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The Western World of
Sheriff Juan Miguel Castillo

Where he came from, it was considered uncouth for a lawman to go in guns blazing and plug the
wrong hombre. He figured it was considered just as vulgar in Tucson.

Tracking bandits in Indian country was tough business. It took nerves of steel and a Winchester
dealing hot lead.

Juan let the question go. McKinney would learn soon enough what passed for luxury in the west.

Juan sat tall in the saddle and breathed in the beauty of the Sonoran Desert. Ironwoods, ocotillo,
and saguaro cactus defiantly rose out of sand and rock, reaching up to a radiant blue sky. He had
been in the Arizona territory for only a short time, and its beauty was already growing on him.
No place was as picturesque or as unforgiving.

A posse was fine for bringing a felling man on horseback to ground, but not for following clues.

Gone were the beautiful rolling hills and lush saguaro, palo verde, and yuccas holding scores of
quail, deer, and javelina. Wickenburg was arid, flat, and inhospitable. He’d only seen a single
jackrabbit since leaving Phoenix; and it appeared too scrawny to feed a thin woman on a diet.

Juan had survived the war and sent many an outlaw to the gallows by trusting his gut, but that
wasn’t always reliable. His Winchester was.

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