It was about seven o’clock in the evening and the sun was red on the scrub when Boy Blue Huxley first rode into the dusty town of Easter Pocket. He was alone; a stranger. Folks on their porches watched him come up the street and didn’t blink an eye—they’d never seen anything remotely like this kid, but that didn’t mean they were going to deviate from their regular routines. Arnold Thatcher, the town sheriff, was dragging the first drunk of the night from the saloon to the single holding cell in his office across Main Street. He spat a mouthful of tobac’ on the dirt and pointed the kid out to the struggling boozehound.
“What the hell? Fearson, would you lookit that?”
Fearson started kicking dust, like a child. “Lay ‘yer paws offa me, Arnie! Fight like a man!”
“Settle down! Let’s get you in custody, Fearson.” Sheriff Thatcher gave Boy Blue Huxley the once over a second time and disappeared into his official premises.
Boy Blue rode on up to the saloon-front and took note of the sign:
THE GORED GRANGER
“Well, heck! Sounds like my kind of a place!” He hitched his velocipede up next to a big palomino mare, adjusted his holsters, and kicked open the batwing doors.