He dressed in new black jeans with a blue shirt that Maggie had bought him, then pinned the tin badge above the left pocket. It was time to go to work. Slipping outside, he saw a big crescent moon hanging over the rooftops of Escondido. He eased down the alley beside the stable, pressed his back to the wall, held his gun in his right hand, and peered at three riders approaching in the middle of the street, smoking cigarettes and staring ahead balefully. Along the street, saddled horses stood hitched to rails, illuminated by lamplight gleaming within saloons. Duane holstered his gun and stepped onto the planked sidewalk, listening for clicks of hammers being cocked. He headed toward the Last Chance Saloon, his right hand near the butt of his gun, his black hat slanted low over his eyes, encircled with his hand-worked silver concho hatband. He pushed open the doors, and every eye in the house turned toward him. “Looks like the new sheriff,”
