His tall frame with shrunken and cadaverous and his wispy hair showed silvery-white when he lifted a shapeless felt hat to greet Dusty politely. He showed some yellow snags of teeth in a wide smile, and his black eyes gleamed with curiosity as they lingered on Dusty’s costume and on the gunbelt slanting across his hips. He went to the head of the team and caught them by the bridles when Dusty pulled them up in front of the big barn. When Dusty dropped the lines and stepped down, he asked, “You are the new patrón, señor?” Dusty said, “Sort of. Yeh. That is, I’m plannin’ to take hold here. But I ain’t the man Miss Katie was lookin’ for.” “No, señor?” “He didn’t come. Got killed on the Marfa stage.” The old Mexican said, “So? And you weel work here, señor?” “Call me Dusty.” “Bueno. I am Miguel, Señor Dusty.” Dusty nodded and held out his hand. The Mexican shook hands with him gravely and replaced his hat on his head. “I am glad you are come, señor.
