“Hell, Mister Mitchell,” Henry protested quietly. “I’m okay, I just didn’t get much sleep last night. That’s all.”

“I can smell the whiskey on you clear over here.” Sam was blunt now. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

Henry wanted to say something. Maybe that all he needed was one more chance. That it was time to change, as the voice had told him. That he was ready to try and turn his life around—that he was willing to do what it took to clean himself up and put the past behind him. But in the end, all he could do was stare blankly into space. He suddenly felt very old and all the words racing through his head stayed there. Henry turned and walked to the door a beaten man.

“Henry,” Sam said

Henry stopped and slowly turned toward Sam. Sam hesitated for a second, then got up from behind his desk and walked over to Henry. “Have you got any money?”

“I’ve got some,” Henry said.

Sam pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off a number of one hundred dollar bills.

“No sir,” Henry put up his hand. “I can’t…”

“I know what you’re thinking, Henry,” Sam said. “And this ain’t no charity.”

Sam stuffed the money in Henry’s shirt pocket.

“This is six months’ pay,” Sam told him. “When you get yourself sober you come here and work this off. But don’t come back till you’re off the bottle. You hear?”

Henry was torn between accepting the money and refusing it. In the end, it was more money than he’d seen at one time in the last ten years, and he talked himself into thinking it would be the incentive he needed to do something different with his life. Perhaps he actually could put the past behind him. Maybe he could sober up. Maybe he could come back and get a good job again and get back on his feet. In the end, Henry simply nodded his thanks, took the money and shook Sam’s hand, then slowly turned and walked out the door.

“Hell, Mr. Mitchell,” Willy said after the door closed behind Henry. “That’s money you’ll never see again.”

Sam walked back to his desk, putting the wad of cash back in his pocket. “You don’t know ol’ Henry very well, do you, Will.”

“I seen him around some. Mostly when he’s been plumb full of whiskey and makin’ a fool of himself.”

“Well,” Sam took his seat behind the desk. “He wasn’t always that way. In fact, some time back Henry came on a bunch of our strays while he was out working a gather for another outfit. He didn’t have a pot to piss in at the time and could have just gathered the strays up, sold them at auction and kept the money for himself.” Sam pulled a cigar from the top drawer of his desk. “But he didn’t. He brought them down off the mountain on his own and left them in the back pen, there. Didn’t tell anyone he did it, and didn’t ask for anything in return. The only way I knew about it was a couple of the boys saw him bring ‘em down. That’s not something I’m likely to forget anytime soon.” Sam lit his cigar. “Henry’s a good man in a bad way. He’ll be back to work off that money.”