Texas Iron

Prologue

Clyde Wexler was stunned.

Wexler had been the telegraph key operator in Corozon, Montana, for four years. He’d never before received a message that so much as made him raise his eyebrows. At twenty-five he’d become pretty complacent about his job. He finished transposing the last clicks of the key onto paper and then stared at what he had written, his mouth agape. He was so stunned he almost forgot to acknowledge receipt of the message. He pounded the key as quickly as he could, then switched it off and ran from the office, holding the message in his hand like a banner.

Walt Keller was the sheriff of Corozon and had been for almost nine years. During that time he hadn’t had to draw his gun except to ventilate the ceiling of the White Horse Saloon a time or two when the hands got rowdy. When he took office he was thirty-eight and weighed a svelte 170. Now he was forty-seven and after nine years of an easy job, with free meals and drinks, he weighed close to 250.

He was shifting his bulk in his chair, trying to fit his lard-ass more comfortably, when his office door burst open and young Clyde Wexler rushed in.

“Sheriff’” Wexler blurted, breathless.

“Take it easy, Clyde,” Keller said, still shifting, “the town council ain’t gonna buy me a new door if ya bust it, ya know.”

“Sheriff, I gotta show you somethin’!”

“Where the hell is that deputy?” Keller complained.

“I’m ready for lunch.”

“Sheriff, I got a telegram today.”

“That ain’t so unusual, is it?” Keller asked, wondering if he should have the beef stew over at the cafe, or the meat loaf at Dillon’s Restaurant. “You get ’em sometimes, don’t ya?”

“This one is real important.”

Keller stopped fidgeting and looked up at the young man.

“Is it for me?”

“Uh, no—”

“For you?”

“No—”

“Then what in the blue blazes are you talkin’ about, boy?”

Wexler, in a gesture of exasperation, held the telegram out to Keller. “It’s for Sam McCall.”

Keller, who was reaching for the slip of paper, stopped short and stared at it, as if it had suddenly burst into flames.

“McCall?”

“Sam McCall.”

“B—but McCall isn’t in Corozon.”

Wexler opened his fingers, allowing the telegram to fall, and as it fluttered to the top of the sheriff’s desk he said, “You mean he ain’t yet!”