The Locke estate was ten-miles from the center of New Haven but only five-miles from Cotter’s house. The weather was fair and dry as Cotter rode to the entrance on his palomino. A footman met him at the carriage stone to the left of the main door of the house. The man was as tall as Cotter and very thick set. He looked very muscular. His face was clean shaven except for a black moustache which extended around his lips and straight down his chin for a full inch. Cotter dismounted and opened his gray duster. He untied his gun, removed the holster and placed the rolled-up rig into one of his saddlebags.
“I expect you not to touch this saddle bag.”
The liveryman said nothing but nodded an assent. Cotter watched the man lead his horse to a barn while he knocked on the solid oak door. He could tell the man wore a pistol underneath his knee-length tunic. In the West, he learned to recognize anyone who did and who did not wear a gun. The door opened slowly and a bald middle-aged servant wearing shiny black shoes, black tidy pants, and a starched white shirt under a vest looked Cotter over.
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