A Blood Debt
by Steve Myers

My uncles Jack Henry and Will Henry were ten and twelve years older than me, and I thought there was no one could cut a patch on them. I mean, they were everything I wanted to be. Both could shoot, but Jack Henry could shoot the head off a crow at two hundred paces or more.

One time we were going through the woods and he stopped and said, "See that piney there? There on that log." I looked and didn't see a thing, just a downed tree and some brush. "On that log there this side of the crick. You must be blind, boy." He raised the rifle and fired. We walked over to the log and there was a strip of skin and flesh where a chipmunk had been.

Both had the name Henry because that was Pa's name and he wanted his sons named after him. He was my grandpa, but I never knew him because I was born in '67 and he'd been killed in the war. 'Course I didn't know my pa either, if the truth be told. My mother come home when she was big with me and dropped me and left again. She never came back.

She told Ma she wanted me named Algernon and Ma said she'd be God damned if any grandchild of hers would carry such a burden. So I was named Matthew and called Matt.

Well, Ma died in the spring of '83. She come down with a fever in January but hung on until the thaw but her heart couldn't really stand it. Will Henry said he thought that coward Ford shooting Jesse broke Ma's heart since she was second cousins on her mother's side and he was a hero still fighting those Yankees and those damn Radicals and those free-soil sucks. I just know she looked all right to me till she got that fever and had to fight to breathe. It sounded like her lungs were full of water and when she coughed her whole body shook. She'd rise up in the bed and fight to breathe and kick out and swing her arms every which way and then she'd just fall back and stare at the ceiling.

Anyway, she wasn't under the ground three weeks when the Webb boys, Robert and Randal (my uncles called them Rob and Rand) showed. They wore new store-bought clothes—I mean, trousers and coats and dusters—and new boots with all kinds of fancy stitching on the sides.

They even carried Schofields in their holsters. The tall one with the beard, Rob, he pulled out a bottle of store whiskey and said, "Well, boys, let's have a drink and sit a spell."

We all went into the house and sat around the kitchen table and Jack got out a couple good glasses and three tin cups and even I had a drink. I didn't care much for it, though. It was thick and burnt tasting, not like good 'shine or applejack.

Will said, "Looks like you boys have done all right for yourself."

Rand said, "You know it. We did a good business relieving some establishments of the burden of their riches. We made good Christians of them . . . those that lived."

Rob laughed and said, "They was all carpet baggers or railroaders or such. We never raised a hand to one of our own."

"That's right," Rand said. "And now we got to strike out for new territory. I think this land's been played out and there's a few sheriffs and railroad detectives wanting to speak to us in unfriendly ways."

"Well, you don't want to go up Minnesota way," Will said.

"You sure as hell are right there, cousin. No, we plan on heading west where the gold is."

"You going to dig for gold?" I asked.

"Dig? Hell, no. We'll wait till it's out of the ground and put into nice shiny bars or coins with an eagle on them."

They talked and drank some more and Will and Jack got to telling how bad things were here and how working the land didn't seem to pay. So Rand asks them to go along to the west. Will said, "But what about Matt here?"

"Hell," Rand said, "he looks big enough. Can he ride and shoot?"

"Good as me but not up to Jack . . . but nobody is."

"Well, bring him along. We're to meet up with Ab and Earl Morton at the Colorado border and go on from there."

Will asked, "The Mortons? Same Mortons from over by Palmyra?"

"Yep. They was with Archie Clement in '66 when he robbed Clay County Savings. They've been in our business a good while now. They know all the whys and wheres of it, I tell you. They taught us a thing or two there in Lexington and then in that little dust-up outside Charleston."

"Charleston?"

"West Virginia. Rob got to try out his new Schofield."

So they kept drinking till the bottle was empty. Will said he had to go out back and left. Jack asked to see one of the revolvers and Rob handed him his Schofield.

"Try it out," Rob said.

The revolver only had a five inch barrel. Jack looked it over and said, "This pistol's been marked, stamped with more than a serial number. See."

I looked and saw "W.F. & Co." on the barrel.

Rob said, "We're kind of partial to their strongboxes."

Then we went outside and Jack kind of weighed the pistol in his hand and then he raised it up and looked down the barrel.

"It don't have the balance or heft of my Colt," he said. "I like a longer barrel."

"Jesse liked it," Rand said.

Jack thought about it a bit before he said, "See that knob on the outhouse door?" He brought that revolver up, cocked it, and fired in one smooth slick motion.

The doorknob flew apart and there was a hell of a shout and the door bust open and there was Will with his trousers and drawers down to his knees.

Rand said, "I reckon that scared the shit right out of him."

The Webbs were doubled up laughing and I had to smile too. Will stood there in the outhouse doorway shaking his fist at us.

Jack said, "The Schofield'll do, but I still like my Colt."

And that's how I got to be part of the Webb-Morton gang.

We headed west the next morning and took our time. Kansas country's not as pretty as Missouri and the folks aren't near as friendly. They just gave us hard looks as we went by. We kept out of towns mostly because the Webbs wasn't sure if there was any posters on them. Rand did steal a chicken from a farm and I ended up plucking and cleaning and cooking it.

We'd set up camp near a stream and spend the night. The Webbs and Will and Jack would hit the bottle before hitting the sack and in the morning I'd make the coffee and make enough noise to get them up and going. All the time the Webbs bragged about their raids and who all they ran with and I got to riding ahead so as not to hear it. It's one thing to have done something and another thing to talk about it and too often the talking is a lot bigger than the doing. I was young but I wasn't such a fool as to believe everything they said.

Abner and Earl Morton were sitting under a tree next to a stage station when we come on them. They had a bottle of some rotgut whiskey they shared with everyone but me. I didn't like the looks of them:

Abner was scrawny and shaky and what teeth he had was rotten. Earl didn't look much better and both had holes in their boots. Their horses wasn't much to look at it either—stolen plough horses, I'd say.

The Mortons had a plan all worked out. A train delivered a military payroll and supplies to Westchester Junction just across the border in Colorado and from there four troopers escorted a wagon to Fort Wadell.

We would wait alongside the road, jump out and shoot the soldiers and take the payroll. It was simple and should get near ten thousand dollars.

I asked, "You just going to kill them?"

Abner said, "The soldiers? Hell yes."

Rob Webb said, "All them is Yankees. They deserve killing."

"Damn right," Abner said.

"When's this happen?" Will asked.

"End of the month—next Tuesday. In the mean time we got us a cabin just outside Westchester Junction."

It was more a shack than a cabin and when it rained—which it did for three days—the roof was more a strainer that cut the size of the drops than anything else. The dirt floor turned to mud. Even field mice didn't bother to hide in it.

The sun was out and the day was shining bright the afternoon we waited in the woods just past the railroad station. The four troopers and the wagon had passed us around noon. I stood beside my horse while the others stayed mounted. I didn't see the sense of that. I was the only one with a rifle—Jack's Sharps carbine—while the Webbs had Schofields and the Mortons and Jack and Will had Colts.

They were passing a bottle around and I moved away and stood close to the road. I'd never shot a man before and I was worried about it. Not that I couldn't do it, but I wasn't sure it was right. I mean, I know they was Yankees but the War was a time ago and I didn't have anything against them. And I wasn't sure it was right to steal the money. Jack and Will didn't seem to be bothered and I respected them more than I ever respected anybody . . . still, it didn't feel right. I mean, somebody shoot at you or come at you, then it's right to shoot them but this was different.

Then we heard the train coming along the other side of the woods, the engine smoke rising above the trees like a trailing cloud. There was loud shrill whistles and a loud clanging of a bell. That set the horses to snorting and shaking their heads and pawing the ground. I held mine by his ear and whispered to him and stroked his face from forehead to nostrils. He calmed and I rubbed his neck.

For a time it sounded like the locomotive was resting and breathing heavy, then the bell clanged again and those loud hard whistles cut through the air and I had to hold my horse's head still and stroke him again. We could hear the train chuh chug chugging and slowly moving away, the sound fading out and there was only the stirring of the horses and their breathing. We waited.

We heard their voices and a wagon creaking along. We didn't see them until they come round a bend. Two rode beside the wagon and talked to the driver. Behind the wagon rode two more jawing away too.

Ab Morton said, "Get ready."

I got on my horse and cocked the carbine. The others had their pistols out.

Just as the wagon passed Ab shouted, "Now!"

Everybody but me came out firing and the troopers didn't know what hit them. Jack and Will got the two behind the wagon and Earl and Abner and the Webbs charged at the other two and fired shot after shot and a few hit and one trooper fell off his horse. The other trooper crouched low and slapped his horse and the horse took off at a gallop down the road. The Mortons and Webbs fired their pistols at him but didn't land a shot.

Ab yelled at me: "Use that damn rifle!"

I fired too quick and shot over the trooper's head. I reloaded and Earl grabbed the rifle from me.

"Damn kid!" he said and turned to shoot but the trooper was nowhere in sight. So mad he was shaking, he looked at the driver standing there in the wagon with his hands raised. Earl pulled the trigger and the shot knocked the driver back into the wagon.

While the Webbs reloaded their pistols, Abner got into the wagon and found the strongbox. He said, "Earl, toss me that carbine." He took the Sharps and used the barrel like a crowbar to bust the lock and opened the box. He pulled out a thick sack with handles, opened it, and said, "We got it." He looped the sack handles over his saddle horn and mounted. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

No sooner he spoke when Jack pointed up the road. Coming toward us was a bunch of horses carrying blue riders. They grew from dark moving smears of black and blue to ten or more troopers charging at full gallop.

We took off as fast as we could going the other way. The Mortons first, then the Webbs, then Jack and Will, and then me. But my horse was the best animal and in no time I was in the lead. I glanced back and saw they'd got to the wagon and were looking around. Then they started shooting at us with rifles and Will yelled and Jack went over to him.

"It's his arm," Jack said.

Will held his right arm and Jack took off his neckerchief and tied it around Will's elbow.

"We can't stop here," Rand Webb said. "Can he ride?"

"It's not so bad," Will said.

I heard bullets whizzing by and saw some kicking up dirt.

We went round a bend and Abner stopped us by holding up his hand.

"I don't think we can outrun 'em. If we git in the woods here we can put up a fight. Maybe surprise 'em."

Earl and the Webbs agreed.

Jack said, "No, best we keep going."

Abner said, "Our horses can't do it."

"Ours can," Jack said.

"Then give 'em to us," Abner said and he and Earl and the Webbs pointed their pistols at me and Jack and Will.

"Hell I will," Jack said and Earl shot him in the shoulder and Jack fell back and off his horse.

"Now you two git down," Earl said.

I dismounted and helped Will off his horse. He winced and grabbed his arm at the elbow.

Then Rand Webb grabbed the reins of our horses, laughed, and they all lit out down the road.

Jack got up, blood coming out of his shirt, and pulled his Colt. He cocked, raised it, and fired. Earl suddenly straightened up in the saddle, went stiff, and fell off his horse. Jack cocked again but Will said, "The army."

That bunch of troopers were just turning the bend.

Jack motioned to me: "Matt, take to the woods. Get going, boy."

"I can't. I can't let you—"

"Listen, this means hanging. You didn't kill no one but that won't mean squat to them. Run now. Now!"

I took off through the brush and into the woods. I looked back and saw Jack down on one knee and Will standing beside him. Will had his pistol in his left hand and he fired at the troopers. Jack fired too.

I heard a roar of gunfire as I ran, pushing through brush and briers.

I kept running with the sound of pistols and the crack of rifles echoing through the woods. Then it was quiet. I came to a stream and waded maybe a hundred paces with the current and then crossed to the other side. I sat down to rest a spell and listened. It was still except for a bird or two skipping from tree to tree and squawking about me. I waited but no one had followed.

It took me nine days of walking and running and cat-napping rather than sleeping and stealing eggs from hen houses and stoning chasing dogs to get back to the homestead. I figured nobody knew where I'd been or what I'd done so I could make out nothing had happened. I decided to live there and farm the place.

I went to Carver's Corners where there was a general store run by Pa's cousin John Clarence. All he wanted to know was where were Jack and Will and I said they'd gone west with the Webbs. He staked me to a mule and seed and flour and beans and such. His wife Clara said it was only right to help kin get a leg up.

I kept mostly to myself and got the place doing good, especially the apple orchard that Jack and Will had let go wild and never cleared the brush or pruned and deer and coons and whatever would take all the fruit. I got me an old Sharps to shoot varmints and now and then a deer when they showed when the leaves changed. I even planted cabbages to bring them in and they thought my back garden was their own supper table. So I had venison in the winter.

Pa had an old apple press that I cleaned up and John Clarence convinced me to get a roller cider mill and go into that business as a way of making extra money. I don't know why or what was so special about it but Matt's Country Cider and Country Applejack did real well.

