Sheriff -

The stranger patted his coat. "Somewhere. You want to see them, you come to my office tomorrow. The one I'll be using after you hand over the keys."

The stranger's hand came away from his gun. He adjusted his hat. "The governor will hear about this." Sheriff

Sheriff Boone got the news from old Mrs. Hendricks, who ran the telegraph office and whose hearing was so sharp she could eavesdrop on a whisper from two blocks away. "Elias," she said, clutching her shawl like a shield, "he's got a star. A real one. Says he's been sent by the governor to clean up this town." The stranger patted his coat

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. The one I'll be using after you hand over the keys

The trouble came on a Tuesday, the kind of bone-dry Tuesday where the dust hung in the air like a held breath. A stranger rode in on a mule—not a horse, but a mule, which should have been the first sign something was off. The stranger wore a black coat despite the heat and kept his hat pulled low. He tied the mule to the rail outside the saloon and went in.

"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.

He didn't smile. But the fire in his eyes burned a little brighter.