IF MISS DEVLIN HOPED SHE HAD SEEN THE LAST OF the gunslinger she was sadly mistaken. At first she attributed their frequent encounters over the following week to coincidence. Upon reflection, she was forced to revise that opinion. For wherever she went, the gunslinger showed up, just like a bad penny. On Monday she was standing at the counter of Tomlinson's General Store reading the labeon a jar of Eastman's Violette Cold Cream when she noticed him entering the store. She purposefully returned to her examination of the perfumed cold cream. The label promised “Does not contain a base of oils or other ingredients that promote the growth of unwanted hair! No refined woman desires a growth of hair upon her face, neck, or arms, and hence every careful woman—” Miss Devlin hadn't realized she was reading aloud, and froze when she heard a familiar Texas drawl finish “—will use only a high grade cold cream to protect herself from this danger.” She clutched the jar of cold cream to her breast and grated out, “Aren't you supposed to be out hunting down rustlers?”
