"Probably just someone on their way into Tucson, like us. We'd better check it out, though." The Southerner pulled his Winchester 73 from its sheath and laid it across his waist in the saddle. He'd killed a few men when he'd had to. There was always the possibility that a brother, son, or friend would seek retribution, even though the fights had been fair, the gunplay defensive, their fate deserved. He'd also riled a few lazy, drunk, or dishonest men who'd worked under him at various ranches by giving them their pay and telling them to move on. The Southerner knew that distance and the passage of time were irrelevant where vengeance was concerned. The man who'd sent the telegram asking for his help was proof of that."