Some hunters fight the darkness. Clint Stroker flirts with it. Around every crooked cypress and burned-out bayou church, they whisper about the man with the silver tongue and the fast fingers. Says he doesn’t squeeze a trigger, he seduces it — and if he tips his hat your way, it ain’t a howdy — it’s goodbye.

Last seen wading out of Lawson Delta, coat torn, six-shooter warm, and carrying more bounty than his horse could bear. If you catch his eye, pray it ain’t for long — one stroke, and you’re nothing but another name for the crows to forget.