Ten
Precisely an hour later, a young man in a woolen policeman’s uniform showed up in the lobby of the Brighton Hotel asking for Tyler Scott. While he’d waited, Tyler had managed to secure a Colt Peacemaker from a peddler who happened to have an extra among the wide variety of items he offered for sale.
Tyler had hidden the revolver in the small of his back beneath his jacket in the waistband of his pants. He hoped the lump wouldn’t show too much.
The constable, a youngish man with a freckled face and carrot orange hair, looked more like twelve than his true age of twenty-two. He smiled warmly at Tyler. His sea green eyes sparkled as if the sun danced off them as he watched Tyler come down the staircase.
“Constable James Nelson,” he said, “you must be Tyler Scott.” They shook hands and
