Presents for One and All
. . .
Cobb sent the horse forward at a walk now, keeping his hands elevated. As he came closer, he got a better look at the man on the wagon seat.
Cobb had already made out the white beard that came down over the driver's chest. Now he could see the round, red-cheeked face above it and felt the scrutiny of eyes set deep in pits of gristle. The man watched him with a peculiar intensity, as if he could see right into Cobb and tell what sort of hombre he was.
The man wore a knitted red cap and a checked flannel coat. The rifle in his gnarled hands was an old Henry. He had one foot in a high-topped black boot propped against the wagon's brake lever.
The wagon bed was loaded with some sort of cargo, but Cobb couldn't tell what it was because a big piece of canvas was stretched over it and lashed down. He could see things poking up against the canvas in places.
"That's close enough," the driver said when Cobb was twenty feet away. "Who are you, mister, and what are you doin' out here in the middle of a snowstorm?"
"Could ask you the same thing," Cobb said.
"You could, but I'm the one holdin' the rifle."
That drew a chuckle from the big man.
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