him once that his mother was too ugly to be a whore, but even when Lewt tried, he couldn’t remember what she looked like.
His first memories were of sitting in the rain waiting for his father to wake up. He’d passed out before they’d made it home, and Lewt was too little to find his way through the backstreets of New Orleans in the dark.
His mother died before he started school and his dad made an effort to stay sober enough to work. Lewt wasn’t old enough to count the months, but he remembered his father bringing home the first of a string of women before summer was over. Some were kind to him, but most showed little interest. They all made him go to school, more to get him out from underfoot than anything else.
No matter what happened, Lewt always believed that somehow a chance would come. The nice women told him to call them Mother, but they still wouldn’t take him with them when they left. The mean ones were usually kicked out by his dad. But, good or bad, when they left, the same thing happened; Lewt’s dad stayed drunk until all the money ran out.
During those weeks, Lewt found it safer to disappear. Once a bartender caught him sleeping just inside the back door of a saloon. He was a big Swede who’d left his children back home when he’d come west. He offered Lewt a job in exchange for a cot in the kitchen and a meal.
Lewt took the job. He worked unnoticed by the drunks and women of the night who came through. He watched and learned. While most kids his age were fishing and playing after school, Lewt was learning to read people. He learned that if he dressed up and wore clean clothes, folks treated him better. They’d give him two bits to watch their horses or run an errand. He figured out when it paid to be invisible and how to lift the change off a drunk as he helped him out the door.
After his father dropped by a few times and took the money he’d saved, Lewt learned about banks. He swore he’d never be poor again, so every town he traveled to that had a bank, Lewt opened an account.
To the rhythm of the train, he drifted to sleep thinking of what it would be like to have a home. He’d never owned anything he couldn’t pack in a suitcase. He’d never belonged anywhere. New Orleans had been the first town he remembered the name of, but there had been other towns, other places before. Once he was old enough, he took the boat from New Orleans to Galveston and began to work his way around Texas.
Some towns were so lawless he slept with a gun next to his pillow. Others were so settled there wasn’t room for a man like him. When he reached Austin, he found the perfect mixture.
The train pulled to a stop at Anderson Glen, rattling everyone in the car awake. Davis jumped up, collecting his bags and helping his mother. Boyd ran to help with the unloading of his horses, and Lewt stood on the platform and studied the sleepy little town.
Duncan had told him once that the town near his ranch had been little more than a trading post when he was a boy, but now, Lewt saw streets, churches, a school, businesses, and a bank. When he married one of the McMurray women, he might buy one of the hotels, or maybe a general store, and this town looked as good as any to settle in.
He checked the watch that had once belonged to Four. If the bank had been open, Lewt would have made a deposit. He liked making deposits. Tellers who wouldn’t speak to him on the street would call him sir as they counted out his money. Once he had an account, he felt like he somehow belonged.
Davis walked up beside Lewt. “Any idea where we can get a buggy?”
“We could probably rent one,” Lewt said, “but my guess is that rig over there is for us.”
A cowhand walked toward them and tipped his hat. “Name’s Sumner,” he said around a cheek full of tobacco. “I’m looking for three gentlemen bound for Whispering Mountain.” He was polite, but not overly friendly. “Any chance you gentlemen are two of them?”
Lewt smiled. “We are, and this sweet young lady”—he motioned toward Mrs. Allender—“is accompanying us this evening.”
The cowhand didn’t question, he