Cowboys in the Badlands
by Roy Jerden

Part 1 - The Greenhorn

Well, they's lotsa folks was wantin' to hear the story 'bout how me and Buck got famous and all, gittin' a paintin' of us in a fancy museum in Philadelphy. So here it is, best as I recall. It all started a few years ago when me "n' Buck was doin' wranglin' work in Dakoty Territory.

Capt'n Morris calls us in one day, back in 1887, seems like. Me 'n' Buck is supposta pick us up this here art perfesser feller in town, take him out to the Badlands, break him in, 'n' learn him 'bout the Wild West.

Buck 'n' me thunk that was pretty funny, playin' wet nurse to some greenhorn dude who was bound to get hisself kilt and maybe us too, but Cap'n Morris, he took it serious-like, so we hadda go along with the deal and it paid good, too.

Still, we 'bout split our britches when we got a gander at this dandy. He was over at Deaf Evan's gettin' outfitted for his Western adventure. Not a bad lookin' man for an art perfesser, tall and well-bilt, but them duds was another story.

He look't like he'd shopped with a drunk Injun and a dime novel. His boots were proper ridin' boots, but bright red. I guess ol' Deaf was tickled to death to finally be shed of them. His vest was black and white cowhide and he wore a rattlesnake belt with mirrored trim. He sported a big white Sugar Loaf ten gallon hat that he had poked a colored feather in 'n' had a yeller bandana tied around his neck.

We shook. He had a good grip and looked a man straight in the eye, but maybe a tad too intense, like he was lookin' for some kinda secret sign from you or sumpin, like a Mason. So far, so good, anyhow.

Said his name was Eakins, Thomas Cowperthwait Eakins.

'Tween the outfit and the name, me 'n' Buck was doin' our best to keep from bustin' a gut, so we just looked everwhere but at each other.

The pack mules at the stable was all ready to go, so we skedaddled out of town. We was kinda parched, but the saloon was out of the question considerin' the present company's sartorial splender. We figgered we'd have some fun and call him Cowperth, and I'll be damned iff'n he didn't get a kick outta that, gettin' a handle 'n' all right off. He was smilin' all the way outta town. You never knows how some folks are gonna take thangs.

Cowperth filled us in on his artistic philosophy as we rode west toward the Badlands.

He says, "I am of a mind that all painting should be done from life. I have studied and dissected the human body like Leonardo and I am convinced that the most beautiful thing in the world to paint is a naked man. A short time ago I experienced a setback in my professional life because of my beliefs, but I think I will eventually be redeemed. Now I am here in the West to find peace and to experience the natural life like the noble savage, nature as nature intended.", he continued.

Yep. I could see this was gonna be fun, lessen we actually met up with them noble savages, that is.

Ol' Cowperth was a tolerable good rider and we made 'bout twenty miles that day afore stoppin' to camp near a little creek out on the prairie.

Buck 'n' me, bein' the hired hands, set up camp while Cowperth pulls out his sketchpad. He then proceeds to strip nekkid as a jaybird.

"I shall remain in this natural purifying state as long as possible", he declares, then starts to sketch the camp, includin' hisself.

Buck 'n' me thunk a heap of his art, as he done went and captured the scene better'n life we reckon, not like some of that blurred French art that I seen in a magazine. Buck is braggin' proud of his likeness, and sits for a personal sketch.

"Shore would fancy this old mug showin' up in one of them Louvers back in Philadelphy.", he muses. Course he meant art gallery, but I guess the Louver is the only one he ever heared of.

Well, I never done sit and eat grub with a nekkid man before, but that night I did.

Old Cowperth was gonna dress back up to bed down and had quite a start when the tarantula crawled outta his britches.

Buck and me had slipped it in there, a course. We never cracked a smile.

"Gotta check yore duds for critters out here", I says, "Shake out yore britches and boots. Better off sleepin' with 'em on, in fact."

