The first rays of sunlight sparkled over Roper Ridge to the east, and Oatfield now lay ten miles behind the posse.
Twenty men hellbent on justice had spent the night searching for the scoundrel who murdered Sheriff Frank Pulliam behind Sully’s Saloon. None of them had known each other for more than a couple days, but they all had one thing in common -- they were going to make their fortune at Potter’s Creek, where Roger Fuson found gold the week before.
And they had been counting on Pulliam to keep the town nice and quiet while they went about their work.
But now Pulliam was gone, gunned down because … well, no one was really sure why.
All anyone knew was that two shots had been fired ‘long about midnight, and that one of them dropped Pulliam in a pool of blood.
When the men poured out of the tavern, they found Pulliam crumpled on the ground, tended to by old Floyd Mason, the town drunk.
That other shot? Floyd said the sheriff had winged his assailant as the outlaw made his retreat.
The mob of men had shown up plenty quick, and Floyd reckoned they should be able to find the fella right easy. He’d be the one bleeding all over the desert floor.
Paul Kramer agreed with Floyd on one thing -- the throng had materialized in a flash.
Before he knew what was happening, the band of men had swallowed him up, and he’d been compelled to partake in their hunt.
Now, as the tired mob disbanded and some of them turned back toward town, Paul joined the dozen or so who decided to give up their gold quest and head on home.
He was just glad no one had noticed the bullet hole in his shirt sleeve.
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