The outline of a stranger could be seen from a ways out. The setting sun silhouetted him like some shadow creeping in off the prairie to Wagon’s Rest, the last settlement before the hills rose up in the east. That drunk Mexican ‘Tino was the first to see him. Figure he thought there might be something in it for him, so he came told me. He’d have to do a whole lot more than tell me ‘bout a trail rat blowing through if he wanted some coin. With a sigh I moved to the porch to have good view of the stranger as he rode into town.
Sitting back, I propped the chair against the wall and rolled up a cigarette. Seeing ’Tino eyeballing me I handed it to him and rolled another. Lighting them both I leaned back in the chair. I’d been the sheriff in Wagon’s Rest for more than a few years and knew that most anybody coming through town weren’t gonna stay. Only people ever stuck around were the ones couldn’t afford to supply up for the trail over the hills, or those just looking for a quite place to crawl inside a bottle.