The shooting started in front of the feed store.
It always did, in towns like this—right where men came to buy what kept them alive. Hay. Grain. Ammunition. Credit they couldn't afford.
Tom Calder was already in the saddle when the first shot cracked. His horse lunged sideways, hooves churning dust, and Tom twisted in the seat, hand tight on the reins, eyes snapping toward the sound. He didn't need to see the muzzle flash to know trouble had arrived hard and fast.
