Boone took a sip of his sarsaparilla. Set the glass down. "Tell me something, son. You know what a sheriff actually does?"
The saloon held its breath. The stranger's fingers twitched. For a long, terrible second, the air between the two men seemed to crystallize, sharp as shattered glass. Sheriff
The saloon had gone quiet when Boone pushed through the doors. The stranger stood at the bar, one hand flat on the wood, the other resting easy on his hip where a revolver sat in a polished holster. He was younger than the sheriff had expected—maybe thirty—with a face that was handsome in the way a razor blade is handsome: clean, sharp, and likely to cut you. Boone took a sip of his sarsaparilla