“An illustrator doesn’t trump eggs.”
The two lawmen strode past Delicious Meats, Steinman’s Hats, Halcyon Hotel, Fine Tailoring for Ladies (and Men Too), the unnamed blacksmith alley that was run by a different fellow each month, Ed’s Barbershop, Big Abe’s Dancehall of Trailspur, Quality Chandler, and the Trailspur Apothecary. They neared the raised wooden edifice that sat at the end of the avenue; beneath the overhang and depending from three ropes was a sign engraved in elaborate script. It read:
judge higgins’s mighty fine saloon,
or simply—the gavel.
T.W.’s eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the beast that was tied up to the front banister; Goodstead’s blank face became blanker.
“Deputy. What am I looking at?”
“Could it be a horse?”
“I’m not putting any money on that.”
T.W. had see
