We were six months out of the piney woods of Tennessee when we walked into San Augustine, Texas.  It was an old, old town.

Seemed like we'd never left home, for there were pines growing over the red clay hills, and everywhere we looked there were Cherokee roses.

We camped among the trees on the outskirts, and the Tinker set to work repairing a broken pistol I had taken in trade.  An old man stopped by to watch.  "Shy of gunsmiths hereabouts," he said.  "A man ould make a living."

"The Tinker can fix anything.  Even clocks and suchlike."

"Old clock up at the Blount House - a fine piece.  Ain't worked in some time."

The Tinker filled a cup and passed it across the fire to him, and the old man hunkered down to talk.  "Town settled by Spanish men back around 1717.  Built themselves a mission, they did, and then fifty, sixty years later when it seemed the Frenchies were going to move in, they built a fort.

"Been a likely place ever since.  The Blount and Cartwright homes are every bit of thirty year old, and up until the War Between the States broke out we had us a going university right here in town."

He was sizing us up, making up his mind about us, and after a while he said, "if I was you boys I'd keep myself a fancy lookout.  You're being sought after."

"Three tall men who look alike?"

"Uh-huh.  Rode through town yestiddy.  Right handy men, I'd say, come a difficulty."

"They're his uncles," the Tinker explained, "and they're all laid out to kill him."

"No worse fights than kinfolk's."  The old man finished his coffee and stood up.  "Notional man, m'self.  Take to folks or I don't.  You bays take care of yourselves."

The Tinker glanced over at me.  "You wearing that gun?"

Pulling my coat back, I showed it to him, shoved down inside my pants behind my belt.  "I ain't much on the shoot," I said, "but come trouble I'll have at it."