The Last Days of Wolf Garnett

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The stranger arrived in New Boston on the Tuesday stage from Gainsville. The driver handed down his warbag and saddle. "Big day for New Boston," the driver said, eying the crowd that milled on the plank sidewalks in front of the false-fronted stores.

The stranger mutely shouldered his saddle and bulled his way through the crowd of curious onlookers. A late-model Winchester under one arm, he went through the massed loafers with the unmindful arrogance of a war chariot going through light infantry. He had taken perhaps a dozen steps when he suddenly reached out and stopped a passing cowhand. "Which way to the sheriff's office?"

"Across the street." The cowhand pointed. "Over Rucker's feed store."

With not so much as a nod of thanks, the newcomer plowed across the deep-rutted street. He took the outside stairway to the second-floor gallery that overlooked the street. Two business offices had been built on top of the feed store, small boxlike affairs with single sash windows looking down on the colorless prairie town. There was a scaling sign beside the first door bearing the legend: MARVIN DOOLIE, M.D. In smaller letters, was the message:

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