Shane

'Call Me Shane' He rode into our valley in the summer of '89, a slim man, dressed in black, riding easily.

He never told us more than his name. 'There's something about him,' Mother said, 'something...dangerous.' 'He's dangerous all right, ' Father replied, 'but not to us.' 'He's like a slow-burning fuse,' the mule skinner said. 'So quiet, you forget it's burning till it sets off trouble. And there's trouble brewing...' There was.