. “Afternoon, Jeff.” Sharp looked up from the papers in which he had been absorbed and immediately smiled.
