Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) by Mark Wayne McGinnis Page B

rust in my life.
    “So much for that Dodge City ambiance,” I said.
    “I’m going inside to use the little girls’ room. All that jostling!” Carmen headed off toward the closest of the cabins—the one with the sign on its roof that spelled out General Store. The letters looked like rusted-out auto exhaust pipes.
    Standing on Main Street and taking in the town, I noticed a number of locals had come outside their small abodes. I waved to a bearded man wearing soiled clothes, standing across the road from me, but he simply glared back. His expression read: You have five minutes to get the hell out of Dodge. It quickly became apparent—Guffy was not only incredibly remote from the rest of the world, it was also terribly impoverished.
    Something wet and brown flew by my left shoulder, landing in front of me in the dirt. I turned to see an elderly man who looked identical to the bearded man across the street. He smelled of old sweat and chewing tobacco as he came to a halt next to me.
    “Town’s small, but we watch out for one another here.”
    I nodded, turning away, not knowing how to respond to that.
    “Don’t look like much, but we have everything any bigger town has. I’m Corki, the sheriff here … elected fair and square every six years.”
    I turned back, noticing Corki had a Glock secured into a leather shoulder holster, beneath the dark-stained armpit of his crumpled shirt.
    “Is crime a big factor in Guffy, Sheriff?” I asked. “What do you have here, maybe fifty … a hundred … residents?”
    “Seventy-five. But considering the bulk of them are men, needing to get away from the rest of the world … ’cause a lot are ex-cons—yeah, there’s a bit of mischief I need to contend with on a regular basis.”
    I reassessed the townsfolk, milling around in front of us. “You have a jail?”
    He laughed at that. “Of sorts. Justice system here is unique. Our mayor is a cat. Our prosecutor does double-duty as Sheriff. I’m also the undertaker and the barkeep.” He pointed toward a slightly larger log cabin structure, farther on down the road. On its roof sat a sign, reading BAR, and by its appearance, it was made from old beer bottles.
    “What do you think of the … um … dude ranch traffic?” I asked him, gesturing toward the idling stagecoach and four horses.
    “We’ll see. Could bring a bit of cash into Guffy … that certainly wouldn’t hurt. There again, not sure I’d want to open up a dude ranch this close to the kind of folks who live around here. There’s no shortage of perverts and degenerates within a stone’s throw of where we’re standing.”
    “This close?”
    Corki spit again and nodded. Without turning around to look, he pointed a thumb over his shoulder: “Right back there … over yonder. See it?”
    I spun around and took in the distant landscape. We were in somewhat of a valley, between golden, grassy hills. Behind us, the highest ridge peaked several miles away; perched on its crest was a sprawling structure made of stone and logs. Sunlight was reflecting off its oversized, pane-glass windows.
    “That it? Morning Hawk Ranch?”
    “Three hundred and thirty acres of prime mountain land. I suggest you stay within the fence at night.”
    I didn’t notice it at first, but there it was: A rusted-out chain-link fence encircling the portion of property I could see from this distance. I could also see visible gaps and breaks in the fence. Scanning the distant property, I suspected much of the three hundred-and-thirty acres were actually out of sight, on the far side of the ridge.
    I heard the familiar sounds of fast-moving horses and the clattering of rigging and spotted another stagecoach, approaching down Main Street. More dude ranch guests in transit, I guessed.
    “All aboard!” bellowed our driver, as he pulled himself up and onto the top seat of the waiting stagecoach.
    I saw Carmen as she made her way toward the stagecoach. She waved me to join her. The sheriff touched