Wesley Torrance sat by the wood stove gazing bleakly out into the sun-dappled street in front of the sheriff's office. Across the room, the two marshals and the sheriff were huddled in a deep, quiet discussion. After arriving in town and reporting the events at the Meier ranch, he and Tyrone had spent the night in a couple of empty cells after a quick visit to Mayweather's for a bath and a much needed shave.

When they awoke that morning, Henry Gower was sharing a pot of coffee with the sheriff. He'd arrived only an hour earlier with his report from the people at the Milk River Conserve. Now, two hours later, after retelling his tale again up to the point where Tyrone confronted him on the trail, Wesley was becoming annoyed and depressed.

"Can I go yet? I want to check on my horse, Dammit."

Bragg turned and gave him a dark look. "Settle down son, no call to get sparky."

"Huh? Oh- ahh," Wesley chuckled in spite of himself, "no, that's his name. I call him Dammit."

The three lawmen just stared at him.

"You call your horse Dammit?" Gower almost giggled.

"Yeah, well- it's a long story." The three men waited in anticipation. "Well it just come from tryin' to get him to do stuff. He's got a mind of his own sometimes. We used to say things like uh, hold still dammit. Or, Dammit get over here—" Wesley felt a little foolish under their amused stares. "It uh, it finally just stuck as a name— you know."

"Well I reckon whatever works." Bragg gave the others a conspiratorial lift of his eyebrows, then turned back, his expression more serious. "I don't pretend to know your loss son, but I-, we're here to tell you that there won't be any private squabbles in this town." Wesley's mouth grew grim and he caught the 'I told you so' look from Tyrone.

"Can I go now?"

Bragg studied him for a moment then nodded briefly. "There's room at the hotel if you're plannin' to stay . . . just remember what I said."

Wesley crammed on his hat and stood up, extending a hand to Tyrone. "Enjoyed meetin' you Marshal, even if . . . " He smiled politely at the other men and left the office.

"What's your read Tyrone?" Ethan asked, seeking the comfort of his desk chair.

"Somebody's gonna have to watch him. His feelin's are way past worryin' about what the law might do to him."

Bragg traded frowns with Gower. "Guess there's a use for Deputy Horace Tweedle after all, Sheriff."

Bragg's face grew darker.

Wesley leaned on the hitching rail in front of the feed store examining the street. Now what? He thought. The sheriff could deliver all the stern lectures he wanted, but nothin' was gonna stand in the way of what he aimed to do. He straightened up, searching the street for the hotel; his mind made up. The racket of galloping horses grabbed his attention, and he turned to see the Danby/Clarksville stage rumble into town.

The street had dried in the heat of the sun and puffs of dust exploded from beneath the team's hooves, followed by a larger, billowing cloud thrown up by the iron rimmed wheels of the stage. He watched absently as it rocked to a halt in front of the hotel, then turned and made his way to the livery.

Dammit looked miffed at being left with a stranger, in a narrow stall, and took his time letting Wesley get close enough to pet his snout.

"Who owns who, eh?" Arthur teased, watching the by play.

"Makes a body wonder, don't it?" Wesley grinned sheepishly at the stable owner. "He eatin' okay? He's used to sweet grass more'n hay."

Arthur plunged his pitchfork into the pile he'd been moving around, and wiped his face with a bright red hanky. "He's doin' fine son, he's even been makin' eyes at that Appaloosa filly over there."

Wesley shook his head and nodded at the fine looking horse in the next stall. "Doesn't surprise me on bit. Listen, I'm thinkin' of stayin' a spell, can you give me a better rate? My poke's near as thin as that fork handle."

"How long?"

Wesley shrugged. "Maybe a week."

Arthur wiped his neck and toed the scraps of hay at his feet. "I guess I could make it four dollars for the week— but if you stay less, it's seventy five cents a day." He gave Wesley his astute businessman look.

"Thanks Mister . . . "

"Powser. Arthur Powser."

Thanks Mister Powser. A week should see me fine."

Megan awoke from her fitful sleep from a prodding on the shoulder. She sat up and looked over, watching as the wrinkled face of an older woman, pulled itself into a kindly smile.

"Time to wake up dear, we're here." The voice crackled like dry leaves.

She thanked the woman, and looked out the window of the stage at the main street of Buffalo Stump. A large, brightly painted sign, proclaiming the Hang 'Em High Saloon, dominated the front of the two storied building directly opposite. Alongside was a gaudier sign for the Barber Shop. A narrow alley separated this from the next row of businesses, which included a feed store, a tiny Law Office and a bank.

At the other end of the saloon, was another alley, with a wooden staircase clinging to the side leading up to the second floor. Across the alley, Megan could see a Millinery store; a Dentist's Office and, standing separately, the town jail and finally, the livery.

She climbed down with the assistance of another passenger, the portly Drummer, who, during the trip, took advantage of the captive audience to display his satchel of wares. Megan thanked him and climbed up onto the hotel steps where she stood with the small group of people, milling about as the driver of the stage off loaded an array of luggage and packages from the rack on top.

A large vertical sign hung down above their heads announcing the Dobbs Hotel, in gold outlined, black letters. Two wide front doors stood open, the intricately etched glass panels reflecting the image of Orin, who stood between them with a practiced, welcoming smile. Megan found her bag and pulled it over to a bench that sat alongside the entrance, beneath another etched glass window that looked into the lobby.

"You can bring that right inside ma'am." Orin gushed cheerily, stepping aside as the other passengers traipsed into the foyer.

"I'm not sure I can afford such a grand place." Megan said, uncertainly. "How much are your rooms?"

"The Dobbs offers the finest accommodations in these parts ma'am. Only one dollar and seventy five cents a night, or six dollars a week." He made a move to pick up Megan's bag.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid that's a little rich for my means." She placed a firm hand on the handle of her suitcase. "Is there someplace more reasonable in town? A boarding house?"

Orin frowned, miffed at losing a potential guest. "At the top of the street, turn right and go around behind the Buffalo Stump Clarion building. There's a small boarding house there called Granny's." His annoyance faded at the sight of her genuine relief, and he immediately sympathized with her, apparent, financial constraint. "I have to warn you ma'am, it's a place for saddle bums and miners. A pretty rough lot."

She gave him a helpless shrug, picking up her bag. "Look," Orin said, gently taking her arm, "tell Mrs. Seuong, she's the Chinese lady that runs it, tell her you're a friend of Orin's . . . that's me. She'll take care of you." Megan thanked him graciously, and set off up the street.

Wesley hopped up onto the porch of the Kaiser Emporium as the stage made a wide U-turn, heading back to the livery. He paused to look in the windows at the bolts of brightly coloured material and the sign reading, Latest in Fine Fashions from the East.

He remembered, with a pang, how Gwen had wandered through this store, admiring all the pretty clothes and materials, enthusiastically describing how she planned to decorate their house when it was finally built. The memory only served to underline his loss, and as for building a house now, he could care less. He continued on, along the wooden sidewalk toward the hotel, his attention suddenly captured by the oddly familiar figure of a woman, struggling up the road with her bulky suitcase.

He watched her pick her way around puddles, halting to shift the bag from one hand to the other while gathering her skirt above her boots. Boots! Suddenly it clicked, and he broke into a run, leaping off the sidewalk down onto the road.