HIS aim proved good. After emptying seven rounds into a makeshift target crafted out of an old, rotting piece of tree-trunk, Peters wiped his brow with his sleeve and sighed. His anger boiled. To have killed Mr Jenkins the way they did, then leaving the body so that his wife would find him. Obviously, it was meant as a warning. But why? It had been some time since Peters had experienced such wanton disregard for human life. This latest killing brought it all back.
He wandered through the back streets and entered the saloon by the rear entrance. There was a smattering of customers, but most people seemed to be on the street, wondering what was going on at the Sheriff’s office. That suited Peters just fine, and he went to the bar and ordered a whisky. The barman gave him a look, which Peter
