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The sun beat down like a hammer on the little town of Dogie, Kansas, and the wind raised an army of dust devils to dance through the streets and lay their bodies down on water troughs where exhausted and thirsty cattle coming in from the trails would nose the dusty film impatiently aside and desperately gulp at the stale fluid. “That’s the right idea” thought Lou Lewis, head of the trail drive, as he looked with relief on two thousand head of Texas longhorn that were, thankfully, no longer his responsibility. He tossed the manifest back to the half-breed Cherokee receiver and nudged his horse toward the saloon. Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass and a smash caused him to reach instinctively for his trusty Colt as ahead of him the doors of the saloon were torn from their hinges and a man came flying through them to land unceremoniously in the dirt of the street. Lou smiled, for he knew the man. Not terribly well, but in the easygoing way of the men who found themselves out in the great emptiness of the prairie where any human being who wasn’t an enemy was something of a friend. The man’s name was Lefty McGeehee, and he sat now rubbing his chin. In the doorway his attacker rose, huge and threatening, and Lefty lit off down the street without a backwatd glance. The menacing figure caused Lou’s blood to freeze with recognition: six foot-three despite the slight hunch, three hundred pounds, the scar over the left eye, the glittering gold tooth of past prosperity among the black spaces of present poverty, and the words bellowed after the retreating Lefty, “I’ll learn ye to spill a lady’s drink, ya bastard!” all told Lou he had once again found his dearest Daisy Ellen, not seen since that dance hall riot in Laramie.