I had to hire apple pickers and two strong boys to help with the press and mill come the fall.

I lived like that for fifteen years, alone—the few young women there was weren't interested in an ornery rough farmer like me and I was never the courting type. John Clarence had a widowed daughter of thirty-one who had something like consumption and she visited me every now and then to cook me a decent meal and such and we did what you'd expect. But she didn't want another husband and I didn't want a wife.

One winter she came down with a fever and died a week later. So that was that.

In all that time I only heard once about the Webbs. In '93 or so, Rand came back to Missouri and gave himself up. They tried him for shooting a Wells Fargo shotgun guard and a bank robbery over to Liberty, but he was acquitted. That was no surprise because half of the jury was cousins and his uncle Jefferson ran the newspaper. I never heard anything about Will and Jack. I figured the troopers killed them and there was no way you could know who they were. I missed them and thought about them—mostly on quiet evenings after supper when I sat on the stoop looking at the sky with the stars just coming out and the woods slowly getting dark.

I never fixed the door knob on the outhouse.

On August fifteenth in 1903 I was over in Belleville, Illinois. I remember that date exactly because it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was there to make a deal for my cider with a man, Josh Harding, who had a string of grocery stores through southern Illinois and Indiana.

They had a fair then just outside of town and that evening he talked me into going with him to take a look.

A one-horse-buggy race was going on at the main fairgrounds where they had the stands and there was all kinds of shouting and cheering and general hooraying. They had a pony ride for the little ones and sideshows for the grownups. There was a woman who was supposed to be a mermaid and a fire-eater and strange looking things in bottles that were two-headed chickens and a squirrel with three tails and such.

Then there was a big tent with a poster of two women in clothes that didn't cover much. Music and men shouting came from inside.

Harding said, "Hoochie-koochie. Want to see it? At the last show they go all the way to stark naked."

"That's not for me, but I've no objection if you want to. I'll just go on a bit."

He paid at the entrance and went in. I strolled on until I came to a tent with a large poster showing a man with a thick mustache pointing a revolver straight at you. Big black letters at the top read: "Rand Webb Notorious Gunfighter." At the bottom, under the picture, it said:

"Rode with Quantrill, Bloody Bill, Jesse James, Wild Bill Hickok, the Murderous Mortons, and others."

Inside was filled with cigar smoke and it was hard to see with only two small lanterns hanging from a wire run across. When I stepped in I bumped into a table holding a bucket with the sign: "25 Cents." I tossed in a quarter and joined the group listening to the man on the poster. He was twenty years older now but I recognized him. He wore his hat pushed to the back of his head and stood kind of sideways and cocky. He wore a holster with a revolver.

He was telling some story about a gunfight he had with Sudden Sam Stone in Nevada. He said Stone was one of the fastest gunslingers ever and had killed thirty men, but he, Rand Webb, had a surer hand and killed Stone with one shot to the heart. Then he turned to show his left ear which was missing a piece, had a notch in it. "That come from Stone's Colt. That's how close I come to being number thirty-one." He went on telling other stories that I didn't believe anymore than the last one.

After near an hour he asked, "Anybody got any questions?"

People asked about Quantrill and Jesse and what it was like to rob a stage or a bank. I couldn't see how he rode with Quantrill and them when he would've been ten years old or so, but I said nothing about that. When there came a pause I stepped to the front and looked him in the eye. I asked, "What ever happened to Robert?"

He looked hard at me but didn't seem to know me.

"My brother Robert?"

"Yes," I said.

"He died in Yuma prison. They caught him when he stopped to see a senorita after we robbed the stage out of Contention."

"Was Abner Morton with you then?"

He came closer to me and cocked his head like he was considering something but wasn't quite sure what. His breath smelled of whiskey and he said, "No. Abner was hung by vigilantes in Silver City."

He stepped back away then and said, "Now I'll demonstrate my shootin' prowess. See those four cards over there." Four playing cards—ace of spades, ace of diamonds, ace of hearts, ace of clubs—were pinned to a board about twenty feet away.

We all looked that way and Rand quickly drew his pistol and fired three shots and a hole was in the center of each card except the ace of clubs. There were shouts and then we all clapped.

Rand said, "It's more impressive, gentlemen, when the target has a gun and is shootin' back. Now would anybody like to try and hit that last card? Anybody?"

I came forward and said, "I'd like to try."

"You sure? You ever shoot a pistol like this? It's a Schofield and it has a hair trigger."

I reached for the revolver and he handed it to me. I held it in my hand, kind of weighing it, and I said, "This doesn't have the balance or heft of a Colt."

"No, it don't, but the shorter barrel makes it an easy draw."

I cocked the revolver and said very low: "This is for Will and Jack."

He leaned toward me and said, "I didn't quite catch that."

As I brought the gun up I said, "Will and Jack."

For that second I could see it in his eyes that now he knew and I pulled the trigger and his hat flew off when his head snapped back and he fell to the ground with a hole above his right ear.

I dropped the gun and jumped back and there was shouts and commotion and somebody yelled, "He killed him!"

And everybody just looked at me and I said, "The gun just went off."

And a man to my left said, "It had a hair trigger."

At the inquest there were nine witnesses that said it was an accident and Harding spoke up for me as a solid citizen and the county sheriff said he'd examined the pistol and a light touch on the trigger fired it. So I went back to my place satisfied. Some times I feel I should've told the truth but then I'd think that it didn't matter much in the long run. He deserved killing and, anyway, it was between me and God. I mean to spend the rest of my life here alone except for the deer and the other critters.

I did buy a Colt with the seven inch barrel, though, and shoot it now and then. Jack was right—it has more heft than the Schofield.

Buzzard Bait
by Jeffrey A. Paolano

Although open his eyes blur the images. Realizing focus consumes a moment while he kicks the frost out from legs and sciatica.

Hawking a gob he expels the sputum into a pail.

Searching between his legs he disappointedly feels of the wet leaked during his sleep. The reality is shameful.

Working the stiff from his hands while he rises he applies himself at the pisser bucket. Sometime has passed since he can abide winter's sting on the way to the privy. His bowels don't move often enough to make the trip necessary with any frequency.

Yesterday's bowl of atole stands cold on the table. The spoon congealed in the mass, it is breakfast for this day.

He pulls on the jug of Mezcal to warm his bones.

The few sticks in the pile serve to start the fire in the estufa with the result the room begins to warm at least on top of the blaze.

In the instant he freezes as he marks the faint clopping of horse shoe iron on the rocks of the dry crick bed that serves as the track to his camp.

He knows of no one who would venture out in this inclement weather to attend him. He secures his Navy Colt and rotates the cylinder to assure the caps.

Truth be told, he can't see but ten yards, not clear anyhow, but at ten yards the thirty-six will rip a hell of a hole. Take a man's arm off'n or might be, a leg.

Backing into the corner at the end of the pallet, he allows he'll blot out the fella as he comes through the door. He's wish'n the windows weren't frosted over like they was.

"Mr. Clemens, Buster Clemens, it's me Aldolpho, you know the beer man's son. Hey, Mr. Clemens, hey Buster," yells the rider to be heard over the conditions, with a sneaking suspicion the old man being near blind will pot him by mistake.

"That you, Al, I say is that you Aldolpho?" Shouts Mr. Clemens from his defensive position, "Hey Al, is that you out there?"

"Yeah, Mr. Clemens, it's me. Come on out, see for yourself," eagerly requesting Mr. Clemens to assuage his fears in the hopes of easing the danger.

Slowly, Buster angles towards the door, trying with cocked head to see through the opaque iced over window glass, finally convinced there is no option he cracks the door and surveys yard.

"Why, Alph, I am that surprised to see youse' up here in this blow, what's the reason for it son? Somethin's awrong is it down below?" His head shifts back and forth as he speaks still on the prowl for danger.

"No, Mr. Clemens no trouble, just Miss Estelle, tells me to fetch yawl, she says come up right quick, bring you this horse and see gon'a give me a quarter for the job." With that he tugs on the bridle rope secured to the horse's head with a hackamore.

The plug draws forward. Buster takes notice of the ribs protruding and the swayed back. The hair covering the horse hide is scalded and manged.

With critical eye he wonders as to whether this cull can carry him out to Miss Estelle's but no matter he must try, there is nothing for it.

"Come in out of the cold, boy, warm yourself at the fire, I have no Arbuckle, but at least you can get heated." So saying he crawls into his raggedy chaqueta, wraps a strip from his blanket as a scarf about his head and shambles out the door to grasp the reins on the pony.

Buster pasears the beast over to the shed ties the lead to the rail and begins to assemble his outfit.

His saddle is worn through to the tree in several locations and the oxbow stirrup on the near side has been reattached to the stirrup leathers by the threading of wire.

Once his horse is harnessed he proceeds into the shack to collect his doofunnies, put on what extra clothes he has and covers all with his poncho. He mounts his slouch hat.

A quick glance about the room affirms there is nothing else he need take. So with that he departs trailing Aldolph along the trace.

Miss Estelle sits grandly upon the porch of her imposing house. She is ensconced in her rocker, a location wherein she has spent the better part of the past twenty years.

In her hand the omnipresent stone pipe which she tamps with a thumb having years ago lost all feeling and accrued a large callus so that she can pack burning tobacco with it.

When she is of a mind she grips the instrument with what is left of her browned teeth.

Her plew is in a poke to her side.

The pupils are yellowed with cataracts that constrict the myopic vision of her rheumy eyes.

The wrinkled, parchment skin is streaked by the dirt that accumulates in the crevices as she does not bath and has not for these many years.

The scraggly hair is done up in a loose bun that draws attention to the almost universal grey.

She wears a calico summer spectacle that over the years of exposure to the blast of sunshine has been faded to a blotched mosaic.

On her feet the ubiquitous clod hoppers of the plains, with the sole separating from the toe leaving a gap where one can observe the foot within.

She watches now as he rides in. What she sees is a man tall in the saddle, well mounted on a California sorrel pony, Concho Mexican saddle with a manzana for his reata. Sports fine boots with a sombrero for his shade.

Straight backed high in the saddle, proud and strong, thick black hair. Skin tanned by the sun and wind while he works the cattle.

All say an all-day hombre.

She smiles at what she sees, how handsome he is, how grand.

Buster's horse saunters up to the gallery whereon the old woman sits in her rocker, evidently oblivious to the polar weather.

"Might cold to be asitten out ain't it Miss Estelle?" He pushes on the pommel with both hands to lift his body from the saddle and work the cramp from his legs.

"Why hello, Mr. Clemens, so nice to see you, what a welcome treat your coming," so saying she smiles to reveal the prodigious gaps in her darkly-yellowed teeth.

He steps down, ties the horse to the hitching rail and mounts the steps having removed his deformed hat. Surveying the old woman, his heart breaking a little at her pathetic sight, he nevertheless gathers and says, "Why Miss. Estelle you look so nice today."

The ancient orbs shine just a mite and crinkle at the corners.

Mr. Clemens steps over to her and gently lifts her hand by placing his beneath so hers only rests upon the back of his in the way of the ballroom and says, "Querida, may we go inside?"

She's taken by the gallant and rises with her hand.

The wind borne sand scours the white lap siding and the cream and green trim. Not uniformly, but dependent upon the location's exposure to the wind.

There is a further differentiation based on which wind strikes, the winter blasts, the spring and fall zephyrs or the summer storms. Each blow removes the paint in a singular pattern.

Inside the cats have created a powerful presence which takes Mr. Clemens a moment to become accustomed too. The dogs do not seem to have added to the pungent odor.

Walking Miss Estelle across the tile of the foyer they enter the library. With shreds of carpet upon the floor, stuffing bulging from the several locations of rended upholstery and a dearth of knick knacks and picture frames. The absence of which having left squares, rectangles and ovals of discolored wall paper.

Guiding the lady to a chair he grabs another and places it so that they may sit face to face.

Sedentary, he recalls the look of her vivacious youth prior to the ravages of time and the pillaging of the creature's attributes by the forbidding life upon this difficult land.

The destruction inflicted on her assuming over the years the role of ranch hand, working the cattle throughout the day, sleeping on the ground, eating biscuits and beans and eventually undertaking heavy drinking to relieve the tediousness of the unabridged venture.

The devastating loss of her husband, then her two sons and finally her only daughter, with the attendant drift from normalcy and the failure to return.

Time heals all wounds is a non-functioning bromide in the case of Miss Estelle.

Over the ensuing years, her continuing glide from rationality was occasioned by an ever varying response of the townsfolk. At first the sympathy and empathy, then the acceptance of a supposed angelic but damaged mind, followed by the humorous acceptance of the eccentric wealthy old lady and finally the realization that whatever dinero there had ever been was gone revealing the inevitable scorn with which she is currently regarded.

