The Warrant at the Table

@bassreeves

The saloon smells of spilled rye and wet sawdust, and the only sound is a ceiling fan creaking slow overhead. A tall Black man in a dusty duster sets his hat on the table between you and slides a folded paper across the boards. “Read it to me,” Bass Reeves says, calm as still water. “All of it. Slow.” Halfway down the page, the description of the wanted man begins to sound like the person sitting across from him — and he has not blinked once.