critically at Paul through a dense fringe of hair. 'Well, I guess we'd better try him.'
     As they led Brawn through the gate towards the buckboard, the letter fell from Paul's pocket. Jimbo picked it up, and flicked off the red yard dust that had stuck to it.
     'Hey, Paul, ye dropped this . . . it's from Stoker?' Jimbo, reading the return address, sounded surprised.
     'Yeah, Mr Stoker, the gunsmith,' said Paul, thrusting the mail back into his pocket. 'Why?'
     'He sent us a letter too,' chimed Alfie. He was backing Brawn into the wagon shafts. 'You know he's organizing a wild horse roundup, and wants us to come along?'
     'Oh, so that's what he's probably asked me to.' Paul looked down at his pocket.
     'Why haven't you opened it?' asked Alfie.
     Paul grinned wryly, placing the leather collar over Brawn's head to fit it snugly around the donkey's neck. 'Because it's from Stoker, and father says he's trouble. I was thinking about throwing the letter away without reading it.'
     'Guess we shouldn't have agreed to go, then,' grimaced Jimbo. 'Hey, Alfie, maybe we should refuse - '
     'Are you kidding?' cried Alfie. 'I've never helped in a roundup before. It's gonna be fun. I'm not missing it. We don't get enough fun around Mill Town.'
     Brawn was now harnessed to the wagon. The three men stood back, gazing at the large grey donkey, who stood gazing right back at them, in silence.
     'He looks swell, don't you think . . . ? And you should go to that roundup, Paul,' said Alfie after a few seconds.
     'I'll ask my Pa,' replied Paul simply, and said nothing more of the subject.

 

