George G. Gilman

Independence Day, July 4th, and the good folks of Providence were celebrating. Celebrating with them; Adam Steele. Four years of living out at Trail's End and it looked like he was getting accepted at last as a peaceful, sober and responsible member of society. So there he was, dressed up in his Sunday best, drinking the orange fruit cordial, exchanging small talk and greetings and dancing in a most proper fashion with the ladies.
The fist fight that broke out was not of his making. The fatal stabbing, none of his doing. And he'd never invited the woman who rode out later to see him with one thing on her mind and nothing under her riding clothes. Try though he might, trouble just kept on heading his way and paradise was not so much lost as never yet found.