He turned pretty pale when the rattler came out of those red boots, and started whoopin' 'n' hollerin' like a girl. He was gonna shoot it, but we stopped him in time.

"Here, don't waste a bullet on that critter!", I says."That's mighty fine eatin' with some bacon. Anyhow, you fire off a shot here at night, it can be heard for miles. I'm not too keen on a pack of Sioux getting on our trail and scalping us in our sleep. I heard that old Two Toes and his band are back in these here parts.

"Two Toes? Who is Two Toes?" he inquired.

We definitely had old Cowperth flummoxed now. He was 'bout fit to be tied. Buck dispatched the rattler with an ax, while I finished my tale.

"Cowperth, I don't know if you ever heared much about the Lakota Sioux, but a brave who is in battle and on foot, will sometimes haul off and pin his sash to the ground with his spear, so he has to stand his ground and cain't run off.

Now to be clear, Two Toes ain't his real name. His birth name was Ha-O-Cha. Anyhow, he was surrounded by the cavalry. He decided to fight to the end, so he pulled out his sash, put the end on the ground, and jabbed out with his spear. But damned if he done went and missed the sash and chopped off the two middle toes of his left foot.

The Army boys thought that was so funny, seein' him hop around that they let him go, figgering he was no threat as a warrior anymore.

Ha-O-Cha was so humiliated that he swore revenge on the white man, especially the calvary. He kept them two toes and wears them round his neck to remember him his humiliation. Whenever he ketches him a white man, he whacks off his two middle toes on the left foot, then lets him go, mostly, lessen he's an Army man. Word has it that he keeps them all in a leather pouch. That's how he got that handle, but he'll kill enny man that says it."

Well, old Cowperth didn't get too much sleep that night what with the wild critters and Injun stories we done filled his head with. Course that wasn't nigh enuff for Buck 'n' me.

Me 'n' Buck took turns at watch. Whenever we heared Cowperth startin' to sleep pretty good, we'd sneak off a piece and shake a bush or make some animal noise.

Cowperth was so stirred up that he would jump out of his bedroll ever time. We'd tell him it was just a coyote or a badger or something. His nerves was so shook that after a spell we didn't even hafta do ennythang. His imagination plumb took over and he would sit straight up every few minnits and look all round, probly checkin' the bushes for Injuns, I reckon.

Well, despite that lesson, next mornin' he was back at it. He et that rattler with gusto, declaring that consuming the wild food would speed his transformation into the natural native state, which he assumed by strippin' nekkid again.

He then pulls out a pack of store-bought cigarettes and lights one up with a Lucifer match. Buck 'n' me had never seen store-bought, so he shows 'em to us, declarin' that it was all the latest rage back East.

"Now they come in different brands," he explained. "My brand is Old Judge, which I consider the finest, and the only one for a proper gentleman."

Then he pulls a card out of his coat and shows it to us. It had a picture of a baseball player on it.

Me 'n' Buck seen a baseball game once at Ft. Laramie. We thunk it was a heap of foolishness.

"Every pack comes with a baseball card", he says. "This player is Joe Mulvey, third base for the Philadelphia Quakers, my team, and world champions."

Then he pulls out a whole passel of cards and starting goin' through them, naming off all the players, their positions, and team. He even relates 'bout how many hits each one got, how many times he got on base, how many runs he scored and how many home runs he hit. Then he starts in on the pitchers. How many games they won, how many strikeouts they got and so on and so on.

I never seen sich idiocy as a person goin' on about full grown men playin' a boy's game. And the craziest thing is that they went and got paid for it, too! It's enuff to make yer ass wanna dip snuff!

Well, Buck he got a hankerin' to try out one of them fancy cigarettes, I guess, as he was goin' on about this marvel and how wunnerful it must be not to have to roll your own and kept on eyeing the pack until ol' Cowperth finally takes the hint and offers him one. Lights it up for 'em, too. Buck takes a nice long draw and declares it the finest smoke he ever had, settin' hisself up for later, I reckon.

