Presidential Persecutor

He looked out over the rust red canyon, feeling the warm, dry breeze carress the fine, chiseled features of his ruggedly handsome face. The year was naught-one. A new century lay ahead. He had made his mark in the last one, though not the mark he had intended. He was a lawman. His name was Starr. Tinn Starr. Presidential Persecutor. At least that's what his badge said. He wasn't none too sure anymore. You wouldn't call a man a bounty hunter if he never collected a single bounty. No matter how hard he tries. Should'a been easy. Like shootin' a wounded rabbit with a shotgun. He couldn't miss. But his rabbit got away. Had him looking right down the barrel, and he got up and just walked away. It gnawed at his belly like a pack of coyotes on a carcass. So many years. So much money (good thing it wasn't his). He backed his rabbit into a corner and just when he finally had him that critter just upped and walked right through him - like a ghost. One last chance. That's all he needed. One capture to redeem himself - to himself, and to the world. But his new quarry would be harder still. How do you track a varmint that leaves no tracks, nothing to follow, no clues, not so much as a gum wrapper on the governor's mansion lawn? But it was his job. He was a Persecutor. And that's what he would do. He could always find a lead last time. No matter how small, no matter how far from the original trail. He could do it again. And this time there would be no escape. This time...

	It all started so long ago. Another time, another century, another millenium. May as well have been a thousand years ago. Time wouldn't change nothin'. It all started with the Kid. Billy the Kid. Wasn't the first time trouble had followed the Kid home. There were always stories - carousing, high times, women, tall tales, even some talk of murder. Nothing ever stuck. But this time was different. This time the Kid slipped up. Phony land dealings. Land in the place the Indians called the Land of the White Waters. The government would be interested in this one. Should'a been easy.

		But it wasn't. They don't call the Kid "Slick Willy" for nothing. Covered his tracks pretty good. Starr's case started falling apart like a cheap saddle. It could all have ended right there - maybe it should have - until she showed up. Miss Paula. Some folks called her Perilous Pauline. Some called her much worse. Just a little backwoods tomcat but if she had something on the Kid, she was a friend of Starr. She smelled money, Starr smelled blood. They made a good team. In the end she got her money, but the only blood he got to smell was his own.

	He was about to throw the whole thing away, like a slab of bad bacon, till another little filly showed up. Monica Lou. She looked so prim and proper, but she was drawn to powerful men, had a yearning for the limelight, and had a strange attraction to cigar store Indians. They crossed paths a couple of times when he was working with Miss Paula. She didn't want money. She didn't want to cooperate. But she knew things about the Kid. He would get that information, no matter what it took.

		A mysterious woman befriended Miss Monica. She came out of nowhere. No one had ever heard of her before, and yet she looked strangely familiar. Why was it that she and Starr were never seen together at the same time? Why was Starr found on two occasions with lipstick on? (He said it was from the girls over at the saloon). That's one secret Starr would never reveal. "No matter what it took."

Miss Monica told the mystery woman everything - the secret meetings, the fooling around, and most importantly, the snake oil stain on her dress. Snake oil. Starr had him at last. He rounded up his posse. He called it God's Own Posse. The GOP. The posse camped outside the Kid's hideout for months, brandishing guns, whooping and calling names, taunting him with a hangman's noose. Finally the day arrived. The Kid was arrested, tried...acquitted. Acquitted! Starr was devastated. What about the evidence! The witnesses, the testimonies, the snake oil! For God's sake the snake oil! But the jury didn't buy it. They knew that many of them had spread a little snake oil around themselves. They couldn't lynch a man for snake oil. Slick Willy slipped away again.

		The canyon was quiet now. Not a coyote to be seen or heard. Just the ones he felt still gnawing at his gut. Naught-one. A new century. A new outlaw in town. A quiet man. When he did talk, you knew why he was quiet. And you wished he could be more so. They called him the Texan. Seemed like a nice enough fella. And he had lots of friends in God's Own Posse. But Starr was a Persecutor. That was his job. That is what he did best. If there were any secrets, any dark trail leading to this quiet stranger, Starr would find out. He would stop at nothing. No matter what it took. Now if only he could find that lipstick...

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