PEACE OFFICER Brian Garfield It was hot. A gauze of tan dust hung low over the street.
Matt Paradise rode his horse into Aztec, coming off the coach road at four in the afternoon, and when he passed a drygoods store at the western end of the street a lady under a parasol smiled at him. Matt Paradise tipped his hat, rode on by, and muttered
sotto voce, “A friendly face, a sleepy town. Don’t I wish.”
He was a big-boned young man. He took off his hat to scrape a flannel sleeve across his forehead, and exposed to view a wild, thick crop of bright red hair. He had a bold face, vividly scarred down the right cheek. His eyes were gold-flecked, hard as jacketed bullets. There was the touch of isolation about him. He carried a badge, pinned to the front of his shirt.
An intense layer of heat lay along the earth. He found the county sheriff’s office, midway down a block between the hardware store and the barbershop; he dismounted there, and climbed onto the dusty boardwalk with legs stiffened from a long day’s hot ride.
He rested his shoulder against the frame of the open door and waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom inside. A voice reached forward from the dimness: “Something I can do for you?”
. . .