Now Cowperth, he don't smoke regular. He holds the cigarette 'tween his thumb and trigger finger and sticks out his little finger like he's drinkin' tea in high society. He draws in a big puff with a highfalutin expression and then turns his head to the side, blowin' it out with his lips all pursed up. Damned if ol' Buck don't start puttin' on the same airs, like he's some London dandy or sumpin!

Then it come to me. I thunk he looked a little finer than usual this morning, and shore enuff, he went and waxed up his mustache and warshed his face. Even had on clean duds. He was workin' ol' Cowperth for another portrait, for sure.

Well, we lit out west again. I wanted to get us 'bout forty miles in as I knew a couple good watering places we could camp at. Buck 'n' Cowperth were ridin' in front and I was follerin' with the pack mules. I wanted Buck to scout ahead, but he was still workin' Cowperth, showing him rope tricks 'n' cowboy knots. Cowperth 'n' him was talkin' up a storm 'bout art 'n' baseball 'n' whatnot when I saw a cloud of dust on the plains. Coulda bin only one thing.

Part 2 - Nude Art on the Prairie

I was pretty shore it was Two Toes and his woods buffaloes makin' the dust. I had jist heared the story a few days ago.

The Sioux was in real sorry shape all over. The guvmint had tried to make 'em into sodbusters, which was 'bout the onliest way they was gonna eat anyhow, as the plains buffalo was pretty much done for. Mighta worked, too, iff'n these parts ever saw a drop of rain during growing season. Plenty of snow wintertime, but dry as Ezekiel's bones elsewise.

Ol' Two Toes got the notion he would bring back the buffalo hisself and took off into Canada to find a herd and drive it back iff'n he could. Turnt out the buffalo was gone there, too, leastwise the plains buffalo, but him 'n' his bunch kept on pushin' north, hopin' to find a herd. Well, they did, but them buffaloes was woods buffaloes, not the plains kind.

Them woods buffaloes is bigger than plains buffalo and has a lot bigger hump from what I hear. Anyhow, Two Toes was able to round up 'bout fifty of 'em and drove 'em all the way back to the Dakoty Territory. Jist got here a few weeks ago according to accounts. Him and his boys had shed all the white man's clothes and was livin' the old ways they said , 'cept they kept their carbines, not bein' total fools.

Carbines or not, there was no way the guvmint was gonna stand for Injuns livin' free on the plains with buffaloes. I knowed it, and probly Two Toes knowed it as well. He was jist stirrin' up the Lakota with false hopes, livin' his dream 'til he could go out in a blaze of glory, like a martyr, I suppose. Cain't say as I blamed him, really, considering all of it.

I wanted to steer plumb clear of him, but before I could say ennythang, Buck had done let the calf out of the barn. Ol' Cowperth was 'bout to have a conniption fit.

"We must view this wonderful sight!", he declares. "The Sioux in his natural state! And buffaloes, too! I am personally engaged in a campaign in Philadelphia to save this noble beast which once darkened the plains. This opportunity must have been sent by the Lord!"

I had a feelin' that the opportunity was more likely arranged by a darker spirit, but at this point, there was nuthin' stoppin' ol' Cowperth. Least I might keep us from getting' kilt.

I agreed to take him within spyglass range and I knew whar they was a bit of higher ground that we could get a looksee from. Main thang was not to leave no sign of bein' in the whereabouts.

I figgered they was pushin' them buffaloes t'wards the bigger of the two watering holes, so we could take a route to keep the high ground twixt us 'n' them, get our looksee, and hightail it to the other one afore they got wind of us.

And that's what we did. We tied up the horses 'n' mules and Buck stayed behind while me 'n' Cowperth snuck up to the top with my spyglass. There they was, 'bout a dozen braves, the buffaloes getting' watered and a remuda of ponies. Yep, looked jist like the ol' days. Them boys had shed all traces of the white man, dressed up old-style in buckskin leggin's and breechcloths and moccasins, braided hair, headbands and feathers. They all had a carbine in a saddle holster, though. I recognized Two Toes and his lieutenant Warm Bear.

