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yes, they had done a piece on Brewster Ritter, but it was short and published three months ago. At first O’Hara thought she wasn’t going to look up the item, especially since she looked askance at his strange garb—a black beaded vest over a red shirt, battered hat with a feather in the brim—and long hair that fell over his shoulders. But she surprised him when she said, “Come this way. I’ll find it for you.”
    She led O’Hara into a small room that smelled like a library and lifted aside stacked editions of the newspaper and shuffled around others until she found the one she wanted.
    â€œAh, here it is, right there at the bottom of page three,” the woman said. “You can read it at your leisure, though it is very short.”
    Miss Pearson left the room and O’Hara sat in a high-backed chair and read:

    A New Face in Town
    Mr. Brewster Ritter, a visitor from up north, called in at the Democrat office to tell us he was in town and looking for someone to finance a new business venture involving a timber sawmill. To your humble reporter he looked like a man who can get things done. Any new enterprise that employs some of the loafers that currently plague our fair town will be most welcome, Mr. Ritter.

    O’Hara sat back in the chair and thought things through. The operation Ritter planned was an expensive undertaking and it seemed logical that he had financial backers. Now O’Hara’s suspicion was confirmed by the newspaper story. It was highly probable that Ritter was broke when he arrived in Budville. He told the reporter that he was looking for someone to finance a new business venture and he’d found that person. The question was, who was he?
    Then Miss Pearson stepped back into the office and said, “I do remember something I read in one of the eastern newspapers about a man named Brewster Ritter. It was a long time ago, ten years, perhaps longer.”
    â€œThe same man?”
    â€œWell, it’s not such a common name.”
    â€œWhat did you read, Miss Pearson?”
    â€œThat a man named Ritter owned a textile factory in Savannah. In 1878 the place burned down and eighty-three women and girls were killed. Apparently the factory was very run-down and the investigating authorities called it a firetrap. Mr. Ritter left Georgia in a hurry and was not heard from again.”
    â€œIt could be the same Ritter.”
    â€œIt could be. But I do not like to point a finger at anyone without evidence.”
    â€œYou’re a very wise woman, Miss Pearson,” O’Hara said. Then, “Who’s the richest man in town?”
    The woman smiled. “That would be Mr. Cobb, the banker. But his credentials are unimpeachable. Mathias Cobb is a respected member of the community and a church deacon.”
    â€œI’m sure he is, Miss Pearson,” O’Hara said, rising to his feet.
    â€œI’d like to give you a word of advice, young man,” the woman said. “Cut your hair and dress like a white man and you’ll do better in the world.”
    â€œI’m only half white man,” O’Hara said, smiling. “I’ll dress the white half of me as you say.”
    Miss Pearson was unfazed by O’Hara’s sarcasm. “Please see you do. You would look so handsome as half a white man.”
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    Cletus McPhee was a drifting gunman who’d killed a deputy sheriff in Galveston and then lit a shuck north for the good of his health. He heard that a man named Ritter was paying top gun wages and he’d been in Budville a week but hadn’t yet made contact. McPhee, who affected the dress and manners of a Southern gentleman, was a man at war with the world with a deep, abiding hatred for humanity in general and Indians in particular. In his time he’d killed eight white men and an unknown number of blacks, Indians and Mexicans and regretted not one of them.
    In McPhee’s diseased mind, breeds