He stood there, waiting. The air was still and silent. No birds chirping, no wind rustling, just the merciless sun beating down on the parched dirt street. The saloon, usually a cacophony of bar-room piano, shuffled cards, and boisterous, drunken laughter or drunken anger, was also still and silent, like a graveyard. If there were people, they were hidden behind doors or curtained windows, waiting and watching for the gunfire and bloodshed that were surely moments away.

The Jessup brothers had been on a rampage; a blood-soaked, violent rampage of robbery and killing that had left several towns littered with the bodies of anyone who'd tried to stop them, including sheriffs, innocent bystanders and even children who'd been unfortunate enough to have been in their way. It stopped today. Today was the finish. McAlester was there and would see to that.

He heard the distant sound of horses and men laughing. The Jessup boys would be there in a few minutes, ready to loot and kill again. And they would die trying, just like so many before them who'd come up against McAlester, the fastest, surest shot there was.

He'd already removed the trigger guard from his Colt .45, with its unique pearl grip gleaming brightly in the relentless noonday sun. The grip was unlike any other, with its carved serpent and the initials D.M. under it. His hands were at his side, steady and sure.

The Jessup brothers, Cyril and Earlis, came around the corner at the end of the street, unshaven, unkempt and unwashed, laughing until they saw McAlester standing there. They stopped their horses, their smiles frozen in place, with their tobacco-stained teeth exposed like rotting corn. They looked at each other and got off their horses. They began walking towards McAlester, who stood there, face implacable.

"McAlester," said Cyril Jessup, with a smirk, gravel in his voice, and white spittle at the corners of his vicious mouth.

McAlester said nothing.

The Jessup boys walked on and then stopped, facing McAlester, fingers twitching and ready.

"Meet your maker, McAlester," said Earlis Jessup, just as his hand shot up to draw.

"Jeremiah, get your bottom out of that bed!"

"Aw, Ma, just five more minutes."

"You've already had five more minutes, so get out of that bed before I tan your hide."

Sarah Goldberg's voice was not something to be taken lightly, but he was right at the best part of the story and while the smell of the biscuits and his mother's strawberry preserves were mighty enticing, and even though he knew how the story would end, and even though he didn't want his hide tanned, he did want to finish it and see the Jessup brothers get what was coming to them. Besides, it was freezing cold and despite two blankets and a heavy quilt covering him, as well as two pairs of red flannel long johns, the only thing keeping him warm was the excitement of the new McAlester story.

The McAlester dime novels were his favorites and he got them the minute they came out and savored each and every one, reading them over and over, the adventures of his favorite real-life western hero, Delmer McAlester.

"I'm not sayin' it again, Jeremiah."

"All right, all right, I'm gettin' up."

He carefully put his latest Beadle's New Dime Novels on top of the others that featured McAlester stories. This one in particular had the best cover of any he had: a full color scene of McAlester facing off the mean-looking Jessup brothers. He hurried out of his bedroom.

He skittered over to the stove and warmed himself, then sat down and buttered up a biscuit, slapped on a mountain of strawberry preserves and took a huge bite, the strawberry preserves not only entering his mouth but also leaving a trail all over the bottom of his face. Sarah looked at him.

"Your manners are severely wanting, Jeremiah Goldberg."

"Sorry, Ma," he said, wiping away the residue from his face.

He tried to eat the rest of his biscuits with more manners and was only occasionally successful.

"C'mon, we'll be late for school," Sarah said.

"Do I have to go?"

"Do you have to ask the same question every day? You have to go and I have to go."

He looked at his ma. She looked older than her thirty years but was still pretty, he thought, at least as pretty as a mother could be. She stood 5'6", with a willowy, thin body and red hair. Her pale skin was weathered and no matter how hard she tried to disguise it, he could always see the traces of sadness in her eyes, sadness born of losing her husband, Isaac Goldberg, three years before to one deadly bullet from the gun of a vicious killer. Jeremiah had been seven then.

He, too, had red hair, but unlike his mother's, his was curly and unruly and no comb or brush had been invented that could tame it. He was thin, scrawny some would say, and his skin was also pale and his face was a mass of freckles.

He was on his second biscuit now. He didn't even really care about the biscuit, it was his ma's strawberry preserves that he loved and could eat by the spoonful all by its lonesome were it not for Sarah's insistence on manners and good breeding. Just because Stillwater was a cesspool of sin and corruption did not mean that Sarah Goldberg was going to let her son fall into that kind of life.

"Finish up and go get ready for school," Sarah said, clearing the dishes from the table.

Jeremiah gulped down the rest of his second biscuit and took a final swig of his milk, which was so cold it made his teeth tingle and his head hurt.

