Standing on the porch was a figure in worn but clean denims and miner's boots. His face was weathered from years in the desert sun. His hair was grizzled where it could be seen under an ancient and disreputable flat-topped, broad-brimmed hat. His eyes, under shaggy brows, were a clear, twinkling blue. The man held a rifle; the muzzle pointed unwaveringly at the boys.
"That your jeep in the wash?" he asked.
"That's ours," Scotty affirmed.
"Mislay a few parts?"
"You might say so," Rick agreed. "Who are you?"
"I'm the mayor of Steamboat."
The boys started. "The mayor?" Rick echoed.
"Yep. Likewise the sheriff. As mayor, I welcome you. As sheriff, I want your names and business."
The boys gave their names, then Scotty asked, "How did you get into town? I didn't hear a car."
"Good reason. I didn't drive. Now, what are you doing here?"