Free Riding For The Brand: Sage Country Book Three by Dan Arnold

glanced at the cowboys.
    They looked back at me, clearly amused and a little bit drunk.
    “I see you boys are riding horses with the Rocking M brand. That’s the Murphy ranch brand isn’t it?”
    “Is it? We see you’re wearing brand new store-bought duds. What happened? Somebody steal your clothes?” one of them asked.
    “Something like that. Now answer my question, boys.”
    “Who do you think you are? We never seen you around here before.” The other one said. They were trying to pull themselves together for a fight. They stepped away from the bar, their hands near their guns.
    I braced them straight up, pulling my new canvas coat just far enough aside to reveal my .45, sitting cross draw style on my left hip.
    To my surprise, the old man sitting at a table behind the drunken cowboys suddenly spoke sharply.
    “Hey! Stop right there. You boys don’t want to let your mouths lead you down a one way trail. You’d better answer his question and ride on out of here. Cain’t you see, this man is a lobo wolf. He don’t bark, he just bites.”
    These men weren’t gun hands. They were just day rate cowboys. The younger of the two was no more than eighteen years old. With me in front of them and the old man behind them, they didn’t want any part of a fight.
    The older cowboy decided to talk.
    “We ride for the Bar C Bar, that’s the Coltrane outfit. Bet you’ve heard of it.”
    “I’ve heard of it. Why are you riding Rocking M horses, if you ride for the Bar C Bar?
    “They come with the job, part of the cavvy. What’s it to you?”
    “I ride for the Rocking M.”
    The two cowboys looked at each other.
    “Listen Mister, we don’t know nothin’ about that.”
    “I figured as much. You ride on back to the Bar C Bar and tell your boss, I expect to see a bill of sale for those horses. You understand a bill of sale?”
    “We know what it is, but you got no right to ask for one.”
    “I do. You tell him I want it, or I’ll be asking you why you didn’t. Now, are you going to walk out of here, or be dragged out?”
    They practically tripped over each other scrambling for the door.
    I walked over to the table where the old man was sitting.
    “Mind if I sit down?”
    “Free country,” he said.
    He was wiry and tough, the way old men get who live on the land. Part steel and part jerked beef. He had a drooping white mustache covering his lips, stained brown by tobacco or coffee. His eyes were bright and alert in lids creased and wrinkled by sun and time. His hands were folded on the table, hands of leather, strong and scarred. He sat calmly and regarded me without expression. His large brimmed sombrero hung on his back from a plaited horsehair stampede string. He wore a bright red bandana over a faded blue shirt and a dark grey wool vest. The bandana held at the neck by a sterling silver ring with a single turquoise stone in it. His thinning hair was long, falling nearly to his shoulders, and as white as his mustache.
    “Do you know me?” I asked him.
    “I know yer kind, same as me. Them boys was a little liquored up. They was fixin’ to make a stupid mistake. What’s yer handle, son?”
    “John. You?”
    “”John, huh? No last name? Alright, John, some call me Scout, others, other things. You can call me Bill.”
    “You been around here long, Bill?
    “Nope, at least not lately. I was in these parts some time back, just passing through now.”
    I nodded.
    “Same with me. The first time I was in this part of the country was right after the war between the states. I pushed a herd through here with Charlie Goodnight. It’s all different now.” “Hmmm,” he said, regarding me with narrowed eyes..
    The bartender brought me a cup and set the coffee pot on the table. He left without saying a word. I poured coffee in my cup and looked at the old man. He nodded his answer, so I poured some in his cup, too.
    The old man picked up his coffee cup with both hands and looked over the top at me.
    “You’re