Dead Man Hanging

There was money inside the stagecoach and a nesting kit with coffee and supplies. I placed them in a leather bag and walked over to the horses. The finest was a wide eyed palomino with a star shaped scar. I saddled him up with an old wool blanket and cut the others loose. The sky turned black as the red sun fell below the canyon.

I rode for hours by moonlight until I stumbled upon a place called Groover, Wyoming. On the outer edge of town, I saw a dead man hanging from the branch of an aspen tree. Poor bastard probably had it coming, but I removed my hat out of respect as I passed by.

Once I reached town, I headed straight for the saloon and ordered a bottle of cactus peyote wine. Good stuff, but I was seeing double by the time the dancing girls come up on stage.

“Are you Wren Jessup?” came a voice from the rear of the saloon.

“That’s me,” I said.

“I’m afraid there’s been a little mix up, Mr. Jessup. You got a minute to chat?” he asked.

“Don’t see why not,” I answered as I reached for my gun.

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