Dan Briscoe had spent years building his reputation - a marshal who dressed like a dandy, gambled like a Mississippi riverman, and killed a little faster than any man alive. But Dan was thirty now - a long time to have lived one slow draw away from death. So he laid aside his famous Colt .44s, took off his badge, and started traveling. It was in a bullet-riddled town called Springwater that his name caught up with him . . .