The Red River Ring by Randy D. Smith Page A

was holstered on his right hip and a large Bowie on his left. He led a blue roan with an A-frame saddle and monkey faced tapaderos. When his features shown in the light, Pommel immediately recognized him.
    â€œI don’t think the dregs have been reached yet,” Pommel said as he uncocked the Remington and placed it back in his holster. “Get out your cup and have some.”
    Temple fished his cup from his saddlebags and squatted by the coffeepot. “You planning on just camping out here or what?”
    Pommel cut his eyes to Temple’s back for a sign or reaction. Temple talked like he knew who he was. He decided that he probably did. “It’s been a long time. I didn’t think that you would remember what I looked like.”
    â€œYou haven’t changed that much. A little older, grayer, but I’d know you in a crowd,” Temple said looking into the campfire.
    â€œI’m riding south to the Rio and thought I’d pass by,” Pommel said.
    â€œNo, you aren’t. Mom wrote you about our situation and asked you to help. I figure you’ve already been to Pampa and back. I guess you just figured to ride around out here and keep everyone’s head low.”
    â€œNo, actually I was planning on paying a visit to your mother and ask her some more questions,” Pommel said, enormously impressed with Temple’s frankness and insight.
    Temple placed his cup close to the fire and began unsaddling his roan. “I guess I’ll just share your fire tonight. We can spend some time talking. Maybe I can answer your questions.”
    Pommel went to his feet and cleared a spot for Temple’s saddle and blankets. “I suppose I ought to fix another pot. This might take a while and a good cup of coffee helps on a cool night.”
    Temple dropped his saddle in Pommel’s clearing and began slipping hobbles on his roan. “I’ll gather some more wood for the fire. We’re far enough south that I don’t think we need to worry about a raid.”
    â€œDead mesquite over there. We’ve plenty of firewood,” Pommel said as he sloshed the pot dregs and dumped the grounds next to the fire.
    As Temple unrolled his blankets next to his saddle, he watched his father making coffee and smiled. Nothing had changed. He wondered if it was same coffee pot. He watched him heat the water to boiling, then two handfuls of ground coffee tossed straight into the water, then about a cupful of cold water to settle the grounds. He had only gone out with his father on a long trip once before the war, but he learned more than any other single swing to follow. He figured he must have been no older than eight when they made that ride. He remembered how he thought that his dad was the best rancher in the world and how he wanted to be just like him when he grew up.
    â€œWhat you been doing all these years?” Temple asked as Pommel poured a fresh cup of coffee.
    â€œI spent fifteen years trail bossing after the war. Ran cattle to Sedalia, Missouri, then Abilene, Kansas, Wichita and Ellsworth. My last six drives went to Dodge City. When the railroads finally made it to Texas, I bought a small place northwest of Dallas. I run cattle and a herd of brood mares.”
    â€œDid you ever remarry?”
    â€œNo. I have a little senorita keeping me company now that I’ve settled but otherwise I’ve lived alone. What about you?”
    â€œMe neither. Too hard to find the time or the woman. Reese is married and has two daughters.”
    â€œReally? How old?”
    â€œAngie is nine and Martha is seven.”
    â€œWhat’s their mother like?”
    â€œSarah is a small thing, dark and pretty. The girls are round faced and blond like their dad.”
    Pommel smiled and nodded. “Imagine that. Round faced and blond like their dad.”
    â€œYou’d know Reese. We look a lot alike.”
    â€œI figured as much,” Pommel said. “He was the