Curiously enough, I was not scared.  I was not even worried.  I could see his gun hand and the butt of his gun.  He could not move without my knowing it, so I just waited.  I did not speak.

I'd taken to carrying my gun on the left side for a cross-draw, and that meant he could see my gun, too.  What he couldn't see was the rifle, but even if he had he would not have worried, because nobody carried a rifle the way I did, and it looked as if it would be slow to use.

My silence seemed to make him uneasy, but if there was to be any shooting he was going to have to open the ball.  I wanted no trouble in Hickok's town.  He had played fair with me, and I intended to do the same.

"I'm going to kill you, mountain boy," came that voice again.  "I'm going to put you down under the grass.  I'm going to save Kelsey the trouble."

Across the street from me a match flared, lighting a cigar.  The voice that spoke there was clear.  "Rad Miller, you get your pony and ride out of town, and don't let me find you here again this year.  I don't like trouble-hunters."

Miller hesitated only a moment, and then he walked toward me, and on past, muttering as he did so, "You'll get it.  He can't protect you all the time."

Hickok's voice across the street said, "Obliged, Chancy.  I don't want gun fights in Abilene.  Can I buy you a drink?"

We walked into the Alamo together and stood at the bar.  When we had our drinks, he brushed the ashes from his cigar and, glancing at my Winchester, said, "Odd way to carry a rifle."  He looked at me thoughtfully from cold gray eyes.  "You'd have killed him, Chancy."

"Maybe."

"No maybe... you'd have done it.  You're one of the good ones.  I can spot 'em a mile off."  Then he said, "You staying around town?"

"No.  I've made a deal with Tarlton.  I'm going west to ranch in Wyoming."

"Good country.  I'm going out to the Black Hills one of these days."

We talked idly of Indians and buffalo, of stage driving and of Custer, whom he knew.  I told him about my plans with Tarlton, and said that I'd need some hands.

"There's a man here from Illinois," Hickok said, "his brother was in the army with me.  He's hunting a job."

"Can he shoot?"

"Yes... and he can handle horses and cattle.  His name is Tom Hacker.  As a boy he was a blacksmith's helper, and later a smith himself.  He rode with the cavalry for six or seven years."

"Send him to me.  He sounds like just what we'll need."