Graveyard Walk, Nevada, stood small and proud in the shadows of the Funeral Mountains, just miles from California. I arrived on my old russet burro at dawn, though I swore I could’ve saw the unlighted outlines of the town’s tavern for many hours, coming down along the high trail.

There comes a time in every man’s life when he’s got to tell all of what he’s did, and tell it straight. Not to impress nobody, but to square up with the Almighty in the eyes of what few fellows or kinfolk or, hell, even enemies he’s got left. That time has come for Jake Alamar, what happens to be my name...