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Joe was eighteen when he saddled up his horse and left the side-hill farm in Tennessee for points west. He started the long trek of finding his brother’s killer. Somewhere out yonder where the long grass grew he would find the mate to the gun which hung low on his hip; the one with the Bluejay engraved on the handle. When he did he knew what would follow. There would be smokin’ guns and a family account would be settled.
