Sheriff Clay Fletcher cast a long shadow as he strode towards the law office in the late afternoon. He'd be reluctant at first to accept the town committee's offer. He was a rancher. he'd been raised on the land and was heir to the Big F Empire. What did he know about law enforcement? Maybe he made up his mind at the brief burial service when they lowered the two Bar M hands into the dark, damp bowels of the earth. Maybe it was the wounding of Tim McColl or the unsuccessful tracking of his herd. He didn't know. What he was sure of though, was that someone had to stand against the lawlessness in Beaver Dam Valley. He'd ridden to a crest overlooking the wide basin. A Fletcher has made the valley what it was ... could it be needed a Fletcher to keep things that way?