Bill took a large swallow of beer and leaned heavily against the bar, trying his best to tune out the discordant jangling of the saloon’s piano player. The grumpy cowboy would be the first to admit that he didn’t know spit about music, but he could tell a good song from a bad one as well as anybody. This was a bad one. 

It was the middle of the day and there wasn’t much business, but there were a few long-time drunks and a few layabouts still wiling away the working hours in the smoke-choked confines of the saloon. If not for the previous day’s events Bill wouldn’t have dared waste precious daylight when there was work to be done. But the rest of the hands could hold things down; Bill, Vasquez, Castillo and Benny had been given the day to relax and do as they pleased. The two vaqueros were absorbed in a game of cards on the other end of the saloon, and Bill was working through his third (and likely final) beer. Benny was off at the general store, or would be if he was doing as he was told.

Bill started at the sudden ruckus outside, swearing quietly.

“Oh what the hell is it now,” he grumbled. He heaved himself to his feet, dropped a coin on the counter, and pushed his hat onto his head before heading out the batwing doors and into the sunlight. 

Bill watched as Harriet fussed over the boy in the middle of the road, his impressive mustache twitching as he frowned. When she scooped the child up and carried him into her office, accompanied by two folk he didn’t recognize, the old cowboy stretched, grumbled, then finally crossed the road.

He passed the fancy-dressed duo on the way, pausing long enough to tip his hat to the lady. 

“Miss.”

Then he followed Harriet into her office, removing his hat as he entered and holding it in his left hand.

“Miss Coleman,” he said, his deep voice soft to keep from waking the boy. “What’s the problem? Anythin’ I can do to be a help?”