Indians
by Michael Matson

It was Higgens who came up with the plan. Which fit, since he was the only one of the three with brains enough.

"The thing is," he explained, "we gotta look like real Indians."

"What kinda Indians?" Stub Marsden asked.

"Hell, I don't know," Higgens said. "We got Comanches, Kiowas, Chickasaws and Apaches. That bunch raidin' over near near Abbotsville a couple months ago was probably Comanches."

"Coulda been," Cole Simmons agreed.

"We gotta carry bows and arrows?" Stub asked. "Don't think I could hit a barn with an arrow."

"Hatchets, maybe," Simmons tossed in. "And rifles."

"Knives is better if we're gonna scalp anybody," Stub argued.

The three scoundrels were sitting at a table near the back of The Broken Rail saloon in Leroy, Texas, a half-empty bottle of whiskey passing from hand to hand. They were: Stub Marsden, a limp-haired dish-water-blond man whose round head rested directly on his shoulders seemingly without benefit of a neck; Cole Simmons, a thin stoop-shouldered cowhand with almost enough hair on his chin to pass for a beard; and Jack Higgens, an army deserter with brown hair framing a long bony face as heavily lined as a piece of paper that had been folded and refolded a hundred times.

For the past year the three had earned their whisky money by small-time cattle rustling. Whenever their thirst got the better of them, they'd ride down to Mexico and drive off a dozen or so cows. These they'd herd across the border to Texas and sell to a broker who dealt with local buyers.

It was no way to get rich. As Higgens said, "A slice here and a slice there don't make no pie."

Higgens tapped the table with his shot glass to turn the attention of the others away from weapons and back to the plan.

"This ridin' back and forth for a handful of cows is time consuming," he said. "What we do is, we steal 'em here. We build up a herd, three hundred to five hundred head. We drive 'em up to Kansas ourselves and make some real money."

"How much?" Cole Simmons wanted to know.

""Cattle prices up in Abilene is about twenty-three dollars a head." Higgens did some fast calculating. Four hundred head would sell for near $9,000."

"Where does the Indian part come in?" Stub asked.

"Dammit, you gotta pay attention," Higgens bristled but explained it all over again. "We dress up like Indians so folks will think its Indians stealin' the cattle. We hit smaller spreads that run maybe twenty-five to a hundred head. We kill the people and burn the ranch, just like Indians do. We stash the cattle in that big grassy plateau above Blue Rock Canyon. They'll graze fine up there."

"If we gotta kill the ranchers, how come we gotta dress up like Indians?" Stub persisted. "They ain't gonna tell nobody."

"We just do," Higgens yelled.

This whole Indian thing was making Stub's head hurt and he could tell he was making Higgens mad. He decided to shut up and just nod when Jack looked at him.

Jack fished a piece of paper and the stub of a well-chewed pencil out of his shirt pocket and started to write. "Now here's what we gotta have," he said.

Cole Simmons had a place on the outskirts of Leroy, a sod bunker with a battered wooden door and no windows. They decided to keep the stuff they needed there: Indian blankets, rope halters, body paint, headbands, feathers, buckskin trousers, rags, moccasins, short throwing-sticks and kerosene. Cole and Stub were put in charge of acquiring everything while Higgens rode off to scout likely victims.

He was back in five days with a bottle of whiskey and what he called, "the perfect set-up."

He explained: "It's a spread over west of Blanton. And what makes it so i-deal is there's been some Indian raids near there and folks is so scared they ain't gonna be shootin' real good. Two brothers name of Larouche run the place. Got an old wood house and a barn. A Mexican kid works for 'em but shouldn't be no problem."

"We been thinkin'," Stub said. "If we're gonna be Comanches, they're sort of a different color. We're all white as cotton and nobody's ever seen no white Indian."

"You're right," Higgens agreed. "What we do is, there ain't no shortage of red dirt in the territory. We make up a kinda paste of it, smear it on and we look as Indian as that Geronimo fella."

"Okay," Simmons said. "Other thing is, Indians yell a lot. What kinda yellin' do we do?"

Higgens scowled at him. "Ya just yell. Ya whoop and go ki-yi-ki-yi, real shrill."

Cole and Stub nodded.

"Last thing," Higgens said. "To be sure people think it was Comanches, just this once we oughta not kill everybody. We oughta wound the Mexican kid real bad but make sure he's alive to tell it was Indians did it."

Cole and Stub nodded again and Cole reached for the bottle.

The Larouche ranch lay a day's ride to the west and they rode undisguised. Higgens had discovered a dry arroyo rimmed with scrub oak and brush a mile south of the spread and they spent the night there. Before dawn they mixed red Oklahoma dirt with water from their canteens and smeared themselves with the thin slurry. They painted their faces and used ashes and boot polish to darken Stub's blond hair. Rags soaked in kerosene overnight were wrapped around the ends of the throwing sticks to make torches.

When all was ready, Higgens issued some last minute orders. "We come at the place from back of the barn. We set fire to it. That might draw 'em out in the open. Any case, we start yellin' and ride at the house tryin' to hit the roof with a torch. We keep circlin' and shootin' 'til we can move in and scalp 'em."

"'Cept the Mexican kid, right?" Cole reminded him.

"Right. Just wound him good."

The first part of the plan worked as Higgens said. The sun was just beginning to brighten the eastern sky when they led their ponies on foot to the back of the Larouche's barn and set it ablaze. Once it got going well enough to send smoke into the still morning sky, one of the brothers spotted the fire. There were yells from inside the ranch house and a man dashed out toward the barn only to be driven back by the attacking "Indians."

Howling like wolves the three attacked the house, trying to get close enough to hit it with a torch but the men inside immediately broke out the windows and returned fire. If they were too nervous and scared of Indians to shoot straight, their aim didn't show it and bullets whizzed past the attackers, coming perilously close.

Higgens, Stub and Cole kept circling, yelling and shooting trying to get close but to no avail. In desperation, Cole rode straight at an open window and threw a torch at it. The blazing stick bounced off the side of the house and Cole was hit twice, knocked off his horse as if he'd been hit by a charging buffalo. At the same time Higgens saw Stub grab his left arm and make a run for it, back toward the arroyo.

The whole thing was going to hell faster than a drunken politician. Furious, Higgens made the mistake of pulling up to get a better shot at the broken window. He was hit immediately in the side and right shoulder, the jolt of the bullet making him drop his rifle. A third round grazed his head, stunning him. Desperately, he wheeled his mount in an attempt to follow Stub but in his confusion set off in the opposite direction.

He got away without being hit again. The Larouche's and their hired hand were too busy trying to put out the barn fire and save their horses to follow him. Nearly unconscious, Higgens lay across his horse's back, clinging to its mane to keep from falling. He had no sense of where he was or how to get back to the shelter of the arroyo. For nearly an hour he fought to stay awake but finally he passed out and fell to the ground.

He had no idea how long he lay there. One hour, three or a day. What brought him awake was someone poking him. Higgens managed to open an eye not crusted with blood. The sun beat down on him and he was thirsty and nearly delirious. His vision was blurred but he made out the form of a man squatting next to him holding a rifle across his lap.

"Stub?" he groaned.

The man jumped back as if a scorpion had made a swipe at his hand then inched closer again. He reached out and wiped his hand across the caked red dirt on Higgens's chest and looked at it. He turned and held up his hand and said something and men started to laugh. Higgens managed to raise his head and peer in the direction of the laughter. Just behind the squatting man six Indians sat on their ponies, watching him.

The squatting man held up his red-dirt-stained hand again and said, "White man."

Still laughing, two of the Indians slipped from their ponies carrying rifles, walked to Higgens and stood looking down at him.

