No Advance Praise Available

To Cyrus’s disbelief, the old man lurched from his seat. Reaching across the desk, he grabbed Cyrus’s coat by the lapels, bringing their faces inches apart, and said, through gritted teeth, “I’ve waited twenty years for this moment and here you sit in your fancy house, with your fancy new name, behind your fancy desk, wearin’ your fancy clothes, and you ain’t got a clue who I am, you lyin’, cheatin’, murderin’, thievin’ bastard.”

Icy fingers of fear began to run up and down Cyrus’s spine; his gut clenched with every word the old man spoke. He fought to maintain a haughty expression as he stared into those hate-filled eyes.

“Release me, sir, and control yourself,” he said before Garrison spoke.

“Yes, my good man, this kind of behavior will gain you nothing. We’re all civilized men here. I’m sure, after hearing what you have to say, our good friend Cyrus will be more than happy to atone for his past sins and give you your due.”

“He damn well better.” The old man sneered as he retook his seat.

In a gruff voice, throat gone dry, Cyrus demanded, “For the last time, what is this about?”

Garrison paused to light his thin cigar. “Well, Cyrus, it’s about a Colorado silver mine and murder.”