It had taken Roger Anderson more than a year to find Canyon Roost, but it was just the kind of town he needed.
No rail station, no post office, no hostelry, no telegraph.
Most importantly, there almost no people.
No people who knew Roger, no people who knew Phillip Hudson.
And … well, no lawmen to hang Roger for gunning down Hudson.
One thing Canyon Roost did have, though, was a tavern.
Marvin Harper, the barkeep, had been there as long as anyone could remember, and he was more or less the mayor of the place.
Marvin had been married once, but his wife, Stella, died in childbirth, leaving the barkeep to raise Matty, their son. Matty was a fine boy, but ambitious enough to want to leave Canyon Roost.
And so he did, catching on with one of those fancy telephone companies on the east coast.
When Matty came home for Christmas that first year, he brought a telephone with him and gave it to Marvin.
Like any proud father, Marvin proudly displayed the gift, right there in the middle of his walnut bar.
Of course, the regulars rode him about it.
“Why, that’s a useless piece of junk, Harper! Who’s gonna call you? That’s the only telephone within a thousand miles!”
Marvin would just smile and ignore their barbs, because he knew one day, someone would call.
Even so, when that telephone rang one late night in October, shattering the soft murmur of his handful of customers, Marvin nearly jumped out of his skin.
Roger watched on from a dark corner, dread growing in his chest.
“Hello?” Marvin said into the receiver.
He was sheet-white but nodded. “Yeah, he’s here.”
Marvin turned and beckoned for Roger.
“It’s for you, Anderson. Some fella named Hudson.”
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