Dead Before Sundown

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The storm blew up unexpectedly. At least, Frank Morgan didn’t see it coming, but he was no sailor. He was at home on the back of a horse, not the pitching deck of a boat.

As the Jupiter made a run for shore, Frank stood at the railing, his hands clutching the smooth wood, and watched the dark clouds looming behind the ship. A hard wind blew, and the waves that jutted up from the water reminded Frank of gray fangs waiting to chew the life out of him.

Frank was a broad-shouldered man of medium height whose high-crowned, cream-colored Stetson was pulled down tight on his graying dark hair to keep the gusts from blowing it off his head. His faded blue shirt, jeans, and well-worn boots were the outfit of a cowboy, but except on rare occasions, he hadn’t punched cows since he was a young man in Texas.

That was a lot of years in the past, and a long way from here, as well.

The holstered Colt strapped around Frank’s hips told a different story. The revolver’s walnut grips were worn smooth with use. The holster was oiled and supple.

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