In the morning Jesse rode out to Shelton’s ranch. As his steed trotted up to the main house, he saw a dozen sleepy cowboys milling around outside the bunkhouse, some smoking, some drinking despite the early hour. Their quiet laughter pierced the thin light. At Jesse’s approach they looked up, the sleep falling from their faces when they saw him, his black clothes like a bruise against the early morning sky. Pulling his horse up a few feet from the porch of the main house, Jesse called out in a clear, steady voice, “Shelton, you bastard! Get out here now!”
The door eased open and Newell Shelton stepped out. He wore a tailored suit and a small derby hat that covered his thinning hair. Chewing on one end of his trimmed mustache, he glanced at the hired hands along the bunkhouse before turni
