Quite a gathering outside the church.
Not a smart, Sunday-best crowd though. More a weekday-shabby, work-stained bunch. But then Serrano Dinero was a pretty shabby kind of place. No gold in them thar hills any more. Just a bare living to be scratched from the land.
And if, looking at the meeting house, the man called Edge thought the citizens had the Old Time Religion, he was wrong.
Not a service but a sale. No preacher man but an auctioneer. All the worldly goods of a man called Seth Fry—who could let everything go to the poor on account he was due to die at noon.
A forced sale, vigilante law and a bunch of men getting liquored-up to face the hanging. Not a good time for a stranger to ride into town. And for Edge, things were about to get a lot worse fast.