Standing on the boardwalk, Cyrus leaned back against the wall of Nickels' Saloon to watch people and wagons and horses pass on the peaceful street before him. All was well here, as usual, the businesses prospering and the populace content.

It had been a quiet day so far, a good day. There was just a touch of a spring chill in the air to remind him of the winter that had passed, and at the moment there was only one prisoner in the Lamar County Jail, a local boy who usually managed to spend a day or two every month locked up for disturbing the peace. All in all he was a good boy, but liquor made him crazy. Soon as the kid sobered up, he would be contrite and apologetic.

Paris, Texas, was a good-sized town; not so big that everybody didn't know everybody else, not so small that the amenities that made life pleasant weren't available. Up and down this street, where Nickels' Saloon was one of three prosperous taverns, there was a dress shop and a bakery, a general store and a furniture store, a saddlery and the livery where Cyrus boarded his horse. There was a barber shop, a small café, and a decent hotel. Up near the town square sat the Lamar County Jail, the offices of several lawyers, and the Lamar County Courthouse.

The town was clean and prosperous, and beyond this street there were many fine homes, large and small, a park where the citizens gathered on occasion, and a number of churches. Paris was, all in all, a good place to live.

Most of the government rule, an authority that had been administered primarily by carpetbaggers and thieves, was finally gone, leaving the citizens of Paris to rebuild their lives after surviving a war that had touched them all in some way. Now and then Cyrus thought of moving on, heading west, but he didn't; and he wouldn't. He had his reasons for staying in Paris.

"Sheriff," Mrs. Fowler said as she passed close by, her booted steps crisp on the boardwalk. She nodded her graying head demurely.

Cyrus returned the subtle greeting, tipping his hat and muttering, "Good afternoon." Elizabeth Fowler had lost two sons in the war, soldiers Cyrus had served with in the Ninth Texas Infantry. She always looked at him as if she wondered why he'd survived when her boys hadn't.

After she passed, he absently ran his thumb over the scar that marred his left cheek. The texture was rough, the scar long and ugly. It ran from his jaw to just below his eye, and a small nick bisected his eyebrow with a scar so thin, so fine, that it was hardly visible. Still, every time he looked in a mirror he was reminded of how close he'd come to losing the eye. The blade of the Yankee's bayonet had barely skimmed past the eyeball. A half an inch closer, maybe less.... Well, Cyrus didn't look in the mirror any more than he absolutely had to.

Mrs. Fowler continued on without so much as a glance back, her head high, her spine just a bit too rigid. Yes, he'd be better off in a place where no one knew him, where he didn't see ghosts on every corner, in every pair of haunted eyes. But he had his reasons for staying.

A raised voice from inside Nickels' Saloon caused Cyrus's entire body to tense. His fingers flexed, his nostrils flared. Ah, he'd been right when he'd determined that the stranger who'd ridden into town and tied his horse up out front had smelled like trouble.

Sheriff Cyrus Bergeron had a nose for trouble.

With a sigh he pushed away from the wall and turned to enter the saloon. The short, broad-backed stranger leaned over the bar, threatening poor old Hamlin Nickels with a short, rusty knife.

"Is this the best liquor you've got?" the stranger shouted, knocking an empty shot glass aside. The blade of his short knife danced inches from Hamlin's frightened face. "Tastes like horse piss!"

Hamlin was a gentle, older man, with a narrow face and a ready smile. His abundance of well-kept dark red hair was shot with silver these days, and a number of deep lines bracketed the saloon keeper's mouth and eyes. Wide eyes in Hamlin's wrinkled face were fastened on the knife that threatened him, as he sputtered in defense of his whiskey and stepped away from the dull-bladed weapon.

"Get back here you lily-livered coward." The stranger reached out and snagged Hamlin's sleeve to hold the aging bartender in place.

Cyrus approached silently, closing on the bully. He recognized the stranger, even though he'd never seen him before. A little man with a big ego, the ruffian was looking for a fight. Men like this one never picked on those who might fight back.

"Let him go," Cyrus said softly.