Ryan Waites was the eldest of seven siblings in a family of three boys and four girls. His mother, Colleen, was a big, loud woman with wild, coarse hair, vivid green eyes and opinions on everything from the cradle to the grave. His father, a sad, under achieving accountant in the town's bank, was the object of most of those opinions and on one bright sunny Sunday morning, after a last look around his family table, took his rifle and sent Ryan's mother to the latter of her opinion range.

As a result, Jim Waites had to leave his offspring to fend for themselves while he went to prison, serving little of his sentence before dying from a massive stroke. Ryan always felt that his mother, even from the grave, managed to continue harping at her husband until he gave up and joined her once more.

The only thing about his mother Ryan could remember liking was the fact that her father, his favourite grandfather, was once a lawman and Ryan's boyhood hero. When Ryan was seventeen, and shortly before the decision to rid himself of his harpy wife, his father, carrying a small wooden case, took him aside and told him that his grandfather had died while pursuing a killer, and that according to his will, as the eldest grandson, Ryan was to have the gun he'd won in a shooting contest when he was about Ryan's age.

Inside the wooden case was a massive silver revolver with a carved ivory handle that showed two stags doing battle. The tooling along the shiny barrel was lacy and intricate and Ryan could only gasp at the workmanship as he hefted the heavy weapon in his hand.

"It's never bin fired," his father had told him and he lifted the gun nest from the box exposing twelve gleaming bullets. "These were made special for this gun and I honestly don't know if there's any more around."

Ryan replaced everything and held the box to his chest. "Won't matter, Pop, 'cause I'm gonna keep it just the way it is."

When he was nineteen, Ryan left home and the responsibility of his siblings to his oldest sister and joined the town Marshal as a full time Deputy. He spent ten years as a Deputy in three different towns and finally when he won an upgrade to Territorial Marshal, Ryan set his sights on being the same well-respected lawman his grandfather had been.

The fact that his grandfather's killer had never been caught left a simmering rage in Ryan's gut and every chance he had he dug for information, sometimes using force if he suspected deceit. That same rage made many would be law-breakers think twice before even bending the law; they soon learned that, while reasonably fair, his gun was as quick as his temper.

Now at forty-three, after a hard twelve years as Territorial Marshal, his reputation and that of his grandfather brought Ryan to his present assignment, one that he felt might be his last after witnessing the wreckage of a murderous spree that a violent killer named Otis Devlin left in his wake. In spite of his own thirst for revenge this had pretty much filled Ryan's law enforcing cup.

******

Otis Devlin was forty-seven years of age and for most of them he had been running from the law. There was no criminal act he considered taboo; if there was something or someone he wanted he helped himself. If it was someone or something in his way, he removed the obstacle with murderous dispatch. Otis had no conscience or morals. His last rampage, the one that finally had him captured, tried, convicted and sentenced, was the most brutal... brutal beyond reason or belief.

An almost white sun battered the dusty streets of the slowly growing community of Triple Creek. Small ranches and farms were beginning to dot the town's perimeter and the necessary businesses were appearing along the main street: the mandatory hotel, saloon, blacksmith, doctor and Sheriff's offices along with dry goods, dentist, lawyer and telegraph. One of the newest to open was Hindle's Drygoods, boasting the latest in nearly everything practical from the big eastern cities. It soon became the town's most popular spot, bringing the women from town's homes and businesses and the surrounding farms.

Otis Devlin climbed down off his horse and tied it to the post in front of the store, removing his hat and wiping off the grit from his long ride with a dirty kerchief. Squinting up and down the street against the harsh glare of the sun, he pushed open the door to the shop and stepped inside. His first surprise was to find how busy it was; an elderly couple, dressed for the special occasion of leaving the toil of the farm for a day in town, stood near the front examining a display of fine china, the woman smiled politely as he passed.

Near a rack of children's clothing on the opposite side of the store, a middle-aged woman helped a young girl about ten or twelve select a dress, both laughing excitedly as they held the choices up to the girl's front, her golden hair catching a stray beam of sunshine through the shop window. At the rear of the store two men checked off a list, piling their goods on the end of the long counter. They looked like no nonsense ranchers on a mission.

Near them, behind the counter where he casually studied canned goods, a young man was taking sneaky glances toward another young woman examining bolts of material. She turned, looked and quickly turned back, smiling shyly. The young man strolled along behind the counter toward her.

Devlin's second surprise came when the storekeeper suddenly announced he had to run over to the telegraph office and would be as quick as he could, asking the customers to be patient—they all agreed pleasantly. As soon as the man left, Devlin slid the lock on the door, pulled out his six-shooter and called out to the stunned shoppers to put all their money and jewellery on the counter and not to give him any arguments.