He went back in his room and got dressed, wishing he didn't have to go to school, wishing he could just stay in bed, snuggled under his covers, to finish the McAlester story. But since his ma was also the teacher it wouldn't exactly set a good example for the teacher's son to miss school so he could stay home, warm in bed, reading.

Thirty minutes later, they were in their buggy, clip-clopping their way to the schoolhouse, just a couple of miles away on the other side of Main Street. The sun was shining brightly and the sky was as blue as blue could be, but it didn't make any difference; the cold cut right through his clothing like a knife. While there'd been snow in December and on into January, February had thus far been spared the snow but certainly not the cold.

Stillwater, California, had just come through two of the worst winters it had ever seen in 1878 and 1879, resulting in many lost lives and hardships. Located near the Nevada Sierras at an altitude of 8,400 feet, Stillwater had begun life as a Wild West mining boomtown, grown quickly, and within a few short years had a population around 10,000.

Isaac and Sarah Goldberg had come west like so many others, with the promise of fortune and a new life. She'd gotten with child on the way and Jeremiah had been born five months after they settled in the new town of Stillwater. And a cesspool of sin and corruption it was, right from the very beginning. Its mile-long main street now had forty saloons and there were several brothels in the red-light district. Robberies were frequent, both stagecoach and bank. Violent behavior was equally frequent. If someone looked at someone the wrong way, chances were that someone would be dead just as sure as they were standing there.

Isaac's luck had come in right away. The house he built for his family was certainly nice. Sitting on an acre of land, it was spacious and roomy, but there was nothing ostentatious about it because that wasn't who Isaac Goldberg was. While he never spoke of how much luck he'd had or where he'd had it, it was rumored to be substantial, although no one really knew for sure. It was also rumored that he was killed by someone trying to find out just how much fortune Isaac Goldberg had accumulated and where. That was the day Isaac Goldberg's luck had run out.

They lived well, and Sarah had started the school for the children of Stillwater. After Isaac's passing, she'd had to fight for what she believed in; that the school was a place for any child who wanted to attend, whether white, black, Indian or Chinese. That wasn't a problem for some of the kids, but it surely was a problem for some of the parents and the kids of those parents, who thought anyone but a white person should be kept in their proper place, their proper place being with their own kind and far away from the decent, God-fearing white folks of Stillwater.

Jeremiah's best friend was Chinese. A feisty, pint-sized nine-year-old named Fong Lee. Since the 1860s, thousands of Chinese had come to California and every town had a Chinatown, including Stillwater's own, which was adjacent to Main Street. More than one hundred Chinese lived there, in boarding houses with rooms barely big enough to hold a cot. There was also a Chinese temple where they went to worship and several opium dens, where Fong Lee's father spent a good deal of his time.

Jeremiah knew what it felt like to be an outsider, with the Goldbergs being the only Jews in Stillwater. Once, when he'd walked his only other friend, ten-year-old Rachel Burgoyne, to church, the righteous Reverend Jaspar Flood had said, "Rachel Burgoyne, a red-headed Jew is an abomination before God and you stay clear of his lot."

Thankfully, Rachel Burgoyne had done no such thing, although Jeremiah went nowhere near the righteous Reverend Jaspar Flood or his church again. But it wasn't just the Reverend Jaspar Flood. He'd also had to endure both kids and their parents calling him "Jew boy" or "Yid" or "Heeb". It came with the territory and it didn't bother him anymore.

Sarah stopped the buggy near the schoolhouse. Jeremiah got down and went in first—he didn't like to be seen walking in with her, even though everyone knew Mrs. Goldberg was Jeremiah's ma.

The school was just one big room. It was filled with wooden desks with black wrought iron legs with wooden chairs attached. Jeremiah always sat with Rachel and Fong Lee, right up front. The other kids sat behind them.

Sarah came in, put her things down on her desk in front and informed everyone that today they'd be having a multiplication lesson. Fong Lee groaned out loud.

"Your mom is tough," said Fong Lee after school, one word tumbling out after another, walking alongside Jeremiah as he headed towards the buggy to wait for his mother. The words continued to pour out of him a mile-a-minute. "I don't like all those numbers: adding, subtracting and now muttaplacation, that's too hard for Chinese people."

Jermeiah laughed. "Once you figure it out, it's easy."

"Easy for you, not easy for me with all those numbers times other numbers, why do we even need that, I don't need that I don't think. I'm not going to be a banker; no one wants a Chinese banker. Tell your mom to do me a favor and forget about it."

"She's the teacher, I'm the son," Jeremiah said. "I have to get good grades, too, and she's harder on me than on anyone."

"Yeah, but you can do muttaplacation and I can't so I get bad grade and my mom don't feed me for three days."

"C'mon, she wouldn't let you go three days without food."

