“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 land around here I’d take good care of myself. I’d sure enough learn how to shoot.”
“How much time you think I’ve got to learn?”
“No telling,” said the clerk. “No telling at all, now that you’re here.”
“You mean I should have stayed away?”
“Should have learned how to shoot before you came.”
“Is there a gunsmith in Gila Bend?”
“No. But there’s a general store down the street a piece from the bank. Ed Harrison sells most everything. Besides, a man looks better wearing a gun. If he’s got the shape for it, I mean. Looks better when he’s riding a horse, too.”
“Good advice,” said Latigo. “I’m obliged to you.”
The clerk’s face brightened. “You figuring on wearing guns?”
“Wouldn’t want to be thought a fool, mister.”
“Mallow’s the name . . . John Mallow.”
At the door Latigo looked back. “Why’d you tell me?”
The land clerk shrugged. “Hate to see a young fellow get hurt, that’s all,” he said. “Honest advice doesn’t cost anything. I’m just a land clerk. Maybe that’s all I can give.”
“It’s more than you think.”
The sheriff’s office was stone and brick built with iron bars across the windows. The door lay open because of the heat. Inside the building was shaded. Latigo entered and the sheriff straightened. “Day, Sheriff. . .”
The lawman nodded shortly. “What can I do for you?”
“Like to talk some.”
“Busy right now. Got a lot of work to do. If I was you, mister, I’d keep on riding. This town’s open at both ends.”
“Rode a long way to get here, Sheriff. Gila Bend is the end of my journey.”
The other man’s eyebrows went up. “What’re you talking about?”
“I figured on staying, Sheriff,” Latigo announced. “Soon as I get a gun to wear.”
Impatience edged the sheriff’s voice. He was a big man, had once been strong. “Look, mister,” he said. “We don’t like smart-talking strangers around here. If you’ve got something to say, you say it then start riding.”
“Not a stranger, Sheriff,” said Latigo. “And I don’t figure on doing much more riding. I was born here, belong here.”
The lawman stared hard at him, from forehead to boots and back again. Recognition did not light his face. “Never saw you before,” he said. “Been here nine years, know everybody in these parts.”
“The name’s Lansen, Sheriff.”
The sheriff’s shoulders stiffened. Latigo held out the land deed so that it could be read without being touched. The lawman’s eyes moved down the paper and halted at the name of the owner. He looked up slowly. “You were supposed to be dead,” he said.
Latigo put the paper away. “Lots of men died at Vicksburg,” he said. “Land office is satisfied I’m not one of them.”
The man with the badge on his shirtfront sat back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “The paper says you’re Latimer Lansen. What do you want from me?”
“Protection.”
“From what?”
“Don’t know, Sheriff. Plan to work my land and raise cattle. Want the law on my side, that’s all.”
“The sheriff’s on the side of every law-abiding citizen in the county, mister.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Sheriff,” said Latigo and walked to the door, glad of sunlight.
The sheriff was alone. He stared at the green-shaded oil lamp on the desk, pushed a gun into holster and rose. He walked straight to the Land Office. “Young fellow in here a while ago, name of Lansen. . .”
“That’s right, Sheriff. Confirming ownership of the Lansen ranch.”
“Was it in order?”
“Surest