Spanish Flat was a town balanced between high country and desert, between mines and ranches, between horsemen and hoemen, between the law-abiding and the naturally lawless. At any moment, the balance could shift and the place go up in gunsmoke. One man kept watch on that balance. His name was Jeremy Six and he wore the marshal’s badge.

But even the best lawman has to have a deputy—and when Jeremy’s new segundo set out to even a few old scores with the owlhooters, it meant that the law itself in Spanish Flat had gone loco—and every badge was a fair target for a six-shooter.