Just catching up? Here’s the story so far in ebook and audiobook format If you’re already on board, take a minute to leave a review on Part I on Amazon. — Sheriff John Dance hadn’t slept much. When the night started, they didn’t have any customers, so he sat outside on the porch waiting for the heat to die down. About eleven he took a quick turn around the town. There were few drunks, but everything was quiet enough. Those goddamn cowboys from Burdock’s place weren’t in town, so nobody was expecting trouble. He thought it was safe to go to bed. So he kicked the dust over to the Cavalier, Grantham’s third-finest rooming house, and had just about closed his eyes when Speedy Pete had come a-hammering on his door. Pete was out of breath and that was a bad sign. Speedy Pete’s nickname was ironical in nature, and he wasn’t one for hurry. Turns out Dance had been wrong about Burdock’s boys. Well the worst of them at least. Earlier in the evening, the youngest son, Charlie Burdock, had installed himself at Saloon #3. What the name of the establishment lacked in originality it made up for in accuracy, being the third saloon built on the spot. The first one had been blown over and the second had burned down. Dance didn’t want to speculate about what Act of God or gross negligence would result in Grantham receiving saloon number #4. He sent Pete in through the front and had him pretend to be staggering drunk. Pete was all but worthless in a fight, what with speed being of the essence, and smarts of a bonus. But Pete did have the virtue of being so non-threatening that he was liked by everybody. He was sort of the mascot of Grantham. Which came in handy. Dance slid in through the back and found the place empty but for Charlie, Pete, a dead man on the floor, and Oscar, bartender and unlucky owner of saloons one through three. Old Oscar’s eyes went wide and he almost gave the play away. Charlie didn’t notice. He was loaded to the gills and regaling Pete with the story of how the dead man got that way. Spit flew from Charlie’s mouth as he said, “And Pete, hand to God, he went for his pistol and… well, I HAD to shoot him. You wouldn’t arrest a man for defended hisself would you?” “No sir,” said Pete nice and slow, “that sure enough… ain’t no crime… that I know of.” Charlie slammed his palm on the counter and turned to Oscar Brace behind the bar.” See, Oscar — I told you. I TOLD YOU! Was self-defense, the law even says so!” Charlie said, putting a swerve on the word ‘says’. It was a convincing performance. Hell, even Dance wanted to believe him. Except for one problem. The poor b*****d on the floor wasn’t heeled. No evidence of a gun whatsoever. In fact, from what Dance could see, the rough lookin’ Polack on the floor had a surprised look on his face. Hell of a way to go. Dance hoped he’d live at least long enough to see Saloon #5. He eased his pistol out of the holster and carefully pointed it at the back of Charlie Burdock’s head. He put his thumb on the hammer but didn’t cock it, wary of the click. Dance stepped forward as quietly as he could. Part of him hoped Charlie Burdock would spin and try for his gun. He wouldn’t feel bad about putting this man down. Hell, he wondered if he shouldn’t just let fly now. He had done worse to better for less. But the damnable thing was, Dance liked Charlie. Hell, everybody did. Even if he weren’t no damn good. Another step. Charlie poured Pete a drink from his own bottle. Maybe he didn’t shoot because he knew that Pete would be flat rattled and never trust him again. And poor Oscar would be cleaning blood and brains off the bottles behind the bar. But it wouldn’t be the first bullet hole in the mirror behind the bar. Another step. Speedy Pete threw his drink back and looked to Dance as he brought his head down. Dance shook his head, *not yet.* It’d be better for the Sheriff’s office, in g