“I’ll talk to Bull Morgan,” Kit promised.
Relief touched his dark eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Carson. Your word means a great deal.” He glanced at Robert and a hint of his smile returned. “I enjoyed very much discussing my country’s ancient art with you, Mr. Li.”
“The pleasure was mine,” Robert smiled. “Let’s meet again, when you have more time.”
They shook hands, then the foreman took his leave and disappeared into the crowds thronging Frontier Town. Robert said, “Riyad’s a good man. This trouble’s really got him upset.”
“Believe me, I’ll take it up with Bull. If we don’t stop this trouble, there won’t be a station left for Riyad to finish working on.”
Robert nodded, expression grim, then waved over a barmaid. “Name your poison, Kit. You look like you could use a dose. I know I could.”
“Firewater,” Kit told the barmaid. “A double, would you?”
“Sure, Kit.” She winked. “One double firewater, coming right up. And another scotch?” she added, glancing at Robert’s half-empty glass.
“No, make mine a firewater, too.”
Distilled on station from God alone knew what, firewater was a favorite with residents. Tourists who’d made the mistake of indulging had occasionally been known to need resuscitation in the station infirmary. As they waited for their drinks to arrive, a slender young man in black, sporting a badly stained, red silk bandana, reeled toward them in what appeared to be the terminal stages of inebriation. His deeply roweled silver spurs jangled unevenly as he staggered along and his Mexican sombrero lay canted crookedly down over his face, adding to his air of disconsolate drunkenness.