THE LAST MAN AT COLD CREEK

The Stranger in the Snow

The first thing Samuel Reed noticed about Cold Creek was that nobody was talking.

That was strange.

Towns talked.

They talked when a stranger arrived.

They talked when a horse broke loose.

They talked when a woman cried outside the church or when a drunk fell through a saloon window.

But when Samuel rode into Cold Creek just before sunset, the town was silent.

Snow drifted across the main street.

It covered the roofs, the hitching posts, and the wooden sign above the general store.

Even the church bell was still.

Samuel pulled his horse to a stop.

His gray gelding breathed clouds into the freezing air.

Samuel had been riding for three days.

He was forty-eight years old, though the weather had carved another ten years into his face.

A long scar ran from his left temple to his jaw.

He wore a brown coat, worn gloves, and a black hat with a cracked leather band.

At his hip hung an old revolver.

He had not fired it in six years.

He had hoped never to fire it again.

He looked down the empty street.

A door slammed.

Samuel's hand moved toward his gun.

Then stopped.

An old woman appeared behind the window of the general store.

She stared at him.

Samuel removed his hand from the revolver.

“Evening.”

The woman disappeared.

Samuel frowned.

He had seen fear before.

This was something different.

This was recognition.

He rode toward the hotel.

A sign hung above the door:

COLD CREEK HOUSE — ROOMS 50 CENTS

He tied his horse and entered.

The lobby was empty.

A man stood behind the counter.

He was perhaps thirty-five, dressed in a black vest.

“You need a room?”

“Yes.”

“One night?”

“Maybe two.”

The man slid a register toward him.

“Name?”

Samuel hesitated.

“Sam Reed.”

The hotel clerk stopped writing.

His eyes lifted.

“Samuel Reed?”

“Yes.”

The clerk went pale.

Samuel noticed.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

The clerk closed the register.

“Room four.”

Samuel took the key.

As he turned, the clerk said:

“You should leave before morning.”

Samuel stopped.

“Why?”

The clerk looked toward the window.

“Because everybody who stays in Cold Creek longer than one night ends up dead.”

Samuel smiled.

“I've heard worse hotel advertisements.”

The clerk didn't smile back.

Samuel went upstairs.

Room four was small.

Bed.

Chair.

Washbasin.

Window overlooking the street.

He removed his coat and sat down.

He had come to Cold Creek for one reason.

A letter.

It had arrived two weeks earlier.

No return address.

Only six words.

Your brother did not die alone.

Samuel had not seen his brother Daniel in twelve years.

Daniel had been declared dead eight months earlier.

Accidental shooting.

That's what the telegram had said.

Samuel had believed it.

Until the letter arrived.

He reached inside his coat and removed it.

The paper was old.

The handwriting was unfamiliar.

But beneath the message was a symbol.

A small circle crossed by a line.

Samuel knew that symbol.

It belonged to the Iron Circle.

A group of men who had once controlled half the territory.

Judges.

Sheriffs.

Ranchers.

Bankers.

Men who believed the law existed for everyone except themselves.