He tied his horse a reddish brown stallion to the hitching post outside the saloon and went in.

“What ‘ll ya have stranger.”

“Information. Can you tell me were to find Three Fingered Pete?”

The saloon went silent and everyone looked his way.

“Never herd of him,” the barkeep lied.

“Maybe this’ll help,” the stranger said, flashing his badge. “I’m Fredrick Wilson US Marshall. I have a warrant for his arrest and I’m here to take him back dead or alive. Tell him I’ll meet him out front at 5:00.”

“Yes sir, sure will.”

The bar keeper nodded to two men at a nearby table who promptly left and rode out of town.

“Now I’ll have a draft beer,” the marshal said.

He hung around town all day making himself seen. As the shops closed for the day they boarded their windows.

Their wasn’t a soul in sight when Three Fingered Pete stepped out of the shadows. “Hello brother, Its been a long time.”

“Lets get this over with, Peter.”

With 50 feet between them the brothers drew on each other. Fredrick was faster. Now he had to tell his folks.