“Hey, Marshal, better come right quick. Some kid"s hauling in a dead man.” Zeke Cawley stuck his head in the office long enough to yell and then yanked his head back through the door like a turtle retreating into its shell.
Town Marshal Franklin sighed and put down the rattan fan he"d been using to create a futile breeze and shoo the flies. He straightened, brushed the dust from his worsted, brown jacket, and jammed his hat over white locks. At fifty-five he was old for his job in Arles, Texas and he knew it. Eighteen sixty-five had not been a kind year. There had been riots in Houston and Galveston; hungry people fighting for supplies. Once there had been only hardened adventurers passing through his town. Indians and Comancheros might cause concerns, but they remained well outside the t
