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reins hanging loose. He was spotted, and his ribs showed.
    Sam paused to pat him. “You look about as sorrowful as I feel,” he said.
    â€œYou brought the basket back.”
    Sam turned his head, saw that Bird had stepped out of the saloon to stand on the sidewalk. In the light of day, she looked even younger than she had the night before. She wore a red dress that showed her legs and too much bosom, and her face was freshly painted.
    â€œI’m obliged,” he said, still stroking the horse. “That was the best supper I’ve had in a long time.”
    Bird smiled and took the basket. “I guess you meant to thank Oralee,” she said. “She’s gone to Tucson. Won’t be back until tomorrow sometime.”
    Sam nodded.
    Bird lingered. “That’s Dobbin,” she said, indicating the horse. “He’s a pitiful old fella, isn’t he? Belongs to Charlie Wilcox. Stands out here, patient as the saints, all day every day, waiting for Charlie to finish swilling whiskey and ride him on home. Charlie’d never get back to that shack of his if it wasn’t for Dobbin.”
    Sam felt a pang of sympathy for the horse. Wished he could put him out to pasture, with Dionysus, come summer, and let him eat his fill of good grass.
    He stepped away from Dobbin, stood looking down at Bird.
    â€œYou gonna ask me how old I am again?” she asked, smiling up into his face.
    â€œI’d like to,” he said, “but I reckon I’d be wasting my breath.”
    â€œI’m seventeen,” she told him.
    More like fifteen, he thought, sorrier for her than he was for the horse. “How did you end up working in a place like the Rattlesnake Saloon?” he asked.
    She shrugged. “Just makin’ my way in the world,” she replied without a trace of self-pity. “We’ve all got to do that, don’t we?”
    â€œI guess we do,” Sam agreed. “Don’t you have any folks?”
    â€œJust a sister,” Bird said. “She’s married, and I was a trial to her, so she showed me the road. You comin’ inside?”
    Sam shook his head, pondering. He’d never had a sister, but if he had, he wouldn’t have turned her out, whether she was a trial to him or not.
    Bird looked crestfallen. “How come you don’t like me?” she blurted. “Most men take to me right away.”
    â€œI like you fine,” Sam said. “That’s the problem.”
    She went from crestfallen to confused. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œI don’t imagine you do.” On impulse, he reached out, took her hand, squeezed it lightly. “If you ever need help, Bird, you come to me.”
    She smiled sadly. “It’s too late for that,” she said. Then, carrying the basket, she turned and hurried back into the saloon.
    Sam stared after her for a few bleak moments, patted Dobbin again, then headed back toward the schoolhouse.
    One of these days he was going to stop wanting to save worn-out horses and misguided girls and a whole lot of other things. It would be pure, blessed relief when that day came.

CHAPTER
THREE
    S AM WAS OUT BACK of the schoolhouse, splitting wood for the fire, when Terran rolled up at the reins of an ancient buckboard, drawn by two sorry-looking horses, one mud-brown, the other a pink-eyed pinto. Their hooves wanted trimming, he reflected, lodging the ax in the chopping block and dusting his hands together. If he’d had his hasp handy, he’d have undertaken the job right then and there.
    Terran, perched on the seat, drew up the team, set the brake lever with a deft motion of one foot, and jumped to the ground. Sam’s copper tub gleamed in the bed of the wagon, catching the last fierce rays of the setting sun.
    The boy rounded the buckboard, lowered the tailgate with a creak of hinges, and scrambled in to haul the boxes to the rear, where Sam was waiting to claim them.
    â€œToo