Mr. Clemens can remember though the days when he was a top vaquero, on a path to straw boss and thereafter range boss. Well favored by the patron of the rancho and many of the Cyprians in town. The girls endured the wrath of their madams and pimps as a result of having gifted their favors to the dashing young man.

Then Miss Estelle arrived in Broderick, she arrived as a mail order bride from her home in Boston. She arrived with a trousseau fit for a life in New England and held a femme fatal literature shaped romanticized fiction of life on the Great Plains.

Her betrothed by all accounts an honorable man, a hard worker, with a good head and a strong potential to build a profitable ranch, affording a comfortable life for his family.

There already was a Soddy on the place the roof of which was covered with shingles to prevent leaks in the rain.

Many corrals and necessary outbuildings had been constructed from tree trunks and limbs hauled in from a boscage on the range. There was anticipated the building of a proper house at the earliest opportunity.

Miss Estelle's initial negative reaction to the appalling dust, filth, heat and constant wind was in short order overcome by her natural stature as a sensible woman who had the ability to take the vagaries of life in hand and work them to her will.

And she took note of Mr. Clemens. Compared to her husband he was charismatic. In possession of the attributes she imagined when she conjured the Wild West of her girlhood dreaming back in Boston. He fit the mold to a tee.

So she dove in, working like a hand, having a baby a year, supervising the Mexican girls that cleaned the house, tended the babies and prepared the food.

Together the two newlyweds built up a right smart ranch, raising good beeves, desirable horses and stumbling on a profitable sideline in mules.

And all the while at dances, celebrations, and political rallies she noticed Mr. Clemens and to be honest he noticed her.

There being no way for the matter to progress any further since Mr. Clemens's honor would not allow intercession in a marriage.

His only option to his mind would be to rub out the husband however; he harbored an opinion that such a solution would be unsatisfactory to Miss. Estelle.

And so the matter progressed with discreet eye contact, the most innocent of remarks and occasionally the holding of one another during the trading of partners in the progression of a Virginia reel.

As the years pass the Italianate style house is built, the ranch prospers and the husband and children die.

During the same period Buster Clemens continues his activities without abatement, spends all the money he makes, improves his lot not at all and as age catches up with him starts a long slide towards invalidism.

No longer is he the dashing cowman, with the beautiful horse, spectacular saddle, and thick shock of hair.

Now, he passes through middle age, and thinning hair. He rides an old roan, has a second hand working saddle, limps from several broken bones and is increasingly seen as irrelevant.

Still the clandestine attraction persists, in point of fact if anything it amplifies.

Even so Miss Estelle, now having sustained significant damage is unable to function rationally. Consequently, although she is now free there can be no consummation of the relationship, no formal bonding through marriage, nothing but the bitter longing on each side for what cannot and will not be.

As Miss Estelle retreats into her daunsy life, Buster Clemens does much the same. Each withered with the years passing becoming increasingly uncouth and isolated. They slip and slide down into their individualized pit of paucity and eccentricity.

Now, Miss Estelle, her hand lightly within the handsome vaquero's two, makes her appeal. "Mr. Clemens I need you to grant me a boon. I require that you deliver my animal Ismael to the Worthing Land and Cattle Company spread as soon as possible," she says it with the simple grace of a child completely and utterly innocent of the depth of her request.

She is in fact asking for his life.

Unexpectedly, his first thought is why does she want to kill the bull?

Immediately, his mind refocuses and without changing his expression in the slightest begins to reason through the matter and reckon his response.

If he says no, she will be terribly offended however, for how long is anyone's guess; he does not believe her mind can hold a thought for over a few minutes. It is surprising that she has been able to engage Aldolpho and remember what she wanted to ask him once he arrived.

He must say yes, as it has no meaning, she will have forgotten the whole thing by the morrow, probably even the fact of his being here. If she remembers at all it will be as a dream.

With her wizened hand upon his own, he looks into the flecked eyes and with a gentle voice intones, "Yes, my dear I will grant your wish and take Ismael through the pass to Worthing Rancho, happily I will do this for you."

She looks back at him but her eyes contain not even the faint light of moments prior. The muscle beneath her skin is limper than just earlier. Her whole body collapses in on itself. On the floor spreads a puddle.

The accumulation of sign gives him to understand that she has willed herself to live only for as long as it takes for him to arrive and for her to deliver her request.

What possibly the true import of this message is he cannot fathom.

However, he is now faced with a conundrum.

When he agreed to fulfill her request he thought it would pass from her memory. Now with her death it becomes a deathbed promise. That is to say inviolable. He now has no option but to fulfill his oath.

Within seconds as he sits holding the inarticulate hand he begins to realize that Miss Estelle has bequeathed to him a gift.

Possibly, to balance the years of unrequited affection between them, she now gives over what he truly needs and could not have attained elsewise.

A final adventure, with him in pursuit with the strength and passion with which, he would have braved it in his prime.

With such exertion he will collapse and his life will end, not as an enfeebled, rotting ruin but as the robust vaquero of his youth.

This is a fine present something he can sink his teeth into and chase with verve and vigor.

Laying her hand gently in her lap, he goes out and rides the dilapidated horse into town and approaches the Minister of the Methodist Church. Not that he knows which Church if any she would prefer but just because it would be more Anglo than Mex.

He knocks at the door of the rectory, "Hello, my name is Clemens; I want to tell you that Miss Estelle has passed."

"How do you know, my good man?"

"I was with her when she went over the hill." Having had his say, he turns on his heel and rides back to Miss Estelle's house.

Her body will keep well enough in the cold house, and he can pass the night in a bedroom upstairs and get his start in the morning.

He wishes he had a quarter for some bait.

In the morning once dressed he enters the barn and begins to pluck the threads with his Barlow to separate old feed sacks at the seams.

The meal they once contained has been attacked by mice and rats who to facilitate getting at the grain chewed holes in the sacks.

Consequently, the sacking is somewhat tattered. He parts one sack to wrap about his hands as gloves. Others he cuts holes for his head and will drape them over his body to fortify his shabbily thin coat.

He saddles the horse Aldolpho brought him, wishing as he did so that there had been oats for him last night; the animal has had nothing but the dried dog town grass poking up through the snow, on the way up here.

It's a difficult thing for either the horse or the bull to keep warm on scant feed.

Aboard the derelict horse and leading Ishmael Buster winds up off the ranch. Striking a trail which will take him up the cerro to the break in the Musselshell, he settles on an easy pace.

Since in all likelihood there is no place they actually have to be and there is small chance they will survive this ordeal, he has no reason to torture them into the bargain.

He's heeled with the hog leg but he hankers for a carabina. He doesn't know what he would shoot nohow, it's the weather that will have done with the whole kit and caboodle.

He stops at what looks to be the last place on the trail before it begins its rise up off the valley floor.

In the old way he rides up to the door. "Hallo, the house, anyone to home? Hallo," his voice is such that even though he is trying to shout what comes out is only a smidgen above a normal voice, and fractured at that.

The door opens a slight then more. "What you needing?"

"Why I'm taking this animal over to Worthing's way and was wondering if you could spare a crumb of bread or something."

"There's a little sopapilla in the pan, step down and welcome."

Settled at the table, Buster fills his plate and digs in, his host one Christian Matthews hoists the jug of red eye takes a pull and places it down on the table with an obvious invitation for Buster to help himself, which he does.

"Wall, you're a life saver that's what, I hadn't had nothing since the morning yesterday and I was right empty, I'm thanking you."

"Glad to be of service," says he. Actually, Christian is just as glad to have the company which being rare this far out. Additionally, he likes having a man more his age, one who knew the west back when with stories to tell.

Passing the jug back and forth lubricates their language, "So you really are going to walk that bull up over that mountain?"

"Well, I won't say it don't sound foolish, but truth be told I don't know what options I have, I promised a lady as she was dying I would, can't take it back and she can't let me off the hook."

"But that colds gon'a kill y'a and the animal both, that horseflesh your riding can't make it, there ain't no feed atall, he'll freeze sure if he don't break a leg." The jug to his lips he allows the liquid to flow into his mouth and over, down his chin and the front of his shirt.

"Probably you're right but what's to be done? I give my word." Pouring the brown venomous juice in his mouth he guzzles what he can and the rest spreads on his breast.

Buster is having the best time he has had in years. There is in his mind just the slightest reminder of the old days, and how they were just like this.

The only thing missing is a little female companionship; however, he recognizes he has little use for it.

At some point, the bottle ceases to be passed, the two take to the cot, one with his head at each end and sleep peacefully till the morn.

After coffee, biscuits and sowbelly, Buster rises to be on his way.

"I'm grateful for the night's entertainment, it brightened my spirits." Taking Christian in both hands he is warm in his parting.

"I'd like to talk you out of this fool venture, but if you are agoin take a poke of biscuits at least."

In the pen Buster surveys the carcass of the stricken horse, down on his side, overcome by the previous day's exertion or the cold or both. He expresses no disappointment or consternation, just proceeds with his affairs.

He puts a cavraces about the horse's neck and ties the other end to the bull. Then with a quirt he encourages the critter to pull the load out to a brasada of black chaparral.

Returning he restores the rope to its place in the shed.

Without expression or even a thought of change of plan, he takes up a piece of twine, ties it about the top of the sack of biscuits and makes a loop for over his shoulder.

Then grabbing onto Ismael's lead and he begins to walk up towards the mountain pass.

"You a crazy soma bitch!" The epithet rings in his ears. In his heart there is the warmth of fellowship.

Their ascent while slow is steady and they make a good distance. Ismael works without belligerency, he plods at a good pace.

Eventually, dusk begins its descent. Buster searches for a place to spend the night. He finds a suitable overhang which will keep him out of the wind and snow.

Eating his third and fourth biscuit of the day revives him to a degree which lets his mind to wander to the many times in the past when he has slept out of a night.

The round-ups, the drives, on the prowl for cattle on the high plains and even just for the sheer fun of it, he and his paisani out to hunt, drink, tell stories and generally howl at the moon.

The flour sacks under his thin jacket and the poncho over that insulates his chest and gut to a degree. The scarf wrapped about his neck and head under his slouch hat provides protection for that portion.

However, all that shields his legs from the bitter weather is the worn pants flannel a most pitiable insulator.

His legs propelling him up the mountain all the day generated heat within however, now at rest there is nothing to keep them warm. He feels the chill seep in the moment he lays down.

He pulls his legs up to his chest as high as their inflexibility and the stiffness of his spine will permit. This allows the poncho to cover from his shoulders to his ankles maximizing its protection. But it is not enough. He is thoroughly chilled in moments.

Were there sufficient light he could keep walking thereby maintaining flexibility and warmth. However, the darkened mountain trails present inestimable dangers. There remains only hoping for sufficient life to realize the morning's false light which will allow the resumption of his trek.

Lying as he does on the cold ground with nothing between him and the soil, the little heat in his body is drawn away.

The effect is to keep him in agitation unable to sleep soundly.

There is now a horrific scream in the night. He recognizes the sound immediately as that of the bull being attacked by a cougar. He has heard it many times on drives and round-ups when steers screamed in the same way as their throats were being torn by the huge canines of the cat.

He secures his pistol and tries to rise to the bull's defense however; his frozen legs and stiff back restrict his movement.

As he struggles to regain his feet the cries of the animal become decidedly weaker until they cease and there is no longer cause for Buster to rise. Ishmael no longer needs his help.

He folds back unto the poncho, slumping too tired to unravel himself, panting and wheezing from his exertion.

The cold continues its invasion of his body however; Buster Clemens nee Ricallio Francisco Bolivar Jesus Warez experiences a warming sensation throughout his body except for the creeping numbness of his extremities.

His mind is reeling with the wheen of remembrances of the wonderful, happy days of his life. Interestingly, there is difficulty in recollecting any bad days except for the fruitless potential of Miss Estelle.

There is a slight tinge, but only slight that he failed to attain the levels of achievement for which people once considered him worthy.

In all I've had a good life being the penultimate thought to pass through his mind before sleep, Miss Estelle being the last.

The denizen's lips are curled into a faint smile as has not appeared on the vaquero's features for these many years. The mien is reflective of the peace in which he abideth.

New Beginnings
by Jesse J Elliot

Iragene Jones, New Mexico Sheriff Series

PART 2 of 2

Iragene wanted to rectify his misconception. "She is a gifted seamstress, trying to make a living after the death of her mother, and that is all. She sews for Mrs. Brown and her girls. Again, that is all she does. Mrs. Brown gave her a job after meeting her in St. Louis while visiting her sister."

