A buzzard circles lazily in the cool, crisp air. Two mean-looking cowboys saunter down a dusty street lined with old clapboard shops with wooden sidewalks. The air is still and the sound of their boots crunching the dry, crusty dirt is amplified by the trees that loom nearby. At the end of the street, a man with a silver star on his chest and his thumb hooked in his belt, steps out of the shadows. "Boys. What'cha doing in my town?" this man says softly.
The cowboys stop and loosen their guns. "You must be the sheriff" the taller, meaner-looking cowboy spits.
