At the tender age of seventeen, Connor Farrell knew more about guns than most of the outlaws and the lawmen. Four years ago, his father had handed him a box containing both guns, completely disassembled, and told him he could have them, when and if he could put them back together. It took him a week, but he did it. He didn’t do it to please his father, whom he hated, nor his mother, whom he loved. He did it to prove to himself that he could, and as a result of hours of practice at the back of the property, he rarely missed with either gun, and he could draw and fire the pistol in a split second.