MacDonald looked relieved but remained obviously bothered by the news. "Thank you, sheriff, I shall take up no more of your time." He turned to go then stopped. "You appeared to be discussing some business with her. Perhaps she sews for others besides Mrs. Brown?"

"Well yes, I just hired her to make some items for me. I imagine she'd gladly take on new customers—sewing customers that is. So many women are unwilling to accept her living quarters and associate her being there with the business that goes on there that they refuse to hire her."

"Yes, yes, I can understand that. Perhaps, you would inform her that I am, ahh, interested in seeing the quality of her work. We can always improve the quality of our hotel linens and I could always use a new dress shirt." He looked down at her with a hopeful expression on his face.

"Of course, I'll let her know. Shall I have her make an appointment with your manager or . . . "

He cut her off. "No, no, just have her come in anytime and ask for me. Thank you." He turned abruptly and left the office.

Iragene just sat there and pondered the oddness of the last visit. Then she remembered the dead man in her jail and swore a little more. She was just in the middle of another set of expletives when the doctor entered the office and just stared at her open mouthed.

"Doc, you wouldn't be staring at me if I were a man who just found a dead man in his jail, would you?"

"O, shit!" he repeated, "No, I wouldn't be staring, but I wasn't expecting to find my patient dead either. What happened?" he asked as he went for the key.

"Not necessary, the cell is open."

"Yeah, of course," he replied absently while walking to the dead man. He approached the man and examined the wound. "Infected and festering. Might have been able to do something if I didn't have a baby to deliver . . . oh, what the hell, may have died anyway." He sat down across from Iragene and just stared at nothing.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor, I know how you feel about all of your patients. I'm sorry I put you in this position." She looked at him and wished she had had some other way to subdue the big man, but wishes were just that and nothing could change if she were the only lawman around at the time. When Cruz was with her, she had some options, but alone, well, it was shoot or be god knows what.

"Look, Iragene, that man was a brute, and if you were able to find out anything about him, I'm sure you would find the world is a better place without him, but oh, well, I'll contact the undertaker on my way home. I've gotta get some shut eye. Good day, sheriff," and he doffed his hat and left.

A few days later Iragene made it over to Mrs. Brown's establishment to see how Matty was and share some news she had. Due to the death of her prisoner, she had had to see he was buried and try to find out who he was. She successfully completed both tasks, including finding out that the prisoner was wanted in Texas for the murder of a young homesteader and his sister as well as numerous robberies. His name was Titus Smalley, but even more disturbing was that he had two brothers. Both had records a mile long, but they were supposedly somewhere in Texas. The news didn't make her feel any better, but at least she knew that this brother wouldn't hurt any more women.

Matty was doing well, and the teeth had actually stayed in place. She was still discolored around the face, but the arm was beginning to lessen in pain. Doc Stein had just left, and Iragene was relieved to have missed him.

Iragene walked down the stairs and was met by Marnie.

"Sheriff! I've completed some of your items already. Would you care to see them? The towelettes, handkerchiefs, and aprons were easy to make."

Iragene looked at the items and expressed a genuine appreciation of the girl's needlework. "Everything is perfect, Marnie. I can't wait to go home and give everyone their gifts." Luckily she had money on her and paid the girl. She turned to go then stopped after remembering the hotel owner's request. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Mr. MacDonald, the hotel owner, wanted you to come by and discuss some sewing jobs for him."

Marnie turned back to Iragene with a big smile on her face. "When should I go there, sheriff? Who do I ask for? I can't believe it!" the girl burst out as she waited for the information.

Iragene shared what she'd been told and left smiling, feeling good for the first time in a long time. She decided she'd walk over to the doctor's office and share all of her news. Cruz, her deputy, wasn't due back until tomorrow, and she felt she had to share the good news with someone, so she did.

Marnie too was overwhelmed with the great opportunity that had fallen her way. She was so excited that she ran to her room and changed into one of her dresses that she used to wear when meeting a new client for the first time. Things were looking up for her, and she welcomed the thought of finally moving out of Mrs. Brown's into her own home. She would miss Mrs. Brown and the girls, but she knew she would be happier to be out of the whorehouse.

She walked over to The Hotel, trying to contain her excitement. In her mind she already planned her new house, her new shop, maybe even someone special in her life. At first it would be lonely living and working alone, but she knew she needed to leave Mrs. Brown's establishment. As she entered The Hotel, she took a deep breath, and walked up to the desk clerk.

"Hello, my name is Marnie Slaughter, and I am here to see Mr. MacDonald regarding seamstress work." The young clerk looked at her and smiled. Marnie blushed and waited for him to tell Mr. MacDonald she was there.

Finally, he took his eyes off the beautiful girl and went to inform his boss that the expected visitor had arrived. In only minutes, Mr. MacDonald appeared and asked her into his office. "Alan, please tell Chef that I would like some refreshments for two in my office."

The young clerk looked surprised, but left immediately to carry out his boss's wishes.

Marnie was ushered into a spacious office. "Please, Miss Slaughter, have a seat and tell me about your experience as a seamstress. I happened to see some of your work when you were breakfasting with the sheriff yesterday, and I want to hire you to monogram linens, make me some custom made shirts, and be our hotel's on the premise seamstress—with your own room and board included."

Marnie just looked at MacDonald with her mouth open. She hadn't even said a word, and here she was being offered a full-time position with the hotel with her own room and board. She was silent, and then she was angered.

"Now wait a minute, Mr. MacDonald, I am a professional seamstress, not one of Mrs. Brown's regulars. If you think . . . "

He cut her off. "Miss Slaughter, Sheriff Jones explained your work, and I am not even going to discuss what you think I am insinuating! Let me make myself clear, I need someone I can trust and rely on for professional work and that does not include what Mrs. Brown's girls do. Now, are we clear? The sheriff said you were good at fine stitching and tailoring. I need someone who can do both in this god-forsaken place. Are you interested?"

Shocked at his offering her the job with all of her needs included, she looked at him closely for the first time. She stared at his features. He was a man old enough to be her father. In fact, he strongly resembled the very uncle she had run away from. She even wondered for a moment if they were related, but that couldn't be. This far from St. Louis it could only be coincidental. Did she even want to mention the resemblance? No, she thought better of it.

The coffee arrived along with some lovely teacakes. Marnie couldn't help but smile as she remembered her outings with her mother that always seemed to end with their stopping at a teashop for some delicious treats.

"You're smiling, Miss Slaughter. Would you like to share some of your thoughts?" MacDonald asked politely. She looked at him and once again tried to determine why this man wanted to hire her and provide such unusual benefits. And, why in the world did he look so much like her horrible uncle?

"Mr. MacDonald, I am overwhelmed at your generous offer, and yes, I will definitely consider the job. As for my smile, I was just remembering some wonderful times with my mother. Now I must leave and think this over."

"Please, stay, Miss Slaughter. It isn't too often that I have someone who can appreciate fine coffee and cakes. Tell me about your family and your experience. How did you become such a fine seamstress?"

Marnie sat back down. "Mr. MacDonald, are you this curious about all of your employees?"

"Actually, I am. I think of my employees as my family."

"Ahhh. Well, I was taught to sew by my mother. She was amazing. She could sew anything. She loved to create things. We owned a shop in St. Louis, and we were happy until, until . . . "

"Until what, Miss Slaughter?" he prodded gently.

"Until everything went wrong, until, excuse me, Mr. MacDonald. I think I would prefer not to discuss this right now." She got up abruptly. "I'll get back to you in a few days. I'd like some time to think over your offer."

"Of course, Miss Slaughter, I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to pry. Forgive me, please." He too got up and began to walk her out but she politely refused and left the hotel office, confused and close to tears.

She almost ran back to Mrs. Brown's. She wondered why Mr. MacDonald and his job offer bothered her so much. What he said made sense. The Hotel's staff were all friendly and did seem like a big family, but . . . . And why did Mr. MacDonald remind her so much of her uncle? Surely her uncle wasn't the only blond in the world, but Mr. MacDonald sure did look a lot like him. "I'd be crazy to turn down that job," she said aloud, "why shouldn't I try it out? I can always move back to Mrs. Brown's if things didn't work out." Determined to improve her life, she sent a note to MacDonald saying that she would be delighted to work for him, but she needed a few days to complete her work for Mrs. Brown. Relieved she went back to her room and her sewing.

A few days later, Iragene was washing down her cell and trying to air out the smell of death. She had just gotten back from visiting her family and delivering gifts of Marnie's beautiful handiwork. She wasn't happy to find the cell still tainted with the smell of the dying man, but a little more time and wash should do the trick.

"Sheriff, I'm sorry. I tried to air the stink out of the place, but there's not a whole lot of air coming in," her deputy explained. "I tried washing it down, but we were out of soap."

"I can see your quandary, Cruz, no soap. Hmmm," she sarcastically replied, but smiled at her gentle deputy. Cruz had missed her tone and went on about his chores which included going through all the wanted posters. Iragene entered the main office and saw two posters that Cruz had singled out.

"The Smalleys. I see each brother has his own list of crimes, but all seem to include robbery, rape, and assault. Hmm, Titus was the only one wanted for murder. Hopefully, we won't have to deal with these other two, but be on the lookout, Cruz. They say bad news travels in threes. In the meantime, let's get over to Mrs. Brown's. Marnie is moving out today, and I promised I would help and check out her new room."

"I still can't believe Mr. MacDonald offered her a place to live and all those other good things," he said questioningly. "Isn't that a bit queer offering that to a stranger?"

"I'm not sure she's such a stranger to him. I was having breakfast with Marnie when Mr. MacDonald saw her for the first time. He got a very odd expression on his face, almost like he recognized her, but it was more than that. He had a surprised yet pained expression. Maybe she has some link to his past?" Iragene speculated as they walked over to help Marnie move out. "But since I know nothing about Mr. MacDonald, I can't even guess."

They arrived at Mrs. Brown's and knocked on the door. Mrs. Brown opened the door and greeted them. She had been crying. "I know this is a wonderful opportunity for Marnie, but we'll all miss her. She's become a part of our family."

"I understand Mrs. Brown, and I'm sure she'll never forget you for helping her out and taking her in when she had no one." Iragene gently responded as she touched Mrs. Brown on the shoulder. "Besides, she's only a few minutes away."

Cruz and Iragene entered Marnie's soon-to-be former room. All of her fabrics and clothes were bound and ready to go. Marnie's face was flushed with excitement and she was giddy with emotion. The sheriff was reminded that Marnie was still a young girl.

"I see you're ready, Marnie," Iragene looked around admiringly. "Even your packing is done beautifully. Are you ready to start your new job?"

"Oh, yes!" the girl gushed. Then she saw Mrs. Brown and ran to her and put her arms around her. "Oh, Mrs. Brown, how will I ever thank you for your kindness and generosity?"

"By not forgetting us," Mrs. Brown said. By now the other girls came down to say good-bye. Matty and Jenny were the closest, and they reached out to hug Marnie good-bye.

The other girls crowded around her, and they reached out to hug her as well. Marnie started crying and then said, "Wait, I almost forgot. I made something for each of you." Out of her sewing bag she took out a monogrammed handkerchief for each one of the girls. Lastly, she pulled out a beautiful silken scarf for Mrs. Brown.

Mrs. Brown gasped at its beauty. Marnie, I can't accept this. It is too beautiful and dear. Surely this must be special to you."

"It is, and that is why I want you to have it. It was my mother's, and you treated me as well as a mother would. I was alone, and you took me in. Mrs. Brown, if it hadn't been for you, I would have . . . " she stopped. "I want you to have it, please."

"I shall be honored, my dear. Now off you go, and don't be a stranger," she said smilingly through her tears.

They all waved as they started walking back to town with the few parcels that Marnie owned. They hardly needed the horse Cruz and Iragene brought. They walked quietly but happily to The Hotel.

When they got to the hotel, they entered the lobby. The same young man greeted Marnie at the front desk. "Mr. MacDonald wanted me to let him know when you had arrived. He wanted to show you to your room personally. The clerk stepped out a moment, and then he returned with the hotel's owner.

Mr. MacDonald entered the room jubilantly. "Good morning to you all," he said happily. Iragene looked at him and then she looked at Marnie. The resemblance between the two appeared more than coincidental. The realization must have appeared on her face because Mr. MacDonald looked alarmed as he saw her expression. He looked at Iragene pleadingly, though Marnie saw nothing but her new employer and living quarters.

"Let me show you your new room, Marnie, if I may call you by your first name?" She looked at him then replied, "Yes Sir, if you wish." They walked up the stairs to the third floor and Mr. MacDonald opened a door to a small but well furnished suite." "How do you like it?" he asked.

