The sheriff sat back and shook his head. "That was quite a story. Did you get the boy home?"

Galen stood and stretched, "Yup. Matter of fact, the whole experience drove him to take up the law. Last I heard he had a practice in his home town."

"What about the escape and your report to the judge?"

"I told him it was a trade-off. The lives of the warden and the guards for their freedom. Judge figured it was the best solution, even though, after his investigation, the warden and a few others were gone anyway."

"So this bit of paper . . .?"

"Like you said, an alert. I think the judge was just havin' some fun. Kind of givin' me a reputation folks should watch out for."

"And should we?"

Galen walked to the door, pausing. "I told you my story, Sheriff. You'll have to decide that for yourself." He opened the door, winked, and left.

➰➰➰➰➰

Out in the street, he was taken once again by the size of Pine Ridge and the number of people moving about. He strolled toward the tall structure that boasted the giant moose head mounted under the hotel sign. Red double doors opened to a lavish interior, and Galen paused, thinking maybe he had stepped into something out of his league.

"Good day, Sir, may I be of assistance?" The young man with the shiny hair, trimmed moustache, and silver sleeve garters, approached with his hands in prayer mode.

"I was lookin' for a room but this-"

"Finest accommodation south of Chicago, Sir. Come right this way and I'll show you what's available."

"I think this may be a little rich for-"

"The Magnificent Moose Hotel has accommodation for any purse size, Sir, I assure you."

Galen was led reluctantly to the large counter and shown a huge ledger that held photographs of rooms.

"You won't find this in any other hotel south of--"

"Chicago. I know." Galen looked at a picture of a small room with a dresser and bed, and pointed it out. "How much is this one?"

"Aah, our random traveller suite. A lovely choice, Sir, suitable for those--"

"How much?" Galen stared at the young man, daring him not to answer.

"S- six dollars a week . . . not including weekends." Galen's eyebrows rose. "And t- two dollars more for our guest livery."

Masking his surprise, Galen pretended to give in to the sales pitch, and agreed to a week's stay. Relieved but still shaken, the young man handed him a pen and asked for his mark in the ledger, and handed him a key. A quick explanation of direction to the livery, and another nervous welcome, saw Galen leave, chuckling to himself.

The next interesting structure that caught his attention was The Pine Ridge saloon. A single storey, brick building with a front porch and big chairs. Galen stepped inside and shook his head. There was the conventional bar with spittoons and a foot rail, but the tables and chairs around the large room were more like something to be found in the big eastern city gentlemen's clubs.

He went to the bar and ordered a beer, nodding to a few other drinkers next to him.

"Some place, eh?" he said, sipping the foam off the glass.

"First time here?" The bartender asked.

"First time in Pine Ridge. Everything is really something."

"Where you from?"

"South. Desert. Heat. Dangerous critters." He smiled.

"What brings you to Pine Ridge?"

"Looking for a fella named Preston. Got some papers he might be interested in." At the mention of the name, Galen noticed the shift in posture of the other drinkers. "You ever hear of him?"

"Sure. Mr. Preston is well known here." The bartender backed away, glancing at the other men.

"Really? Where can I find him then?"

"Why don't you let me show you, Stranger." One of the men stood away from the bar, fingers hooked in his gun belt.

Galen took in the sharp features, cold eyes, and tie downs on a pair of holsters. "That's mighty obligin', thanks." He dropped some money on the bar and followed the man out. "Handsome looking pistols you got there. Don't see many with silver grips."

"What do you carry?" The man asked, half turning. 

"Just an old Army Single Action Colt. Find it most serviceable for my needs."

There was a short derisive hmph sound, as the man hopped up some steps to the front of a neat, white painted building.

"This is Mr. Preston's office." He stepped back and indicated Galen go first.

Inside, he saw a well furnished lobby with sets of glass doors on either side. Galen turned and the man tilted his head to the right.

"Do I just go right in?"

"Yep." He opened the door and they walked into the large room. Another imaginative image of a gentleman's club with big chairs, a large fancy desk, and a wall full of books.

"Mr. Preston, Sir. This fella says he has some papers you might be interested in."

Galen looked at his escort with amusement. Seemed the explanation was some kind of expected deference for the intrusion.

"You can go Rory." Preston leaned back in his chair, waiting for the man to leave before speaking again.

"Who are you?"

"Name's Helliwell, and you're Mr. Dieter Preston." Galen smiled and sank into one of the comfortable chairs, a move that made Preston sit up again to see him properly.

"Rory said something about papers."

"Yes. I came across some papers with your name at the top, referring to some kind of financial deal with a Chicago bank." Galen studied the man closely.

"Came across? Where are they?"

"Oh, I have them right here." Galen patted his vest. Seems they talked about a draft of some kind for five hundred dollars payable to a Caleb Weston."

Preston's eyes narrowed and he clasped his fingers together. "How did you come by them?"

"Well, that's the sad part." He went on to tell about finding Caleb, and about his plans with a woman named Lois, about how that money was for the future they planned together. He finished with a hint at others being interested in the papers as well.

Preston clenched his teeth. He knew very well who the hint referred to. "Why did you bring them here?"

"Seemed the right thing to do. I'd collect the money for the draft and deliver it to the young lady Caleb intended it for."

Preston sat back again, his face showing a little relief. "That would be a problem, Mr. Helliwell. See, only the name on the draft can collect the money, otherwise what's the point.?"

"Well, now I'm not so sure about that part. Otherwise, why would you send men to get it from the rightful owner - hangin' him in the process?" The reaction was swift. Preston stood quickly, his chair banging back against the wall.

"You got some nerve, Cowboy, comin' in here and threatening me."

"Didn't threaten, Mr. Preston. Accused - and I ain't a cowboy."

"Well, whatever you are, you're a dead one. Rory!"

The door flew open and Galen's escort burst into the room, twin guns out and waving about. He stopped short, puzzled, looking from Preston to Galen and back again. Galen sat comfortably in his chair, his old Army Single Action Colt casually aimed straight a Preston.

"Make a choice, Rory. Shoot me before I kill your boss, and maybe even you, or put them fancy irons on the floor and nobody gets shot."

"Sir, Mr. Preston?"

The glower said it all. Rory carefully lowered his guns to the floor, and Galen stood, waving Rory to the vacated chair.

"Now this is the way this will go. Tomorrow I'll go to the bank and exchange the draft for the five hundred dollars. Then I'll go to the sheriff's office and give him the papers you signed, selling the land to Caleb Weston, and from there to the telegraph office. The land registry office will get all the information needed to officially record the transaction."

"You'll never get out of this town, Helliwell." Preston snarled.

"Well, I hope you're the one that tries to stop me, and not your hired guns, 'cause they haven't done too well up to now. Oh, and by the way, Rance is in your Pine Ridge jail, waitin' on me to press charges."