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eyes betrayed that he had either a fever or terrible hangover, paused, leaned upon his horse and perspired. The negro had disappeared.
    Nathaniel assumed that the shielded sibling held a gun behind the body of the mustang, and he stopped his tan mare. “Good morning.”
    Eyeballing the gentleman’s hips and valise, the older brother nodded.
    “I never carry any weapons,” announced Nathaniel. A loud whack startled him. He looked to his right and saw that the negro had returned with his stick.
    “Doesn’t seem like he’s got one stashed away.” The colored man sneezed out a damp distillation of the dust he had wrought.
    “Nope.” The older sibling relaxed his right shoulder and looked up at the mounted gentleman. “Are you Nathaniel Stromler?”
    “I am. Are you Brent Plugford or John Lawrence Plugford?”
    “Brent.” The fellow strode around his horse and toward the gentleman, openly appraising him. “Where’s your fancy dress at?” His Texas accent was heavy.
    “In my valise.”
    “Show me them garments.” Brent’s damp boots squeaked. “I want to see.”
    The brusque demands irked Nathaniel, and he decided to respond in kind. “Show me the stipend with which you intend to pay me.”
    Brent paused just beyond the nostrils of the gentleman’s tan mare. “My pa’s got the money in his wallet.”
    “Are you speaking of John Lawrence Plugford?”
    “I am.”
    “Perhaps I should speak to him directly.” This was not uttered as a question.
    “Best to leave Pa in his quietude,” recommended the younger sibling. “He’s…he’s bereft.”
    Brent worked through some inner sadness and said to the gentleman, “You’ll deal with me.” His voice was harder than it had been a moment ago.
    Although Nathaniel would not leave Leesville until he was certain that these poor rubes could pay him, he wanted to diffuse the burgeoning tension before it turned into a squabble. “I shall show you the garments that I selected.”
    “Okay,” said Brent.
    The gentleman climbed from his saddle, landed upon the avenue, took his mare’s reins, walked the beast beneath the overhang of the blacksmith’s forge, pulled the lines around a post, claimed the green linen valise from the saddle nook, set it upon a bench, undid its four gold buckles, slid the straps, opened the top and popped the six buttons that secured the inner lining.
    “It’s like he’s undressing a prude,” opined the younger bother.
    “Stevie,” chastised Brent.
    From the dark interior of the valise, Nathaniel raised the black, long-tailed tuxedo jacket.
    Brent ran his fingertips along the fabric. “Okay. The other one got some color? Mex’cans like things colorful.”
    At that moment, Nathaniel knew that he was going to be required to ride across the border, which he had hoped would not be the case. After replacing the first garment, he raised the double-breasted royal blue jacket.
    Brent took the fine coat in his hands and inspected it as if it were the pelt of an Oriental animal. “This one here’s better.”
    “You should go show it to Long Clay and ask what he thinks,” advised Stevie.
    Ignoring his brother’s suggestion, Brent returned the garment to its owner and disappeared into the dark interior of the blacksmith’s forge. Stevie and the negro resumed their respective tasks—flinging and whacking blankets.
    Nathaniel set the jacket inside his valise and withdrew the Spanish novel.
    A tall narrow man with an unpleasant triangular face, which was delineated by a long narrow nose, three vertical scars and a slender gray mustache, emerged from the forge, carrying a heavy bundle upon his left shoulder. His hat, shirt and trousers were black, and his eyes were bright blue. He glanced at the gentleman from a superior altitude (it was uncommon for Nathaniel—who was six foot two—to look up at anyone) and walked past him without a word. The ponderous burden upon the fellow’s left shoulder clanked metallically with each