It should have been a no-brainer. There were witnesses, items of evidence, and even bad character references.

I'd gone to the trial just to support my friend Stephen from school. The verdict had been so obvious that the whole town had known that the trial was just a formality. We would all go through the motions to follow the rules of justice, and breathe a collective sigh of relief when an example of evil personified hung from a tree.

In fact, I'd been nodding off. The day had been stiflingly hot, and I figured that the sound of the gavel would wake me up, and I could join the crowd clapping my friend on the back.

My eyes fought to remain open, and then suddenly couldn't be wider. Had I heard that correctly? My ears rang with the echo of "not guilty," and I frantically looked around the room for reactions. A lot of sighs, some people letting their heads drop into their hands, and one eye roll.

My eyes snapped up to my Paw. His mouth was set into a hard, grim line, and his eyes sparked with anger.

And, finally, I forced my eyes on Stephen. He was white, shaken, and terrifyingly confused, as any rational person would have been in his situation.

I don't remember the rest of the afternoon very well. I recollect a fog of silent people exiting the courtroom, not even making the usual complaining small talk that tended to happen when an injustice was committed. Funny, not many people were willing to look Stephen in the eye, much less gather around him for support like we would have done otherwise.

We didn't have to worry too long about his feelings, anyway. Two nights later, his body was discovered strung from a beam at the back of his barn. Suicide, perhaps, or so it was assumed.

That was the last night I slept at my father's ranch. Four days after that, the gentleman involved in Stephen's farm burning (with his parents inside the house) and subsequent "suicide" abruptly went missing, and has not been seen or heard of since.

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I jerked my head to the side, giving the last signal. My current client, Cliff, gave me one last, nervous look. I'd seen that expression countless times in the last few years: excited, afraid, incredulous that the moment had finally come. Cliff crept silently to my side, and I opened the door calmly, not even giving my opponent the advantage of a fight-flight reaction. A frown creased the stranger's face, and he was about to open his mouth for the usual question when I grabbed him in a vice grip, holding him firmly from behind.

Cliff's personality had completely transformed. He took two steps forward, his features contorted with rage, almost frothing at the mouth. "Jamison," he growled viscerally. "My family trusted you. When you went into—"

"Keep the speech short," I interrupted. "Every second gives him another opportunity to do something drastic."

Cliff spared a glance in my direction, and turned back to his target. He seemed to relish the position he was in, glorifying in holding the pistol five feet away from his most hated adversary, drinking in the raw panicked fear in the other man's eyes. "I've dreamed of this moment for six years," he concluded. "See you in hell."

I stepped to the side, which was the signal Cliff was waiting for. He emptied his six-shooter into the body of his once-dearest friend, and then stood stunned, sweat dripping off his brow. "Oh, God," he said uncertainly, wiping his forehead and turning away from the gore.

I surveyed the scene, satisfied that we had left as little evidence as possible. "Come on," I told him, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him out. The emotional aftermath was the most dangerous time, when the clients tended to want to digest their feelings rather than get the hell out of there.

Guiding Cliff through the pre-planned longer route, we rode hard for several hours, stopping at a saloon for a possible alibi in an out-of-the-way town. They could never pinpoint the death to the exact hour, and anyway the man's wife wouldn't return home until tomorrow. I'd collected my payment a few miles back.

I slumped to the bar, my slight stature and alter-boy face allowing me to slip in unnoticed. I ordered my usual bourbon-and-water, waiting for the minor wooziness to dull the edges of my senses. I never got completely drunk, as I preferred to never lose control over my thoughts and actions.

"Hello, Mark," a familiar voice sighed, as a slightly rotund figure squeezed into the bar seat next to me. I frowned in confusion, for a moment overcome by the strange feeling that comes when a person is completely out of the context they are usually in.

"Micah," I said in surprise. "What the…?"

Micah laughed and ordered a shot of rum. "Good to see you, boy."

"Good to see you, too." I grinned and leaned in, accepting his hearty handshake. "How's everyone doing?"