Indians, Higgens thought. Real goddam Indians. He wondered if they were Comanches just before they shot him.

Bright Starr
by Jane Hale

Sitting just across the United States border, the Plaza de Toros bullfighting arena in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico was groomed for a spectacle. The people in the arena were prepared to witness two of the largest mammals on earth face off in a steel cage match. An American grizzly and an African lion would fight to the death. Bookmakers abounded. Red, white, and green Mexican flags hung throughout the arena, as did the smell of sweat and manure. It was sizzling, and those unable to afford a seat in the shade suffered in the desert sun.

L. J. (Lula Jean) Starr, infamous Madam of The White Dove brothel in New Orleans, Louisiana, sat with her benefactor, Tomas La'Rouge, in what was considered the best seats in the bullring. Her long time friends, Big Bob Dias, and his wife, Malanie, and their two grown twins, Athalie, and Henri, completed the reunion.

American businessmen, Mexican elites, local officials, soldiers, vaqueros, and vendors

selling cold drinks filed into the Plaza. Among them was Louisiana's ill-famed gambler, Samuel Parton, L. J.'s former suitor, who deflowered and unwittingly impregnated her. Traveling with him was his wife, Anna-belle Jackson Parton, L. J.'s traitorous childhood friend, who helped sell L. J. to a brothel when L. J. was eighteen.

Athalie sneered. "The die is cast, Ma Mere. Is blood thicker than water? That question is like asking, is an American grizzly bear more powerful than an African lion?"

Henri glanced at his image mirrored on the features of his sister. He peered across the arena at the man, who was his father. Was that same image stamped on his countenance? Were they alike at all? Henri thought not. That question was like asking which is morally justified, black or white? Whichever, fortunes were about to be reversed.

L. T. turned to acknowledge her daughter, Athalie, and son, Henri, baggage from an assault on her eighteen-year-old self. And, a blessing bestowed on her good friends Big Bob and Malanie, who had raised them well. Then, she, too, stared across the arena at a debt that she had been a long time collecting, Bright Starr, her rightful heritage.

At eighteen years of age, Lula Starr, a quarteron, was the most beautiful young lady in the Baton Rogue, Louisiana area. Eligible suitors from miles around lined up to offer their hand in marriage to the daughter of Jacob Starr.

Jacob, a widower, loved his daughter almost as much as his family plantation, Bright Starr. After his wife died, Jacob contented himself with the company of his mulatto housemaid. She died in childbirth with Lula, leaving the baby to be raised by Jacob and a series of housemaids, who groomed her to be the mistress of Bright Starr.

After a winter of bad health, Jacob learned that he had tuberculosis. He went to Saratoga Springs for a cure at the mineral springs. He died there, and his body was returned home to be buried in the family Cemetery at Bright Starr.

Believing he would live to a ripe old age, and assuming his daughter would marry and be taken care of in the style in which she was accustomed, Jacob failed to make out a will.

A ruthless land baron near Baton Rouge, Earl Parton, whose plantation bordered the Bright Starr plantation urged his son, Samuel, to hasten his courtship of Lula. Their marriage would acquire the Starr land as the two families were joined.

Samuel's reputation as womanizer and gambler, led him to believe if he deflowered Miss Lula she would be obligated to accept his offer of marriage to save her reputation.

Jacob Starr's long time friend and confidant, William Jackson, was also the Starr family lawyer and executor of his estate. Knowing the circumstances of Lula's birth and that Jacob's untimely death had prevented him from preparing the papers which would assure Lula the title of Bright Starr, William hastened to offer his hand in marriage also.

William also established his sister, Anna-belle, who was considered an old maid at the ripe old age of twenty-two, in residence at Bright Starr, to be a companion to Lula.

Anna-belle was jealous of Lula's beauty and suitors. She especially hated Lula for the attention Samuel Parton showered on her.

Samuel was Anna-belle's childhood friend. The families had hoped for marriage in their future until Samuel became smitten with Lula.

When Earl championed the union between Lula and Samuel, Anna-belle believed her chances with Samuel were over.

Lula, an independent young woman who had been afforded the best of education and cultural niceties, assumed she would go abroad to study as she'd planned. She looked forward to escaping the dull, confining, lifestyle of a southern plantation lady of the Manor.

Lula welcomed the company of Anna-belle. Being unaware of Anna-belle's feelings for Samuel, Lula confided in Anna-belle personal secrets of their courtship. Anna-belle passed Lula's secrets along in conversations with her brother, William, implying that Lula enjoyed the fawning attentions of her suitors and would welcome more personal attentions from William.

Anna-belle wormed her way into Lula's world so securely that Lula invited her along when she traveled abroad to study. However, she did not invite her along when she and Samuel took long walks in the evening down by the river where Jacob Starr had built a Spring house.

One summer evening Anna-belle sneaked behind them and spied through a window as Samuel, tired of being deprived of the final act in the courtship of Lula, lost control and ravaged Lula as she fought to save her honor.

Anna-belle, excited by the voyeur experience, but angry because Lula had been the recipient of Samuel's act, ran back to the house crying.

William, thinking he was losing both Lula and the plantation, decided that if he couldn't have Lula and Bright Starr, he'd make sure Samuel or any other suitor wouldn't either. He decided to approach Lula with the secret of her birth mother, which was a secret shared only by her father and himself, as their lawyer. If she didn't accept his proposal of marriage, he'd make sure the whole of Baton Rogue knew that she was a quarteron.

William arrived at Bright Starr and searched the quarters, in vain, trying to find his sister and Lula. Assuming they had gone for a walk down by the Spring house, he started down the path only to run into his sobbing sister. Trying to make sense of her story, William, at first thought Samuel had accosted Anna-belle. She sobbed out her hurt that Samuel spurned her love for Lula's attentions and they were making love in the Spring House,

William, angry that Lula and Samuel were together, blurted the true story of Lula's birth mother to assure his sister that once Samuel learned the true story he'd never stoop to marry a woman of her station. No man would want her! And saying it aloud, William realized he didn't want Lula either. With a few select words he could ruin the future of the most sought after young woman in the south.

But, what if Anna-belle's jealousy had caused her to misunderstand what she saw at the Spring House? William had revealed a secret he'd sworn to never tell in a moment of anger. It was too late to take it back but he tried desperately to explain to his sister that it was a confidence he'd shared with her that she'd have to never reveal.

Anna-belle promised but the gleam in her eye told William he'd pay for this promise dearly.

William and Anna-belle's conversation was interrupted by Lula making her way back to the house. Her tear-stained face and torn clothing were hard enough to explain but when Samuel came running into the clearing, clothes in disarray, and calling Lula's name, it was evident that Anna-belle's story was true.

Samuel desperately tried to recall the act he'd just committed by deflowering the Starr of the south. When Samuel reached out to Lula, she cowered against the protection of William.

Samuel vowed to make it up to Lula and once more offered his hand in marriage.

Lula moved closer to Willliam. Confident that he would protect her, she screamed at Samuel to get off her land. She vowed she'd never marry him if he was the last man on earth. She hated him and never wanted to see him again.

William, knowing the power of the Parton family, pretended he thought Samuel's lovemaking had got out of hand and frightened Lula. He chastised them both to stay away from each other in the future. He pulled Lula with him up the path toward her home leaving Anna-belle to console Samuel.

What Anna-belle and Samuel talked about on the way back to the house no one ever knew but the difference in Samuel's feelings for Lula was as evident as day and night, as black and white. Anna-belle had found her way into Samuel's life and she determined to stay there.

William listened to Lula when she pleaded with him to help her go abroad to study. He assured her he'd handle her future and arrange for her passport to travel abroad and study. He'd take care of her property until she returned but she would need to sign the papers to give him complete control of Bright Starr and all of her father's estate.

That was the way that William came to betray Lula Starr. The paperwork he'd drawn up for her to sign relinquishing her father's estate might never be needed when he revealed Lula's bloodline but William was a lawyer and lawyer's covered their tracks.

When William and Anna-belle traveled with Lula to New Orleans to board the ship which would take her abroad, he knew he'd probably never see the daughter of his best friend again. He'd assumed ownership of his friend's estate and signed over his daughter as a runaway slave. When William and Anna-belle waved goodbye to Lula at the dock and walked away, she had been apprehended by the slave auctioneer who'd bought her from William for a very decent price.

Lula screamed in vain for her friends as she was lead away from the dock. In minutes, her life changed from Starr of the South to the Top Starr on the auction block.

Few knew her plight, but one finely dressed lady, Jade Deval, disembarking from a trip abroad and surrounded by a circle of attractive young women, watched the action with a practiced eye. She knew William Jackson from a political party she'd hosted at her local bordello. He was a friend of Earl Parton, who she'd vowed to destroy for reasons known only to him and her.

Seeing William with two young ladies at the Port of New Orleans, Jade assumed he was seeing them off on a trip. When he left one of the most beautiful young women she'd seen in a lifetime on the dock, walked away, and minutes later the poor thing was hauled away like chattel, Madam Jade knew there was more to the story than met the eye.

Jade send her girls on with Big Bob to Soiled Dove, the house of luxury she provided for them. Jugger, her main man, accompanied her as she followed up on what she suspected was going to be an auction she was sure to attend.

Jade bought the most luscious piece of flesh she'd ever bid on before it ever reached the New Orleans auction block. She paid plenty but she knew she'd more than regain her investment with interest when the New Orleans gentlemen and the gentlemen of the south got an eyeful of her new Starr. That, of course, was before her personal physician gave Lula a routine examination and found she was not only not a virgin, but she was with child.

L. J. shook off memories of the past and smiled at the fruit of its harvest, Athalie, and Henri.

They smiled and nodded.

L. J. handed a jewel encrusted bag, the only memento of her Lady of the Manor days, to Thomas La'Rouge. "If you're sure, destroy them!"

La'Rouge nodded. "As sure as Bright Starr Plantation is rightfully yours, Lula Starr."

L. J.'s party watched as La'Rouge circled the crowd and approached the tall lion tamer, Col Boone, who's despondent demeanor brightened as La'Rouge drew near.

La'Rouge held the jeweled purse casually in the nook of his arm belying the weight of it's contents. "Boone, Let's complete the deal. But, as God is my witness, if the grizzly bear, Romeo, does not fight till the death and destroy the lion, Parnell, you will never live to stage another match."

Col Boone leaned close, "Romeo broke out of his cage last night. He stopped a mile down the road and killed a cow. He left the cow's herder, screaming at the top of his lungs, in the top of a tree. He vomited the cow up before he was caged again. Romeo is starving mad now."

La'Rouge frowned. "I promised Romeo, the grizzly bear, will win and the Louisiana Gambler, Samuel Parton, will be destroyed with debt."

Boone chuckled. "The lion, Parnell, will fight to the death, his death. The food he ate will activate envenom as the fight requires more power. In the end, he will die." Boone's eye's narrowed as he looked across the arena to where the Louisiana Gambler Parton was making a wager with the Bookmaker. "La'Rouge, the fool, Parton, will lose his Plantation, Bright Starr. The Plantation will be returned to L. J. Starr, who will pay off my gambling debts in New Orleans. But the fool, Parton, will believe he's won when he gets the title to my worthless circus that's going broke. He'll soon realize he's lost the lion, Parnell, and can't afford the $5,000 to buy another one and the animals have to eat and food costs money. Without a plantation, he has no place to house the circus. And, trainers, ticket takers, and attendants also need pay. And, like me, Parton can rarely turn down a bet. Rest assured, La'Rouge, he'll be a broken man by Spring."

La'Rouge shook hands with Col Boone. "Put the wager in place."

He watched Col Boone casually approach Parton. At length, they shook hands.

La'Rouge rejoined L. J. and her party.

He nodded.

The 700-pound American grizzly sat in the center of the bullring, confined within a fifteen-foot high, thirty-foot wide steel cage draped in canvas. The bear's opponent, a 550-pound African lion was locked in a pen outside of the arena.

When the designated fight time arrived, the lion's owner used pokers to prod the lion out of his pen and into a portable cage, which he then wheeled into the bullfighting ring and placed flush against the entryway to the bear's cage.

The crowd gasped upon viewing the jungle cat for the first time, most having never seen such an animal before. The lion broke the silence with a loud roar, which the crowd met with cheering and hollering. When the canvas was removed from the fighting cage, revealing the lion's grizzly bear opponent, the spectators grew louder. The noise and the sight of the boisterous audience agitated and scared both caged beasts. They wanted to take out their anger and fear on anyone or anything that they could get their paws on.

At length, the lion, Parnell, lay dead. The grizzly, Romeo, was victorious as was Lula Starr.

Lacoster's Sparkler
by Jeffrey A. Paolano

As his shoulder struck the compacted earth, a sharp searing pain spiked through and down the left arm, obliterating what bite might emanate from the wound at his back.

He lay in the dust, whilst a fly or two buzzed about his eyes, contemplating the situation and awaiting his assailants closing. He stifled the swelling compulsion to sneeze.

Considering the several possible identities of his bushwhackers occupies his mind as his fingers deftly entwine the pistol grip in expectation of the killing yet to come.

His Stetson sailed away during his fall exposing his crown to the sun's full weight.

His brow, reacting to the solar heat, unleashes a rush of sweat that partially leaks into his eyes, which burn from the salt.

A flash of clarity consumes him, he will not live. This revelation compels him to place his back to the rock face, push with legs and hands until he is high enough to push-drop the beautiful weapon into the horizontal fissure.

Grasping the bug juice bottle by the throat, that to settle a quaking hand, he sloshes the dual drinks into the glasses and onto the table.

"Zeke," said in a voice loud enough to cause a turning of heads in the raucous saloon. Raising the glass slowly to his lips as his pour has reached to the very top of the space available and Jake is loathe to waste anymore of what is left in the bottle given the dearth of funds the two cowmen share. "I'm hankering for that pistol." Now he sucks off the brownish fire before actually tipping the glass.

Indian liquor, they say, but poison the more accurate description. Not as spot-on as bottled bad judgment, headache, bellyache, the palsy and a ready ticket to the calaboose. It is what they can afford.

Now able to tip back the glass, he swallows the lot, bangs the glass on the bar and says, "It is a handsome thing, them bone grips, the polished metal, gad it's beautiful."

Zeke, having not touched his glass, watched intently as the who shot john is held from cascading over the side by the surface tension and therefor quivers just the breadth of a hair above the edge.

Now, having steadied his hand for the delicate task of raising the glass without the disastrous results experienced by his pard, he slowly lifts the glass to his lips, sucks on the red eye, tips it up and finishes in a flurry. Smacking the glass on the plank he responds, "where in hell you gonna get thirty-two dollars in winter?"

Jake's response is a broad, toothy smile, inclusive of crinkly eye and a single word. "Wolves."

Zeke visibly pales. He feels his belly tighten, his crotch constrict and the slightest moisture paint his forehead. "Winter in the Musselshell? Freezing cold, lose a toe or two to the frost, maybe a finger as well, likely the edges of our ears, get chased by the crazy silvertips that forgot to go to sleep, end up cabin fevered, maybe not see a wolf let alone shoot one, and you want to bet we are gonna shoot thirty-two?"

"Dollar apiece, easy money," says his drunken friend of three years past.

Jacob strokes his ruined boot upon the brass rail, pawing for a grip, achieving one on the fifth attempt.

Looking down to witness his success, he loses what is left of breakfast as it is not yet noon.

"Why can't you make the door, goddam cowboy?" Protests the swamper, with mop and bucket in hand, who begins to swab in broad strokes, slathering the spew about the wooden slabbing rather than picking it up.

Jake looking to the barman says, "Gimme water." The tender places the glass before him. He drinks off half, swishes his mouth and spits the result into the goboon.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he continues to argue his case. "We bait, that's the trick, they won't resist bait."

Zeke, resting both elbows on the bar, hands encircling his glass. What remains of his outfit in tatters, his boots expose his bare feet within. Slowly turns his head towards Jake with a quizzical look upon his face and asks incredulously, "Wolfers all over this country, all trying to eke out a living and you believe not one has thought of baiting? What would be the difference between baiting and poisoning?"

Jake now believing he is beginning to engage Zeke, presses on. "With poisoning you miss a lot of wolves. If we go wolfing and shoot over bait, we'll get all the wolves, not lose any," says Jake as he senses the reasoning swing in his favor.

Zeke wants to take one more stab at killing this nonsense, so he hits Jake with his heaviest thought. "Where will we get a grub stake for the winter?"

Jake says through his smile, "I spoke with Ladasur, you know range boss on the Turkey Track? He said we could hunt The Cummings Cattle Company spread this winter and he would stake us," in triumph.

Zeke wilts in the face of this final proclamation. He will spend the winter holed up in a desolate shack, angling out into the frigid weather, to freeze during the day and be rewarded with a plate of lukewarm prairie strawberries and tepid coffee for an evening meal.

The only joy will come of an evening when the stove will illume bright red. The cabin air will be stifling hot at the potbelly's edge and will have cooled to perfect sleeping temperature by the time it reaches his bunk wherein curled up in the blankets he will enjoy a blissful repose.

"How will we split the take, thirty-two wolves means all we make goes to you, I get four months of beans and a blanket for freezing each day?"

Somehow, his facial droop encompassing hanging jowls, eyebrows slanting down from his nose bridge, and inverted lips brings to mind a bloodhound.

Jake ponders the matter the while, slowly turning his glass with both hands. Thirty-two wolves was a mighty lot of wolves. But there could be no argument; him taking all the money for a winter's work weren't quite fair.

"What would you say, I get thirty-two dollars, if there is more you get it and I make up the difference to thirty-two dollars next summer, will you give me credit?" He said it, believing it a fair deal for them both.

Zeke ruminates this offer. There is the chance they will make nothing next summer. "Alright, I'll give you credit. I have no plans for this winter nohow."

A quiet came over the two. The aquardiente is working on them. They need to find a place to sleep as drowsiness is overcoming them in the chairs they now occupy.

Zeke reaches over punches Jake's arm just enough to rouse him. The two rise and stagger towards the door.

"You babes lay down somewhere soft now," shouts one in the back.

Another waves his hat in a hooraw, "Bug juice are bad for chilens, maybe you needs your mamas."

One by the door pushes on them as they pass, unsettling their balance and shouting, "don't stumble now boys, don't stumble."

There arises a general jollity at the expense of the two, a jollity of which the duo is oblivious.

The haystack outside the livery is their eventual destination and there they spend a congenial night.

As consciousness overtakes them spasmodically, the foul taste emitting from the tongue coating each suffers causes them to seek a douse in the horse trough.

After, the boys mount a search for their ponies, which by this time, range far out into the remudera, behind the livery.

Grazing unhurriedly but wild-eyed, the skittish shave-tails are prone to shy at the wranglers' advance.

A goodly portion of the day is consumed in rassling the caballos under control. The exercise provides no improvement in the lads' disposition.

Their ride to the Turkey Track is quiet. Mostly, they sleep in the saddle.

The horses amble along until the temptation of the grass along the road overwhelms them causing them to venture off the way and onto the lea, heads down, cropping the alfilaria.

The unfamiliar slant of the animal's back rouses the boys. There is a brief kerfuffle while bridles are pulled, horses restored to the trace and the slow shuffling horse-walk recommences.

The horsemen enter the presidio guarding the Rancheria. The gateway is composed of two field stone columns about thirty feet apart and fifteen feet high.

Across the road, from column to column, is a stout, twisted trunk of an ancient tree, bleached to a grayish-white and speckled with the dried grey remains of lichens.

Upon the lintel is fastened an expanse of longhorn possibly half the width of the strut. The middle of the horn bears the burned imprint of the unique brand that garners for the spread the appellation Turkey Track.

The boys pass through the gate and the quarter mile to the collection of buildings that form the headquarters of the rancho. They pull rein in front of the captain's veranda and await his hallo.

"You boys come to shoot some wolves?" The range boss is captain of all he surveys, save for the short periods when the accountants and meddlers come in from the east and buggy-boss around in his affairs.

"Yes sir, all we can manage," the boys remain mounted and display the proper reverence for the stature of the man they address.

"I believe our arrangement is that I supply the grub, shells and rifles, winter clothes, cabin, dollar a skin, you recollect the same?"

At this point he raises his head for the first time in the conversation, allowing his eyes to meet theirs in the unwritten pledge of honesty.

This ubiquitous oath renders the intercession of lawyers, judges and adjudicators unnecessary in the affairs of men of character upon the high prairie.

Jake speaks through a steady gaze, "That is my understanding, Mr. Ladasur." He pulls his reins to settle his horse more for something to do than to calm the animal.

Zeke pushes down on the stirrups with each foot, trying to tense his legs and ease them a little. He wishes this palaver would end so he could climb down and walk about a bit.

Mr. Ladasur moves his jaws. The bulge of his chaw moves in his cheek. A dribble of amber juice trickles out the corner of his mouth and into the grey of his beard joining the substantial amount of stain previously accumulated therein. "You boys step off if you've a mind, take up in the bunk house this night and in the morning we'll hitch you up with your truck and you can be on your way."

With that he launches an arc of juice out over the rail and into the dust where the splat raises a tiny cloud.

The boys swing down and pasear the horses to the corral, remove the saddles, bridles and blankets, array them upon the rail fence and turn the animals into the wrango for water and feed.

There appears above Zeke's head a dark cloud of concern noticeable only to Jake, "What's your problem?" Perplexed is he by his pard's concerns, since to his mind, all is as smooth as pudd'n.

"There was nothing said about horses. We goin' out for the winter with only one horse a piece and I'm wish'n I'd had said something about extra horses. If one of ours comes lame, we're in a fix."

Their rowels sing as they scuff along to the bunkhouse, each man sports a cascabel attached to a spur to amplify the music of their stride.

Zeke pushes the bunkhouse door wide open and, advancing into the dark cavern, is temporarily blinded due to the contrast with the bright sunshine without. He stands just inside, awaiting his eyes to adjust, allowing space for Jake to enter and do the same.

A bellow from within carries a message, "Swing the door back, I prefer to sleep in the dark."

Jake reaches for the door and swings it to.

Zeke, eyes adjusted now, surveys the contents of the bunkhouse. Two striplings sit on a cot and the bellower is laid out abed, boots on.

"I'm Zeke and this is my pard Jake," so saying he flings his roll onto a bunk and goes to work at the piggin' strings he uses to secure his fixins.

Jake takes up a bed and begins to unroll his blankets.

The bellower sings out, "where youse from?"

Zeke freezes for an instant at the question. Here is as blatant an insult as is possible. To ask a man where he's from is an unseemly intrusion.

The myriad of options and their potential consequences whirl through his mind. There is the distinct juxtaposition of two desirables, the job with its potential for remuneration and the easing of his honor.

With a visible swallow he mumbles, "Around" hoping to sidestep the issue and preserve his integrity.

It is not enough; the lout isn't to let it go. He asks, "Around what?"

This time Zeke ignores the question, continues with his unpacking.

"Eh, is youse deaf boy?"

A second insult.

"Answer me up."

That's a third. Zeke spun, intending to obtain the benefit of surprise, but the man is in ready expectation and swings up, putting his boot in Zeke's midriff.

The air leaves Zeke's lungs in a whoosh as he is propelled backwards across the lower bunk and against the wall, a position from which he promptly slides to the floor.

The bellower stands, grasping his belt in anticipation of hitching his pants, which as he does he growls, "Damn whelp."

Hell if this is just a friendly way of saying hello, if there is good nature behind it, if the purpose is just a little fun, they can and will let it go. But this fellow means it. He is malicious. He is nasty. He has to be put down.

Zeke looks up to Jake, and placing his hand on the floor begins to push his way up.

When he is up, Jake is on the bellower's back and before he can be dislodged Zeke is raining blows on the man's face and to his gut. In short order the man crumples and the two boys stand above.

The man does not rise; he raises a hand, spread eagled towards the two, and says, "OK, enough, the hell with you, enough."

The boys return to their preparations for sleep, the striplings never utter a sound.

The dawn sees them breakfasted, loaded and trailing out of the rancheria towards a far line shack.

They pass through the fall, dry wolf peltry piled in a corner. Those drying are on the racks leant against the walls.

What they have so far, they've taken off kills the wolves are infrequently making in anticipation of the snows to come which will make the work of the pack that much easier, given the difficulty bison and elk have breaking through the drifts.

Eventually, the time comes when they are obliged to put out the baits. They have a number of putrid wolf carcasses available to the purpose.

They drag two out and hang each in a tree about a mile apart. The trick is to dangle the thing about ten feet off the ground, high enough that the wolves can't reach it and low enough that they keep trying.

The boys traipse out of a morning; settle themselves where they have an unobstructed view of the bait, but far enough away to be unnoticed by the wolves and downwind so that their scent will not give them away.

The day passes, with stories, sowbelly, biscuits and cold coffee as well as a lot of dead time.

Occasionally, the pack will come upon the bait and pass time a'jumpen at it. Eventually, as the wolves tire, a few will begin to loll about in the snow, rolling in it, batting at one another, playing at fighting or just lying with their muzzle on their paws.

When several reach the stage of inaction, the boys take a bead, each to their own wolf and pull the trigger. In most instances the result will be two skins to add to the pile.

It so happens that on one such occurrence a catamount approaches the bait. Here is an animal of significant stealth and caution. The fact of its being abroad in the day is extraordinary.

The boys are mesmerized owing both to the magnificence of the beast and the potential income to be gained from the pelt.

Something on the order of twelve to fifteen dollars is to be realized.

With careful aim both boys prepare to fire on the animal and having done so run down to the location of the freshly minted corpse.

Each slows the pace of their advance, proceeding cautiously, rifle at the ready.

The cat springs straight up ten feet into the air. Twisting in flight, it is able to flip itself into the underbrush and is away.

The boys stand in astonishment, it is a sight neither of them has previously beheld and in truth cannot grasp how the feat has been accomplished.

Slowly, the realization that they must pursue the animal into the brush emerges and strengthens. Both tremble at the thought. Overcoming their fear, they advance, each to his way.

Within minutes Zeke carries the cougar on his back. Screaming he runs towards the open space of the set, flailing about with his arms to keep the brute from sinking it teeth into his head.

Jake goes from a stalk to a dead run back to the bait site and the kerfuffle raised by the two locked in combat.

Zeke appreciates that he must remain standing for if he falls the beast will have the opportunity to sink its fangs which will spell Zeke's end.

Their spinning, bobbing, and twirling prevents Jake from placing the muzzle of his piece against the head of the cat and putting a pellet in its brain.

Finally, of desperation he fires without having secured the barrel end as firmly as he desires. The result is the instant demise of the beast and another wound for Zeke.

Fortunately, the round passes through the soft below his shoulder blade, forestalling the breaking of bone but making a muddle of the meat.

There is now a matter of the hours required to secure Zeke's wounds, skin the cougar, and load both aboard the horses and to trail slowly, of necessity owing to Zeke's injuries, back to the shack.

Once there Jake makes Zeke as comfortable as possible, stretches the varmint's pelt and prepares their evening meal.

Now time slows, Zeke recuperates on his pallet. Jake undertakes what activities are necessary for Zeke's comfort.

An accounting of their success so far reveals that with the wolves obtained previous to the accident and the cougar skin, they have pretty near what they need and Jake figures hunting alone he can make up the balance.

In truth he does.

When the wind changes and begins to blow warm, the snow softens and the hunting ceases. Still they cannot travel out until the mud dries and the ground hardens. This is a matter of weeks.

Finally, they are able to travel. Jake rigs a travois on which Zeke can take his leisure and the spare horse is loaded down with boodle.

Zeke is not without pain, but travels not in great discomfort.

They make their way through the spring prairie, sighting the occasional bison, elk, deer or rabbit. The grass is painted an emerald green. The freshness of it is fragrant to the nostrils. The azure sky populated with scudding white puffs.

They cross a vereda of trampled grass, cow plops and rutted ground.

Jake is bemused by the early round-up; the calving is not as yet finished. "They are a mite early."

In reply Zeke says, "Yeah, mighty anxious I'd say, I wonder where they're bound for?"

Now it strikes Jake that the trail heads away from any known rancheria. "Don't make much sense."

After a piece riders pass, out of hailing, but the boys are able to make out one of the bunch is mounted on a painted pony.

Reaching the ranch, they report into Mr. Ladasur, take the night in the bunkhouse and ride out the next morning with their money in hand.

Approaching the saloon, they see tied to the rail a piebald Indian pony. Inside, they sidle up to the bar on the far end, away from a boisterous cow crowd at the other end of the bar.

Zeke taps the bar. The barman says, "Howdy, what'll be?"

"Tangle leg," says Zeke, "hey what ranch them boys from?"

The barman gives him a quizzical look, drops the drinks on the bar, figures it's harmless and says, "The Hashknife."

Zeke taps the bar with his finger.

Zeke and Jake study on the matter some, occasionally eyeballing, trying to identify the rider of the pinto.

Not long after, the boys, having drunk their fill, make a parade down to the mercantile and purchase the piece.

Holding the treasure in his hand, Jake is even more taken with it than when it lay in the display case. The sheer magnificence of the thing, silver and ivory, every surface covered in curlicues, little ponies, dogs and birds, with a shiny brass rib for the grips. Now he is able to take note of the heft and balance. He spins the empty cylinder which sings as it spins.

He asks the clerk for an oil cloth and carefully wraps the gun, to be nestled gently in his alforche.

Out into the sunshine Jake builds a smoke, Zeke pulls out a cigarito. They establish themselves in two chairs, lean back with their boot heels up on the hitch rail.

They calculate on the matter, then Jake says, "I don't see nothing but we gotta let Mr. Ladasur know."

After a space, Zeke replies, "I can't figure exactly what we are gonna let him know. This ain't the only painted pony and we don't even know who made the vereda."

"I believe we gotta tell him what we saw and let him decide."

That's all of it; they up and make for the Turkey Track.

Afterwards Mr. Ladasur tells 'em to take up in the bunkhouse and wrangle the remuda for a couple of days at thirty and found.

The boys are happy to oblige. They're aboard trimming the mustangs, wanting to separate out the fuzztail and cavvy broke. They put the animals they want in the wrango and allow the others to drift.

They notice when a top screw and a group of waddies gallop out of camp and when they gallop back in.

Soon after, they're summoned by Mr. Ladasur. "We might as well take a ride into town."

As they ride along, everyone is in high spirits and skylark along, having a good time due to the break in routine and the sense of adventure.

Mr. Ladasur goes in to have a word with the bar-dog and comes back out. Squinting into the sun as he looks up to the men, he says, "We'll take a ride out to The Wilmot Land and Cattle Company." He forks his horse and the waddies sail away.

Once through the tall gate, as they approach the house, everyone quiets down in consideration of the solemnity of the accusations.

At the porch Mr. Ladasur hails the house, "Hallo the house, anyone to home?"

The door opens and a sturdy, clean woman in a white apron made of flour sacks stands on the porch with her hand across her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun.

Her head atilt she says, "Hi, Mr. Ladasur, nice weather."

"Yes, Mrs. Blanders, nice weather, I wonder, could I have a word with Mr. Blanders?" He puts both hands on his apple-horn and heaves the remainder of his body up out of the saddle to ease his legs.

"He ain't to home, won't you step down and have a cafecito, all y'all, have a cup."

"I thank you kindly ma'am, but we sorta need to talk with Mr. Blanders. Have you a thought to where he might be?"

"Up the crick several miles there's a pup off to the left, he's in there branding. You sure you won't take coffee?"

"Thanks again ma'am, we best be on our way."

"Is there trouble I should know about?" Now, her head straightens up and the softness of her smile abates.

"No ma'am, no trouble just now." He reaches up and courteously doffs at the brim of his hat while simultaneously pulling the head of his pony about.

The bunch moves off and up the crick, reaching the arroyo, at which point the boss stops his mount and turning to the band says, "I don't want no foolishness, you don't do nothing unless I tell you, otherwise you sit silent." His whole demeanor is rather stern.

They ride up on Mr. Blanders. "Hallo," he says, "fine weather, will you step down for coffee?"

"Good day Mr. Blanders, we seen a vereda, a lot of cows moving, we wonder would you know anything about it?" It is a little too direct; Mr. Ladasur regrets the bluntness as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Mr. Blanders raises his hand to shield his eyes. They are level like, "I'm taking your question as friendly, nothing intended and offering the coffee again. After, you want to look over my beeves for any reason, you are welcome." He holds his hand over his eyes.

Mr. Ladasur turns in his saddle and looks Jake over real good. Turning back he says, "I'm thanking you Mr. Blanders." He swings out of the saddle, crouches at the fire and waits for the cocinero to pour.

In the bunkhouse, Jake sits on the cot edge, holding the precious gem in both hands. "I coulda got somebody killed, innocent people."

"What did you do wrong? You had to tell Mr. Ladasur. You had no choice," Zeke says, attempting to back up his compadre.

"Zeke, this puts me in a tight, certain."

Jake scowls at Zeke who, unable to discern the depths of his pard's despair, reaches into his cantina and produces a bottle of forty leg.

The boys nod in silent agreement and head for the door.

Mr. Ladasur prohibits the drinking of spirits in the bunkhouse but is completely tolerant of the pursuit out on the peraira.

Settling down comfortably they pass the bottle with less and less vigor until eventually it comes to rest between them.

Thereafter the heavy breath of slumber is all that remains.

The next morning Zeke is awakened by the sun. He takes notice that Jake has skedaddled.

Jake misses breakfast a fact which causes Zeke concern.

Jake is on the range, heading for where he first saw the vereda. Time has passed since that day, rains have fallen, the grass has risen, and the cow shit melted. Now it is almost a blind trail.

Still in all, with austere attention, he is able to pick it up and tail along.

In time he comes to an abra with the gather bedded inside and the men as sentries at the mouth. They're comfortable.

Jake, having had time to think the matter through, has settled on hitting each with a mortal blow and wounding the last man to take back to headquarters where the bandido can tell the tale to the captain.

He ties his pony in a grove with a walking rope so it can graze and water. Then he draws the saddle gun from the scabbard and checks his Sparkler, the hammer on the empty chamber.

He puts a round through one man's head from the creek bank and after the shot moves up to a rock face.

All have kited so he waits.

A man sneaks through the barbed mesquite towards the remuda.

When the man reaches up to untie a horse from the picket rope, Jake shoots him in the shoulder and then through the chest.

Before the report of his rifle fades Jake is struck in the back. Simultaneously a bullet grazes his head.

With extraordinary effort he push-drops the valued pistol into a horizontal crevice, in the rock face.

Days later, a gully-washer puts a rush of water from the rocks above thru the channel below the fissure sufficient to force the exquisite three pounds of steel and ivory out onto the ground.

Zeke brings along the silk bandana and the spurs with the little bell. He rides his cayuse to a tree and, standing on the saddle and cantle, ties the spurs to the tree with the bandana.

After, he wanders around leading his pony by the reins; imagining the last of his amigo's life. As he does so he kicks up the handgun.

Holding the magnificent gem in his hands, his mind races in wonder as to how Jake arranged to bequeath him this fetching gift. For surely this is a bequest from beyond the pall, a spiritual substance.

The Sparkler is held gently, reverentially. The significance of the iron is beyond the intrinsic splendor, it is the embodiment of the bond between all but brothers. Men of like mind and bent, companyeros bone deep.

Additionally, he is staggered as well by his compadre's having felt the sting of error, played a lone hand in pursuit of atonement, and cleared his name, Jacob Lacoster.

And he, Ezekiel Elenthal will emulate for his honor and the enriching development of his character. He will be known as a man to ride the river with or die trying.

A Cautionary Tale
by Jack Theodore

Not a sound do I hear — all is sleeping; that is all 'cept me.

     Here I lie waiting for the moon to drop the vigil it's keeping;

Soon it will die — and so will I.



Yes, here I lie, thinking of the night before, when I stood drinking

     at the bar — and door.



Oh, I knew he would come soon, and with all his might roar

     "I've come! And as I come you'll be no more!"



And he did come — I did not run — And as he came he drew his gun!

     But I drew first — and he was done! — But wait! A gun! — there

was none!



And then I knew — My mind had tricked me well! I had delivered my

     body, my soul into hell — I had fired when he had no gun — his

holster was empty! — It could not be undone.



So now, as I watch the morning rise — I moan for myself: smoke

     waters my eyes.



I can now see the hangman knotting his rope — Soon they'll come for

     me — I fear there's no hope.



Yet I know I shall not be afraid of the noose — I shall utter not a sound

     'till the trap is loose.



But wait! — A fear now grips me — must it be so hard?

     My once brave state of being is now completely marred!



Yes, fear now strangles me — and so will the rope — I'm crying now

     out loud — I now know there's no hope.



They're placing the noose 'round my throat — they know how so well.

     The last sound I hear — the trap being sprung.



Justice served — Just as well!

The Day We Hung the Tallest Thomas
by Douglas Esper

An unsettling creaking noise emanated from an occupied noose, hanging from the gallows pole. The coarse rope shifted back and forth slowly, just a dozen paces behind Otis, the town's head deputy.

Otis sat at a weathered table outside of a saloon known more for its women than for its whiskey. Across from him, a stunning brunette shifted her long legs and downed her drink.

Her green eyes sparkled with torchlight and mischief.

Otis felt her foot brush against his. "Jane, what can I do to erase that frown from your pretty face? I'd hate to think you didn't enjoy your last night in my wonderful town."

Jane sized up Otis and spoke with a mixture of disbelief and admiration, "Tell me again how a deputy from the Midwest territories was able to catch all five of the notorious Thomas family?"

Otis flashed a smile of yellowing teeth from under his handlebar mustache, partly drunk, partly exhausted, but mostly humored. He had chased each and every Thomas for the better part of two years through four states, three territories, and one ill-advised jaunt deep into Indian lands.

The deputy poured another round. "I don't want to bore you with the petty details. Four hangings in four days is too much for any man to stomach, let alone a fine lady such as yourself."

Jane raised her glass and clinked it against the one offered by the deputy. "Look at you, all smug and righteous and—"

"Proud?"

"Reckless."

Though typically a man of caution, Otis felt his celebration and self-glossing had been earned. For each of the last four days, he had hung a member of the notorious family of thieves, starting with the shortest of the bunch and making his way to the tallest Thomas, who would be executed today at dawn.

Jane sipped her drink, which only made her thirstier. "I have to admit, sugar, when I first met you, I despised your cocky attitude, but having spent the entire night together downing every drop of liquor left in town, you're starting to show me your better qualities."

"I had no disillusions. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were a handful."

Emptying her glass, Jane chased the last of the whiskey with a shot of heartburn. "Don't try and flatter your way out of this, Deputy. I want to hear the whole story about the Thomas family before they're all dead and gone. Catching the first two, I could understand and maybe even applaud. They were both loud-mouthed amateurs. Now, arresting the third Thomas was a surprise, him being the toughest of the gang and all, but when you managed to bring in the fourth man alive, I knew there was more to you than met the eye."

"So you were able to follow the story pretty close then, even traveling as much as you did?"

"You could say I followed the story too close, I suppose. Got caught up in the headlines about the handsome, young deputy chasing down the evildoers, like every other girl with a dream. Though I was rooting for things to go the other way, I'm glad we got to share tonight."

Nodding in appreciation, the deputy replied, "I was thrilled when I received your note. Somehow I managed to catch each Thomas without breaking a sweat, but a mere invite for a drink from you and my heart started racing."

A large black bird cawed from atop the clock tower across the street. A few other crows looked down from their various perches around the run down town square, but decided to stay quiet for the time being.

Doing everything in her power to ignore the dead body swinging in the warm breeze, Jane kept her gaze on Otis by tracing his protruding jaw. Her mouth was humid, like the swamps of Louisiana she had explored with her brothers. Her head was beginning to pound, another indicator she had drunk herself sober.

Jane let her foot rub against the deputy's again. "I could go for a steaming bath and the greasiest burger this town can offer."

"A-and then?" Otis said, stuttering.

Jane licked her lips.

Otis paused, unsure what to make of his companion's answer.

Jane let him stew a bit before she shifted and rubbed her raw wrists.

"Please, lady, allow me," Deputy Otis said, reaching to remove Jane's oversized bracelets. "It looks like these are bothering you."

Jane flinched at first, but then extended her hands. "Never know who might swipe a lady's jewels these days. There seems to be thieves around every corner."

Otis attempted to stand and protest that his town was safe. His chair scraped against the wooden sidewalk as he leaned forward, breaking the relative peace of the waning night. The gathered crows took flight, except for the largest, who remained atop the clock, watching.

Otis ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. He pushed his chair next to Jane's and lifted one of her hands into his. "Can I get you anything?"

Jane knew when a man was flirting, and she knew never to turn down an offer of more whiskey, so she thanked him with a flirtatious expression of her own.

She ran her fingernails up the man's arm. "The only thing on my mind isn't appropriate out here in the open."

The deputy's cheeks blushed. "If things had—"

Whatever confession he meant to spill was cut off by loud footfalls announcing the first of the townsfolk to rise for the day walking down the main boardwalk.

Otis squinted in the growing light to see who it was. The deputy burped and pointed in the newcomer's general direction. "Ah, the most important man in town. Can I assume your cake will be even bigger and better than yesterday's, Herbert?"

The pug-nosed baker nodded, but didn't offer a smile. "Bigger, I don't know, but it'll be taller that's for sure. Tallest of the bunch, ayep." His lusty gaze fell upon Jane and lingered a little too long.

Otis felt his companion's discomfort. He whispered so that only Jane could hear. "He's a good man, but a little odd for my tastes."

"Try waking me up at these hours and I'd be a bit odd myself," Jane said.

Otis grinned and clapped, happy Jane was still in good spirits. "Time is short, so let's enjoy the last whispers of the night with no worries. I'll see if there's any liquor left to be drunk. Can I assume you'll be here when I return?"

Jane gave the deputy her I'm-all-yours grin. "There's nowhere I would rather be."

Otis paused, lost in the moment. He leaned over Jane's shoulders and put her silver bracelets back in place. "This town's the safest place on earth, when I'm around, but I don't want anyone walking off with your jewelry in my absence."

"What a gentleman."

He made his way into the saloon as Jane watched the hanging body swing and rotate in a half-circle, dancing to a tune only the dead could hear. She closed her eyes when a chill shook her whole body.

A few minutes later, boisterous conversation alerted her that Otis was not returning alone. She craned her neck. The deputy was joined by a portly gentleman Jane had seen throwing his weight around since her arrival on Sunday.

"Hope you don't mind if we add a third to our little gathering," Otis said. "Hugo here may be the regional governor, but he also happens to be the proud owner of the last bottle of liquor in town until the caravan arrives."

She danced the dance, smiled her enchanting smile, and reached to shake Hugo's outstretched hand. He wore a dark red suit that was all the rage in the Midwest territories.

Jane said, "Three years ago, when the Thomas family robbed the First National bank branch in New York City, everyone was wearing those suits. Now, back east they laugh if someone dares to trot out that old trend."

Hugo puffed out his considerable chest. "And then the Thomases made the mistake of coming out west, where criminals are never in fashion. Their score here, at our bank, was the last straw. And all for what? Some exotic rug they had been hired to locate."

Without even a hint of shame, Hugo's eyes followed the curves beneath her tight floral print top with a young man's curiosity and an elder man's experience.

The trio sat at the weathered table meant for two, cracked the bottle, and drank.

Jane tipped her empty glass toward the noose. "How long will they let him suffer up there?"

Before Otis could answer, Hugo offered his form of comfort. "My lady, that criminal is beyond suffering now." The most powerful man in town paused, and then leaned toward Jane with a conspiratorial grin. "If I had had it my way, the whole thieving Thomas gang would've hung together the entire week for all the world to see. I imagine there are a number of bank workers who'd pay to spit right in their faces, dead or alive."

Jane sneered at the governor, wishing he would leave. "Looks like you've caught murder-fever just like the rest of this hang-mad town."

Otis looked shocked. "Now, wait a minute—"

He was cut off by a simple hand gesture from Hugo.

The politician wiped his brow, loosed three wet coughs, and then checked the handkerchief for blood. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. It's just how I was raised. The Thomas gang has caused a lot of havoc in my lands and need to be punished to send a message. I didn't mean to offend with my crude imagery."

"Never fear, Hugo. I'm a modern woman who's traveled from one end of the world to the other. You'll be hard pressed to find words strong enough to irk me. In fact, your best deputy here was just about to tell me the gory details behind the capture and killing of the Thomas gang."

Jane poured the trio another round. She spilled a few drops onto her fingers and made a show of licking them clean.

When Jane raised her glass in a toast, the two men were surprised but obliging.

"To one of the more creative ways to kill a family of thieves. May God's grace smile upon the great Otis Paxtonelli."

Three glasses clanked together and were empty before the crows could protest.

The governor coughed as he poured the next round, wishing the whiskey was of a higher caliber.

"To be honest with you," Otis began, not ready for another drink. "It was my fellow deputy, Willy, who brought their heights to my attention after the first two Thomases had already been captured. When we nabbed the third Thomas, Willy was wondering if perhaps we had caught the wrong people. When I asked why, he mentioned each one seemed to be bigger than the last. The third was tall, wiry, unlike the first two. I assured him it was me personally who cornered them twenty miles south of Cleveland."

Jane seemed to hang on every word, though Otis was sure she knew most of these details already. Everyone in town had been gossiping the story all week, and even a late arrival to the hanging party would've heard.

"Number four fled, but was surprised up in Ypsilanti. Turns out, he was a half inch taller than his twin brother. Of course, they're all shorter than the brains behind the whole operation."

Jane giggled. "But how did you get him to surrender without a fight?"

"I got the jump on him as he bathed."

Jane nodded toward the dead body hanging from the noose. "Always keep your gun close. Steven Thomas would've told you that was one of the first rules of being an outlaw."

Hugo offered Jane and Otis cigars. When they declined, he lit his own. "So, not only did you hunt down each member of the family personally, but you caught them in order of height. Just how tall is the tallest?"

Jane had read about the Thomas gang in various papers around the country and seen the tallest Thomas's height listed anywhere from six foot one to six foot four inches.

Before she could answer however, Otis said, "Officially, just over six foot two."

Jane raised her left eyebrow, regarding Otis with an expression that had prompted dozens of men to beg. "And now that you've collected all of the reward money, what will you do? I'd love to escort you south and show you the true beauty this country has to offer."

Hugo barked a laugh, looking at his oversized gold watch.

Otis fought the urge to close his exhausted eyes. "If I had the hand of a beautiful woman like you at my side, I doubt I'd be able to appreciate the true beauty of anything else."

Her blush was genuine.

Jane noticed the sky was noticeably lighter over toward the old blackberry plantation than it had been just a few moments ago. Morning meant more death, and she had had her fill.

Hugo lurched to his feet, graceful as a three-legged rhino. "Well, I have business to attend to, but Otis, I want you to consider my proposal."

He bent to kiss Jane's hand, letting out a grunt of protest from his doubled-over gut. The foul stench of decay escaped his mouth, gagging Jane.

"May your days—" His words cut off when he grabbed onto the back of Jane's chair for balance.

With that, the politician disappeared back into the saloon.

The clanking of a blacksmith striking a horseshoe, the grunting of men unloading a wagon behind the general store, and other various noises alerted Otis and his companion the town was beginning to stir. A few townsfolk wandered toward the square, assuring the best view of the day's execution.

Otis jutted his pointy chin. "Smells like Stubby started a batch of hash and has a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Would you like me to fix you breakfast?"

Jane shook her head, gave the deputy a sour expression, and rubbed her stomach.

"I can't eat either," said Otis.

"Because of the hanging, or is the offer from the governor bothering you?"

Annoyance flickered across the deputy's face.

"Uh-oh, looks my sharp tongue has hit the mark, yet again. You know what they say about my tongue around the south, don't you?" Jane smiled and allowed her dress strap to slide off of her shoulder.

"I've heard all I need to know about your tongue, Jane. Thank you kindly."

She shrugged, wincing from the pain that flared up from last week's excitement.

Otis noticed her discomfort. "Shoulder still bothering you?"

"I still can't believe my horse bucked me like that. I raised her, treated her better than family."

Otis nodded, understanding. "If that horse hadn't been so spooked, though, we wouldn't have been able to enjoy these drinks together."

Jane changed the subject. "What's this great offer?"

"Hugo's brother is the mayor of a new settlement out west. Hugo promised me a king's ransom to escort him out there and assured me his brother would name me as the area's first sheriff."

Jane nodded, impressed. "Just how far west?"

"All the way. Place called, 'Walla Walla'."

Jane snorted an unladylike giggle. "Sounds like you just performed two magic tricks."

The deputy grinned, distracted with thoughts of the Pacific.

"Being a sheriff would suit you just fine, but Otis, you and I both know a trip out that far west isn't the right move after all this excitement. You'll die of boredom before any criminal has a chance at you. A good-looking man who can draw a gun like you could do well in New Mexico."

He sipped and he thought. He sipped and he agreed. The largest crow cawed, announcing the dawn before any rooster had the chance.

Jane extended her arm and wrapped her hand around his. "So, tell me about number five."

He squeezed her fingers, playfully. "What's the old saying? 'The last cow is always the hardest to milk.'"

Jane gave the deputy a quizzical look before the giggles escaped.

"Well, whatever the saying is, bringing number five to justice cost more money, horses, and men than catching the first four combined. There were two times when I entertained quitting altogether. I consider myself one heck of a horseman, but the chase for number five was the most grueling thing I've had to do. Three days and nights making my way through thick woods, across rushing rivers, over mountains, and under a sun that appeared hell-bent on burning me until I cried-off. Willy took a bullet outside Toledo, Chipmunk Chabek's horse came up lame crossing into Illinois, and I'll never be rid of this scar."

As he spoke, Otis pointed to a ten-inch red line that started at the base of his left thumb, and snaked down toward his elbow.

The sun peeked above the horizon as a few of the townsfolk began finding themselves a place to watch the day's festivities.

Jane puffed out her chest, giving Otis an easy opportunity to peer down her dress. "I'd join you out west. You know that, right?"

"And you know I can't take you with me," Otis said. "Unless, of course, you're willing to deal with the governor."

He saw all the answers he needed in her furrowed brow and clenched jaw. "You're a tough one, Jane. I'll give you that."

Otis shifted and retracted his hand from Jane's as Deputy Willy limped over from the town jail. Willy handed Otis a letter.

Jane saw droplets of red seeping through Willy's leg bandages. "How's that leg healing up?"

Willy ignored her question by posing one of his own. "Just how tall are you really, Jane?"

Two men, already sporting sweat stains halfway down their backs, exited the church across the way and cut down the fourth Thomas. They dragged away the body, garnering half-hearted applause from the growing crowd.

Jane poured another shot, but her stomach was too full of butterflies to drink anymore. "We would've made one hell of a team, you and me."

Otis allowed his tightened lips to spread into a grin. "Right guy. Wrong time."

He sauntered into the town square hand in hand with Jane. As Otis reached the top step of the gallows's pole decking, he read the letter Willy had handed him aloud. "Today will be a historic day in the Midwest territories. On Monday, the world was rid of Jessup, who stood five foot five. Tuesday brought an end to Vernon, who stood five foot seven. Wednesday we hung Michael, the elder of the Thomas twins who stood six foot tall. He was the first born and the first to die. His younger brother Steven was a half inch taller and joined the others in death on Thursday. Finally, today, I can declare the world will be rid of the whole Thomas Gang."

He paused, seeing the first tear fall from his companion's eyes. Though an honorable man, at that moment Otis wondered if there truly wasn't a way he could bring along this charming and attractive woman out west with him.

He finished reading the official proclamation, knowing it would appear in every newspaper around the country. "As proclaimed by the honorable Governor Hugo von Vespertine, from hence forward, today will be remembered as, 'The Day We Hung the Tallest Thomas.'"

Jane inhaled the dry summer air. She looked down over the crowd, hearing the largest crow, still perched atop the clock tower, cawing for fresh blood.

Otis looked up, meeting Jane's expression with a tight grin. He winked and felt his stomach turn. "Take off those cuffs and string her up, boys."