--1--    

    He had walked into Allister just after dawn because someone had stolen his horse twenty-one miles northeast in Abilene and a prostitute had taken his money in some nameless township six miles down the road so he had had no way of buying a new mare--two events that had spurned Winters McCormick's unwavering disdain for humanity all within six hours.
     Had he been on horseback, he would have undoubtedly missed Allister.  He would have rode straight through during the night without even realizing he had ridden through a town at all.  But he figured that a lot of people probably did that.  Allister was small and could barely even be considered a town.  A single street ran through its entirety, east to west and only four buildings stood within the city limits. The structures were all built of sturdy wood that had been bleached from years of exposure to the sun, but they looked well maintained.  One was a general store that probably only carried necessities.  It had the word STORE painted directly on the front of the building.  Another of the buildings had two floors--the bottom was a saloon operated by some alcoholic and the top was a hotel owned by the local sheriff.  Directly across the street from the bar was a small jail.  The fourth building was a barn with five stalls inside and a carved sign reading LIVERY outside.  McCormick couldn't see a point in it.  There were no horses in Allister as far as he could tell.
    He had waited inside the saloon until the bartender stumbled down the stairs from the hotel above and had asked for a drink on the credit.  After the bartender had denied his request, McCormick had walked back outside and sat down on an old chair next to the building's front entrance.
    And he was still sitting there two hours later.  He watched the owner of the general store leave from the hotel and out from the saloon.  He was a stocky gentleman with silver hair, a large gut, and a fancy cigar jutting out from between pursed lips.  He shot McCormick a disgusted look as he passed and he crossed the street at an angle to his store and then disappeared inside.  McCormick figured the old man had taken him for a vagrant, but he couldn't really blame him.  He was a vagrant.  He had no home, no horse, no money.  He was unshaven and scruffy and his long and curly unkempt hair tumbled down to his shoulders from beneath his weathered old hat.  He was a pathetic sight. 
    He clanked his useless spurs against one of the chair's legs and continued watching the town.  Nothing happened for a long time.  It was almost noon before the sheriff arrived.  He stowed his horse away in the livery stable and sauntered into the general store without even noticing the stranger sitting outside his hotel.  McCormick developed an instantaneous abhorrence for the sheriff, but wasn't quite sure why.  The lawman was relatively young--mid-twenties, maybe--and he appeared clean.
    McCormick could see the fat man with the cigar through the store's front windows as he talked to the sheriff.  He was waving a pudgy hand in the air as if expressing some annoyance to his customer and then he pointed directly at McCormick.  The sheriff nodded and left the store.  McCormick could see him craning his neck left and right, evaluating the threat level. McCormick raised his hands from his holsters and smiled.  The sheriff, apparently satisfied, shuffled across the street to where McCormick was sitting.  He didn't stand too close, but he didn't stand too far away either.
    Smart man.
    "Where ya from?"
    "Come in from Abilene," McCormick lied.  "Not really from nowhere in particular."
    The sheriff bowed his head and paused as if deep in thought.
    "Herschel--that's the shop owner over there--he says you've been sittin' here a spell," he said.
    McCormick nodded.  "Round five hours, I guess."
    "Why though? Hotel right behind ya."
    "Ain't got no money.  Some whore took it last night."
    The sheriff shook his head.
    "She had a gun though," McCormick added.
    The sheriff paused, made a clicking sound with his tongue.
    "What about your horse?"
    "Got stole when I was playin' cards," McCormick said.
    "When was this?"
    "Last night."
    The sheriff shook his head again.
    "So ya ain't got no money and ya ain't got no horse?"
    McCormick nodded.
    The sheriff scratched his head.  McCormick could tell that he didn't really want to be having this conversation.
    "Well," the sheriff said, "Ol' Herschel--he says ya been pesterin' the townsfolk too."
    "Well, Herschel’s a damn liar.  There's ain't any townsfolk here to pester."
    "Just goin' by what I'm told."
    "You need a new source of information from what I can see," McCormick said.  "Herschel don't seem too reliable."
    The sheriff ignored him.
    "Ain't too many people come through here.  Cattle rustlers mainly."
    McCormick said nothing.
    "Ya got a name?"
    "Winters McCormick."
    "Well," the sheriff said, " I hate to do it, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to arrest ya."
    "For what?"
    "Vagrancy, I guess. There's a city ordinance."
    "You can't have a city ordinance without a city," McCormick said.
    The sheriff ignored the statement....