Now, folks think the Sioux rode bareback, but when they seen the Spanish saddle with stirrups, which allowed you to turn the horse at full gallop without flyin' off, they didn't waste any time makin' their own kind. Most used a stretched buffalo hide over a wooden frame. Warm Bear had a saddle he made out of a bearskin, leavin' the bear head on with a pommel sticking up through the skull.

The story 'bout how Warm Bear got that saddle was pretty interestin', too.

'Pears he was trackin' a bear in the late fall. The bear was a wise 'un and circled back behind him, charged and spooked his pony, throwin' him off. The only weapons he had was his knife and spear. Well, he fought and kilt that bear, wounding it mortally, but it took a spell to die. Meantime, an early blizzard came in and the temperature dropped real sudden. He hadda find some shelter or freeze. What he done was he cut open that bear, pulled out the guts, and crawled inside. That bear's body kept him warm all night. The next day he crawled out when it warmed up, skinned the bear and walked home with the hide. Found his pony froze to death. He got a shaman to put a spell on the hide, so's when his squaw made the saddle, the bear scent wouldn't spook his horse. He took Warm Bear as his name after that.

Cowperth was plumb spellbound by the scene, and drawed a quick sketch of it. He kept on wantin' to look more, till I tole him we hadda get to the other watering hole afore it got dark, so he finally give up the spyglass and we took off.

We took a roundabout way and reached our spot mid-afternoon. Me 'n' Buck got the animals watered and set up camp while Cowperth went natural agin. I never saw nobody who liked to parade around nekkid so much. He had his sketchpad out and was makin' a larger sketch of the Injun scene we saw earlier, fillin' in more details. When Buck got done, he come over and was admirin' the fine work, goin' on about what a fine artist Cowperth was and generally oilin' him up. Finally, Cowperth stops and takes a long look at Buck.

"Buck", he says, "how'd you like to model a painting for me?"

Now that was exactly what Buck had been workin' on him for, so he was pleased as punch.

Buck loved to see his mug in photographs, specially if it made the occasional rotogravure in a magazine or sumpin. I never seen such a character who would work his way into whatever picture was bein' taken. If they opened a new bank, he would sidle over and start up a conversation with one of the group, get friendly, and then slip into the back row so he wasn't noticed while they took the photograph. Shore enuff, if you went in enny business in town and looked at they's grand openin' photograph, you could find Buck somewhar in it. If they was a shootin' in town Buck would be in the picture they took of the body. Buck wasn't proud and would even get in weddin' party pictures when he could. A lot of time he'd get run off, then hide behind a tree or sumpin and pop his head out jist afore they took it.

Then Cowperth upped the ante.

"Now Buck, if you are willing to model in the natural naked state as God made you, I will pay you for it.", he said.

Well, I figgered Cowperth was dead 'n' done for at that, but damned if ol' Buck never batted an eye, but straightaways stripped right down to nothin' and took a pose just like John L. Sullivan, boxing world champion, ready to be immortalized in art. Like I done said, Buck had no shame when it come to publicity.

Anyways, here I am, in the middle of the prairie with two nekkid fools doin' art. Somebody up there must be laffin' they's ass off, I figgered.

"Buck", says Cowperth, "that's a fine sporting pose, but I was looking for something inventive."

Damned if ol' Cowperth don't open his pack and pull out a passel of baseball equipment.

He hands Buck a fielding glove and shows him the pose a shortstop takes when fielding, legs apart, knees bent, eyes focused straight ahead, glove ready to field the ball. Buck takes the stance like he was born to the part. Cowperth even finds a baseball cap and places it on Buck's head.

All set now, Cowperth does a quick sketch of Buck in this pose. I took a gander at it and thunk it captured the scene perfectly. Cowperth had adjusted the skin tones even so Buck's pale body and his tanned hands and face didn't contrast so much. He had shaded it jist right so all of Buck's muscles showed up even better'n real life. I was sure Buck was gonna love it. Buck was fidgety and jist couldn't stand it enny more. He was dyin' to see his body captured by a real artist.

He come over and was admiring the work like all get out, 'til he seen a particular he didn't like.

"Now, perfesser Eakins" he says, "I believe this is the finest art I ever seen. I wouldn't change one thing about it, and I reckon the way you did my muscles was better than nature, but I believe that pose I was in kinda made one of my features appear smaller than God originally made it."

Well, me and Cowperth knew what he meant, but comparing the former with the latter, we couldn't see no difference, which we stated.

Buck was havin' none of this truck, and started in arguin' his case like a country lawyer, bringin' in the angle of the sun, the phase of the moon, the air temperature, the wind speed and all other kinds of scientific hogwarsh, generally making a pest out of hisself till Cowperth give in and made about a threefold adjustment in length and girth, which put Buck more in the equine size category than in the human, but apparently pleased him no end.

Cowperth give me a wink, by which I unnerstood that he would take care of matters later, iff'n he decided to make a paintin' from the sketch.

Well, now Cowperth wanted a battin' stance to sketch, so he give Buck the bat and stated that they was gonna practice some batting so that Buck would get the hang of how to stand properly when he sketched him. He takes the bat and shows Buck how to take the stance and hold it like a professional player.

He asks me to line up behind Buck and ketch the ball which I complied with even though I wasn't supposed to be part of the deal.

We's all set to go when Cowperth straightens up and stares wide-eyed right at me.

When I heared the noise behind me, I knew we was cooked and packed.

Part 3 - Indian Baseball

I knowed it was Two Toes and his bunch that'd found us.

I guessed he had gone and sent a scout to check out the waterin' hole and when he relayed the story, decided he needed to add a few more specimens to his toe collection.

Now I knowed we was done for iff'n we acted normal and tried to get to our guns, but considerin' the present scene, I figgered we had to go the other way, as the Sioux respect madness in all its forms.

"Cowperth", I said, "don't pay no nevermind to them. You jist keep pitchin', and Buck, you see iff'n you can hit the ball back to Cowperth. Whatever you do, don't look at 'em, and don't look skeered!"

Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar, I thunk, so I shed all my duds too, and we started up playin'. Cowperth pitched easy balls underhanded to Buck, and he batted 'em back slow. I caught a foul, and switched spots with Buck. I hit one in the air, but Cowperth snagged it and come to bat and I pitched. We kept switchin' round, tryin' to keep up the Lakota's innerest.

The Lakotas just sit thar on they's ponies, but we could hear them chatterin' away and laffin', I guess tryin' to figger out what the ritual meant or sumpin. Course they had us dead to rights and knowed it too, so they warn't too tense. We jist kept on at it like nuthin' was outta normal.

Finally, I seen Two Toes dismount and come over. First time I ever seen him up close. I seen his toes hangin' round his neck from that buckskin cord. He was pretty tall for an Injun, and walked kinda funny, too, I reckon from the missin' toes. He had a real intense look about him.

Two Toes went and inspected the sketches Cowperth had done of Buck. He seemed impressed with Buck's manly attributes, 'til he checked out the originals, that is, and then jist about fell over laffin'.

The other braves was curious and some started over to get a looksee on they's ponies. Two Toes made three of 'em stay behind to keep an eye on us. Well, them boys that come over thunk them sketches was funnier than a fart in church. They was pointin' at Buck 'n' comparin' to the sketch 'n' mockin' him six ways from Sunday. Ol' Buck was turnin' ever color in the rainbow doin' his best to avoid showin' his shortcomin's, no doubt regrettin' all the fuss he made earlier.

