Good Day for a Hanging

Prologue

It was dark by the time he rode into town, and no one noticed another stranger. It was a small town, just one main street, with a jail and a saloon, a bank and a general store, a gun shop, a nondescript café, a tobacco store, and a barber. And a livery at the end of the street, right next to the ramshackle hotel. He went to the livery first, to obtain lodging for the worn-out gelding, then next door to the hotel, to do the same for himself. They only had one room left; the little town was filled up with people come to see the trial and, they assumed, the hanging. He didn't need much, and the room was fine. He trudged up the stairs and opened the door, and the inside of the room was as dark as his heart. After all, it was his brother they were trying to hang.

He was thinking about a lot of things when the telegram appeared out of nowhere, but the biggest thing on his mind was a girl – a woman, actually – a woman that he'd fallen hopelessly in love with. A woman that he'd contemplated changing his entire life for. A woman . . . he'd considered marrying voluntarily. He'd been married once when he was very young, but that was a union arranged to repay a debt, and ended when she was killed. This woman – this woman was everything he'd ever wanted, and never expected to find. Smart, beautiful, passionate, and as free a spirit as he was. Someone who would complement him in every way and never tie him down. And he'd left her in an instant, as soon as the telegram came.

There were no second thoughts, no recriminations. This was his brother, his best friend, the man that had practically raised him. Bret Maverick was his brother's name, and he was a gambler of some repute. The man that had just ridden into town was his younger brother Bart, another gambler, both of them that rare breed of card player – honest men, who played the game as a science and religion rather than just the means to an end. Neither was a gun hand, carrying weapons only for protection, and neither possessed much of a temper – although the younger brother was quicker with his fists than the older.

That's why the telegram was so unexpected. The man standing in the door to the room was exhausted, confused, and starved. And none of that mattered. He lit the kerosene lamp on the dresser and dumped his saddlebags and gun belt on the bed. Best not be wearing that where he was going. Then he closed the door to the room and headed back down the stairs, outside and across the street, up three doors to the jail. There was a light on inside and he didn't hesitate at the door, just walked in wearily and addressed the man sitting at the lone desk. "You the sheriff?"

The man nodded but didn't stand up. "That's right. Hopper. Frank Hopper. Who are you?"

"Bart Maverick."