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foothills of the mountains. A sign at one end proclaimed: YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A BOOM TOWN. But there was nothing to back up the proud boast. At the eastern end of the street there was a row of buildings on each side - two hotels, a bank, a restaurant, a cantina, livery stables, a few stores and offices. But beyond this, construction had been begun and then halted abruptly, so that many structures were in the form of mere facades, with nothing behind them.
    In the failing light of dusk, about twenty men and women were clustered in front of one of the completed buildings, their faces mere pale blobs in the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp hung from the sidewalk canopy. Six of the group carried white placards tacked to poles and daubed with crudely lettered slogans: GET BREEN OUT OF OFFICE - ROBBIN HOOD'S .45 BEATING THE SHERIFF - YELLOW IS THE COLOR OF OUR LAWMAN'S BACK - CLEAN UP OUR VALLEY - LAW AND ORDER SOCIETY - WE WANT ACTION.
    As Edge turned the wagon onto the street and angled it across to the far side, the demonstrators watched it disinterestedly. Edge saw a glass door with a gold-blocked sign: LAW – OFFICE - Sheriff Breen - NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS. Angry eyes were turned on him as he moved the wagon closer, scattering some of the group. Many looked away quickly when they saw the frigid expression on his lean face. But not those of a tall, funeral-faced man of about fifty who’s bearing was as solemn as his bone structure. Nor the two men who flanked him, both handsome, both in their mid-twenties, both strongly built and exuding an aura of toughness. None of these toted placards.
    "You trying to break up this demonstration, stranger?" the solemn-faced man said in a booming voice.
    None of the group wore gun-belts, but the tall man's companions adopted the stance of gunfighters, seemingly from habit.
    Edge climbed down from the wagon and matched his height with the older man. Their stares met and held.
    "You got a right to make a picket line," Edge said evenly, with quiet menace. "I got business with the sheriff so I got a right to cross it - through it or over it."
    "What kind of business?"
    "Mine."
    The two gunslingers without guns hustled in close to each side of Edge. "You want we should feed him some knuckles, Mr. Mayer?" the one on the right asked.
    "No!"
    a woman called from the rear of the throng. "You said we'd keep it peaceful for one more day, Mr. Mayer."
    "We want to report the stage was held up." Wood called from the seat.
    "Hood did it again!" a man yelled. "He hit another stage. Get Ford."
    Edge continued to clash eyes with Mayer. "Thought Breen was the law?"
    "He is," the older man replied. "But, John Ford will want to know. He directs the stagecoach operations around here." He looked from one of his sidekicks to the other. "Duke, Randy. Let him through."
    Edge waited for the others in the group to move aside, then nodded. "Obliged.'' He headed for the door of the sheriff's office.
    Wood jumped down from the wagon and scuttled after the tall half-breed with nervous, sidelong glances at the latent menace of Duke and Randy.
    "Somebody help me with the injured man," Dexter pleaded from the rear of the wagon.
    As with Mayer in command, the group clustered around the wagon, asking questions and shouting advice, Edge pushed open the door of the law office and followed it inside the sparsely-furnished, cigar-reeking room. Wood was like a frightened puppy scampering at his heels.
    "Hold it, citizen," Breen ordered and Edge complied so quickly that Wood thudded into his back.
    The photographer peered around the towering figure of Edge and caught his breath. The sheriff was a stern-faced man in his mid-fifties with broad shoulders and a muscular frame that bulged his sweat-stained shirt. He had rough-hewn, angular features the color of old rust against which his discolored teeth looked white in comparison. The hair sprouting from under his high-crowned black hat was grey. He wore the star of his office