I’d shoved the Colt back into my waistband, and when the woman held out her hand, I shook it. The hand was small, but it wasn’t smooth. There was a roughness about it that told me she had been doing hard work. “Welcome, sir. I’m Madge Haynes, and I believe you’ve done us a great favor.” She spoke like a lady, and I could see she was one.

I pulled my old beat up hat off and nodded to her. She hadn’t looked at Uncle Charlie. “I’m Earl Lamar,” I said. “Sorry about the shootin’, ma’am, but he was fixin’ to pull the trigger on that pistol.”

Without a change in expression, tears began to slide down Mrs. Haynes’ face. “Oh, Mr. Lamar, you don’t know how glad I am that you shot that man. You just don’t know.” And she buried her head in her hands and began to sob. Jubal hugged her, and I stood there like a bump on a log. Crying women were way out of my experience, and I figured the best thing I could do was nothing. Turned out I was right.

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