That badgepacker ain’t
exactly who you think he is!
The first raid had been his last, ending with his horse shot out from under him. Then had come the sobering aftermath, the monotony of prison life, the crawling minutes that merged into hours, days, weeks. Five years of it. He had more than paid the price for that youthful lapse, and it had changed him profoundly, making him older than his years. It also made him understand that trouble was something best avoided, if it could be avoided without any loss of one’s self-respect.
From Tucson Jail he had headed north to Clinton, and to the job with Lester Leeman — a quiet job and one that didn’t require him to carry a gun.
An ironic smile twisted his mouth as he rode across the open prairie toward the Bar K. He had gone to the extreme in seeking that sheltered job, now he had gone to a further extreme, from an ex-outlaw to a town sheriff.