Micah shrugged. "You know nothing ever changes at North Fork, except for a new outlaw needing to be run out of town every once in a while. Except Greta Hilden's father finally passed away after one of his episodes, and Anne Bradshaw had a fine set of twins."

"Shame about the first piece of news, and congrats on the second," I said, shaking my head. "She always said that she'd never marry, and she's one of the first ones to do so, and now reproduce."

Micah's eyes twinkled, and he searched my face, then giving me a lingering once-over with his eyes. "Better yet, how are you doing?"

"Come on now, don't start in on me," I chided, taking a sip thoughtfully. "I'm fine. Not ready to settle down yet. How do you keep finding me, anyway?"

"Well, first I make a map of where I know you've been, and then add pins for all the spots people say you've been, and play connect-the-dots until I see a pattern." I rolled my eyes good-naturedly in response. "Or I just look for an excuse to go from bar to bar and hope you show up," Micah amended. "Anyway, I have a few of my own hustles up my sleeves, too, you know."

A violent shiver ricocheted up my spine. "You didn't—"I whispered fiercely, craning my neck in various directions, "He's not—"

"No, I came alone. I knew we might lose you entirely if I brought him along." Micah looked at me with an expression of sad defeat. "How about we start our usual sparring match, huh? I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to get you back with every argument I can think of."

"Sure, we can argue if you want to," I said, once again pleased to see him, enjoying just a few minutes with an old friend. "I'll go first. I'm a grown man, I've lost all faith in the law so I exercise justice as I see fit, and at least I do my own research to make sure the person's guilty before taking on a client."

Micah rolled his eyes. "Really, Mark, you're not a judge or a lawyer, and—"He stopped when he saw my stiffening shoulders. "Obviously we think of justice in very different ways," he said drily. "Are you happy, son?"

I shrugged. "I don't think about it much. I'm contributing to the human race in a positive way, and that's enough."

Micah stared at me for a moment, and I knew he was gauging whether or not to try a fresh argument. He decided to try it. "Do you really think Stephen would endorse what you're doing?" he said quietly.

I sat perfectly still, and drained my glass. I changed my posture so I'd be able to leave at a moment's notice if necessary. "You're pushing too hard, Micah," I warned.

He waved a hand. "Forget it. But seriously, Mark, your father is as listless now as he was a week after you left. We know that he could find you if he wanted to. It's been over three years, though…you're about to finally convince us that you're not just going through a phase. This place is almost a two days' ride from North Fork. I'm not sure how much farther south I'll be able to keep finding you or following you."

My heart sank at the thought of losing these twice-yearly surprise visits, but he and I both knew that I had to be continuously on the move. "I'll miss you, Micah," I said, and meant it.

"Damn it, Mark"—we got a couple of glances our way as his fist pounded on the countertop—"How about you take a second and at least pretend to be considering the people that love you?"

"This is my life," I responded. "I'm not asking Paw to put his life on hold to wait for me. Paw has his own strict sense of justice, and how is his so much better than mine? He stands up to the bad guys and shoots them in self-defense, and I just do more research and shoot the bad guys pre-planned."

"Uh-huh." Micah worked his tongue over his top teeth thoughtfully, and paid for both of our drinks. "Young people. You think that you have all the time in the world, and all the options will always be available to you. I sincerely hope you don't have to learn the same lessons as the rest of us usually do." Micah clapped my shoulder twice and walked out the door.

I followed. "Micah—" I opened my arms and he briefly crushed me with his characteristically enthusiastic bear hug, and I stepped back. "I really am sorry that we can't have it both ways," I said honestly. "You'll tell Paw—the usual?"

"Say it, Mark."

"Tell Paw that I love him, will you?"

"Sure, I can do that much." Micah squinted into the setting sun, and hoisted himself nimbly into his saddle despite his advancing years and size. "Although your actions don't seem to follow the words."

"Come on, don't leave me with a guilt trip," I said.

"Alright. Take care of yourself, my boy," Micah said, and leaned over for a final handshake.

I watched him until he disappeared from sight, then saddled up and moved on.