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xvii FOR FOUR MISERABLE DAYS the two would-be assassins sweated in the heat of early September. The small house they had rented for their intended ambush had no air-conditioning, but then nobody had air-conditioning in 1912 Amarillo. Still, most folks at least opened their windows to catch an occasional breeze. But not the assassins. They nailed the shades over all the windows, leaving only a narrow space for a peephole at the bottom. When, several days earlier, John Beal Sneed heard that his prey had come to Amarillo, he and his deputy assassin, Beech Epting, caught the next train to town. Already anticipating his prey’s arrival, the leader had grown a full beard, and now, instead of wearing his usual business suit, he donned a pair of faded overalls. Adding to this disguise a rather bizarre touch, he wore, as one witness subsequently described it, “a pair of blue goggles.” Then, under aliases, he had Epting rent what would later be referred to as “the death cottage” along a street they knew their target would have to walk, sooner or later, en route to the downtown area. Ironically, the death cottage was just across the street from a venerable Amarillo landmark—the Polk Street Methodist Church. The gunmen themselves were an odd couple, to say the least, and cut from entirely different cloth: the leader, a college-educated, wealthy pillar of his community; his deputy, a poorly educated tenant farmer. Nevertheless, they were united now. Both dedicated to their kill-dead mission. The days dragged slowly by one . . . two . . . three . . . four days. Still nothing. But the leader was patient. And he was determined. Perhaps, as the long hours of waiting gradually turned into days, he reflected on the strange turn of events that led him—a card-carrying member of pioneer Texas cow-country royalty—to this ironic juncture in his life. Already indicted for one murder, he now was hell-bent on P R O L O G U E xviii Prologue committing another. Worse, his intended victim, Al Boyce, Jr., had been a friend from childhood. Philosophical reflection, however, was not John Beal Sneed’s long suit, and the word “irony” was probably not in his working vocabulary. He was totally focused on the bloody mission ahead. He was well aware that Al Boyce usually went armed, and he was also aware that his target was widely reputed to be a crack shot—one of the best in the Texas Panhandle. Therefore, the assassin had devoted considerable time of late to practicing his marksmanship. Even so, in a fair fight he would likely come in dead last. He knew that. But then he had no intention of fighting fair. He did, however, have every intention of winning. That, or any other contest. Whatever it took. Finally, on the fifth day, when John Beal Sneed squinted through his peephole, the manhunter sighted his target strolling towards him down Polk Street—unaware of the surveillance. Unaware, as yet, but not unarmed. Al Boyce had a loaded, semi-automatic Luger pistol tucked in his belt. The hunter grabbed his twelve-gauge automatic shotgun. It was loaded with buckshot. Then he opened the cottage door and walked into the street. ...

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