Hooper sighs as another local hard man, all muscles, scars and attitude, strides up the town hall steps.
Not long ago this man would have occupied a stool in one of the seedier taverns, or a bench in the drunk tank stinking of booze and other people’s blood.
More likely the former followed a few hours later by the latter.
He nods at the sheriff, who reluctantly hands the man a rifle.
“Good luck.”
“I won’t need it.”
Hooper watches the man leave, holding his weapon like a club.
Hooper sighs again.
They’ll be scraping up his bones tomorrow morning.
…
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