The Texan and the Black Widow
He came to a cross street and drew up, and as his habit was, Long Henry gauged the night sounds borne to him by the sultry wind moving disdainfully along the wide and dusty thoroughfare -- raucous laughter, piano music floating out of a saloon across the street, the clatter of hoofs drumming on the street hardened to iron by a scarcity of rain, and the distant lowing of cattle. The yellowed and wavering light above revealed the watchful gleam in Long Henry's brown eyes, and too, the sense of isolation here, but from under the brim of the Stetson they were constantly checking off every item in view, missing nothing. He was a tall and rock-lean southerner, clean-shaven and with ruggedly handsome features. There were others here of an equal height, but Long Henry seemed to stand taller than these men. Maybe it was because of his erect carriage, or the way he moved and talked that made others give him a second look in passing. His clothes were neat but trail worn, and hanging at his right hip was a .45 Colt Dragoon.
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