The homesteader continued to draw water from the well while keeping his eyes fixed on the rider approaching from the south. Despite the shimmering heat haze typical for the time of year, the horseman had been in view for about an hour, following the twisted trail, just a silhouette most of the time. The approach was slow, but steady, purposeful. The stranger passed on taking the track that headed west to Jefferson City, so the homesteader knew there was no other place he could be a-heading, other than the farm. That’s one thing with having a place out on the prairie: plenty of time to go get a shotgun.
“What can I do for you stranger?” yelled the rancher while they were still maybe 70 yards apart. The shotgun was propped against the well, hidden from view. But it was within easy reach. Freshly cleaned and oiled. Loaded.
The rider continued his silent, deliberate approach, only stopping when he was finally in the yard. He remained mounted on
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How I know about you.”
“Seems like these three men in the ‘paper are dead. Headline says they got sentenced to hang. So I can’t be Dexter can I! Dexter must be dead!”
“Dexter should be dead. Beauregard and Franklin should be dead too. All three of you were due to be hanged by the neck until you were dead. But before sentence could be carried out, before Justice could be delivered, the town fell to Sherman - ah, I see now how you picked your new name - and you were freed. Avoided your sentence. Denied Caesar his due. And we must render unto Caesar, like the Good Book tells us, mustn 't we Dexter. See what it says at the end of the article?”
The homesteader momentarily looked down at the page. That’s all the time it took for the Preacher to level his gun and blow a hole in Dexter’s shoulder, shattering the joint, knocking the rancher back against the well, shotgun falling from his grasp. The Preacher was off his horse and had the man by the throat before the sound of the gunshot had