The smell of sweat and leather came to Harry's nose as he crouched under the low, wooden porch. Someone must be nearby. He slowly and silently turned his head to look out between the rough oak supports. There, directly in front of his face, he saw a plain, black, shiny pair of leather boots. Stamped into the side of the left boot, just above the clasp of the spur, was a brand. It looked like a five-pointed star inside a double triangle. Harry looked down at his own left boot, where he too had a brand. The brand exactly matched, as his father said they would. He could hardly contain his excitement, but he knew he had to. If he tried to reunite with his long-lost brother now, he would be shot by the outlaw who was standing on the porch directly above him-- Randy Rifle.
Harry heard the boards groan as Randy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The other man didn’t move a muscle. Randy grunted, the way he did when he was trying to make a decision. It seemed the black-booted man was offering him some kind of choice. Randy Rifle shifted his weight again. Then he spoke.
“There ain’t room for more than one rustler in this town.” The gruff voice that came from above him was all too familiar to Harry.
“Well lucky for you,” said a strange voice, “I ain’t a rustler.” A white kerchief with some kind of brand on it fell to the ground next to the black boots. Suddenly there was a click. The boots disappeared with a flash and the sound of a struggle came from the porch. A gunshot sounded, but the struggle continued. Harry could see nothing except the dust that rained down onto him, but he could hear enough to know that they were fighting over one of Randy’s rifles. Knowing the two men would be occupied, Harry reached out and seized the kerchief, so he could examine it more closely. It had the brand of a rustler printed on it in black ink.
There seemed to be a lull in the struggle. The boards continued to creak as if one man was struggling to free himself from the other’s grip. From the other side of town, horse’s hooves could be heard. They stopped just out of the range of Harry’s vision. Then came the sound of a pistol being fired. A heavy weight dropped to the porch floor, sending another cascade of dust falling on Harry.
"Thanks, sheriff," the stranger said, stepping off the porch. The sheriff's steps came over to meet him, and both sets of boots appeared in Harry's vision. "I could've held him all day, but that wouldn't have been much help."
"Well, you'll make a fine deputy," the sheriff smiled. "Come see me at the station tonight." The sheriff's boots disappeared, and soon the horse could be heard cantering away through the town. Harry stayed perfectly still, as did his brother.
Then the man knelt down, and his face appeared sideways through the supports. It was a clean-shaven face, hardened by experience, topped by a broad, black hat.
"Care to return that?" He reached out for the kerchief.
"John?" Harry stammered.
"I see my name precedes me," John smiled, "but perhaps not my reputation." He took Harry's hand and pulled him out into a standing position. "Where I'm from they call me Blackboot Johnny. I'm the new deputy."
"I'm Harry Wilford," Harry replied. Then he lifted his left foot and pointed to the boot's brand. "And I'm your brother."
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