BRAND OF THE WRANGLER
High desert. The setting sun was retreating behind the canyon bluffs, casting long shadows that slowly began to engulf the small town of Pine Box.
Pine Box wasn’t much to look at. A scattering of wooden buildings that stood stubbornly against the vast, sunburnt stretch of arid rock. A thin, crooked main street cut through the center, which connected the saloon, the church, and the jailhouse.
Inside the jailhouse, Sheriff Ford Beaumont sat slouched at his desk, absently studying a worn-out map. The door burst open. He lifted his eyes. A woman, hands clasped together in worry.
“Sheriff Beaumont,” her voice trembled. “Samuel—he still ain’t come home. I don’t… I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed.