The Secret of Martin Doon

The Secret of Martin Dune. It was nine o'clock. The block-long collection of framed buildings called Tamarack was docked now, except for its two saloons, the sheriff's office, and the Regal Hotel. Across the street from the hotel, in the narrow alley between the General of Merchandise Door and the Saddlery, a man waited, leaning against the side of the building, hidden in

darkness. A two-gun man, the tips of his holsters tied to his thighs with leather fawns. A killer. He had taken one of the horn-handled cold 45s out of a cheese, who was spinning the cylinder once again, checking it carefully, when the door closed across the street.

He tensed, raised the gun expectantly, then relaxed again. Please, I... Excuse me. Oh, Sandy. Oh, Cass. What are you doing in town this time of night? Dad's working late at the hotel. The shipment of cattle going out in the morning.

I knew that already. Huh? It's not what I asked you. I said, what are you doing here alone? At the dock. None of your business, Sandy Lansford? No, K. So what isn't my business? Time for a wild-eyed cow folks and liquor at engines?

I can take care of myself. All right, K. So I give up. Oh, I'm sorry, Sandy. I've been on edge lately. I asked so if I... Things going bad? It would be a lot better.

I got 500 head ready to ship. Three years now, fighting wolves and black leg and brand blotches. That's what I got to show for. Well, isn't it? Your father and I, side by side, him with the square D, biggest, finest ranch in the section.