It’s easy to feel alone as the shadows gather and the pale moon rises over the High Plains. The Apache say that on nights like this, the cold wind from the prairie has a mind of its own – a malignant chill, born of the darkness, which eats at your warmth, and steals all compassion.
It was a night like that when Barton Duvall rode into Tombstone. A night like that when they found what was left of little Alina Hundle –the few sad remains, barely recognizable, that Barton had left for her family to bury. And, it was a night like that when you realized that justice was more than a word bandied around by fearful shopkeepers – it was a necessity.
The year is 1880, and the posse is forming…
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