When Jim Torrance, riding up from the South, crested the live-oak-studded knoll from which he saw the rip-roaring little town of Sundown for the first time, the place looked as clean and pretty as a fresh picture, and as peaceful as the little dove cooing on a dead limb over his head. But that was because Sundown was still a good three miles away, and besides it was only mid-afternoon and not yet first-drink time. “I’m turning off here to go into town, Skeeter,” he told the boy helping him with his handful of stock. “You go straight on with the horses. You’ll know the place when you get there; just watch for an old wheel track turning off where there’s a dead pine leaning over a big white r…
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