Passin' Through

"I'm just passing' through," the rider said when they asked him his name. And from then on, in the high country around Parrot City, he was called just that: Mr. Passing' Through, a man who rode a blue roan with a skull and crossbones brand and didn't know to keep to himself. And he wouldn't keep [...]
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"I'm just passing' through," the rider said when they asked him his name. And from then on, in the high country around Parrot City, he was called just that: Mr. Passing' Through, a man who rode a blue roan with a skull and crossbones brand and didn't know to keep to himself. And he wouldn't keep to himself. Because something about a parched and dusty ranch appealed to him, and something about a woman's hair made him think of not being alone, and something about a scheme to grab the land away from its rightful owner made him want to stay and fight. And so he stayed and fought. Because liars, killers, and cheaters were coming after Passing' Through with murder in their eyes, and a gun had a way of making him feel at home.