Arena of Souls: A Brock Stone Adventure

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“He’s just a kid,” Stumpy muttered. “If he’s seen thirty, I’ll eat my hat.” His hand drifted to his hip, and the solid comfort of the Colt .45 secreted under his jacket. Once he got close enough to his mark, he’d fill the wheat with air. There was no question the guy was a wheat: no hat, no jacket, no belt, loose-fitting shirt worn open at the neck. He was as out of place in the big city as anyone Stumpy had ever seen.

He lowered his head, tipped his hat forward, and moved with the crowd that scurried along B Street. He’d heard tell the government was going to rename it Constitution Avenue, but it would always be B Street to him. He liked things simple. The people around him seemed intent on their business, and none would have any reason to take notice of one more plainly dressed man in a group of many, and that suited him just fine. Hide in plain sight, that was the ticket.

The sky turned gray, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The scent of rain lay heavy on the cool breeze, and the people around Stumpy quickened their pace. But not his mark. He strolled along as if he hadn’t a worry in the world, his blond head and broad shoulders sticking up above the throng of humanity. His size might pose a problem in a tussle though Stumpy could handle himself all right, but the convincer on his hip rendered the point moot.

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