Ol' Two Toes comes over 'n' starts studyin' our weird antics, tryin' to figger out what's goin' on. Well, we was desperate, but I had me an idear, so I stops the game to palaver with him. I knows a little Lakota and quite a bit of sign language, and I heared Two Toes spoke some English and French, so I reckoned the big windy I was thinkin' up might be unnerstood.

"You have broken the spell, Ha-O-Cha", I says. The Dark Spirit will be angry." Right off, I wanted to put ol' Two Toes on the wrong side of the spirit world. I was hopin' he'd take the bait, but like I always say, you never know how folks are gonna take thangs.

Well, I was relieved to see right off that statement had some weight with him.

I seen some mighty superstitious folks before, but never none like an Injun. Nevertheless, he narrows his eyes and looks suspicious at me, as he has good reason to do.

Now most Injuns won't look you straight in the eye when they talk. Don't mean they's lying, like some folks claims. They considers it disrespectful, kinda like a direct challenge. But Two Toes never looked away when he talked, so I knowed I had a hard pony to rope.

"White man no believe in Dark Spirit. I see white man pray to god nailed on cross. He weak man, not strong like Dark Spirit.", he says.

I avoids eye contact and looks in the distance when speakin', like a respectful Lakota would do, jist glancing back ever now and then.

"Well", I says, "you got the prayin' part right, leastwise in public at church, but white folks generally don't pray to the Dark Spirit, though I kin think of a few who might. Don't mean they don't believe in him, though, cause they blame him for ever bad thang that happens. You take your average cold-blooded murderer, for example. Iff'n his mother comes to see him before the hangin' and asks why he done it, ever one of 'em will claim up and down it was the Devil.

"Now, there's some that believes in Jesus and some that don't, and some that pretends to, but they all believes in the Devil, I guarantee you. And not just him, either. You look at all that God-fearin', church-goin' salt of the earth that claims to believe in just one god and sees how many of 'em rubs a rabbit foot or hangs up a horseshoe or believes bringin' a hoe in the house is bad luck.

"And then they's fortune-telling, palm readin', numerology, and astrology, not to mention hexes and curses, love potions, and all that truck. Now that ain't got nuthin' to do with Jesus, no siree, that's the old dark spirit religion for shore. Yes sir, the Lord has his day, but the Devil's got most of the business the rest of the week."

I could see that I made the sale to Two Toes. T'warn't too hard, really, considerin' the Lakota mostly thought the white man wuz the Devil incarnate ennyhow, but now I needed to close the deal.

"Now that man there", I says, pointin' to Cowperth, "is Perfesser Thomas Cowperthwait Eakins, a wizard of the Dark Spirits. He was puttin' a spell on my friend's manhood to improve his condition. You can mock him if you like, but that drawing was important to let the Dark Spirits know what we wants. We was completin' the spell when you stopped it."

Two Toes goes over and takes a long gander at Cowperth. Sumpin passed 'tween 'em then, some kinda sign of recognition. Two Toes appeared satisfied. He then comes back over to me.

"This spell work on Lakota?" he asks.

I knowed I had him then.

"Well", I says, "I seen it work wonders on a Chinaman, so I reckon it'll work on ennybody."

I was hopin' maybe I could barter with Two Toes 'n' get him to let us go iff'n we put the spell on him, but as soon as he talked to his bunch, I seen 'em all get stirred up and start arguin' with him. Some even drawed they's knives and was pointin' at us. It warn't lookin good.

Two Toes come back over with Warm Bear to parley with me.

"Wizard explain spell now", he says. "Lakota watch."

Well, I thinks we is in for it now, but I was sellin' ol' Cowperth too short. Iff'n you thinks a cowboy kin lay it down thick, you ain't never seen no perfesser shovel it afore.

First, he gits Two Toes and Warm Bear to swear they won't reveal the secret to ennyone, then seal it by spittin' on their hands and shakin' on the deal. Then he gits a stick and draws an outline of home plate in the dirt.

