Being a Texas Ranger had its rewards though they were few and far between but after twelve long and lonely years on horseback tracking down and arresting what seemed like an endless number of ruthless, cold-blooded fugitives from justice, Clint Wells had had enough. By the grace of God, he had survived the hardships and dangers of his job. At thirty-seven years of age and feeling several years older the time had finally come to hang up his reliable Colt revolver, surrender the tarnished silver badge, and head further west. The Arizona Territory had its own brand of special lawmen, the Arizona Rangers, and they needed Clint’s priceless experience. If they got their way, he would not be hanging up his six-shooter anytime soon. The year was 1892; the place was central Arizona and the wonderful smell of late spring was in the air.
