Then there were the man’s jeans. While this fella’s jeans were well worn, they were missing one sure, telltale sign of a working stockman. Most stockmen almost always had one leg of their jeans worn a little thinner than the other. Because most people either carry hay bales off to one side, or lift bales using one leg, that particular leg of their jeans was almost always worn a little thinner than the other. This man’s jeans were worn evenly.

His boots were also giving him away. Not because he was wearing high tops or because he had his jeans tucked into them in the traditional buckaroo style, but rather, because of what his boots didn’t have. Most, if not all cowboys have a prominent scuffmark on the inside arch of their boot that comes from the arch rubbing up against the inside of a stirrup. This scuffmark, about halfway between the boot heel and the first knuckle of the cowboy’s big toe, is usually black in color and looks like a large thumbprint smudge. This fella’s boots were absent this mark.

“You boys workin’ an outfit up here?” The man placed his money on the bar.

Dave, having seen the expression on Topher’s face when he looked at the stranger, knew instinctively to be wary of the man. The previously exuberant young cowboy suddenly became quiet, turning his back slightly on the man and looking down at his beer.

“Yup,” Topher said bluntly, taking another drag from his cigarette.

“The name’s Chad, Chad Collins.” The cowboy smiled. It was just one more thing Topher didn’t like about him. Too many teeth. Very few cowboys showed all their teeth when they smiled, and even when they did, they were usually tobacco-stained, or missing. This guys teeth were neither, which made him look like he had more teeth than he should have. “You all know of any outfits up this way lookin’ for help?”

“Nope,” Topher grunted again.

“Naw,” Dave joined in. “Not this time of year. No one hires in the winter. We even got one more hand than we need right now.” He turned to Topher. “What the hell’s with old Henry, anyhow? He gone and found religion or what?”

“Henry?” Chad’s smile faded.

“Yeah.” Dave could only stay concerned about the man for so long. “Old Henry McBride. He left the country a few years back one of the biggest drunks in four counties and come back sober as a judge. Must’a joined one of them alcoholics oblivious outfits or somethin’.”

“He’s workin’ around here?” There was a hint of worry in the man’s voice. Topher picked up on it right away, and glanced over to see the look on his face. It, too, was slightly worried.

“Yeah,” Topher said, trying to get a read on the man. “He’s ridin’ line up in Wild Basin. I see him once a month when I take supplies up to him. You want me to tell him you said hello…Chad?”

“No, that’s okay,” Chad said, turning back to the bar and taking a drink from his bottle. He stayed quiet for a long time, drinking first one bottle of beer, then a second, and then a third. He thought about his last encounter with Henry McBride. It had been a dire threat Henry made that night in the parking lot of Mona’s Bar and, taking Henry’s threat seriously, Chad had gotten far away from Grant that night and had been looking for steady work ever since.