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unsure about how he felt,
     he knew one thing: when a man’s family is killed, he ought to do something about it. He figured he should find his two brothers,
     Evan and Jubal, head on back home to Vengeance Creek, and find out just what the hell happened.
    He looked at the telegram again and saw that it had been sent by Dude Miller. He remembered Dude well, a friend of his father’s
     who ran a business in the town of Vengeance Creek.
    He was going to have to ask Dude how he knew where to find him, but of course, that question would take a back seat to the
     obvious question.
    How had his parents been killed?
    He decided that in the morning he would leave the sheriff an answer to the telegram, to have the key operatorsend when he
     opened the office. That way he could get an early start and not have to worry about letting Dude know that he and the boys
     were coming.
    He folded up the telegram and put it in his breast pocket. Now that he was bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, his stomach
     and throat were demanding their satisfaction.
    He left the room in search of a meal and a drink.
    When Keller got back to his office he found Bob Collins and Clyde Wexler waiting there.
    “Well?” Collins asked.
    “Well, what?” Keller asked. He walked nonchalantly to his desk and sat down. He’d just faced Sam McCall, given him bad news,
     and left without a scratch. He was feeling mighty fine.
    “What happened?” Collins asked.
    “What did he say?” Wexler asked.
    Keller looked up at both of them and said, “He said, ‘much obliged.—”
    “That’s all?” Wexler asked.
    Keller nodded.
    Wexler looked at Collins and said, “Damn, I coulda done it.”
    McCall walked the street until he spotted a small café. He went in and got himself some steak and potatoes, some biscuits,
     and some good, strong coffee. It was the best meal he’d had in weeks.
    Nothing special had taken him to Corozon in the first place, except the fact that he was drifting in that direction. Matter
     of fact, he’d been drifting for a long time, ever since he’d first left home when he was seventeen. At that age he’d fancied
     himself a hand with a gun and had left home to prove it. Well, he’d proved it, all right. Inthose days he was fast with a
     gun, and just mean enough to use it when the whim struck him. He didn’t learn the right of it until he was in his late twenties.
     That was when he truly grew up, but by that time it was too late, he was already “Sam McCall.”
    For the past fifteen years or so he’d been trying to live down the sins of the first ten years. Unfortunately, even during
     that time he’d managed to find his share of trouble and add to the early reputation. He tried things like riding shotgun,
     and even wearing a badge for a while, to try and change his image, but all that did was add to the image. Dime novels were
     written about him, mentioning his days as a gunman, his days riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, his experiences as a lawman and
     a bounty hunter. It all mixed together to make him a real romantic figure in the eyes of some, and simply something deadly,
     someone to be avoided, in the eyes of others—like the people of Corozon.
    The waitress who served him was as nervous as the liveryman and the clerk had been. When he left the café to find the saloon,
     men and women avoided him, and children pointed at him until their parents pulled them away.
    When he reached the saloon and entered he didn’t pause to acknowledge the stares of the other patrons. He simply walked to
     the bar and ordered a cold beer.
    As he’d entered he had seen sitting at a back table the two men he’d previously seen standing outside his hotel. He was now
     in a position to watch them in the mirror behind the bar while he quenched his thirst with the first beer and ordered a second.
    His original intention had been as he had told the deputy, to avoid trouble. His feeling now, however, was that if these two
     yahoos wanted