Justice Under a Blood-Red Moon

I was down at Ruston Tavern on a hot July afternoon. When Duke all

dressed in black walked in like trouble under blood red moon. He shoved a

farmer from his chair and laughed as he hit the floor. Duke was the

kind of man God doesn't bother forgiving anymore. But a stranger rode in that

morning on a horse as white as snow. Hat pulled low, eyes like winter,

voice calm and quiet and low. He tied his reins at the hitching post.

Didn't speak, just scanned the street. And you could feel the air

grow heavy like justice was about to be. Duke swaggered out with a bottle