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    Chapter 4
    For fifteen miles, before we got to Abilene we saw cattle all about us. They were well scattered, grazing on the good grass that was broken up here and there by fenced farms where crops were or had been planted. We counted maybe six to eight good-sized herds and half a dozen smaller ones.
    On the farms there were corrals and lean-to barns, with sod houses for the most part; but here and there somebody had built a frame house out of shipped-in lumber. By some of the houses trees had been planted, and some had flowers around, but most of the places were bare-looking, and without any fixing.
    Abilene itself wasn't much. The Drovers' Cottage was the first thing we noticed. A good hotel, with the best wines, whiskies, and cigars, it had been built by Joe McCoy. He'd had the foresight to see it all, to begin it all, and then he'd had the bad luck to lose most of it.
    There was Henry's Land Office the Metropolitan Hotel, both of them two-storied brick buildings, and across the street was a bank. Right beside the boardwalk at Henry's Land Office was a well; so we pulled up there and looked the street over. Jim had himself a drink, and then I took one from the tin dipper.
    "You think they're here?" he asked.
    "Some of them will be holding the cattle, but the rest will be in town." I wiped my hand across my mouth. "I want to get my hat back."
    "You take it easy," he said. "D'you know who's marshal here?"
    "No."
    "Bill Hickok. Wild Bill."
    Everybody knew about Hickok. He was a tall, fine-looking man who had been a sharpshooter and a spy during the War Between the States, and he had worked for a stage line. He had killed Dave Tutt and a few others, and nobody who knew him underrated his skill with a gun.
    If you came into town and minded your own affairs you had no trouble. Hickok, they said, was inclined to live and let live. But the idea was, just don't start anything, and above all, don't talk big about how good you were with a gun and don't talk about treeing the town.
    "I don't want trouble," I said, "least of all with him."
    We cleaned up at the trough near the Twin Livery Stables, listening to Ed Gaylord talk. He was a friendly man, and nothing happened without his hearing of it.
    "You ride in with a herd?" he asked.
    "We came up the trail with one," I said, "but I got dry-gulched back down the line. I'm looking for the herd now--a man named Noah Gates is ramrodding it."
    "They came in last night," Gaylord said.
    Jim Bigbear was leading our horses back to a stall. Gaylord jerked his head at him. "Looks like an Indian."
    "Shawnee," I said. "Used to scout for the army. A good cowhand and a damn good man."
    "All right," Gaylord said mildly. "I only commented."
    "I want folks to know," I said quietly. "He's with me."
    "Are you somebody?" Gaylord studied me coolly. "Should I know you?"
    "Mr. Gaylord," I said, "there's no reason why you should know me. If you ask if I'm good with a gun, I'll tell you honest, I'm as good as the next man. But I don't figure to make my way with a gun. I figure to buy and sell cattle, and maybe land. I say there's no reason why you should know me--but you give me five, ten years. Then you ask that question, and folks will think you're crazy."
    He chuckled. "Well, you've told me, boy. And I kind of think that five or ten years from now I won't have to ask that question."
    "Something more," I said. "I've got an interest in that herd Gates brought in. There's folks who'd like to horn-swoggle me out of it. But they aren't going to do it, and I'll handle it without guns if I can. I'm a peace-loving man, Mr. Gaylord. You remember that."
    After that we went up the street together, Jim Bigbear and me, two tall young men, swinging along the boardwalk with a long, easy stride, our spurs a-jingling.
    At the second bar we saw a black, beautiful horse outside, dusty from the trail. There was a mouse-colored horse tied alongside. "They're here," Jim said. "You want to face them?"
    "No," I said, "he'll