No great surprise on either count, of course, but facing up to one’s mortality was never pleasant, and the bitter aftertaste of breakfast—fatty bacon and some beans, washed down with lousy campfire coffee—only made it worse. He was relieved, therefore, to see the smudge of Stateline when it finally showed up on the horizon, Sunday morning, gradually taking shape into the town that Gallagher remembered from his prior excursions there. Most of his business with the man in charge could not be safely carried out by telegraph, their thoughts and schemes reduced to writing anyone might see, and so he’d come to know the strange divided settlement quite well over the past twelve months or so. Not like it, necessarily. Just know it. Only one of his companions on this journey had been with him previously. Sergeant Bonner knew enough about Gallagher’s business to be helpful—or, if viewed another way, to make him dangerous. The rest were just along to do some dirty work for money, having proved that they could keep their mouths shut about violations of the law.
