Tombstone, Pima County. Arizona Territory. 1879.

Tombstone exploded into a boom town starting in 1877 when Ed Schieffelin struck silver. It had attracted every sort of establishment to fulfill the cravings of the new population. Men, most hoping to strike silver. The rest profited off those that did. A small number stole and killed to get rich.

July—dry heat crawled up from the earth like the Devil's own breath, and the dust clung to boots like ticks on a dog.

A stranger rode in slow from the east, tall in the saddle, his shadow long across the baked red dirt littered with dung piles, stinkin' in the scorching sun. Horse lathered, gait lazy. He wore his sixgun low on his hip, the bluing near gone on the chamber, bright from drawin' and slippin' it back again.

He pulled up in front of the Easy Silver Saloon, just starting to buzz in the late-mornin' sun. He swung down slow, hitched the reins, and stepped onto the boardwalk with a creak of weathered boot leather and jingle of spurs.

Dust swirled up like ghosts behind him.

Inside, the saloon was half-awake. Couple drunks sleepin' face-down in spilled dreams, one card game wheezin' in the back. A piano sat quiet. The bartender looked up, wiped his hands on an apron and eyed the new arrival like he might be trouble—or a payday.

Stranger bellied up. "Whiskey."

"Two bits," the barkeep said, sliding a thick-bottomed glass across.

"For that much, it better be the best ya got." He dropped the quarter and drank it in one throw, the burn chasin' whatever was gnawin' at his insides. Then he took a seat at a vacant table, back to the wall, near the stairs, hat low.

Whispers started.

"Gunman."

"Lookit the rig on him."

"Ain't seen him 'round these parts."

Didn't take long 'fore the law came sniffin'.

Sheriff Tom Stannos strolled in like he owned the timber the saloon was nailed from. Fat gut, polished star, eyes like a buzzard. Two deputies trailed close.

He sauntered up, hands on belt. "You new to Tombstone, mister?"

The stranger lifted his head. Cold, pale blue eyes. "Yep. Name's Luke Barns. Passin' through."

"That so? I don't much like passers-through sittin' heavy in my town, wearin' iron like they mean to use it."

Luke stood. "I'll be on my way," he said, slow and even, "once I settle a little business."

The sheriff's lip twitched. "Well, don't make it my business."

Luke tipped his hat. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Sheriff hawked and spat. "Good. 'Cause Benson gives me all the business I need."

Luke's eyes didn't waver. He turned to the bartender.

"You know a girl named Jenny Barclay?"

The bartender hesitated, glanced at the sheriff. "She works here. Up in the rooms."

"Fetch her," Luke said.

"Now see here—" Stannos started.

But Luke's hand rested on the walnut grip of that weather-worn Colt, easy as breathin'.

Stannos saw the twitch in him, shut his mouth, and left.

Jenny came down the stairs, cotton dress and tired eyes. Pretty, even under all that hurt.

She stopped when she saw Luke. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Luke? My Lord."

"Hey, Jenny."

"You . . . you came."

He moved over and took his hat off. "Eli made it. He was barely alive but broken bad. I took him to my place after visitin' a sawbones who patched him up as best he could. Been slow to mend, but soon as he could care for himself, I came here to get the rest of the story. Somethin' stinks here worse 'n a dead mule rottin' by a waterhole."

She trembled. "I thought you was a story my brother told himself to stay sane. I didn't know for sure you were real."

Luke looked away, jaw tight. "I'm real enough, and I've had to kill a few men in my time."

They sat at a quiet table near the back door, her beside him, tears already in her eyes.

"Tell me what happened," Luke said.

So, she did.

Her father's ranch—Bar-X—burned.

"Men came masked, but everyone knew it was Bart Benson and his hired killers. They shot Daddy in the back. Set fire to the barn with two ranch hands inside. Eli got hit twice—hand and knee—but crawled away, and I hoped he made it to safety."

"Sheriff Stannos never lifted a finger, I assume?"

"They killed my family," Jenny leaned in and whispered. "Took everything. Sheriff? He just stayed away. 'Cause Benson pays so much better than the law does.

