There were 237 paces between the bottom of the stairs at the Coalridge hostelry and the swinging doors of the town saloon.
That was the sort of thing a cardsharp like Dennis Minton noticed. Numbers had always been his best friends, but they’d also made him an outcast.
Growing up on a farm, Dennis was expected to concentrate on chores, not schoolwork. But he couldn’t help himself -- he’d head out to the barn to bale hay, and before he knew it, he’d figured out there were 1012 boards in the loft or that Bessie had 23 spots on her coat.
All that counting worked out pretty well when he was playing cards. There were always 52 of them, and he always knew where any particular card was at any particular moment.
But a fella could only stay in one place for so long when he won every hand.
That’s why Dennis moved around so much, and why he was heading out of Coalridge early on a Sunday morning after a Saturday-night cleansweep.
The sun was peeking over the horizon when Dennis eased onto the seventeenth -- and last -- riser outside the hostelry
He froze -- the soles of his boots were held together with 52 stitches, just like a deck of cards.
The last footprint in front of the bottom stair ... well, that boot had 55 stitches.
With only his own room up the stairs and with nothing to either side, Dennis had one option.
He planted a toe in the dusty street, pivoted to face the darkness behind the stairs, and fired his six-shooter.
Joe Meeker tumbled into the thoroughfare, dead.
He had two guns in his holsters, one bullet hole in his chest ...
… and zero money to his name.
Just as Dennis had left him the night before.
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