The Frightened Town

It was hotter than heaven. In the town of Bloodfowl there was no movement out in the open. Even the door of the saloon hung lintly, sagging on its hinges. There was hatred here and violence in the making.

Embedded in the brains of men who faced one another from opposite ends of the dusty street. There were dozens of them, rivals in a range war. And on the porch of the hotel, a woman shed tears and spoke bitterly to a man who held to me's hand, the smart black spag.

And I say, you have to think of me. I'm a doctor. Don't look streaked as a man who's been hurt. I'm obliged to go home. But you'll never get there. You've been proud to be shot if you step into the street.

I'm a doctor. I'm obliged to go. Even though it means making a widow out of me. Jackson might not have had a property set. Jackson always means what he says. You shoot your down like a dog.

The moment you set foot off the floor. Just the same. Morning, Doc. Hello, Cassidy. And good morning to you, ma'am. Or maybe I should say good afternoon. I slept the late. I got no idea what time it is.

We rode practically all night to get here. California and I, uh, say, am I interrupting something between you two? No, Cassidy. I have a call to make that, so I'm going to make it now.

Who, John Wayne? There is something wrong, isn't there? Something wrong with the whole town. Yes, there's a lot wrong. Tell us, put apart. Stuart Saxman and his writers are holding one end and the Lane brothers and their men are holding the others.