Latigo. “Horses . . . know some about guns, too.”
The smith looked him over quickly. “You another hired gun?” he asked sharply.
“No.”
“How come you’re not wearing guns?”
“I’m a peaceable man. Didn’t know I’d need to.” Latigo touched his hat. “Thanks for the information. When my horse needs looking at I’ll bring him in.”
“Sure. Have to wait your turn.”
Four men walked out of the sheriff’s office into the light. All of them wore guns. The sheriff followed and stood on the boardwalk. Three of the men were young lean-bodied fellows with straight backs and narrow jaws. Latigo idled his horse and watched the dark man with the sullen good looks who had come out second best in the fight. Since then he’d washed his face and there was no blood on his lips but the marks of another man’s fist remained. All three men seemed of an age. Hired guns, he thought.
The fourth was older, used to the sun, smooth-faced and clean-shaven. His voice was strong with authority. His boots were polished and the white shirt he wore clean that morning. “You tell the judge what I said,” he ordered and hoisted himself into the saddle.
The sheriff was quick to speak. “Yes, Mister Kincaid, I’ll tell him. I’ll go see him right away.”
“It’s got to be done legal, you understand.”
This was Kincaid. Latigo Lansen watched, searching for the known signs of land hunger; eyes with the strangeness of distance in them, pupils that held on to what they saw with greed and grasp and shone with a pointed light, the restlessness that came out in hands and shoulders and the curious need for haste.
There were no such marks upon the man. He had a powerful body and strong chin. He looked like an important cattleman and not like anything else.
All four mounted and wheeled from the rail. The dark man stared at Latigo on the gelding. Neither spoke. Latigo turned away. The fellow spurred his horse and followed the others. Once he looked back over his shoulders, face clouded in doubt. Latigo made no sign. He watched their dust.
The sheriff stepped out of the shade. He eyed Latigo and the gelding. “You looking for something, stranger?”
“Land Office,” said Latigo.
The sheriff was about to point and then didn’t. “I’m sheriff around here,” he announced. “What kind of business you aim to do at the Land Office?”
“Some looking.”
“Looking for what? I got a right to know, mister.”
“Wanted to find out if the Lansen ranch is still where it ought to be.”
The sheriff looked up. “Lansen. . . ? Yeh, it’s still there. South of town by the river. Won’t do you any good, though. Lansen’s been dead a long time.”
“He has a son.”
“Killed in the war. If you’re looking for work, ride out to the Kincaid place. Tell them the sheriff sent you.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I’m not looking for work. I’m looking for the Land Office.”
The sheriff’s face tightened. Latigo did not look away nor did the lawman. “Pays to be civil around here, stranger. I’m the sheriff.”
“I know. You’re wearing the badge.”
“We don’t much like strangers who talk out of turn.”
“I didn’t start the talk, Sheriff. You did.”
“Just where’d you come from, mister?”
“Apache country.”
“See any redskins?”
“Killed one.”
“You’re not wearing guns. Kill him with the rifle?”
“No. Killed him with my hands.”
“You mean to say you got close enough to an Apache to kill him with your hands?”
“My hand had a knife in it, Sheriff.”
The sheriff hitched his gunbelt. “You talk real fancy, mister,” he said. “But you don’t look like any card player.”
“Never played cards in my whole life.”
“What’re you doing here, then? You’re not looking for work and you don’t play cards!”
“Looking for the Land Office, Sheriff.”
The lawman turned away. “Right behind you,” he threw back. Latigo watched him disappear and the door close. Kincaid had looked honest, too. He stepped down from the horse.
The clerk in the Land Office wore spectacles.
“What can I do for you, mister?”
“Want to confirm a title.”
The clerk produced a thick wide volume and laid the book on the counter. “Folio number and date,” he demanded. Latigo spread his parchment on the counter. “Eighteen-fifty three,” mused the clerk. “Gadsden Purchase land.” He looked up. “You Latimer Lansen?”
“That’s right.”
The clerk was satisfied. “It’s your land,” he said. “No impediment at all. Certificate includes water rights in perpetuity—that means forever—or as long as the Gila river runs. Good for collateral, mortgage or bank loans.” Any time you feel like selling, you’re free to do that.”
Latigo pocketed the papers. “I won’t be selling,” he said.
The thin-faced man studied him over the rims of the spectacles. “Why’d you confirm your title?”
“To make sure it’s mine.”
“What’re you figuring on doing?”
“Land should be worked. I aim to do that.”
“Cattle?”
“This is cattle country.”
The clerk closed the register. He regarded Latigo soberly. “You want some advice, son?”
Latigo returned the regard. “Only a fool doesn’t want advice.”
The man’s lips puckered. “Most times around here it pays to wear a gun. Two, if you can use both hands.”
The blacksmith had noted that he didn’t wear side-arms, then the sheriff and now the land clerk. There had been the deep-chested man on the wagon, too.
“Especially now,” said the man with glasses. “I’ve had this book open plenty of times lately. Seems to me if I owned any
