"Mr. Smith sends his apologies for not being able to meet you, ma'am.
He's tied up at meetings at the studio. He says he'll see you for cocktails."
"Thank you," Rina said. She turned her face away for a moment to hide her disappointment.
Three years was a long time.
The chauffeur picked up her valises.
"If you’ll follow me to the car, ma'am?"
Rina nodded again. She followed the tall uniform through the station to a shining black Pierce-Arrow limousine.
Quickly the chauffeur stowed the bags up front and opened the door for her.
The tiny gold insignia emblazoned over the handle shone up at her. N. S.
She settled back and reached for a cigarette.
The chauffeur's voice through the speaker startled her.
"You'll find them in the container near your right hand, ma'am."
She caught a glimpse of the man's quick smile in the rear-view mirror as he started the big motor.
She lit a cigarette and studied the interior of the car.
The gold insignia was everywhere, even woven into the upholstery.
She leaned her head back.
She didn't know why she should be surprised.
She had read enough in the newspapers about him.
The forty-acre ranch, and the thirty-room mansion he had built right in the middle of Beverly Hills.
But reading about it never made it seem real.
She closed her eyes so she could remember how it had become a reality for her.
It had been about five months after she'd come back East.
She'd gone down to New York for a week of shopping and a banker friend of her father's had asked her to attend the premiere of a motion picture produced by a company in which he had a substantial interest.
"What's it called?" she had asked.
"The Sheriff of Peaceful Village," the banker had answered.
"It's a Norman picture.
Bernie Norman says it's the greatest Western ever made."
"Westerns bore me," she'd answered. "I had enough of that when I was out there myself."
"Norman says he has a new star in the man that's playing the lead. Nevada Smith.
He says he'll be the biggest- "
"What was that name?" she interrupted. She couldn't have heard right.
"Nevada Smith," the banker repeated. "An odd name but these movie actors always have fancy names."
"I’ll go," she had said quickly.
She remembered walking into the theater – the crowds, the bright lights outside, the well-groomed men and bejeweled women.
And then that world seemed to vanish with the magic of the image on the screen.
It was near the end of the picture now and alone in a dreary room, the sheriff of Peaceful Village was putting on his gun, the gun he had sworn never to touch again.
The camera moved in close to his face, so close that she could almost see the tiny pores in his skin, feel his warm breath.
He raised the gun and looked at it.
She could feel the weariness in him, see the torture of decision tighten his lips, set his square jaw, flatten the high, Indian-like cheekbones into the thin lines that etched their way into his cheeks.
But his eyes were what held her.
They were the eyes of a man who had known death. Not once but many times.
The eyes of a man who understood its futility, who felt its pain and sorrow.
Slowly the sheriff walked to the door and stepped outside.
The bright sunlight came down and hit his face.
He pulled his dark hat down over his eyes to shield them from the glare and began to walk down the lonely street.
Faces of the townspeople peeked out at him from behind shutters and windows and curtains. He didn't return their glances, just walked forward stolidly, his faded shirt beginning to show the sweat pouring from him in the heat, his patched jeans looking threadbare against his lean, slightly bowed legs.
The bright metal of his badge shone on his breast.
Death wore soft, expensive clothing. No dust marred the shine of his boots, the gleaming ivory handle of his gun.
There was hatred in his face, the pleasurable lust to kill in his eyes, and his hand hovered like a rattlesnake above his holster.
They looked deep into each other's eyes for a moment.