FRONTIER JUSTICE
Smoke Jensen had been off buying cattle when the news came back from his spread. The gunhawks had struck as cowards always do -- in a pack and at night. They'd shot and nearly killed his wife, and shootin' a woman on the Colorado frontier was a hangin' offense -- or just an outright killin'. Smoke strapped on his .44s and swore that before he was done he'd give those sidewinders a dozen bullets in their bellies and six feet of hard, cold ground.
Raised by an old mountain man named Preacher, Smoke was said to be the fastest gun alive. It wasn't a reputation he'd sought, but it always seemed to seek him out when some gunslick took a notion to make a rep for himself. And this sorry bunch of backshooters figgered to challenge Smoke's draw on the streets of the outlaw town called Dead River. Smoke had never heard of them before. But he knew one thing certain. They were damn sure going to hear from him!
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