by B.G. Smith

In 1873, Amos Black owned The Lost Saddle Saloon, known for burning whiskey, high-stakes poker, and one hell of a good stew.

Trail-weary cowboys traded whispers over warm shots and cold hands of five-card stud. “Funny how Amos’s meat’s always freshest after a man goes missing,” drawled a rancher, twisting his handlebar mustache.

“Don’t much care,” his gaunt wrangler said between mouthfuls. “First real meal I’ve had since Texas.”

When they buried Otis McCoy in Boot Hill, his pine box crashed down, splintering.

Inside lay three burlap sacks of sand.

By then, Otis had already fed half the Chisholm Trail.