* * *

Driving through the quiet streets of Mill Town, Paul was alert all the time, anxious that Brawn might get excited, or suddenly have a stubborn tantrum, at some point, as he had heard was typical of donkeys. But his new work animal was reasonably calm, trotting along easily, almost cheerfully, and took Paul to the front of Mr McStanley's General Store with hardly any trouble at all. 
     Paul pulled the wagon brake. He jumped off the driving seat, picked up a basket and a nosebag from under it, before walking over to Brawn's head.
     'Ah, you're not so bad, are you, lad?' Paul rubbed the donkey's nose and patted his shoulder.
     Brawn looked up at his hirer, twisting his lower jaw to one side in what looked like a wry smile.
     Paul chuckled. He placed the nosebag strap over Brawn's ears. 'Eat quietly until I get back.'
     A small number of people, awake since the wee hours, were walking the street, or driving their carts, on one errand or another. Paul greeted a few folk he knew; some veteran Cavalry men; four young boys who helped with the Adams' harvest. As he stepped onto the veranda outside the store, he tipped his hat politely to a large band of strange, dark-skinned men loitering there. They were newcomers to the town, Southerners, to be sure. They all stared at Paul coldy - all except one, an old man who gave him the faintest of nods. 
     Paul shrugged to himself. Strangers tended to act reservedly. He guessed that these people had come for the harvest season, looking for work on the many small farms outside town.
     Striding with grocery basket swinging, Paul got a shock as he entered the store; for at the counter, talking to Mr McStanley the manager, stood none other than Mr Riley Stoker, the wealthy town gunsmith, himself.
     Both blonde-haired Mr Stoker and grey-headed Mr McStanley looked up at the jingling of the shop bell as Paul opened the door.
     'Paul!' smiled Mr McStanley. 'Good morning! I'll be with you in just a minute. Riley, that was three coils of rope? I'm afraid I haven't many.'
    'Make it four, thanks,' his customer replied in a deep, husky, breezy voice. 'Don't worry, I can get some more from a friend.' Dressed in quality leather hat, jacket and pants, he glanced over his shoulder at Paul, who ducked behind a row of shelves bearing canned food.
    Mr McStanley was heard to disappear into a store room, stumping down wooden stairs. Mr Stoker had begun humming softly.
     Paul made his way towards where the axe blades were displayed and looked at each one in turn, checking their weight and quality. There were seven in all. The German brand, Dunn, looked best; light, but not too light, and sharp. Easy to handle. He heard Mr McStanley's voice ring out from the store room: 'Hey, Riley, I've got five coils of rope in all. How about I throw you in a fifth, discounted?'
     'Sounds good to me!' came Stoker's cheery reply.
     Paul chose the Dunn and moved on to gather groceries, taking his time. He wanted to avoid talking to Stoker if he could help it.
     Mumbled voices from the counter, followed be the ding! of the cash register. Then the shop bell rang. Paul smiled as he placed a fifth and final can of meat into the basket, before walking to the counter. Stoker had been avoided.
     Suddenly the door bell rang and:
     'Hey, Mr McStanley! Sorry, Mr 'Stan, sir, I - ah - eheh - forgot to ask for two of your largest sacks of oats!'
     Paul's head snapped around. Stoker was stomping back into the store.
     'Oh, well I'll get them for you, Riley,' said Mr McStanley, going into the cellar. 'Could you wait a moment or two, Paul?'
     'Sure thing.' Paul tried to sound as composed as possible.
     Mr Stoker leaned on the counter. He grinned, just a trace triumphantly, at Paul, who decided grimly that the wealthy gunsmith had actually meant to forget those oats.
     'Mornin', sonny,' said the rich gunsmith, holding out a hairy hand to shake Paul's. 'Name's Stoker. Call me Riley. You're Sargent Adams' boy?'
     Paul took of his hat and shook, smiling a wry smile; 'Hello, sir. I'm Paul Adams.' He put his fingers to his pocket, aware that the letter might be sticking out. It was. And Riley Stoker must have seen it, because he grinned in a knowing way. But he said nothing about it.
     But just you wait, thought Paul.
     'I know your father pretty well, Paul,' said Riley. 'We did some horse rustling when we were younger, down south, at an old farm.'
     Paul nodded coolly. 'He told me.'
     There was a short and very awkward silence.
     'So, you've . . .  heard about the roundup I'm organizing? For this weekend . . . ?' Stoker asked.
     Here we go, thought Paul. 'Yup,' he said.
     'You commin'?'
     'A-a-a-a-ah . . .  I don't kno-o-o-o-w,' said Paul, keeping his voice calm and his answer drawn out. He stood with hands it pockets, confident, and stubborn. 'Thanks for the offer. But I've got a bit of work to do at home, with the harvest an' all. You know . . . ' That was his diplomatic answer; a true one too, although it was half his reason for not going. He glanced up at Riley, expecting to receive some look, maybe a nod, of understanding.
     But their was no trace of empathy on the rich man's face. In fact, he looked indignant, and annoyed. Mr Stoker turned slightly on his heel and stared straight ahead at the cork noticeboard which hung on the wall behind the shop counter, his expression fixed, taut.
     'I see,' he said, in a voice that sounded both daunting and unpleasant.
     Paul was not going to be intimidated by it.
     'I might come next year. It's on next year, right?'
     'Oh, yes! Of course it is on next year,' sniffed Riley. 'But ya know, this being my first roundup - my first, ya know? Well, I was hoping the son of my closest friend would do me the honours of coming along, since your father can't come himself.'
     Closest friend? That was a first! As far as Paul knew, his father and Riley Stoker were not even on speaking terms. Paul laughed inside.
     Mr McStanley came over. 'I've put the oats on your wagon, Riley.'
     'Thank you,' said Mr Stoker, in a coarse way. 'You'll try to come to the roundup, McStanley?'
     'Wouldn't miss it for the world, Riley!'
     Mr Stoker tipped his hat to the store manager. 'Then I'll see you this weekend. Good day, 'Stanley.' He glared for an instant at Paul.' . . . Good'ay, Paul.' He loudly exited the store.
     Paul touched the brim of his hat. 'Good'ay.'
     'O-h-h-h, so he's got a chip on the shoulder about you not going, I'd