He smiled at each and dipped his hat, just like his momma had taught him. Standing on the mucky road, he appeared out of place, holding six horses with a hitching post right in front of him.As Marshal Wounded Hawk grew closer, that struck him as strange, especially with the man standing right in front of the bank. Leading his horse and mule, he kept his head down, not wishing to raise suspicion, passed the bank and then stopped at the first hitching post on the next block. He tied his animals to the post and mounted the wooden sideboards. Leaning against a support for the overhanging cover, he watched the young man intently from under the wide, flat brim of his hat.A young boy walked out of the general store near him, gnawing on a horehound candy stick. The Indian looked at the boy and wagged his finger for him to come to him. The boy hesitated. The man calling him wasn’t someone he knew, and he was an Indian dressed in buckskins. But he had a badge on his chest. How odd, the boy. Amy jerked and stabbed the intercom button, “Dr. Davis, Miss Post is here.”I couldn’t help it ... I laughed.“Heck,” said Amy. “Sorry, Dean.”“Amy, college is a learning experience. Did you learn anything?”“Yes Sir.”“What?”“Buzz you as soon as a student shows up.”“Exactly, Miss Post ... please to follow me.”He led the way to the cafeteria, chose an extremely visible table, helped me to my seat, and fetched me a cuppa. While he was away, I was subject to the scrutiny of various and sundry student ne’er-do-wells and faculty loungers.Shit. Shit. Shit! I am in so much trouble.“Idiot! Keep out of this!”Dean Davis was taken aback at the ferocity of my attack.“Sorry, Doc ... wrestling with my demons. What did I do?”“You,” he paused, “Didn’t do anything, and That is the problem.”He slid an envelope with my name and address in the receivers box and the School Financial Office address in the upper left hand corner. The damn thing had official Post Office rubber stamps all over it. Returned..
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