U.S. Marshall Jesse Williams breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled his horse up at the hitching post in front of the Salt River Saloon in Arizona Territory on a sweltering late afternoon in July 1880. His mouth was mighty dry, with only a smidgeon of water left in his canteen that he'd been rationing. His clothes— still damp with sweat and white stains on his shirt under his arms. It'd been a long ride. The dusty street, with no breeze at all, amplified the pungent aroma of the horse cakes that littered the packed dirt and clay.

After tying his horse, he flicked off the rawhide loop over the hammer of his sixgun, never knowing what he might encounter inside. With the cut-down leather holster he used, the loop kept it tight when riding. He lifted his revolver from the holster, opened the loading gate, pulled the hammer partially back, rotated to the vacant cylinder, and loaded a cartridge from his belt. Usually, he liked to keep the firing pin off a live round, so loading only five shots was his general practice. Today, he might need all six.

Upon entering the double doors, the spacious saloon resembled those in larger towns, with cowboys at tables and the bar, working girls either in fancy dresses scattered around or like the two in white underwear hanging on the handrail going to the second-floor bedrooms. Rinky-dink music from a beat-up old piano, with a man pounding the keys who didn't look much better, mixed in with the loud conversations. The talk quieted as several turned to stare at the newcomer with his gun hung low and strapped tight to his mid-thigh. At six foot five, with a tan hat, he could have been an outlaw or hired killer for all the townsfolk knew. His vest hid the badge on his shirt.

As Jesse walked toward the bar, a cowboy near the door scampered out. The bartender in a white shirt and apron smiled at the stranger and put the glass he'd finished cleaning on the bar, ready to take an order. "What'll ya' have, cowboy? You look mighty dry."

"Whisky— your best, not that Redeye stuff you sell cheap." Jesse put one elbow on the wood and turned partially around to survey those around him.

"Here ya go, pard, our best bourbon."

Jesse turned and put the glass to his lips and sipped. He wanted to enjoy and not slug it down.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

"Nope."

"Well, where 'bouts are you from?"

"East of here."

The bartender got the message, turned, and moved to the side of the bar to get some dirty glasses.

A woman entered wearing a plain dress and apron from a door on the side of the bar. Her face scarred terribly— it looked like a herd of cattle might have tromped all over it. As she looked around, her head did a double-take when she spied Jesse. He locked eyes with her but showed no recognition except a faint nod. She glanced away and began clearing empty tables.

Moments later, the bar doors slammed open against the wall, and three pairs of boots stomped inside. In the lead was a heavy-set man with a thick mustache and at least a week's beard growth on the rest. He wore the Sheriff's badge, flanking him two poorly dressed, full-bearded deputies. One deputy carried a double-barreled scattergun, and the other a Winchester rifle. The Sheriff wore his sixgun low, and the palm of his right hand rested on the grip.

"Didn't you see the sign, cowboy? No guns in this town." There was a distance of ten feet between them and Jesse. The crowd hushed, waiting to see what would happen next.

"So, stranger, I'll be taking your sixgun unless you want to do it the hard way."

Jesse eased his drink on the bar and slowly turned to face the three men. He raised his left hand toward his vest, and the deputies tensed. The one with the rifle worked the action to put a live round in the chamber, lowered the hammer to safety, but kept his thumb on it.

"Easy boys," the Sheriff said. "He looks like he's gonna cooperate." He glared directly into Jesse's eyes. "Ain't that right, stranger?"

Jesse now gripped the edge of his vest and pulled it aside to reveal the big, shiny Marshall badge on his chest. "I'm U.S. Marshall Jesse Williams. I have an arrest warrant signed by the governor, and I'm here on business."

There was a collective sigh from the crowd. The deputies lowered their guns toward the floor. "That's different," the Sheriff said. "So it's one lawman to another. I'm Bart Haddock. Who you looking for, Marshall?"

"I'll know the murderer when I find him," Jesse said.

"Ain't he got a name?"

"He probably has several he's used over the years, but if I tell you some of them now, word could get out, and he might skedaddle out of town. Be happy to tell you over at your office if'n you want."

"Yeah. Let's do just that. Follow me."

The Sheriff moved toward the doors while the deputies stood on either side for Jesse to pass between them. Jesse took a quick look at the woman with the scarred face and tipped his head ever so slightly in her direction. Her wrinkled brow soothed as her answer. Jesse followed the Sheriff out, and the two deputies followed him.

It was getting dark on the short walk to the office and jail. Sheriff Haddock, now walking aside Jesse, said, "Ya' know, I been Sheriff near six years, and there ain't been no murder I kin remember. Did the man you're looking for commit it somewhere's else?"

"Nope."

"Was it recent?"

"In the last year."

"Well, you got me. Cain't remember anything but a few self-defense gunfights before we tightened up on our 'No guns in town' law. I keep it pretty orderly here, and people know it. We've had a shootin' or two at the poker tables, where gamblers carry a small gun hidden and get into an argument, accuse the other of cheatin', and some shootin' starts."

"That right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, here we are," the Sheriff said. He walked up the two wooden steps across the sidewalk planks and opened the door. "Let's all go in and rest our feet."