"It's beautiful, but all this for a seamstress?" she asked with confusion in her voice. "Mr. MacDonald, something odd is happening here. Please explain. Why are you treating a complete stranger with such kindness? Such generosity?" She looked at him for the first time seeing a man that looked so much like her uncle that it once more surprised her. She looked at him and then looked down at his left hand. He was wearing a ring almost identical to the one on her right hand.

"Where did you get that!" she demanded. "Who are you, Mr. MacDonald?" She turned as if to run, but she decided that she had run enough. "Again, who are you?"

Iragene stepped in and touched Marnie on the arm. "Come, let's all of us sit down and talk. I think Mr. MacDonald has something to tell you." Marnie allowed herself to be led to a settee in the room where she sat down by Iragene. She then turned and looked expectantly to the man she thought was to be her new employer.

"Marnie," the man said softly, "I am not just an interested and caring employer, I am an interested and caring father." He looked at her, waiting for a response. When nothing happened, he was about to say something else, but Marnie jumped up and looked at him accusingly.

"You're not my father. My father died in the War. He died leaving Mama and me to fend for ourselves against his cruel and sick brother who destroyed Mama and almost destroyed me. My father died leaving Mama to live a life without love because she continued to love only him until the day she died. If you really are my father, then tell me NOW why you ran away and left us!"

MacDonald held his hands to his face, attempting to control his feelings. "Marnie, I was hoping to wait until you knew me better and trusted me more before I told you who I am. I'm so sorry. I knew nothing about my brother's behavior, and to tell you the truth, I didn't even know I had a daughter until I saw you the other day with the sheriff, heard your name, and saw your mother's handkerchief. I left for war not knowing your mother was pregnant. Please believe me. I don't know how or where to begin. Will you listen?"

Marnie looked at him, her face full of shock and anger. She really wanted to leave this miserable man alone. Let him face fear and betrayal for a change. He left his own wife and child to do so.

"Why? Why should I listen?" she spat back at him.

"Because, something happened during the War. My mind was broken as well as my body. I was so damaged that I woke up one day in a Confederate prison, never knowing how I got there. I was shot and barely alive. I was no longer the same man I had been before my injuries. My body would never be whole again, and with it my very sanity hung in the balance. I don't remember much during my captivity, but toward the end of the War, our prison and surrounding area was bombarded every night. The explosions, the lights, the fires, the screaming of the injured and dying. I can't begin to tell you what the other men and I suffered. We were starved and living in mud and human waste, covered with fleas and chiggers, infected wounds, and sickened and diseased—not sure what we feared more—death or survival."

And now MacDonald continued as if there was nobody in the room. His face became anguished and he continued. "Daily men died. No one there to weep for them, to say a prayer for them. Some of my friends died, and I looked at them, not shedding a tear.

When we were liberated, our fellow Yanks fed us, cleaned us up a bit, and sent us home. Instead of going home, I began to find some peace in a bottle. For years I did odd jobs and managed to shut out some of the pain of war and captivity through drink, but not enough. I was ready to end it all one night when I ran into a man named Kieran MacDonald, a former Confederate soldier who had worked at the camp. He was one of the few men to display any compassion for the prisoners of war. Well, he saw who and what I was . . . and this man took me to his home, cleaned me up, fed me, and spent the next two years talking to me as I worked side by side with him on his damaged property. He had lost his wife and almost everything he owned, but he was willing to share everything with me. We talked and we worked. Years passed. We rebuilt his land. Hired on some former slaves who knew MacDonald for what he was, a good man, and we all turned his charred fields into fields of tobacco, wheat, and corn.

"Six years ago, MacDonald hurt his arm. It became infected, and he died. For the first time in years, I cried. I cried for my lost friend, my lost wife, and my lost past. I cried for the men I killed and the men who almost killed me. Through my loss, I regained my soul.

I was to discover that MacDonald left his land and money to me. I was shocked. In his will he called me the brother he never had. In his honor, I decided to take his name and head West, making a new beginning. I became Kieran MacDonald, and I promised him I would make something of myself, helping other people along the way as he did me. That's why I feel so strongly about making my hotel a family. The family I lost and never even knew."

MacDonald stopped talking. He looked around and finally remembered that he was no longer alone. Iragene, Cruz, and his daughter were his witnesses, and he had exposed his very soul to these people. He got up abruptly, embarrassed he was about to excuse himself and leave, but Marnie jumped up and with tears running down her face embraced him. For a moment he stood there, confused, then he too embraced his daughter and they stayed that way for who knows how long, for Iragene and Cruz silently left the two, father and daughter alone.

Several weeks later, Iragene and Cruz were just locking up the office, on their way to a celebratory lunch at The Hotel. This was the first time either had seen Marnie and her father since their emotional reunion. They had had much to catch up with as well as get to know each other better. The invitation to lunch was a relief to everyone. Mrs. Brown and her girls were invited and so was Doc Stein. To avoid embarrassing gawkers for the girls, the group was to meet in a small dining area off the main restaurant.

"Mierda, it's cold, I'm going back for my jacket, sheriff. I'll join you there." Hiding her smile at his occasional swear word so out of place for this gentle man, she nodded and continued on to the hotel.

She was feeling good and not really paying careful attention to any one, when she heard a gruff voice speak out loudly. "Hey, you fuckin' bitch. You're the one who killed Titus, and now I'm going to kill you." She turned and faced a bull of a man as large as his brother, and equally as offensive, and his hand was moving towards his holstered gun. Although her mind hadn't been in the right place, it quickly switched and her reflexes clicked in. She easily drew and shot him twice in the chest. He went down. Magnus Smalley was dead with two bullets to the heart.

Shaken, she began to look around and see if the other brother was somewhere nearby. Where was Cruz? She slowly walked over to the fallen man to ensure herself that he was dead. She just happened to see some movement on the roof and looked up. There was brother number three with a rifle aimed at her. She dove and pulled her gun but was too late. A shot rang out, but nothing hit her or around her. Instead, the brother, Festus Smalley, fell off the roof and onto the dirt street. Surprised she looked out to see Cruz running with a rifle toward her. He looked at her anxiously. "Sheriff, are you okay? I heard two shots and . . . "

Relief filled his face as he saw her get up. "Yeah, thanks to you, Cruz. I guess the plan was to get me either on the street or from the roof. Luckily they hadn't counted on you being there for me. Let's celebrate bad planning—on their part."

He just looked at her and then he smiled. By now people were filling the street to see what had happened. In the distance, Iragene saw the luncheon party coming down the street towards her.

Doc Stein was the first to speak. "New patients?"

"No, Doc, the brothers of a former one, but I think they are beyond your help." She smiled awkwardly at him, and it was clear that she was badly shaken. "I wasn't really looking where I was going, and I almost bumped right into him. Luckily he called me out, and I was able to get him before he got me."

"Sheriff," Cruz exclaimed, "his gun barely cleared his holster. You got him. You were twice as fast even with his warning." He looked at her with a sense of awe, negating his own role in the shoot-out.

"That may be so, Cruz, but if it hadn't been for you, I'd be dead. Once again, I am in your debt, deputy." She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Doc Stein had checked the men and then got some volunteers to take them to the undertaker. He turned to her. "I think the celebratory luncheon might be a bit much for you today, sheriff. What do you think? I'll gladly walk you back to your office."

Iragene looked around at these people she now called friends. Yes, she had just killed a man, and yes she was badly shaken. She looked over at Cruz. He too had just taken a life, but he was more concerned about her than about killing the man. She had just shot a man, but that, unfortunately, was part of her job, and in this case, she had killed a potential killer in self-defense.

She turned toward the doctor, put her hand on his arm, and replied, "Doctor, I appreciate your concern, but I'd like to join the Slaughters in their celebration. After all, what is the good of keeping La Madera safe if not to enjoy the celebration of good people? But I might take a tip of your flask in my coffee if you will be so kind to offer me one." Doc Stein quickly agreed, and they walked to the hotel.

The Banker
by Willy Whiskers, Constable of Calliope Nv

Eric Slaughter, accompanied by three of his burly ranch hands, pushed his horse hard. They had to make it to the Humburg spread before it was too late. His men were dressed appropriately for their work and so was he; expensive three-piece suit, bowler hat and highly polished ankle-length boots. Normally the banker would be in his carriage, but when he heard that his rival, Thomas Teasdale, was about to undercut his plans to take over the Humburg land he threw one of his men off his mount and set off. Rounding the bend of the cart path to Humburg's, his anger rose when he saw Teasdale's buggy parked in front of the farm house.

Reining in his mount, he yelled at Humburg who stood on the porch alongside his wife and Thomas Teasdale, "Your time is up. You're three months behind and by your mortgage this land is now mine!"

"Not so fast, Eric," returned Thomas, who knew Slaughter disliked being called by his first name.

"You stay out of this, you claim jumper," Eric snapped. "You won't ace me out this time." Teasdale had bested him in several land deals in the past and with each one the banker's ire grew deeper and deeper.

"Mr. Humburg has 'til midnight to pay up and you might have noticed that the sun is still up." Turning to Humburg, Thomas indicated he should give Slaughter the folded piece of paper he held.

Taking the document, Eric looked at it and bellowed. "What's this?"

"It's full payment for Mr. Humburg's mortgage," Teasdale announced with great glee. "You're out of this deal. The Ranch and Farm Bank now holds the paper on this property."

"Damn your hide, Teasdale. I'll destroy you for this!"

Though in the same business, the two men could not have been more different. Slaughter was a big man, well over six feet with a pronounced belly and a full salt-and-pepper beard. His voice was deep and loud. A feature he used to intimidate and belittle.

Teasdale was an average man, spectacled with thinning hair. He favored grey suits, though often shed his coat and vest, looking less distinguished than his tellers. Quiet in manner, he was all business with an ear for his customers.

The bad blood between them ran deep. The Slaughter Bank had been the only bank in Calliope for several years giving him a lock on major financial dealings in the area. However, as time went on larger ranches, mining interests and settlers moving into the area saw the need for a second bank was obvious, that and Slaughter's ego rubbed some of the equally proud businessmen in town the wrong way.

Forming a board of directors, the business men cast about for a man to run their new bank. They found him in Thomas Teasdale who was Slaughter's head teller at the time. Young, smart and ambitious, Teasdale was quick to take the reins of the new Ranch and Farm Bank.

As it played out, the townsfolk rallied around one bank or the other. It split the town and then came the saga of the safes. Slaughter's Bank had a Herring & Co. Salamander safe made in 1855, serviceable but not grandiose. The Ranch bank needed a safe and ordered a Stiffel & Freeman Safe from Philadelphia built on the 1869 model. It was a safe within a safe with a combination lock on the outer door and a key locked inner safe.

Slaughter was incensed that his safe was now inferior and he installed a modern Diebold vault. He had the vault built within the bank with foot-and-a-half-thick brick and iron ceiling and walls, fronted by a modern 1885 Diebold Safe & Lock Co. door with time lock.

It was an ornate piece with Greek revival capitals and columns. It took up a full third of the bank with its outer walls plastered and painted gleaming white. Inside, the vault was fully outfitted with shelves on three sides and an inner cage for customers who wanted greater security. As a finishing flourish, a deep-pile oriental carpet covered the floor.

The vault nearly bankrupted him and he had to mortgage many of his holdings to keep is head above water. A practice he continued anytime his desires overreached his funds, like having to keep his wife in the manner she favored. She spent half the year in Europe or Newport as a rule.

The town expected Teasdale to get a better safe, but being frugal and practical he invested the bank's assets in more productive efforts like lending to farmers for seed or ranches for breed stock.

Still steaming at Teasdale's besting, Slaughter arrived back at his bank, dropped into his great swivel chair and called for his head teller, "Hobart!"

A thin wiry soul hurried through the doorway. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses and straitening his vest, he stood erect before the banker, "Mr. Slaughter?"

"I've had it with that damned Teasdale. I've had it, I tell you." Slaughter fumed and pounded his fist.

"Yes sir, but what can you do?" dutifully responded the teller.

"You don't worry about that. I thought of a plan riding back from Humburg's. He'll rue the day he went up against me. Enough on this, what about Prichard's effects?"

Claiborne Prichard had been an old man who lived alone in a tiny house on the edge of the town. A refugee from the old South after the war, he worked as a notary, tutor and accountant for several stores and ranches in the area. Slaughter held the mortgage on his place and when Claiborne died suddenly the previous week, Slaughter claimed all his possessions to settle his debts.

Hobart continued. "We cleaned out the place and put it all in your warehouse. There wasn't much, mostly chairs and a nice gate-leg table, but there was something very strange."

Slaughter leaned forward, "What?"

"There were two steamer trunks. We busted the lock off and they were chockfull of Confederate currency: all new bills, maybe $200,000 worth."

The banker leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful look, "Guess the rumors were true."

"Rumors sir?"

