She extended her hand; they chatted a moment, then strolled up the street together.

Fairchild watched blankly, then turned at a chuckle just behind him emanating from the bearded lips of an old miner, loafing on the stone coping in front of a small store.
"Pick the wrong filly, pardner ?" came the query.

Fairchild managed to smile.
"Guess so." Then he lied quickly.

"I thought she was a girl from Denver." "Her ?" The old miner stretched.

"Nope.