Clint Clay

Whiskey Clint Clay

It was early spring and the March wind was blowing strong causing Red Dozer to duck his head against it. The rain had stopped just an hour a go and the wind was chilling him to the bone. The rain slicker that had been new a year ago was now worn out and was just better than nothing at all. He had ridden all night long across the lonesome Indian Territory of the Cherokee Strip. Following the north star was impossible on the cloudy rain filled night. He was afraid to stop even in the rain where it was less likely he would be pursued. Red was dirty, weary and scared when he entered the little town of South Mound Kansas. He was glad to have made it in the starless night he had been more than lucky. This was just a small farming community the town had just the basics a church, a few stores and saloon with hotel and café then a few scattered houses. This is where he had lived all his short life all twenty years before he had run off with a gang of outlaws. Red was glad to be home and he was glad he had gotten away alive.