19Francis wandered into town mid-morning, his backside raw from the long ride. Reining in outside the sheriff's office, he eased himself out of the saddle, groaning as he stretched out his back. Around him, townsfolk idled by. Within their number wandered a great many worn-out-looking workers, hands black with toil, faces ingrained with fatigue. He wished he was back in Archangel, sitting in his easy chair, supper on the boil, his wife easing away his pains. For too long he had ridden across endless plains, tracking the wanted, the escaped, the desperate. What he yearned for now, more than anything, was peace. He hoped that what he was about to do would bring him some semblance of that. He rapped on the door and went inside.
The sheriff was talking to another man, their heads down, poring
