Jake stepped down from the train, trembling and pale, and anyone seeing him would have thought him sickly.
He leaned on a post, head hanging, breathing deep, waiting for the hot taste in his mouth to move on, until the train whistled and left the station. Then he stood up, and started down the main street, his back straight enough to be a sundial.
“You’re going to get yourself killed, Jake,” the sheriff said, from his shadowed porch.
He stared at the lawman, his freshly polished boots up on the railing.
“A man doing nothing is already dead,” he said.