The Tomahawk Bar and Grill is practically hanging on the precarious edge of a cliff south of the Devil’s Canyon. No one knows what’s holding it up from dropping thirty-thousand feet into the blue pacific. The Devil, stupid! The Devil is the one working overtime, holding up this dingy behemoth of steel and Mexican bricks from reaching its watery grave. This is a notorious hangout for one hundred-dollar hired guns, grafters, prostitutes and highway-bound drifters...









