. . THERE’S GONNA BE HELL TO PAY . . .” CLAWED MY MUDDY-HEADED way back from the other side, and found myself stretched out on a lumpy cot in one of Marshal Caleb Oakley’s spartan jail cells. Boz sat next to me in a straight-backed, cane-bottomed chair. Wafting smoke from his well-chewed panatela...
. .” BROUGHT MY WINCHESTER to bear on the trio. Addressed the man sitting on the backside of the table when I called out, “Okay, Mort, you boys best throw all your iron on the floor. Then get up real slow. Keep your hands where I can see ’em when you do it.” Mordecai Staine, who’d spent the whole...
. . USE YER PERFORATED HIDE FOR A FLOUR SIFTER . . .” LINED UP NEAR elbow to elbow, we drew to a halt outside Boston’s front entrance near a decrepit rail fence that surrounded the livery’s horse-poor corral. East of the empty enclosure stood the ramshackle grocery and mercantile business of Eldr...