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the post office in ill humor. It rankled him that Dori, as usual, was probably caught up in her own affairs and wouldn’t get around to writing her brother until Christmas. He stuffed the handful of envelopes into his saddlebag and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why the good Lord made girls in the first place,” he muttered. “Trouble. Nothing but trouble.”
    Matt shook himself free of musings. Thinking about Dori and her irresponsibility invariably made him remember Lydia Hensley.
Forget about her
, he ordered himself, clenching his jaw.
That’s over. I’m free of her, and I won’t waste the rest of a perfectly good afternoon reflecting on what went wrong between us
.
    “Let’s get on home, Chase,” Matt mumbled to his horse. His trip to town, which he’d looked forward to all day, had turned into a disappointment. Now all he wanted was a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a tall, cool glass of Solita’s lemonade—in that order. He untied Chase and glanced toward the elegant, two-story hotel that occupied the best lot in town. “I’ll catch the captain later, I guess, though he’ll probably give me what for for not stopping by.”
    Before he could mount up, the swinging doors to Dunlap’s Saloon flew open. A wizened, bewhiskered man tore down the wooden sidewalk bellowing, “Somebody get the sheriff!”
    Matt gave the old man a disgusted look when he stumbled across the street to where Matt stood beside his horse. The one blight on this town was the saloons that kept cropping up. He’d been glad when Captain Mace turned his saloon into a hotel a few years back, but another saloon just sprang up in its place—and another, and another, until there were more saloons than churches in Matt’s beloved town.
    “What’s the trouble, Dan?” he asked the wheezing, wide-eyed man. “Can’t Dunlap keep control of his customers?”
    Dan Doyle reached out to steady himself against Matt’s horse. “It’s bad, Matt. Some wild-eyed, greenhorn kid came tearin’ into the saloon yellin’ that a two-legged skunk stole his horse. Like t’near started tearin’ the place apart.”
    “Sounds like the usual scuffle. What’s got you so fired up?”
    Dan was breathing hard. “ ’Cause he’s just a kid, and it’s Red Fallon he’s accusin’.”
    Matt caught his breath. It sounded like this wasn’t the usual fray that went on behind barroom doors. Red had a mean streak. He was an excellent cowhand, but the fiery redhead couldn’t control his temper or hold his liquor—facts that kept him drifting from job to job. Against his better judgment Matt had hired Red on for the fall roundup. Now it already looked like he was going to regret it.
    “I can’t stay and jaw with you, Matt,” Dan burst out. “I gotta get the sheriff quick, or there’s gonna be a killin’. You oughta go over there and see if you can step in. Red’s one of yer hands.”
    “I suppose you’re right.” Matt grimaced, set his jaw, and stepped into the street.
    “Watch yourself, Matt.” Dan gave a final warning. “Red’s got a knife.”
    Matt grunted and hitched Chase to the rail again. A few long strides across the street and a  mighty shove of the swinging doors put Matt inside the saloon—a place he only entered when he was obliged to round up some of  his Diamond S hands after an occasional Saturday-night binge. The scene before him was one of wild confusion—just as Dan had described. Red Fallon towered over a stripling lad, knife in one hand, his other fist upraised. His steel gray eyes gleamed; a dangerous smile showed through his unkempt red beard.
    The kid, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, shook as he lay on the sawdust-covered floor. Matt sensed it was from rage, not fear. Blood poured from his nose. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and he was gasping for breath. His hand clutched his other arm, which told Matt that Red’s knife had probably been busy. Clearly undaunted, the kid glowered at the hulking cowhand.
    In