 Old Deacon was a puncher, born a hundred years too late. A top hand, and he sure as hell was tough. His bed was at a corner. He had been there thirty years, and God helped the man who rifled through his stuff. I'd written lots of round-ups when he didn't say a thing. It was as though the words were sticking in his craw. Don't know if he was crazy or a woman done him wrong. I always thought he was hiding from the law. Now Deacon cared for horses like no man I've ever known.