Killers Two — Allan K. Echols

On this Spring morning Jim Woodbine felt the tension blanketing Ashfork like a wave of oppressive heat. For a Saturday there were very few rigs and saddle-horses at the hitchracks, and he smiled grimly as he observed this. It was better not to be around if lead started whining, and there were those who expected guns to pop on this day if he brought in the carload of barbed wire as he had planned to do.