Four sets of boots thumping on wood and Jesse's spurs jingling entered the office with two jail cells on the back wall. Haddock took his chair behind his desk and motioned for Jesse to sit in the chair on the other side, while one deputy sat at the end of the desk after putting his rifle in the rack. The other man eased into a chair against the front wall and propped his shotgun against the wood siding. The sheriff bit off the end of a stogie, spit the tip on the floor, took a stick match from his vest pocket, struck it under his desk, lit the big cigar, and puffed on it several times, then leaned back to hear the story.

"Before we get into my business here, Sheriff Haddock, I'd like—"

"Call me Bart," the Sheriff interrupted. He blew a couple of smoke rings.

"Sure, Bart. As I was saying, I noticed that woman in the saloon with the face that . . . "

"Oh, that old whore, Nelly. Yeah, she used to be the top-paid girl 'cause of the pretty face and big tits, but she made a drunk cowboy mad one night, and he worked her over pretty good with a broken whisky bottle. She 'bout near died, but the old doc pulled her through. The saloon owner felt sorry for her and let her clean up the place, sometimes tend bar, and if'n a cowboy's real short of money, they kin get her real cheap."

"What happened to the cowboy who did that to her?"

"I put him in jail overnight till he was sober enough to tell me his story, and then I let him go." He punctuated his statement with a billowing smoke cloud from his cigar.

"Let him go?"

"She cussed at him— made him mad. He slapped her hard. She kicked him square in the nuts, and then he smashed the bottle aside her head, nearly knocked her out, then used the broken piece in his hand to work on her face. I mean, she's just a whore. Tough luck."

"Okay. I understand." Jesse balled up his fists in his lap and quietly gritted his teeth. Years earlier, he and Nell were sweet on each other back in Austin, Texas, but she was reluctant to leave her high-paying job to become a lawman's wife, so they drifted apart. When she wrote him with the news, she never mentioned the attack on her face.

"So, what brings you to my little town of Salt River, Jesse?" He leaned forward to put his cigar on the edge of the ashtray.

"Well, let me tell you a little story that happened about nine months ago." Jesse's wooden chair back squeaked when he leaned against it. "The man hadn't been here long and was stayin' at the hotel. So, this one evening, he got into a card game with some other gamblers and he was winning big. One of the other gamblers accused him of cheating. He shouted he wasn't, rolling up his sleeves and holding his hands out upright. That's when the other guy pulled his pistol and shot him."

"I remember that incident, but you got your facts wrong. That young fella was the one accused by the other man of cheating and went for his gun, a derringer, tucked in his waistband. The other guy drew his gun first and fired. The young man toppled dead on the floor, and the little gun fell out of his hand. It was a pure case of self-defense, and I oughta know. I was there."

Jesse pointed to the bars of the cell, then rose and walked over to them. "Did you even lock the shooter up pending more facts coming in?" When he reached the cell door, he turned, facing the Sheriff and the two deputies.

"I told you. There weren't no need. Both my deputies was there with me when it happened." He put his cigar in his mouth again, puffing as if agitated.

Letting out a sigh, Jesse patted his vest. "Maybe it's time I read you the names I got on this arrest warrant because we got written testimony that after the man was shot, one of your deputies placed the derringer on the floor by his hand. My brother wouldn't come near a ladies' pea-shooter gun, as he called it. It was you who shot my brother and killed him in cold blood. You and your deputies are gonna cool behind these steel bars until a prison wagon takes all of you to Tucson to stand trial for murder— and Nell Garnder is the chief witness against you because she saw it all and wrote it down in quick handwriting. Something she learned in Atlanta before moving to Texas."

Jesse was prepared for what happened next. That was why he deliberately lured the trio out of the bar to a safe, quiet place. The Sheriff's hand went for his gun as he sprang to his feet. He'd barely cleared leather when the Marshall's Colt roared twice from the two fingers he fanned on the polished smooth hammer, holding light pressure on the trigger. The Sheriff toppled backward, splintering the spoke-backed chair as he fell to the floor, hitting an overflowing tin trash can behind him.

One deputy had grabbed the shotgun, cocking while raising it to fire, when a slug caught him in the center of his chest. Jesse turned the gun to the other deputy who'd drawn his revolver and cocked it with his thumb, and dropped him with another chunk of 45 lead to the chest.

Jesse straightened from his crouched position and kept his Colt cocked with two more rounds in the cylinder if needed, but there was no movement from the three men lying on the floor with blood pouring out of their wounds.

Jesse stood still, with smoke rising from the business end of his gun, then slowly uncocked the peacemaker and returned it to his holster. People were gathering outside the jail office. Then he noticed flames coming out of the bent metal trash can that the cigar had set on fire. He opened the door and yelled for a couple of buckets of water to put out the fire. Next, he'd send someone for the undertaker and then send a telegram to the governor to update him on serving the warrant. He'd be spending some time in Salt River in any event, serving as the law until a new qualified officer could be found that wanted the job.

Meanwhile, it just might be a good time to strike up a fire of his own and catch up with a love from the old days back in Austin. Her face was of no concern. It was what waited in her heart that mattered to Jesse.