The town had a raw frontier look to it, yet, like a penniless but genteel dowager, it had pretensions to grandeur. White-painted gingerbread houses huddled together on the outskirts of town and the place boasted a church, school and fire station. It was not yet noon when Tyree, his hat pulled low over his face, rode along the main street and tied up his horse outside Bradley’s Saloon. He stepped onto the boardwalk, but instead of entering the saloon walked to his right and stopped at a restaurant with a weather-beaten sign outside that said simply: EATS. He was hungry and, at least for now, the Arapaho Kid could wait. Tyree stepped inside, grateful for the coolness of the place, and found a table facing the door. At this time of the day, the restaurant was quiet. A couple of men who looked like bank clerks sat at another table, lingering long over their coffee. The two had studied Tyree closely when he entered, taking in his gun and the hard glint in his eyes, then had turned quickly away, wanting no part of him.
