Accord, Wyoming.
To Steele it looked like some sort of ghost town. Nothing moving, no people, no horses, not even a cur dog. Nothing except the hot dry wind blowing down the one street, raising a little dust. His horse's hooves echoed lough as he rode warily through.
Then, suddenly, Steele found people. A crowd gathered on the far side of town, watching. Under a tree a young fear-sweated cowhand waited, his wrists bound. From the tree dangled a rope.
Steele was just in time for the hanging, just in time to get involved in a range war that would stain too much bad blood across the good land.