"Okay, two days." Fong Lee was wearing black shiny pants with suspenders over a checkered shirt and his ever-present blue knit cap over the back of his shiny jet-black hair. "You going home now?"

"Yeah, I got chores to do and I want to finish the new McAlester story."

"You read me this one, too?"

"Sure, I'll read you this one, too," Jeremiah said.

"Okay, tomorrow's Saturday, no school, no chores, let's meet at the store, okay?"

"Sure, how 'bout noon?"

"Noon good, I'll see you there."

"Have a good night," Jeremiah said, shivering in the cold. Sarah was walking towards him.

"Bye, Mrs. Goldberg," Fong Lee said. He scurried toward Chinatown.

Just before they headed home, Rachel Burgoyne waved good-bye to Jeremiah as she got into her mom's buggy.

"Come meet Fong and me at the store at noon!" Jeremiah shouted.

"I will!" she shouted back, as her buggy lurched forward.

Rachel and Jeremiah had been friends ever since she'd moved to Stillwater a year ago. She was a pretty, fresh-faced, apple-cheeked girl of ten, Jeremiah's age, with long brown hair practically down to her waist. Unlike some of the other girls in town, she wasn't a tomboy. She liked wearing pretty dresses and acting like a girl. She wasn't interested in being rough-and-tumble; that kind of life had nothing to do with Rachel Burgoyne.

Unfortunately, she lived on a farm and like her two brothers had to do her chores, which included milking the cows and feeding the animals, including the pigs that were so smelly and vile it made her sick to her stomach. Horses were another matter entirely, and Rachel could ride as well as anyone. She had her own horse, a beautiful palomino she'd named Dusty for its pale gold coat that was like the dusty roads of Stillwater.

The three of them, Jeremiah, Fong Lee and Rachel, were inseparable, like The Three Musketeers, another of Jeremiah's favorite stories. Other kids made fun of them, but they didn't care. They were who they were and if others didn't like that that was their problem.

As they drove down Main Street, Jeremiah could see there was a brawl going on at Saxon's Saloon. Saxon's seemed like the worst of the saloons. It had more fights, more killings, more drunks, more cardsharps, and more painted ladies than the others, although the others were not much better. Two scruffy men were rolling around in the dirt, punching each other wildly. Blood was running down the faces of both men, and there was a noisy crowd cheering them on.

Sheriff Rufus Quink leaned up against the door of the sheriff's office, watching. He rarely broke up fights, especially between two-bit barrel boarders who were too drunk to even know what they were fighting about. He'd just let it run its course and then he'd toss the parties in jail for the night, till they sobered up. He spat out a glob of chewing tobacco juice.

Ten minutes later Jeremiah was in his room with his quilt wrapped around him for warmth, reading the rest of the McAlester story, while the smell of the evening's meal, beef stew, weaved its way through the house.

"Welcome to hell, McAlester," said Earlis Jessup, just as his hand shot up to draw. Before he could even grip his gun, Earlis Jessup was lying on the ground with a bullet in his brain.

Cyril Jessup's gun was almost out of his holster when McAlester's second bullet went into his chest. He stood there in disbelief, staring as the blood began staining his yellow, filthy shirt. His hand managed to get his gun out of his holster but he couldn't seem to aim it or even lift it. He just stared at McAlester, then fell to the ground in a heap near his brother.

Slowly, people began appearing out of nowhere. They murmured amongst themselves as they walked down the street, looking at the Jessup brothers, knowing their reign of terror was over. A couple of them walked over to where McAlester had been standing, wanting to thank him, but he was already on his horse riding out of town, disappearing into the distance as a sudden gust of wind kicked up the dust into a swirling haze, obscuring him from their view.

Jeremiah closed the book. Closing his eyes, he could almost picture himself on that dusty street, standing near McAlester, wanting to be McAlester, wanting to face down his father's killer and put a bullet between his eyes.

He knew that was wrong because his mother had taught him that violence begets violence and no good could come of more killing or revenge except more killing and more revenge. But it didn't change the way he felt, just as it wouldn't have changed the way McAlester felt. Right was right and justice was justice. But all he could do was play it out in his mind because there'd be no justice for his father because his father's killer was unknown and most likely still at large.

"Supper's ready," Sarah said. Jeremiah went into the other room. There was a fire going and the warmth felt good. The stew was on the table, with wisps of smoke rising from it.

"I'm sure you washed up," Sarah said.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sure I did." He showed her his hands.

"You're a good boy, Jeremiah Goldberg," she said, and they sat down. She bowed her head and recited, "Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam shehakol niyah bidvaro."

They sat and ate in silence as he thought about McAlester laying out the Jessup brothers in the blink of an eye. At some point, Sarah looked at him.