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It was two hours since he broke camp, the persimmon and plum rock outcroppings of the mountain dawn had already faded through tangerine and dusty lemon to a uniform sandy brown. He paused and waited for the shimmering curtain of rising heat to part long enough to permit him a view of the town clinging to the splash of winding green vegetation that marked the dilatory course of Desolation River. It was still more creek than river at this elevation. The town was situated at the bottom of a shallow basin, ringed by peaks to which traces of last winter’s snows still clung. Given its reputation, a visitor might blame the wicked town for dragging the surrounding terrain downward from the lofty heights.
Notorious, the town was aptly named. It consisted of a livery stable, a few ramshackle stores selling dry goods and mining supplies, and a number of lively saloons fronting a street that he knew from experience would freeze solid every winter then after the spring meltoff and rains become a treacherous bog. Now in the July heat it would be ankle deep in dust. It was a town like so many others that had sprung up in the West like mushrooms around claim sites, enough promise of easy riches to attract desperate and lawless men, not enough real riches to bring civilization. A town like many others, but more so.
“Don’t go there!” his friends warned him. “It’s too crazy. They’re a rough lot, even for you.”
“Yup,” agreed another. “One minute yer enjoyin’ yer whiskey an’ the next, yer gittin’ yer jaw broke with an iron fist or throat cut with the broken bottle. And the men are even meaner!”
It would be his toughest challenge, he knew. His right hand reached down near his hip and stroked the leather object he found there. It was where he found his confidence.
He’d developed a preternatural skill with its use. It brought such clarity to a situation. A true peacemaker, visiting judgment on the wicked, and a new appreciation for mercy from those that obeyed.
He saw signs of activity as he descended to the main street. People were rushing into the biggest of the saloons. They knew he was coming and they’d be anxious to take his measure. He heard music from inside, someone banging on a piano with more energy than skill. He paused for a moment, mouthing a prayer, then strode briskly through the bat wing doors.
The music stopped, the sudden silence engulfing a few coughs and scraping chairs. Then the heels of his boots beat a tattoo on the wood floor, the jingling sound of his spurs playing ricochet to the gunshot sound of his steps. He felt every eye burning into his back as he strode purposefully to the front of the room, past the bar near where the card tables would have been spilling with coin and drink the night before.
He paused for a moment then turned around, his right hand reached down and drew his confidence holding it aloft for all to see and challenge. No one moved. His fingers flipped over a few pages and he said in his surprisingly rich voice, “Today I want to tell you about the toughest hombre who ever rode into a town. The story starts here, in Matthew 21.”
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