You can't always tell who's who. Anybody can wear a white hat. Don't make 'em good, just look good. Some wear black hats, growl, spit, drink, cuss, and sound nasty. But when the chips are down they come through.

I was riding into a nowhere town on a hot, dusty afternoon. I had left Tombstone, my job there done and now in-between contracts, more or less driftin' south. Means unemployed. The sun was blazing down and it looked like no rain for months. I rode past some farms with no sign of any crops growin'. Why farmers stay in places like this I'll never know. Sometimes I feel sorry for them.

A travelling gun for hire ain't as glamourous as it sounds. I hate the term gunfighter. Makes it sound like all we do all day long is shoot people. Well, sometimes we do, but there's always a good reason. Mostly it's cleanin' up other people's messes  . . .  for cash. I prefer gold, but I hardly ever get it. I get paper and live with it. Besides, when you get gold its usually dust and hard to carry if you get enough. Which you never do.

The town saloon is where you'll find unemployed guns lookin' for work, drinking, playing cards, and waiting. You need to wait more than drink, because if you drink more than wait, when what you're waiting for comes, you're too drunk to do anything about it. Better to play some cards with whoever's in there. Just keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth shut, and always sit facin' the door. Soon enough you'll hear a shot, a scream, or someone calling your name if they know it. Or just calling you out. You always gotta be ready and be good enough to stay alive. That's the job you picked. Sometimes it picks you.

I was waiting for something to happen in this dusty wasteland town when a young lady ran into the saloon. There's only three reasons a woman runs into a saloon. She works there—usually upstairs if you get my meaning—or she's lookin' for trouble, or she's in trouble. Working there or looking for trouble are often the same thing. By this gal's farmer's overalls, thick dusty coat and worn out hat I figured number three. She was scared as a cow about to be branded. As a gun for hire you notice things quick. And when trouble starts, you move fast and talk slow. No misunderstandings. I shot up to my feet.

"Little lady, what's botherin' you?"

She wheezed, "They said that since the farmland is no good for growing, they're gonna run their cattle all over it for grazing. Everybody's farm. Everybody's!"

"Who's they?" I looked around the saloon but already guessed. Ranchers against farmers. It's always land for growing or grazing, or water rights. Old story, I've seen it a hundred times. They're now right outside.

"They already started," she was screaming. "And they've come back."

I stepped around her out of the saloon onto the wooden porch to find three wagons in front of the saloon, each with a backboard covered with a canvas tarp. I wondered covering what. Taking another step I pulled my long riding coat back round the Colt holster on my right hip. It's a steady six shooter, expensive—a full $20 in Abilene, and I keep it well-oiled, especially out here in this dust bowl. It's not always who's the fastest draw, its accuracy, too. No matter how fast, you gotta hit what you're aimin' at. And, like I said, always be ready.

Eight men stepped off the wagons. Eight would be too many to take on at once with a six shot Colt, so I quickly scanned around and noticed a large wooden water barrel a few steps away on the right end of the porch. I could fire, duck behind it, and reload. The first one steppin' off a wagon was a big fella, reading my eyes, like a trail boss would do. He waved his hands side to side. I figured that meant "no" but I kept my right hand ready.

He stared straight into my eyes, "Not here for trouble, friend. We're ranch hands out past the north end of town."

"Where the farms are I passed ridin' in," I told him. A number of townspeople on the porch near the salon door, and in the street, started stepping back, looking very nervous, but afraid to run. And no sheriff in sight.

"That's right, friend. Except there's no farms there now, just empty fields of burnt grass. Straw. No good for farmin', no good for anything but grazin'. That's where we've been."

"I heard. Grazing on land that's not yours. With lots of cattle, too."

"Yep. Lots of cattle means lots of beef. Lots of steaks."

He started to move towards a wagon backboard. My hand twitched slightly near my holster, but not enough to hint I might be drawing. Lots of gun fights happen when mistakes like that are made. Lot of burials, too. I've seen and caused both.

The trail boss pulled back the tarp revealing a mat of straw keeping the flies off large sides of beef. The townspeople peered into the wagons, looking dumfounded.

"We know it ain't our land, and right now it's no good to the farmers. Just a waste for growin'. We know what it's like when a herd dies off. Out there right now the farmers' herd died off. All straw like I said. Here's some beef for the town. Free of charge. Farmers ain't got no money anyhow."

People anxiously descended into the wagons while the ranchers headed into the saloon. I followed them in and bought the first round.