"While they let me live, 'cause nothing I was going to say would matter, Benson put the word out to every merchant in town—don't hire me. He hoped I'd leave. The saloon owner, Mr. Starnes, is the only one willing to stand up to that murderer, and he gave me this job. I had to think long and hard about becoming a soiled dove, but there just wasn't any other way to live if I didn't. I didn't want to move, hoping somehow, my brother might return, and we could get our ranch back someday. This was my only hope." She sniffed and pulled out a lace hankie to dab her eyes.

Luke nodded once. His eyes looked like narrowed steel. "Then we aim to make it right."

Word spread like fire on dry sagebrush.

Next morning, Bart Benson rode into Tombstone amidst a wildfire of talk, flanked by the two deputies and a hired gun. Benson—big mouth, meaner than a sun-blind rattler. He strutted into the saloon like it was his church. Smoke swirled behind him like he'd come from the gates of hell. The prattle of talk ceased.

Luke stood from his table. Hat on. Gun low. Rawhide, holding his holster tight to his leg. Eyes dead still.

"You Bart Benson?"

"That's right," Benson said, grinnin'. "And you must be the loud-mouthed idiot makin' noise where there oughta be silence."

Luke's voice was dust and iron with a rumble to it. "You murdered John Barclay. Burned his house. Killed ranch hands. Left his son Eli for dead."

Benson spat. "Ain't no proof."

Luke took one step forward. "I ain't here to argue. I'm here to settle it."

The hired gun reached for his piece.

Luke's Colt was out before the thought finished.

One shot. The gunman dropped—hole between the eyes. Deputies drew. Luke fanned the hammer—two more shots, both clean to vital spots.

The saloon was screaming, people diving for cover.

Benson had just cleared leather and fired, but Luke fanned again.

The shot hit Luke in the thigh—but he didn't fall.

He took the pain and gave back death.

Benson dropped his gun. Glanced at the hole in his chest. Slumped to the floor. Dead.

Silence held like a held breath. You could've heard a cockroach scamper across the floor.

Blood running down his leg, spreading on his pants. But alive.

Jenny ran to Luke. Her face was white with fear. "I thought for sure they'd kill you." She pressed her head to his chest. "We got to get you to the doc quick."

"This'll help." He took his bandana from his neck, wrapped it around the wounded area, and tied it tight.

Helped by Jenny, Luke started to limp out when Sheriff Stannos burst through the batwing doors. "What in hell is going on here?"

One of the patrons spoke up. "Sheriff, Benson, a hired gun, and your two deputies came in here to kill that cowboy there," pointing to Luke. "They drew first, but he got all of them. I never seed such speed. But it was self-defense."

"That right?" Stannos asked another man.

"Yep. Shore is."

Now, without the power of Benson and his money, the Sheriff felt downright naked with some other stern eyes on him, daring him to arrest Luke. He put his finger in his shirt collar to loosen it. "Well, don't just stand there. Somebody, call the undertaker."

Weeks passed. Luke healed slow. Brother Eli returned, walking stiff-legged with one good hand. He was so happy to be back with his sister again—you'd never have known how badly he'd been shot up. He had thanked Luke profusely, not only for saving his life but for killing the scum of Tombstone and letting him be home again.

The Bar-X was deeded back, fair and legal. Sheriff Stannos skipped town under cover of night and was never heard from again. That December, a little before Christmas, the Earps came to town. Tombstone learned to breathe again.

Jenny worked the land with Luke by her side. She cooked. He and Eli repaired fences. She laughed more. He smiled more. With help, they built a small cabin next to her home's ashes.

One morning, she found him on the porch, coffee in hand, watching the sun rise over the land that bled for justice. He had a far-away look in his eyes.

"You leavin' or stayin'?" she asked.

Luke sipped his coffee. Looked straight into her eyes. "I got powerful feelings. Come to care 'bout you a lot, Jenny. But ya know, I ain't easy to love. Stayin' might depend on you."

Without a word, she planted a big kiss on his lips, arms around his neck.

He drew a breath and nodded. "Reckon I'm stayin'."

And for the first time in a long, long time, he'd have a home—and soon a wife—in Tombstone.