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Little Timmy Wallace was six years old when his mother passed away. He was raised by a loving father on the family ranch a few long miles south of San Simon, Arizona.

Timmy was now eleven and fall round up was over and his dad Jim and two hired hands drove that herd over forty miles to Wilcox to the railroad and a waiting cattle buyer. Timmy and his grandfather stayed behind to do the daily chores.

It was late in the day when Jim was paid twenty five thousand dollars. He headed to the bank, but it was closed for the day. “Al, you and Wayne.” He was talking to his hired help. “What do you say we have a beer and I’ll head on back home? Timmy and Dad should be glad to see me.”

“It’ll be alright if we stay for the dance, won’t it?”

“You bet, you both deserve a good time. You worked yore butts off on that roundup.”

Jim had one beer then headed back home. It was close to dark as he rode up to the barn and dismounted. Seven young men came whipping and spurring their horses. They slid them to a stop just as Timmy came from the house to help his dad.

A shot was fired and Jim was down. Saddlebags were grabbed as Timmy ran up screaming, looking into laughing faces. “Calvin why’d you shoot my dad?”

Another shot was fired and Timmy fell to the ground. “Little runt you should’a stayed in the damn house!”









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