Ethan and his deputy, Horace, walked slowly back from Tent City. They'd spent an hour with a hard-nosed, grizzly bear of a man, investigating the murder of one of the camp's women. One of the wranglers had discovered her in the back of an empty wagon and had tossed his breakfast in a gagging fountain, all over the tail board. Even Bragg, who had seen a fair share of horror in the northern range wars, felt his bile rise as he peeked over Doc Hubbard's shoulder.

"What in God's name happened to her?"

Doc Hubbard, was the town's resident eccentric; a grumpy old man void of compassion and verbosity, who carried an open parasol whenever he was outdoors. His explanation, the longest sentence anyone had heard him speak, was, 'Crops an' trees might need the sun and rain, but man don't need either beatin' down on 'im to keep growin.' He turned to the sheriff, and Horace, whose eyes had crossed in his pale, sweating face. "Butchered. And not by no animal, leastwise no four legged one"

"You think whoever done th-that is still around?" Horace stumbled along beside the worried sheriff.

"I don't know Horace."

"B-but how- what should—"

"I don't know, Horace." Bragg altered his direction and headed for the hotel. "You go and tell Hector he's got some more business. And tell him I said to keep quiet about it."

"Sheriff Bragg. Wait! He's not in."

"Don't start up with me again Orin." Bragg marched toward the stairs.

"No, really, they're all at a meeting over at the lawyer's office." Orin scampered back behind the counter, cringing from the sheriff's dark look.

"Who are all 'they'?"

"Th-the council members, an' the b-boss from Tent City."

Bragg spun on his heel and stomped out of the hotel, jumping off the verandah and angling across the street to the office where the fancy, swinging sign proclaimed, Malcom Berg, Attorney at Law. He pushed through the door, finding himself with barely enough room to squeeze inside. The tiny, one room office was packed wall to wall with sour faced men, all staring at the burly leader of Tent City, who was leaning, red faced over the desk of lawyer Berg.

"It ain't my responsibility, I'm tellin' you. I don't control the doin's of them women."

Malcom Berg sat with his thin hands folded together, calmly looking up at the flustering man. "Mister O'Brien, the women come with you to these gatherings, you take a percentage of their- their earnings, do you not?"

"That's cause I feed 'em, that don't make me responsible." The square shoulders flexed as he pounded an angry fist on the desk.

"Mister O'Brien, according to the law of the territory, and the town of Buffalo Stump, all members of your entourage receiving payment—of any kind—for services connected to your business, are deemed employees, and therefore the responsibility of the employer— you."

"What's going on?" Bragg whispered to Charles Winsiker, standing next to him.

"O'Brien is disputing the levy that the council has placed on him for having to manage and dispose of the uh, the young woman that was- was uh, killed last night."

Bragg snorted and pulled a face as he watched the broad back of the Tent City boss, balk, and fume at the lawyers explanation. "There's more to worry about than the price of a burial."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Nuthin'. I gotta speak to the mayor." He raised his arm and signaled Austin, who was endeavoring to support the lawyer, with a posture of concern and authority. Catching his eye, Bragg tipped his head toward the door and slipped outside.

"I'm in the middle of some very serious town business Ethan." The mayor huffed, tugging at his waistcoat and closing the door behind him.

"Lawyer Berg don't need you there nodding your head like some old wise man. I got a very bad feeling that this could be the handiwork of our friend that escaped from Bentonville."

Austin teetered forward grabbing the railing for support, his pudgy face deflating and turning pale. "You think he's here?" The voice was a hoarse, harsh whisper.

"From what I've been told, this sure resembles his style."

"You've got to find him Ethan. You've got to stop him. We- the town- we can't—"

"That's it? That's your official advice?" Bragg gave him a withering look. "Why don't you and that bunch of petty squabblers hold a serious meeting and work out just how I'm supposed to do that. I'm sure Miss June would appreciate the break." He waved the mayor away, turning his back and leaning on the railing. When he heard the door close behind him, he took off his hat and slammed it against his leg.

Orin looked up and swallowed as the sheriff loomed over his counter. "D-did you find the mayor alright sheriff?"

Bragg just glowered and reached for the big hotel register. "Who's in here right now?"

"J-just six guests at the moment sir. Five arrived on the stage yesterday."

Bragg ran a leathery finger down the column of names, returning it to the top. "What about this Benjamin Valance?"

Orin adjusted his glasses and peered at the register. "He came in a few days ago. Pleasant gent, from the high country. I remember thinking what Mister Dobbs would say if he saw him in here."

"Why?"

"Oh, he looked like a molting bear, all dirty and raggy. Smelled pretty bad too. But he paid cash up front, and when I seen him going out for dinner later, why he looked right respectable. Fancy trousers and shirt, hair all slicked back and his beard trimmed neat as you please."

"Bragg stroked his chin and pushed the big book back at Orin. "I'm gonna send young Daniel over here to set in your lobby. When this fella shows his face, I want you to tell Daniel to come find me."

"Sure sheriff Bragg, whatever you say. You think he might be some trouble?"

"You just do what I said and don't let on nuthin'."

******

Cable Royce grimaced as he poured a splash of whiskey on the gash on the inside of his thigh. Bitch, he thought, should have been more careful of those damn nails. He dabbed the wounds dry and tied a piece of clean bedsheet around his leg then pulled his pants back on. Boy, that was one wild ride alright. And was she surprised when he didn't stop after her usual little quickie that seemed to satisfy her regular customers. He lay back with his hands behind his head, smiling at the memory of her feeble protests and then the anger, quickly turning to terror. He'd ridden her every which way from Sunday, and when he was finished, she didn't even notice the difference between him and the knife. He chuckled, recalling her expression as he poured the whiskey into her wide, slack mouth, dragging the blade firmly right up her stomach. Got to be more careful though, he frowned, regarding the souvenirs he'd received from each of his encounters. His mouth was still tender from where he lost the tooth and the gouges in his face from the wood splinters. Now this, his fingers felt the sting of the cuts on his leg through his pants. Maybe a little less gentle next time. Cable Royce closed his eyes and smiled.

*****