WHO KILLED POOR ABE?
The killer had to be closing in fast.
Fear gnawed at the old man’s belly as he drew rein outside his little cabin and swung down. He stumbled toward the door but stopped dead in his tracks and gaped when the door opened on rusted hinges.
His pursuer stood spread-legged inside the door, a cocked gun in his fist, a broad smile on his face.
“Say your prayers, old-timer . . . you’re through!”