Clay cracked beneath her boots as Azra walked through the streets of Dry Gulch. She was wrapped in a thin, brown poncho, and so long as she kept her eyes downcast, her face would be hidden by the brim of her hat. No need to announce her presence to the deputies.
The wooden buildings on either side of what could hardly be called a road had been bleached by the sun. People walked along the boardwalks: women in thin dresses, men in straw hats who wore their shirts open. Lambs, the lot of them, and she was a very hungry wolf. But not today. Today, she had business.
Azra strode into the saloon.
A dozen wooden tables stood in the light that came in through the front window, and only three of those were occupied. An old man with a fluffy, white beard sat staring into his cup. There was a woman
