I’d struck up something of a friendship with a thin looking fella by the name of Sam Caine. He was pleasant enough, with a mop of blond hair set upon his smooth face which lent him something of a boyish air. I could understand why the ladies seemed drawn to him so much. He’d laugh about that sometimes, winking, “Oh, there’s something else too, but you’ll have to guess what.” He worked hard out on the range and it became something of a ritual for us to ride out to the far-off edges of the spread to spend the morning repairing the fences. Alone, with just the sky and the distant mountains for company, we’d talk about all sorts of things. It was during one such time, as we sat with our backs against a rocky outcrop munching down the corn bread dear old Miss Tomkins from the kitchen made us –
