Jeb Parker

Jeb Parker rolled into Tombstone, Arizona at dusk a new man.  A new man is right, because the Jeb Parker known to most was a drunken vagabond so filthy even fleas had taken up to live in the thatch he called hair.  Now Jeb was clean-shaven and dressed in the finest duds this part west of the Mississippi.  He wore a swagger exuding in confidence, intimidating the men who watched as he entered the saloon and making the ladies, if you could call them that, instantly swoon.

“Good evenin’ all,” Jeb drawled, sauntering up to the bar.  “Can I get a whiskey, fine sir?”

He nursed his drink and thought back to the previous day…

An inebriated Jeb was thrown out of McClanty’s saloon once again.  He spent all night in the establishment and gambled one too many times.  McClanty himself took the honor of kicking him out. 

Jeb landed face first in the dirt.  He gave in to the whiskey and resigned himself to a night’s rest in the mud, when a strange man jabbed him in the ribs.

“Get up, Jeb!”  The stranger commanded.  The authority in the dark voice sobered Jeb and swiftly cured him of his prostrate pose.

“Who the hell ‘r ya?”  Jeb, now standing, locked eyes with the mysterious stranger.  The aura of power and danger quieted him.

“Think of me as opportunity, Jeb.  Now, first thing tomorrow morning you’re going to get cleaned up.  Then it’s off to Tombstone for you.”

Jeb knew better, but asked anyway, “Why?”

“Thought I’d shake things up a little bit.”