"I'm going to quit writing fishing books," a writer friend said to me over lunch. "There's no money in it. Magazine articles are even worse. Remember that Steve Preston guy and his new magazine? He printed three articles of mine, then closed the mag without paying. I hear he's running a fishing lodge in Argentina."

"Preston owes me money, too," I said. "We'll never see it." I picked at my kung pao chicken. "Have you thought about writing for the internet?"

He just stared back like I was stupid. "The internet?" he said. "Where's the money in that?" He shook his head. "The real money," he said, "is in genre fiction. You know, Louis L'amour-style westerns. Romance novels ala Victoria Holt. Or maybe fantasy; thanks to Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings, there's big money in fantasy."

I almost said there wasn't much difference between fantasy fiction and writing for fishing magazines, but my friend was already off on an esoteric rant about how fiction writers need to pay close attention to how they introduce characters--how they get them through the door, across the room, and sitting down. "Can't they just open a door and sit down?" I asked.

"Oh no," my friend said like I was an ignorant and naive child. "It's not that simple. You need to do it with style."

* * * *

That evening I attended a group fly tying session a fly club was putting on. There were six other men and a woman already there when I opened the door. I picked a seat on the other side of the room, sat down, and set up my vise.

The group leader explained the agenda for the evening: Soft Hackles, Marabou Damsel Nymphs, and Zug Bugs. I could tie those patterns in my sleep--which was a good thing because I was seriously jet-lagged after returning from my daughter's wedding in Florida. My mind wandered a bit as I selected a hen saddle for the first Soft Hackle. Genre writing, getting characters into a room, entomology, fly patterns, and that Preston jerk who owed me money--they all swam together as I mechanically tied my first fly . . .

Blood on the Saddle

The stranger stood in front of the door. The hot sun raised currents of air that swirled dust around the patient horses tied to the hitching rail behind him. There was a rumble of wheels and the crack of a whip as the afternoon stagecoach passed in the street, but he did not notice.

He tightened his gun belt, then lifted the Colt just far enough to know it would draw quick. He'd traced Preston to this god-forsaken village in South America. There was a score to settle. Some things you can't tolerate, if you're going to be a man. He clamped the cigar between his teeth and kicked in the door.

The voices in the room fell silent. All eyes were on the stranger silhouetted in the doorway, scanning the room with his steel-blue eyes. Then he saw Preston in the front row. The stranger's spurs chinked in deliberate rhythm as walked coolly across the wooden floor.

He stopped in front of Preston and fingered the Colt. Preston sat pale and trembling in his chair. "No! Not you!," said Preston. "I'll pay you! Double! For God's sake, man, have mercy!" Preston reached for his checkbook and began to scribble.

The stranger let his hand drop from the Colt's pearl handle. No, he wouldn't waste a bullet on this whining piece of trash. He picked up an empty chair and crashed it onto Preston's skull. Preston's neck was broken. He rolled over and dropped to the floor with a dull thud, like a stack of rejected manuscripts hitting the bottom of the mailbox.

"Thieving son-of-a-bitch," snarled the stranger. "You can keep your promises in hell." He sat down in Preston's old chair, wiped the blood off a hen saddle and started to tie flies. The rest of the group nervously finished their Soft Hackles.

(To be continued)