It is true that without the help of Shapiro I would have ended up at the end of a noose or maybe even a bullet in the back. I’d lost my way, desperate for food and shelter, moving from one rotting gold-mining town to the next. My clothes were tattered, threadbare, and my horse, the only thing apart from my Henry rifle I owned, was suffering as much as I. In the last town I drifted into, the ostler at the saloon stables shook his head, a sad look in his eyes. “She ain’t got long, young fella.” He stroked her nose, peering into her eyes, and tutted. “Nah, not long at all. She’s all broken down.” His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “A little like you.”
I put a knife in his throat, hid his body in one of the stable stalls and, taking whatever he had, saddled up a new mount and walked it outsi
