It was in the late autumn of seventy-five, some three months before the Apache breakout, that a young man, tall and lean in the saddle, rode into the town of Paradise with murder on his mind. He tied his horse to the hitching rail outside the Parody Hotel and Saloon, kicked his dusty boots against the entrance steps and pushed his way through the batwing doors just as Sarah Lamprey was coming out. Looking flushed, all full-bosomed black dress and dark purple bonnet with matching parasol, she glared at the man, stopping him in his tracks.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.
Ignoring him, Sarah Lamprey huffed and went into the street, the young man’s eyes following her hour-glass figure.
“No point you thinking dark thoughts,” said a voice. The young man turned to see a large, lu
