The stranger's smile finally faded. His hand tightened on his revolver. "You giving me a speech, old man?"
"Enforce the law."
Boone took a sip of his sarsaparilla. Set the glass down. "Tell me something, son. You know what a sheriff actually does?" Sheriff
The trouble came on a Tuesday, the kind of bone-dry Tuesday where the dust hung in the air like a held breath. A stranger rode in on a mule—not a horse, but a mule, which should have been the first sign something was off. The stranger wore a black coat despite the heat and kept his hat pulled low. He tied the mule to the rail outside the saloon and went in. The stranger's smile finally faded
"The governor," Boone said, "has been dead for six years. You tell whoever gave you that badge that if they want Red Oak, they can come and take it. But they'd better bring more than a mule and a smile." Set the glass down
He tipped his hat to the room and walked out into the dust-choked light, the old tin badge catching the sun just once—a small, defiant gleam—before he disappeared into the shadow of the jailhouse porch.