"During the war a fella' named Thayer tried to smuggle a large number of notes across the Mississippi to Texas to support the war in the west, but he was caught in '63. There were all kinds of rumors that there were several other smugglers involved. Some thought Prichard may have been one of them as he had worked in the Southern treasury at the time. So, I guess he was."

A few weeks later, four men, Italian emigrants, stepped off the train. Tough-looking, dressed in a distinctly Eastern style, mustachioed and swarthy, they made straight for the Ranch bank. There they rented the vacant general store owned by the bank and situated next to Slaughters bank. The two buildings even shared a wall. As soon as they secured the property they began taking shipments of dry goods and opened for business.

Townspeople were not hostile to the newcomers, but were suspicious. It took a few days before some brave souls entered the store. The first thing they noticed was the men could barely speak English, communicating mostly with hand gestures, grunts and a few words sprinkled here and there.

The next surprise was the store prices. It seemed they had no idea what items should cost, selling a $2 bolt of cloth for 50 cents or a quarter for a sack of flour worth at least a dollar at any other store in town.

These heavy discounts hurt the other shops, but they figured it was just a stunt to get new business and eventually the prices would come into line. They did not and the men continued undercutting prices which brought lines of patrons through their doors. At least two smaller stores went under, being snatched up by Slaughter.

One more curiosity about the Italians was their habit of calling each other Goombah, meaning friend. Hardly ever did they use names. It was Goombah this and Goombah that, Goombah come here, Goombah, Goombah, Goombah. So, the townsfolk got to calling them collectively, the Goombahs.

A few weeks after the Goombahs set up shop, Slaughter stepped out of his bank's rear door to enjoy the day and a fine cigar. Not surprisingly, he found Larry, the leader of the men, raking the ground around his garden. His name was Lorenzo, but he had lived long enough in the states to know his name was Larry. He was the only one with a full command of English.

Even before they had their store ready the Goombahs broke ground for a garden behind the store growing tomatoes, kale, kohlrabi and an assortment of herbs. No matter what was happening in the store there was always at least one of them tending their vegetables, moving dirt around from here to there.

Stepping up close to the gardener, the banker blew out a cloud of smoke and asked, "How is our plan going?"

Larry nodded. "Okay."

"It won't be long before the money comes in," Slaughter continued. He was sure to stress his concern with the tone of his voice.

"Don't worry. We know our job." Larry did not bother to raise his head, just kept raking.

"Look," Slaughter pointed his cigar at the Goombah. "I've got one more thing I want you to do," he said handing Larry a key. "There are strongboxes in my warehouse you can use. Also, there are chests down there full of Confederate money. Replace Teasdale's money with that Confederate junk."

Larry looked up with a broad smile. "That's a good joke."

South of town proper was Cutler Lake, named for a surveyor who passed through in the 1850s. A mountain lake, it swelled in the Spring but by Fall it drained down leaving a wide meadow on its western bank that served as the grounds for the Fall festival. Each year it was a contest between the Bar B's secret basting sauce and the K&N's special seasoning. Most of the town saloons sent out beer wagons. There was a pie making contest, horseshoe pitching, shooting competitions and all manner of western activities. It was common for folks to come by train from as far away as Carson City and Ely for the event.

The festivities were timed to conform with the annual cattle sale and harvest from the farms. Cattle buyers deposited large sums in the two banks as did the farmers after selling their crops.

A few days before the party, Larry stood on the train platform as the westbound screeched to a stop. A man in stylish eastern dress stepped off. They shook hands and with little conversation they walked directly to the Ranch bank. Larry conducted a minor transaction at the teller's window while the man stood to the side observing everything in the bank, especially the safe.

The preparations for the festival were well under way on the Friday when Slaughter stood before his staff and announced, "Gentlemen, a bank holiday; you've been loyal to the bank and it's time to show my thanks. I'll stay here and mind the store. Go home. Enjoy the party and I'll see you all on Monday morning".

The tellers looked at each other in disbelief. None remembered a time when the boss showed any magnanimity at all. None the less, they beat a hasty path out the door, leaving Slaughter standing in front of the Diebold wearing a broad smile, lightly clapping his hands.

At about ten o'clock that evening there came a soft tapping on the bank's back door. The banker hurried to open it. There the Goombahs and the well-dressed safe cracker stood, loaded down with strongboxes and stuffed bank bags.

In a few moments the loot was secured in the safe which Slaughter had kept open instead of setting it at the end of the business day. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Easy, "reported Larry. "You have easy locks around here." Putting his arm around the safe cracker, he continued, "Bobby cracked it in ten minutes." The thief then opened one of the strongboxes exhibiting Teasdale's money.

"When do you leave?" asked Slaughter, running his hands through the cash that he knew would destroy his banking rival and make himself the richest banker outside of the state capital.

"We are on the eastbound midnight train."

The newly wealthy man counted out $10,000 from the strongbox and handed it to the thief, "A job well done. Great, you earned every cent of this."

After handing off the money Slaughter closed the strongbox and took a padlock off a nearby shelf. "What's that for?" asked Larry.

"For the strongbox," Slaughter said.

Larry laughed and slapped him on the back. "What, you don't trust that big door of yours?"

The banker thought for a moment, smiled then laughed. "You are so right." He returned the padlock to its place then had a thought. "Oh, did you leave the Confederate bills?"

"Sure, sure, that was a good joke."

As Slaughter set the time lock for ten o'clock Monday morning, the Goombahs went back to their store and prepared to depart. "Just like thieves in the night," thought Slaughter.

At the party on Saturday, Slaughter was jovial, glad-handing everyone he met. Several people marveled at his high spirits, not at all like the gruff blusterer they knew. He came early and stayed late and even judged the pie eating contest.

Teasdale was his usual self, chatting with farmers and small land owners who always wanted to talk business.

Sunday was the recovery day for the ones who enjoyed Saturday too much and the town slept late as the participants wended their way home.

Monday morning found Slaughter sitting at his desk long before Hobart and the tellers arrived while Teasdale had his breakfast of toast and an apple while sharing a cup of coffee with his wife.

Hobart arrived to find his boss rocked back in his grand chair with his feet uncharacteristically propped up on his desk. The tellers busied themselves with preparing to open the bank at ten AM when the safe's time lock tripped.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the street and a fellow came banging on the front door. "Robbed, robbed," he cried. "They robbed the Ranch bank."

Hobart rushed in to tell Slaughter the news. "Ranch's been robbed. What will we do?"

The banker, never moving from his recline, waved the teller off, "Nothing! They didn't rob us. You all go and see what's up. I'll be along soon."

At the Ranch bank the lobby was full of curious townsfolk, some gawking and some fretting about their money. Teasdale stood in front of his open safe with a bundle of Confederate bills in each hand.

Teasdale was numb, being barraged with questions from the sheriff and the townsfolk. "How much did they get? How'd they get in? How could you let this happen? My life's savings was in this bank!"

In the midst of the tumult Slaughter strode into the crowd. "People, people, don't worry. Any of you who had funds in this unfortunate institution, just bring your bank book to me and I'll refund your money at my own expense." With that the banker led a procession of patrons across the street to his bank. Being well past ten AM, his safe was ready to open.

Taking a position behind the teller's window, Slaughter ordered Hobart to open the Diebold and bring him the large strongbox he found there. "Put it right here beside me."

The tellers went to the safe and in a moment the head teller was back, but without the box. "Sir," he whispered. "We need to talk."

"Not now, man," blustered the big man. "These people are waiting. Bring me the strongbox."

"But Sir."

"Hobart, now!"

In short order the tellers thumped the heavy chest down on the table next to Slaughter and opened it. Without looking, he reached in and grabbed a fist-full of bills.

"I had thirty-four dollars and fourteen cents," said the farmer across from the banker.

"Well, let's not worry about the change. Make it thirty-five dollars even," responded the savior banker as he counted out the money.

It was then he realized he held Confederate money. He looked in the box to find nothing but worthless southern currency. He rushed to the safe only to find that the shelves, boxes and bags were all filled with the same paper. Besides that, in the middle of the oriental carpet was the gaping mouth of a shaft that descended into the floor.

When a teller slipped down into the hole he came out in the back room of the Goombah's store. Of course the storekeepers were nowhere to be found. The town went mad.

Eventually Sheriff Billy got the story. The station master said the men had tickets for Saturday's late train. A witness saw them loaded down with carpet bags and boxes as they boarded the train. The tunnel into the bank must have taken weeks to dig, so they had to have started it when they arrived, about the time they started their garden.

The sheriff sent telegrams alerting all stations along the line to watch for the robbers, but no one knew where they had gotten off the train. He tried to get out a wanted poster, but no one in the town remembered the Goombahs well enough to make four distinct sketches. Besides that, no one had ever bothered to learn their names. So the poster went out with a vague description of four Italians, all going by the name Goombah.

Slaughter played the victim to the hilt and never mentioned any involvement in the plot. He even blamed Teasdale for renting the store to the Goombahs. However, once word reached the banks in Carson City and Denver with whom he had mortgaged everything he and his bank owned, they came looking for their money. This left him no choice but to "flee like a thief in the night," even stranding his wife in Paris with no money.

Teasdale survived and prospered. Unlike Slaughter, he had not mortgaged his assets. His friends, the farmers and small ranchers, stayed with him and being the only bank in town served him well. Of course he did get a new Diebold safe with a time lock, thicker door, and walls of concrete and iron all around.

The Last Posse
by Lowell A. "Zeke" Ziemann

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fe-hel-loooow, that nobody can deny." Lusty voices rang out. Boisterous singers, aided by a few shots of whiskey, shamelessly attempted to harmonize. Friends and Bradshaw City town officials celebrated the retirement of Marshal Ted Marks.

Ted knew he had marshaled too long. At sixty-two, it's time to hang up your gun and turn in your badge. But he'd been lucky. In twenty-eight years, he received just three minor bullet wounds and suffered only two broken bones. That happened one week ago when his right fist crashed into the jaw of Red Carter. Even with a wrap on his gun hand, he still could lick most any man in the room.

Over the years, he killed five men in self-defense and sent twenty-seven to long-term jail sentences. Four were hanged.

Despite being honored at this party, the Marshal's list of supporters contained few able-bodied men he could rely upon. Accolades are nice, but casual friendships tend to fade. Of course, lawmen also create bitter enemies, often desperate men who wish them dead. Retired or working, constant vigilance will need to be his daily companion. For reasons few would understand, he welcomed the challenge.

Ted looked over the room and smiled at well-wishers, but wondered why his good friend, Andy Eagle was absent. He had informed him of the retirement party just two days ago. Lily Eagle mentioned that her husband was getting forgetful, but Ted dismissed that. The two partnered many times and Andy always remembered the details of long ago manhunts. Ted still called on Andy to help him on occasion, especially when tracking was required, or the situation would probably end in a gun fight.

Mayor Ezra Blount stood, banged his glass with a butter knife, thrust out his chest, tucked his thumbs in his red suspenders, and shouted. "Quiet! Quiet friends. Let's have a few words from the marshal."

The lawman tilted his head to one side and looked up at Blount from the corner of pinched eyelids. A fat cigar-chomping red-faced man, the mayor looked like a cartoon depiction of the consummate politician. Blount had tried to force Ted out several times over the past few years. "Too violent," he said. "His style of law enforcement has long since passed."

Most of the Town Council, however, felt that Ted's tactics of fear and intimidation kept the criminal element at bay, and none of them wanted the responsibility of backing a less-resolute man. But the mayor's influence swayed two new council members, and a three to three vote for dismissal at the last council meeting convinced Ted to retire.

Ted rose from his seat at the head table, smoothed his mustache and straightened his Sunday, brocade vest. "Most men still marshalin' at my age are dead," he joked. "But I'm sure that Stanley will do a fine job as my replacement. He's over to my office tonight, watching Red Carter, that killer I jailed last week. You've probably noticed that Stan's methods are friendlier than mine," he shot a glance at the Mayor, "more to Mister Blount's liking." Somberly, he added. "I only wish that my Cora, may she rest in peace, could have been here to celebrate with me. But I thank you for your kindness."

Then he handed his badge to the Mayor. "I no longer need this."

The fiddler struck up a lively reel and some got up to dance. Sally Martin came over to Ted. "Look at my son Junior dancing with Leah. Isn't he nimble and graceful on the dance floor?"

"That he is. Same as his Pa. I remember how Ed would hoof it at parties and weddings."

Ted's face softened into a sympathetic smile. "How you gettin' along Sally?"

"'Bout the same as you since Cora passed on, I reckon. But I have Junior." She leaned on Ted's arm and whispered. "Let me know if there is anything I can do . . . anything."

The party broke up long after midnight and Ted decided to stop by Cora's grave on the way back to the jail. She had passed away five months ago. His work kept the grief deep in his soul, but now, with emotion stirred by pending retirement, it bubbled to the surface.

Ted took his hanky from his coat pocket and wiped his eyes. "It was a nice party, Cora. Even Mayor Blount's wife congratulated me, although that horse's rear end of a husband of hers didn't say a word. Reckon he feels relieved now that a more affable man like Stanley is in charge."

"Andy was not there . . . kinda surprising after all the scrapes we've been through. Sally and son Eddie Junior were there. Sally seemed . . . sorta lonely now that Ed is gone."

Ted felt silly. Did he need to keep his dead wife from knowing that another woman had made a suggestive remark?

"Anyway, now I'll have more time to talk to you. And yes dear, I'll be careful and will continue to attend church."

Main Street was quiet. A slow steady drizzle began to fall. The lantern from the marshal's office cast a warm orange glow through the barred window. Stan would be waiting.

The door was unlocked. "Stan, I told you to keep the door locked. You know Carter has family who might come and . . . .Oh no. Oh my God."

Stan's body lay by the back cell. There were bruises on his neck and a knife wound on his left shoulder.

Red Carter was long gone, of course. A food tray was scattered on the floor just outside the cell. "Darn fool . . . must have opened the cell door to give Carter something to eat. Stan . . . Stan . . . . Too trusting, too damn affable."

Ted hurried across the muddy street and summoned Doc Dempsey. Mayor Blount, just walking home from the party, met them near Doc's door.

Both men heard Ted's stunning announcement. "Carter killed Stan and escaped!"

Dressed in his pajamas and robe Doc hurriedly followed Ted to the jail. Blount plodded along behind them.

The slim, balding doctor slowly bent to his knees and turned the dead man's head. "Looks like someone stabbed Stan behind the left shoulder, and then strangled him—probably with bare hands. See the fingernail marks? Someone came in here to help Carter escape."

Ted pulled his eyeglasses from his vest pocket. "I see the marks. You're right."

Mayor Blount entered. "There are three sets . . . ," he paused and took a labored breath, "of pony tracks out front. Two sets of muddy boot prints in here." Pointing at the floor, he continued. "Look how small those footprints are. Think a kid?"

Ted shook his head. "No. Probably his wife Zelda. She's a tiny, mean ol' witch, as bad as Red. Spent six months in Yuma Prison for stabbing some barkeep over in Wickenburg. Third one might be his brother, Ladge—a huge man said to be drunk most of the time."

Doc slowly got to his feet. "Not a good way to start retirement."

Mayor Blount chimed in. "When are you going after them?"

The marshal turned and glared at the mayor. "We just celebrated my retirement, remember?"

The room suddenly hushed.

Ted tightened his lips. He felt his anger rising. "Last Monday I walked into Jake's saloon and recognized Carter from a wanted poster. I slipped up behind him and yelled his name. When he turned around I knocked him out with a punch to the jaw. Busted my hand."

Ted took his gaze from the dead man and focused on the mayor. "The point is yer kinder, gentler marshalin' didn't work. Bad men need killin'. Five or ten years ago I would've called him out and he would've drawed and I'da shot him. Then Stanley would be alive, my hand would be good and you'd still have yer affable marshal."

Ted walked to the desk, opened the humidor box that lay on the corner, and pulled out a cigar. He lit the stogie and inhaled deeply to try and ease his bitterness. Despite the acrimony, he kept his voice soft, steady. "I'll go this one last time, but you better appoint one of yer bootlickin' cronies before I return."

Then with a peevish grin, he added, "Maybe you should take the job. You've been telling folks how marshalin' should be done for years."

Blount's mouth started to form some words, but then closed. Ted drew on the cigar again, and then smiled. "I want a full month's pay plus expenses. Three hundred. Now. In advance. I'll rest a couple of hours and then see if I can get up a posse. You're welcome to go along Mayor."

The mayor reddened with either embarrassment or anger or both. He reached inside his coat, found his wallet and placed three one-hundred-dollar bills on the desk, then pulled Ted's badge from a jacket pocket and laid it on the money. Without looking at either Ted or Doc, he quickly left the jail.

Doc Dempsey looked at Ted with a slightly amused grin. "Blount is one big blowhard. But raising a posse in Bradshaw City won't be easy. Who you gonna take?"

"Maybe Silas the blacksmith and young Junior Martin. No one else will volunteer and I doubt if there's any married men I could count on in a fight."

"Silas is older than you—no offense—and with his bulk he's gonna move awfully slow. And that kid? He's only seventeen, never been on a manhunt, and sure 'nough never spilt blood."

"Silas spent years fighting Apaches with the Buffalo Soldiers, the colored Tenth Cavalry out of Fort Huachuca. He's fearless and leather tough. And Junior? His Pa taught him how to shoot. He practices all the time, and good he is too."

"After this rain, I'll need a good tracker. Andy Eagle's Pa was Navaho and taught him how to track. He always rides with me."

"Andy?" Doc shrugged and seemed unsettled. "Don't know if you can count on him anymore . . . dementia, you know. His wife Lily brought him to me last week."

"What the heck is de . . . demsha?"

"Deh-men-sha," corrected Doc. "Forgetfulness, senility, aging, many old timers get it. Usually means you have a strong memory of things in the distant past, but not recent times. In my professional opinion, Andy's is advancing rapidly."

"Well, in any case I need him. The Carters will head for the Mogollon Rim. Rough country . . . hard to track. A manhunt just may be what Andy needs."

"A manhunt with Andy just might get you both killed."

By sun-up, the weather had cleared. Ted walked to the Settler's Inn, the hotel Ed Martin built, now owned and managed by his widow Sally. The front desk was vacant. He rang the bell and Junior came out of the office. "Hi marshal," then he turned toward the office door. "Ma, Marshal Ted is here."

Sally came out wearing her robe and brushing her long black hair. "Ted, how nice." She smiled, cocked her head to one side and batted her eyelids. "What brings you here so soon in your retirement?"

"I'm marshal again. I guess you didn't hear. Stan was murdered last night when Carter broke jail."

Sally's eyes widened. "Oh no! Who did it? Do you have to go?"

"Sally, I think his brother and wife broke him out and I'm getting up a posse to go after them. No one else in this town will do it. That's certain"

He looked at Junior and then back to Sally. "I know Junior is young, kinda between hay and grass, but I would like him to join the posse. Andy Eagle and Silas Amery will be going too. It could be dangerous. These are killers we're going after."

Sally's forehead wrinkled. "He's too young! He's all I've got. Think about me!" The lonely woman was filled with self-pity.

Junior took an eager step forward. "I'm goin' Ma, I'm goin'!"

Ted peered into the peach-fuzzed face of Junior. "If your Ma says so, you can go, but," he paused for emphasis, "I give all the orders, and you do exactly as I tell ya."

Junior looked at his mother. "Pa trained me to shoot and I'm good. Besides, with old timers like Andy Eagle and Silas, and marshal's bad hand, he's gonna need someone younger like me. There's three of them outlaws. I'll even the odds."

Sally looked at her son and shrugged with resignation. Her eyes moistened. "I couldn't keep him here, Ted. Once you said you wanted him, he'd run off and join up with you. But, promise me, promise me both of you will return safely. Please!"

Ted nodded. "I'll bring him home. That's a promise." He looked into the smiling face of Junior. "All right then. We leave in an hour from Andy's place. Bring enough grub for a week."

Junior beamed. "Wait 'til Leah hears about this."

Lily's face showed concern. "I don't think you should go, Andy." She knew saying it would be useless.

"Ted needs me," said Andy as he saddled his trusty grey mule.

"But Doc said—"

Andy cut off her words and held her shoulders. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. "I need to do this. I'll come back." He kissed his wife, then stepped into the stirrups and urged the mule into a trot to catch up with his old friend.

Lily watched them go, Andy, Silas, Ted and that kid. Numerous times he had partnered with the marshal and they always left with an air of confidence. Something seemed different this time. A sense of foreboding gripped her as she stared down the road and watched until the posse was swallowed up by the shade of tall pines.

She remembered Doc Dempsey's diagnosis. Andy rode off just now, but in a strange way, she felt he had already left her.

Ted's posse slowed to let Andy catch up. His tracking friend wore his usual buckskins with a floppy hat. "I lost their tracks over there near that tall pine."

As they rode Ted turned and looked at his posse. A young untried brash kid. A black man, bold, capable but slow moving and well into his sixties. And Andy, my age, but a man I always could tie to; but now Doc says he's getting forgetful. Then too, my gun hand is broken, and my shooting with my left is plumb pitiful. I'm chasing desperate outlaws with three old men and a greenhorn kid!

Andy stopped often and put his Navaho heritage and his Pa's training to work. He would step down; examine rocks, dirt, brush and twigs. Seldom did he take time to explain his findings. He usually just mounted and rode on, sometimes heading in a direction the rest of them did not understand. Ted never questioned his judgment. Silas shrugged but never complained. Junior would look at Ted, apparently expecting a comment.

After Andy's third stop, Junior rode up to Ted. "Ma said Andy is gettin' old and forgetful. You trust him? I don't see no sign. He may have lost the trail. Probably will lead us into a trap."

Ted raised his eyes to his hat brim and pulled a cigar from his vest pocket. He felt his patience wearing thin. "Dammit kid, keep it to yourself. Your job is to ride and shoot, not to scout or track."

The trail zigzagged north along the west bank of Oak Creek. The tracks neared the stream for three or four miles then abruptly stopped. Andy splashed his horse into the water and waded to the other side. No tracks were found there. "They went into the water here and rode in the stream figuring to lose any tracker," he said.

"Can you tell if they continued upstream or turned back south?" asked Ted.

Andy crossed back to the west side of the creek and pointed to the ground. "See how sharply the tracks turn? That indicates they took a sharp right and rode in the water back to where they came from. If they were gonna continue north, the tracks would've entered the water at more of a slant."

The posse split into twos, and rode on both sides of the water looking for a spot where the outlaws might have ridden out of the creek. When darkness closed in and it became difficult to look for sign, they made camp. The fire was lit and the tired men settled back on blankets.

Silas groaned as he slowly, stiffly, eased to the ground. He flipped off his yellow army-issue suspenders, took off his Union cap, scratched his shaved head, and took a long drink from his canteen. When Ted tossed him a biscuit, he took a bite, exhaled after a deep breath, and laid back against his saddle. "Damn," he said. "If we'da knowed they was comin' back this way we could'a saved a day and a half ride."

Junior studied Silas. "Hey old man, you look spent. You should be home in bed."

"Ah can keep up with a puppy like you. Ya'll better fret about yerself when the shootin' starts."

"Don't you worry 'bout me, fat man. I can shoot with the best of 'em. "

Ted walked over to Junior and kicked him in the shin. "You watch your mouth. Silas has been in and out of scrapes with everything from Apache to army deserters. When your Pa taught you how to shoot there weren't nobody shootin' back. That's a lesson that is only learnt when it happens. Think on it and hope that you carry your weight!"

Bravado was all over Junior. He viewed this manhunt as a grand adventure, something to brag to Leah about.

Ted wondered how Junior would react in a gun battle. He's good, but it's not just being fast, or accurate that counts. In a showdown, it's being willing.

The kid rolled a cigarette, removed a twig from the fire and lit it. He sat back on his blanket and silently fumed. Andy watched, grunted and smiled as Junior pouted. When the cigarette was finished, Junior pitched it in the fire, pulled up his blanket, slid his hat over his eyes, and soon fell asleep.

Andy moved his bed roll close to Ted, sat cross-legged, and stared into the fire.

"Ted, this is hell."

"Yer right. These biscuits I brought are like rocks, and the jerky ain't much better."

"No, I mean this ditensha, or whatever the hell Doc says I got." Andy leaned back. "Some days I get confused. Forgot about your party. Last week I went down the Prescott trail instead of the one to home. Doc says it's gonna get worse . . . fast. Helluva thing to look forward to. Can't see me sitting on the porch staring at the mountains."

"Doc could be wrong. You still track just fine. And I don't see it in your words."

"Don't fancy talk me Ted. My Pa, Charlie Lone Eagle, had this too. One day he just rode off and disappeared over in Canyon De Chelly. Never saw him again."

Andy leaned back on his blanket. He looked into the eyes of his old partner and spoke in a hushed forthright fashion. "Ted, promise me you'll help Lily if I don't make it home."

Ted raised his bandaged right hand to halt the conversation. "Your talkin' crazy. C'mon let's get some sleep. You'll be right as rain in the morning."

Ted rolled over and pulled his blanket up. Sleep didn't come. First I lost Cora, then Ed Martin passed. Now, will my best friend sort of fade away? Damn dementia. Andy never worried much or asked for help before. Will he no longer ride with me, or . . . even remember me?

At first light the next morning, the posse had coffee and saddled up. Andy picked up Silas's saddle, walked a few steps, stopped, then put it down and picked up his own. Junior stood behind him, gestured to Ted by pointing at Andy. Ted raised his hand to mute Junior and saddled his own mount.

The morning was clear and crisp as the posse started along the creek. Going only a few yards they picked up the trail. Their quarry was headed into through Verde Valley toward the Mogollon Rim.

After a half mile, Andy stopped in a protected area next to a limestone outcropping. He stepped down and studied the ground. "We're on the right trail. They stopped here for a short rest. See the scrape on the rock, and the woman's boot print in that dry sand under the overhanging boulder? The tracks show they're movin' slow."

"They figured going into the creek would lose any posse." Ted surmised.

A cheeky smirk accented Junior's face. "Andy, I hope you know what you're doin."

Silas leaned out of his saddle, grabbed Junior's arm, and almost threw him from his horse. "Mind your manners, you shave tail pup. Andy Eagle was scouting afore you was born."

The rest of the day they moved at a steady pace following Andy's interpretation of sign.

The third morning out, the outlaw's tracks were clearly visible and Ted's posse rode hard and long. They had closed the gap. At sundown they reached a grassy clearing on a small knoll.

Ted called, "Whoa, we'll camp here."

They could gaze into the east end of the valley as it spread out along the Verde river. The men dismounted and began to unsaddle their mounts.

Andy, scouting a quarter mile ahead, turned back when he saw Ted wave and rode up to the group. "Horse droppings are fresher now. Doubt if they're more than an hour ahead of us. They must not know we're close 'cause they sure ain't skedaddling,"

Gray shadows replaced the pleasing colors of the Verde Valley. Trees, ridges, and rocks remained distinct in the Arizona high country as the sun gave way to a full moon and countless stars radiated in the black sky.

"Look there," said Silas pointing east. About a mile ahead they saw a pillar of white smoke curling into the calm air.

"They've camped," said Ted. He thought for a minute, and then added, "We'll hit 'em tonight."

Junior stiffened. His voice rose. "Tonight? You're crazy. They'll run off in the dark."

"With this big moon, we can see everything they do—besides at night, they'll probably be drunk. We'll work our way around and surround them. With the fire behind them they will make good targets."

Ted studied the faces. Silas grinned. Andy showed no emotion. Junior looked at him, then to Charlie, to Silas and back to Ted. He fidgeted, but remained silent.

Ted called the posse close. "If each of us does our job, we'll have 'em. Remember, Red is the most dangerous and the best shot. Don't forget Zelda, that wife of his. She's killed before. The other brother, big Ladge? Dumb as a rock and probably will be soaked."

Ted twisted his holster around to his left side. The wrap covering his injury unraveled. He tore it off and threw it on the ground. He tried to make a fist. The dark swollen right hand could not hold, much less fire a six-shooter.

"We'll walk there. Andy will lead. Try to stay in his footsteps and be Apache quiet."

Silas stepped in line behind Andy.

Junior Martin's eyes were large. He hesitated, looked to Ted, then took short quick steps and fell in line, ducking low behind Silas. The marshal brought up the rear.

Swinging to the left, they climbed a ridge and could look down on the camp, maybe fifty yards distant. The posse lay on their stomachs, huddled together.

The three outlaws were settled down near a large boulder. Zelda tended the campfire as the other two shared a bottle. Off to the left three horses were tied in a small stand of maple trees. The two Carter men sat and used the boulder as a backrest.

Ted looked at Silas who breathed heavily. He had no choice. It would have to be Junior and Andy. In a whisper he issued orders.

"Junior, see those small trees on the left where the horses are tied? You circle around and hide there . . . looks to be about twenty yards from their fire. There's good cover if you stay behind this hill until you get to the back side of that stand of maples. If you can crawl close enough, loose their horses."

Junior's breathed rapidly. He began to sweat. Ted patted Junior's shoulder and said, "You gotta calm down boy. You'll be alright."

"Andy you go to the right. See that big boulder behind them? Circle south and make a wide loop through the brush to the back of that boulder. I think you will have enough cover to get there. Wait there for my signal. If they try to run they'll probably try to gain cover behind that rock, and head straight towards you. If you can stop them we'll have 'em trapped. If they get behind that boulder they'll have us pinned down."

"Silas, you and I will wait here for about a half hour and then move straight toward them. Those two big cottonwoods will shield us for most of the way. We need to be as quiet as church mice."

"I'll give everybody time and then I'll fire once into the air and we'll all move in quickly. They may give up, but I doubt it. Carter's gonna hang. He's got nothin' to lose by fighting."

Junior and Andy moved off. Ted and Silas bent low and walked down the slope staying behind the two big cottonwoods as much as possible. Silas's moccasins were totally silent. Ted walked carefully to avoid stepping on a dry twig. A startled rabbit got up and dashed away. Both men went to their knees. With bated breath they peeked through the brush. They saw no movement from the outlaws.

Andy moved quickly south. Scrub pine trees and brush afforded him cover. He looked up from time to time and saw the rising smoke of the campfire. When he figured he had circled to his right far enough, he bent low, crawled at times, and headed toward the rising smoke.

Suddenly he stopped. Unsure of his memory he cursed. "Damn this mind of mine! Am I to go to the stand of maples?" Ted's order had disappeared. He cursed again but kept crawling. No, the boulder. No, the two big cottonwoods. Lord, help me! He moved forward and saw the smoke. At least I'm headed toward the campfire.

Junior circled left. He stayed behind the ridge, moving quietly. An owl hooted. He froze. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Pa didn't mention this part of posse riding. He rose and kept going. Now he could see the three. He squatted low. The outlaws were laughing and passing a bottle. Zelda was doing a music-less, Indian style dance around the fire. The thought of dancing with Leah entered his mind. She may never see me again.

At the maples, Junior went to the ground on his stomach. Pulling himself forward with knees and elbows, he came to the horses. The big black stallion whinnied. He rose to a crouch, hid behind the horse and calmed him by gently rubbing the stallion's flank. One of the Carters stood up and looked his way, then dismissed the noise and snatched the bottle from Zelda's hand.

Ted and Silas stood behind the two cottonwoods. Waiting . . . waiting. Ted looked at Silas and raised his shoulders in a questioning shrug. Silas shook his head. They continued to wait.

Several minutes passed. Silas nodded and Ted pulled his pistol from the backward holster on his left hip. They walked around the cottonwoods and into the opening.

He fired once into the air. Two horses bolted from the maples, the big black jerked, but remained tied.

"Carter! Yer surrounded by my posse! Throw down yer weapons!"

Red Carter and Zelda stood quickly and froze. Ladge remained seated. Ted saw Red swung his head from side to side. Junior hid behind the black horse. Andy was nowhere to be seen. Red looked back toward Ted and Silas. "Marshal, you're a damn liar."

Red went for his gun and fired two rapid shots. Then he grabbed Zelda and quickly yanked her around the backside of the boulder.

Ladge belatedly wobbled to his feet as Ted and Silas returned fire. The huge outlaw stumbled toward the boulder. He suddenly arched his back and tried to reach the bloody hole that appeared just above his belt. He staggered forward, fell face down and didn't move.

Ted felt a sting in his thigh. Silas was down, blood seeping from his shoulder and chest. Things were going wrong. Ted looked for help. Junior still stood behind the big black.

Andy came out into the open. Standing to the right of the boulder, he looked bewildered. Abruptly his demeanor changed and he ran toward Ted. Bullets drew puffs of dirt at his heels but took no affect. He leaped between Ted and Silas. Silas groaned, "I'm done fer . . . get Ted out."

Andy slid his hands under Ted's shoulders and dragged him behind one of the big cottonwood trees.

Ted rolled to one elbow and yelled, "Junior, for God's sake open up!"

Four shots from Junior whistled off the top of the boulder where Zelda and Red had forted up.

Seeing Junior finally in action, Andy readied himself to dash to the boulder across the open naked ground.

Ted noticed a bloody stain on Andy's buckskin sleeve and tried to hold him back. "You won't make it!" he screamed.

"So what!" yelled Andy. Then he leaped up, charged toward the outlaws, stumbled, kept going, reached the boulder and skirted the edge.

Ted recognized the sound of three shots from Andy's .44. He saw Red being held upright by Zelda, staggering around the edge of the rock. Andy, bleeding and limping, followed, his gun still smoking.

Red slipped from Zelda's grasp and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Zelda seemed unhurt and undaunted. She picked up Red's gun, turned and fired at Andy, who reeled back against the boulder and slid to the ground. He laid there motionless.

Junior stepped around the black stallion. Zelda turned toward him and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. She squeezed again. Another "click". She knelt, pulled cartridges from Red's gun-belt and began to reload.

Junior stood transfixed, as if awaiting an order.

"For God's sake, shoot her, shoot her!" Ted boomed.

"But, but . . . a woman!" Junior carefully raised his pistol, and then backed up a step or two as Zelda approached.

She finished loading the gun and brought it up to eye level.

The roar of Junior's .45 sent Zelda reeling backwards. She fell near her husband.

An eerie silence replaced the echo of gunfire. The fight was over. Ted managed a sitting position, looked at Silas who gave a struggling smile and nodded. Then Silas closed his eyes.

Junior walked to Andy, and then approached Ted. "Andy is gone. What he did was plain suicide, but it saved you and me. Kinda like he didn't care if he died."

"He didn't," said Ted.

Junior clumsily bandaged Ted's wounds. Though slowed, the bleeding continued. He brought up the horses, wrapped Silas and Andy in blankets and draped their bodies over their saddles. Then he helped Ted mount and they started home. The marshal slumped in the saddle and Junior stopped often to give him a drink. They traveled slowly but figured to reach Bradshaw City in a day and a half.

As Junior rode, his mind went home then, and a modest smile appeared as he saw his mother and Leah. But there was no room for sentiment now; he needed to concentrate on his new sense of responsibility. He recalled the fear, the blood and carnage. No feeling of accomplishment arrived, only a sense of relief. No pride flared, but pesky guilt crept in. The grand adventure turned sour.

The morning of the second day they approached Andy's house.

Ted looked up as Lily ran to meet them. Seeing Andy draped over the saddle, she remained remarkably calm. "I knew he shouldn't have gone. But he felt it was his duty."

He handed her three hundred dollar bills. "This is Andy's share."

"Thank you. Thank you." She looked up and saw blood on Ted's leg. "Ted, you're hurt, let me help"

"Lily, Andy charged the outlaws. That saved me and the kid." He nodded toward Junior. "I need to get him home, Sally will be worried."

"Andy, my Andy," she sobbed as the tears now flowed. "I could've taken care of you . . . but I knew . . . I knew." After a long pause she added, "He was so proud. He wouldn't allow himself to become a helpless invalid."

"I'm sorry Lily. You lost a brave husband. I lost my one true friend."

Lily pointed to the last horse. "Leave Silas here too. He will lie next to Andy."

Sally Martin stepped outside of the hotel to sweep the steps. Squinting into the morning sun she could see two horsemen a couple of blocks away riding toward her.

Down the street, somebody yelled, "The marshal is back!"

People began to come out of shops and houses and walk along with the riders. Mayor Blount came out of the barber shop and pushed his way to the front of the parading crowd.

Sally watched the commotion and rushed out into the street. The marshal is back? Fear gripped her. She raised her eyes slowly; afraid of what she might see. A huge smile replaced her tightly drawn lips. That's Junior! She waved at her son. He looks fine, but the rider on the horse he is leading is asleep, or hurt. It's Ted!

The crowd watched in silence as Junior rode up to the hotel. He stepped down and tied his horse to the rail. He greeted his mother with a slight smile and a nod. After lightly touching her shoulder, he walked with a weary gait to Ted.

"Marshal, we're home."

Ted raised his head slowly. "I see." Then, with a voice loud enough for others to hear he added, "You done a bang-up job, kid. Proud to have rode with ya."

The marshal turned to Sally and removed his hat. "I returned your son, as promised."

Then he turned to face the Mayor, labored to get his breath, and struggled with his words. "We killed three Carters. Andy Eagle is dead. So is Silas Amery."

The Mayor looked at the blood on Ted's pants and mumbled, "Somebody get Doc."

Ted lifted his injured hand and snatched the silver six-point marshal's badge that was pinned on his vest pocket. "Mayor, I'm done. Here's your badge."

Attempting to dismount, he struggled to throw his wounded leg over the saddle horn, lost the left stirrup, fell heavily, and rolled on his back. The badge was still in his hand.

Doc Dempsey rushed to the fallen lawman and grabbed Ted's wrist. "Our marshal is dead."