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collar. A fine sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead. His gaze kept flitting back and forth between Holt’s face and John’s, skittish about lighting too long on either one. “I’m afraid the foreclosure is quite legal, if you’ve a mind to discuss that,” the banker said. He consulted the calendar on the wall behind his chair. “In two weeks, the ranch will be sold for outstanding debts.”
    Holt indulged in a slow smile. “Will it?” he asked softly.
    Sexton took a half step back. “Mr. Cavanagh owes—”
    â€œTen thousand dollars,” Holt interrupted, and laid a telegram from his bank in Indian Rock on the desk.
    â€œThey’re sending a draft by wire. You should have it by tomorrow morning.”
    Sexton got even redder. He fumbled in his breast pocket for spectacles, put them on, read the telegram and blanched. “My God,” he said, and sank heavily into his chair.
    â€œThere’ll be another draft sent to First Cattleman’s, up in Austin,” John put in. “You see, my son here just bought my place, lock, stock and barrel. I could have deposited the money here, I reckon, but—you’ll understand, business being business—that I had some concerns about its safekeeping.”
    The banker was a few horse-lengths behind. “Your son?” he squeaked.
    Holt swallowed a laugh.
    â€œFoster son,” John relented, having had his fun. “Holt’s taken his real daddy’s name—McKettrick—but he went by Cavanagh for a good part of his life.” He braced his work-worn hands on the edge of Sexton’s desk and leaned in. “You tell Mr. Templeton he’ll find Holt a sight harder to deal with than an old black man and a slow-witted girl.”
    â€œMr. Templeton?” Sexton croaked. “What does he have to do with this?”
    â€œA whole lot, I reckon,” John said smoothly. “You ever think about punchin’ cattle for a livin’, Mr. Sexton? Mr. McKettrick, here, he’s hirin’. Lookin’ for thirty men or so. A season in the saddle might put some color in your cheeks.”
    â€œMy knees are bad,” Sexton said fretfully.
    â€œI reckon your conscience smarts some, too,” John replied. “If you’ve got one, that is.” He turned to Holt,his eyes gleaming with the old spirit. “Best we be goin’. Tillie’ll be through at the general store, and there’s Gabe to be looked in on before we head back out to the ranch. Make sure he’s getting the meals my son arranged for, over to the Republic Hotel.”
    Sexton rallied. His train was still back a couple of stations. “Austin’s a long ways from here. You might want to reconsider that deposit, Mr. Cavanagh.”
    â€œThen again,” John answered lightly, “I might not.”
    Holt chuckled.
    â€œWhat about you, Mr. McKettrick?” Sexton asked anxiously, standing up again. Even on his feet, he was knee-high to a burro, but he was still steaming along. “You’ll need banking services, I’m sure.”
    Holt, in the process of turning away, paused. John had already gained the door.
    â€œYou’ve got more guts than I would have given you credit for, Mr. Sexton,” he said. “Goodbye. And don’t forget to give my best regards to Isaac Templeton.”
    He joined John on the wooden sidewalk.
    â€œDamn,” John said jubilantly, “that felt good.”
    Holt laughed and slapped him on the back. “Let’s collect Tillie and pay Gabe a visit. How long do you figure we have before Templeton comes to call?”
    John made a show of taking out his watch. He’d fought on the Union side during the war, and the timepiece, a gift from his captain, was the only memento he’d kept from his days as a Buffalo Soldier, except, of course, for that chunk of cannonball lodged deep in his right thigh. “I reckon he’ll get word