Clive the bartender let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since Tuesday began. "Sheriff," he said, "how did you know he was lying?"
"Enforce the law."
The stranger walked out. The batwing doors swung behind him. A moment later, the mule's hooves clattered on the hard-packed street, and then there was only the sound of the wind and the creak of the saloon sign. Sheriff
Boone finished his sarsaparilla. He set the glass down with a soft click. "Because I know the governor," he said. "He wasn't a tall man. Couldn't stand to be around anyone over six feet. That fella was six-two if he was an inch. No way the governor would have pinned a star on someone he had to look up to." Clive the bartender let out a breath he
"I hear you're wearing my badge," Boone said. His voice was soft. It had always been soft. The men who'd faced him down over the years had learned that the softness was a trap. A moment later, the mule's hooves clattered on
Boone didn't answer. He just stood there, an old man in a faded shirt, his tin star tarnished almost black. But his eyes—those low-banked embers—caught the light just so, and the stranger saw something in them that made his laugh catch in his throat.