My name is no name for an adventure writer, Rick Dayton thought. I need something strong, adventurous ... manly. It has to be a name that sounds like action and excitement. It has to announce that I am someone who's seen it all, done it all, and spits in the very face of danger.

He mulled it over for several minutes as he waited for his train. Then it hit him, "Texas Jack."

The lady on the bench next to him jumped as if she had been poked with a sharp stick. She turned wide eyes toward him and said, "Pardon?"

Rick removed his hat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, ma'am. I merely said, I'm Texas Jack, an author, and I'm on my way West to work on my new book."

She gave a small nod of acknowledgement. "How exciting."

He lifted his chin, basking in the glow of her attention. "Yes, it is, and dangerous, too, of course."

"Oh, my."

It suddenly occurred to him that he needed a pipe. To present the right image, an author should have a pipe. No, that's not exactly right, a cigar. A Western author should have an ever-present cigar. He thought it would make him look older, too.

Rick tipped his hat to the lady as he got up. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but as much as I'm enjoying your company, I find I am quite without a cigar. I wouldn't have smoked one in your presence without permission, of course, but even to be able to have it in one's mouth, unlit or not, can be a comfort. I need to get over to the shop and stock up before the train leaves."

Rick went to the tobacconists and purchased a couple of boxes of good Cuban cigars. Unable to wait, he immediately bit the end off one of the dark, tightly wrapped stogies, and lit it. The noxious smoke brought on a coughing fit and his eyes filled with tears. Whew, these things are terrible. He stubbed it out and thought perhaps he would simply chew on them in the corner of his mouth the way his city editor used to do.

The conductor shouted, "Boooaaaaarrrrdddd!" as Rick returned and found a seat. He made himself as comfortable as the hard, upholstered, straight-backed bench would allow, and opened the new leather-bound journal he had just purchased. He had determined that the slender volume would become his constant companion, diary, and repository of all the facts that would make up the writing he would soon be doing.

Eager to get started, Rick opened the letter that had made this trip possible. It was from his Uncle Edgar. He read it again: