by Kenneth Mark Hoover
Copyright 2011 by Kenneth Mark Hoover
Published by Argo Navis Publishing at Smashwords
I was writing a letter to the War Department when my deputy stomped into the office and kicked gypsum sand from his boots.
“Jake, can’t you do that before you come in?” I growled.
“Sorry, Marshal,” he said. “I was headed to the depot when I saw a man riding a sorrel and leading a pack mule down Front Street.”
I glared. “You stomped sand in my office to tell me that?”
Jake remained bland. “He’s got Indian scalps hanging from his saddle horn.”
I got up from my desk and lifted the Sharps Special from the gun rack. I didn’t like the scalps. They brought a better price than beaver pelts, and buyers shipped them to London for high dollar.
Haxan was dangerous enough without bringing an Apache war party down around our ears.
I followed Jake into the fine, cold morning. The blue sky covered the whole world like a tent and made me glad to be alive.