Chapter One

As soon as Lancaster rode into Council Bluffs, Iowa, he had a bad feeling. The street was filled with people, and there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. As he dismounted in front of the Black Horse Saloon the crowd kept him from seeing what was causing all the commotion, but he was more interested in getting a cold beer, anyway. The hot sun had all but baked him dry.

He entered the saloon and saw that the interior was in shambles. Chairs and tables had been overturned, there was glass everywhere, presumably from broken bottles. It was getting on toward midafternoon, when saloon business generally picked up, but there were only three men in this one--one behind the bar, and two in front of it. Everyone else was apparently outside.

He stepped through the rubble to the bar. "Can I get a beer?"

The man behind the bar looked at the other two, one of whom nodded and shrugged.

"Why not?" the bartender asked. "Looks like we're open again."

He was a big, heavyset man in his late forties, whose face was blazing red, probably because it was almost as hot inside as it was out. The only saving grace was that they were not out in the direct sunlight.

"Open again?" Lancaster asked as the man set a frothy mug of beer in front of him.

"Yeah," the barman said, "we were closed for the trial."

Lancaster took two big swallows of the cold beer and shuddered. He put the mug down on the bar, determined not to make himself sick by guzzling it. He took a few seconds to get his breath back.

"What was the trial about?"

"Murder, friend," one of the other men said, "it was about murder."

Lancaster turned his attention toward the speaker. He was about the bartender's age, but smaller, thinner. Although he looked hot he did not seem to be suffering as much as the bartender. Of course, it didn't help that he was wearing a three-piece suit, which indicated to Lancaster that the man probably was high-up in the town hierarchy.

"Really? I thought by all the commotion outside that the circus might be in town."

"It is," the third man said, "in a way."

"A circus and a trial?" Lancaster asked.

"Well," the man said, "not so much a circus as a hanging--which sort of brings a circus atmosphere with it."

A chill went through Lancaster that had nothing to do with the beer.

"A hanging?" he asked. "So soon after the trial?"

The man in the suit looked away.

"Guilty's guilty," the third man said.

He was younger than the other two, maybe early thirties--a few years younger than Lancaster, as well. He had large circles of sweat under his arms. The gun he wore was not fancy, but it was clean and the man wore it like he knew how to use it. That was something Lancaster had trained himself to notice, and it had saved his life many times. The man had a toothpick in his mouth that he removed to speak, and then replaced.

"The town's real excited about it," the bartender said. "There hasn't been a hangin' around here in a long time."

"Then why aren't you out there?"

"I'm not interested in watching a hangin'," the bartender said.

"And it won't start without us," the second man said, his tone regretful.

"Why's that?" Lancaster asked.

The third man removed the toothpick from his mouth and said, "I'm the hangman." He smiled, as if the announcement pleased him, and reinserted the toothpick.

"And you?" Lancaster asked the man in the suit.

"I'm the mayor," he said, "and I presided over the trial as judge."

"And was there a jury?"

"Sure was," the third man said. "Six good and honest men." Toothpick out, toothpick in.

"And they found him guilty and sentenced him to hang...today?" Lancaster asked.

"That's right," the mayor said, looking away and not meeting Lancaster's eyes.

(continued on next page)