Although Stringer had dressed more comfortably for field work in his jeans and blue denim jacket, he’d left his gun rig packed out of sight in his gladstone traveling bag. But he got stared at anyway by fellow passengers who acted as if they’d never seen a beat-up Rough Rider hat or spurred Justins before. Stringer managed to amuse himself during the boring journey by philosophizing how surprising as well as somewhat discomforting it was to consider how sissified the West Coast had become in the past few years. Stringer decided it was too late to catch the night train to San Diego, where he would get the connection to El Centro the next day. So he booked a room at the hotel across from the Union Depot. Then, seeing it was too early to turn in, he hired a worn-out bay gelding and an even older stock saddle at a nearby livery to ride out to the new suburb of Hollywoodland. He’d been invited to visit more than once by his old acquaintance Wyatt Earp. More importantly, though, while he took some of old Wyatt’s frontier yarns with a grain of salt, he needed the savvy of a real estate agent right now.
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