“I figured that.”

“I’ll use it.”

“Maybe. When’s this man coming?”

“Soon.”

“What’s his name?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“All right. I’ll wait for a spell. But if he doesn’t come soon, and I mean soon, you better figure on using that gun.”

The minutes dragged. The sun got hotter, and flies began buzzing around the horses.

He had no idea how long Mr. Grimes would be gone, Francis realized. Somehow, half an hour crawled past. It was the longest half hour of his life. And Bridger—or the man who said he was Bridger—didn’t help any. If he had gotten nervous, or started to move around, Francis would have felt better. But he didn’t. He just sat his horse—cool, calm, waiting. And the smaller man did the same.

Forty minutes passed, fifty, then an hour was gone. And that was enough.

The lean one moved. He straightened in his saddle and called. “Time’s up. I haven’t got ten years to waste. Now I’m gonna turn around and ride out of here. My partner’s coming with me. I don’t think you’ll touch anything off—but if you do, you’ll get only one of us. And the other one will get you, just as sure as winter’s coming.”

This was it then; the test. Francis reset his sight. It would be suicide to let the man go. He and his partner might ride off a mile, turn around, and sneak back to kill them at night.

Even as the lean one turned his horse, and the partner followed suit, Francis knew he couldn’t do it. It was one thing to shoot somebody who was attacking you, but to just come out and shoot a man because you thought he might be lying—

“Jim Bridger!” the voice was loud, cutting through Francis’s thoughts. It came from the side of the clearing he couldn’t see, but he knew that voice. It belonged to Jason Grimes. “You figuring on riding out of here without taking a cup of coffee with an old friend?”

The two men stopped their horses. “I figured you was up here somewhere,” the lean one said. “And to be downright truthful about it all, I did stop for some coffee. I figured old Jason Grimes was as good as the next for a free spot of java. But before you get all relaxed about us stopping for a while, maybe you ought to know there’s a two-legged terror in that shack over there with a gun on us. Shouldn’t we ask him about stopping?”

“What …?” Mr. Grimes turned to the building. “Oh … how long you been here?”

“Seems like ten years,” Jake Barnes said. “Maybe an hour, really.”

“And Mr. Tucket kept you at bay all that time?”

“Who?” Jim Bridger asked.