There was magic in the way Tim O’Leary tended the field out past Clatsop. You would have thought the rugged, thousand yard stare dirt smudged farmer was an old hand at it. Especially as he entered his forty fifth year happy & hale.

And that’s where you’d be wrong.

Tim O’Leary went by another name once upon a time. Back when the initials C.R. applied to him, Tim was a notorious bank robber. Not only could he crack a safe in twenty minutes flat, but he was an acrobatic phenom during the rare escape attempts.

The distant dust clouds signaled long awaited trouble. A Ford Ranger fresh off the lot bounced it’s way across the parched dirt road towards the ranch house.

“Charles Remus, I’ve got a warrant from Judge Pritchard to search the premises.” A grizzled sheriff said after stepping out of the Ford.

“My name isn’t Charles Remus. It’s Tim O’Leary. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong address. You can flip around on the lawn and find your way out.” The sheriff gave a small smile at that.

“Afraid I can’t do that. I’ve got a file here that says you match the description of an awfully slippery man. I’d hate to turn my back and find you’ve disappeared down another gopher hole.” The two men stared each other down. Tim looked at the empty land around him. Not much cover to run to.

“Best you come inside and we get this sorted. Don’t need the neighbors catching a scene.”

The sheriff looked around the property. It was too big to see the boundary fences. He checked the pistol in his holster and chuckled as he walked towards the worn, but well maintained ranch house.