From within the old, dilapidated cantina, the sound of a guitar mingled with the raucous voices, an angel amongst the fallen. John Wesley leaned over his saddle"s pommel and took a moment to drink in the atmosphere. Evening was coming on fast now, the sun settling below the distant mountains, and the tiny pueblo, draped in thick, warm air, hummed with the trill of cicadas.
If he could bottle up this moment, he mused with his eyes closed, he"d take a draught every evening and know what true happiness was. He"d ridden so many miles, on so many trails, trying to outrun posses and dodging bullets, entering flea-bitten towns, playing cards, shooting dice, drinking himself half-blind. What he needed now was a good woman, a little place set aside from towns and the prying eyes of strangers, and
