“I don’t reckon you read the sign on your way into Lodestone, eh?” a gravely voice said from up the street. He turned to face the sound, his hand falling beside his six shooter. The voice’s owner stood tall, with a pronounced stomach and filthy red beard.

“What sign would that be?” the bounty hunter asked.

“The one that says all firearms,” the sheriff pointed at his weapons, “and all unregistered carnivores,” he pointed at the hunter’s mount, “be turned in to the Sheriff, that’s me, and the paleontologist, that’s down the street.”

“Well, Sheriff, I aint planning on staying long.” the hunter stated. “Don’t reckon I’ll need to store my guns with you or my mount at some damn paleontologist’s stable.”

“We might be having us a little bit of a predicament then, boy.” the Sheriff said, reaching for his pistol. The hunter drew his pistol and fired.

“You’re worth a lot of money, friend.” The hunter told the dying Sheriff.
“And seeing as how I only need your head to collect, I won’t be buying feed for a month.”