“I didn’t know it needed help. Last time I was here, it was doing fine.” He slid his palm over the black’s dusty neck, gave him a pat. “Give him an extra ration of oats tonight. He deserves it after that train ride.”

Flipping a coin at Barker without bothering to look at him, Steve pivoted on his boot heels and strode toward town. Barker would spread the news like wildfire that the hired gunslinger was back in town, the man who’d killed three men and cleared leather faster than any man here could remember seeing before.

Still shouldering his saddlebags, he checked in at the Casa Loma Hotel; it was smaller, clean and had good food. There was no point in stirring up folks by staying at the town’s best hotel. They’d have a lot to say anyway, and he was damned if he knew why he’d come back here. He should have ridden on, got off the train in El Paso and been at Prendergast’s ranch by this time tomorrow. It was a damn fool idea to come back. A man could never go back. Hell, he didn’t want to go back anyway.

After all that had happened, in a strange way he felt almost disloyal to Ginny to even wonder what had become of Beth. Before, even when he hadn’t thought Ginny dead, he’d taken other women, enjoyed them without a thought for anything but the moment. But hell, he wasn’t a callow youth any longer, reckless and selfish. Maybe his grandfather’s lectures had finally sunk in, penetrated his conscience. How Concepciόn would laugh if she ever heard him say that! The fiery gypsy had been his careless mistress whenever they met, enjoying each other’s body without a thought for anything but their own pleasure. She had once told him that Ginny had changed him.

“She is a bitch, that one,” she’d added frankly, “but I understand her because I am a bitch, too. You need a strong woman, but ay di mi, she will end up killing you one day!”

A cold wind was blowing up with the promise of an early winter. It had a bite to it, sweeping down the slopes to blow tumbleweeds down the middle of the street.

He found himself at the Red Sky Saloon again; it was close to the livery stable and not that far from the hotel. Only a few men were inside, two playing a card game at a rickety table in one corner, and another nursing a drink at the bar. Tinny music plinked on the old piano, and the same ancient black man sat hunched over the keyboard, gnarled fingers picking out tunes with surprising deftness.

A couple of Mexicans sat at a table near the door, intent on a hand of poker. The barkeep looked up, his face reflecting astonishment when he recognized the newcomer.