"This magical five-sided figure is a pentagon", he declares in a thundering oratorical voice. "It summons the powers of the Dark Spirit. I will invoke it now. Strike one! Strike two! Strike Three! You're out!" He pumps his fist on each call, raises it with his thumb extended, then turns the thumb down.

The Lakota is impressed. Then Cowperth picks up the bat and baseball.

"These things are sacred totems of manhood." he continues. No argument there, as it seemed obvious as a circus parade.

"The spell requires at least three players, but it is stronger with more. One player must stand next to the pentagon with the bat. One player must pitch the ball, passing over the pentagon at belt level. The other players stand in the field. The first player must try to hit the ball with the bat when it passes over the magic area. Doing so will increase his manhood. A player in the field who catches the ball in the air after it is batted also increases his manhood and then comes to bat. If he catches it on the ground, the batter must lay the bat on the ground and allow the fielder to roll the ball toward it. If it hits the bat, then the fielder comes to bat, otherwise the first player continues to bat. The more hits a batter gets, the more his manhood increases."

Two Toes speaks. "This spell has many mysteries, mighty wizard. All Lakota wish to have this spell. You make magic pictures of us and we all do spell now. We happy, you go free. We not happy, Ha-O-Cha cut off toes, maybe more."

For the first time, Cowperth seems really happy. I reckons it was a dream come true for him, drawing nekkid savages and playin' Injun baseball all at the same time. He didn't seem worried at all. Buck, on the other hand, was nervous as a pig in a packin' house. He kept checkin' his body parts - to see iff'n they was still attached, I guess.

Well, Two Toes and his bunch all strip down, but some of 'em keep their carbines ready, just in case of funny business, I reckon, although I couldn't divine how it could get enny funnier, unless the cavalry was to show up all of a sudden.

Cowperth is sketchin' away, busier'n a one-armed paper hanger. Some of the braves left their feathers on, which seemed to suit him. He fixes 'em all up like Buck, too. It don't seem strange at all to 'em, which was natural I reckon, considering some of the exaggerations I seen drawn on the sides of Sioux teepees.

He's 'bout got 'em all knocked out when they's a snag. The Lakota's bin goin' through his pack of equipment and found the baseball cards.

Two Toes brung 'em over 'n' shows 'em to Cowperth. "What this?", he demands.

I had no idear what to say, but Cowperth was on his game now.

"My dear sir, why these are holy cards of the Dark Spirit. These men are demons, like saints, in a way. Why you can see the power emanating from their eyes! Look! Some of them are even holding the manhood totems, ready to cast the spell! These cards have powerful magic and many wizards wish to possess them. Why among my fellow wizards, there's a whole market for trading these cards! Some of them are rarer than others and fetch a better price, especially the older ones or the ones of demons who became famous."

Cowperth immediately regretted this story.

"Lakota take these magic cards, be wizards too.", Two Toes declared.

Cowperth looked really worried about losing his collection now, but had a response.

"These holy cards are dangerous, my dear fellow. It requires many years of learning to know how to use them. However, each man who completes the spell will get a holy card and have his own personal patron demon to protect him. I will select an appropriate one for each."

Two Toes seems satisfied, even delighted at this answer. He explains it to the Lakota, who get excited and all want to have the ritual and get their card right away, like they was joining the Odd Fellows or sumpin.

Them boys took to Injun baseball like they was born to the game, which I reckon they was, in a way. They all wanted to bat, a course, but Two Toes was the leader and took first bat. Cowperth pitched and I caught. Buck played in the fields with the braves, as he was supposta be gittin' the spell done on him, too.

Well, ol' Two Toes seemed to have a good eye and connected with the first pitch, a fly ball out to left field. Course ever one of them boys run to the ball to grab it. A couple even run inna each other. Nobody caught it, but one of 'em run after it and picked it up. Two Toes lays the bat down so's the player kin try to hit it, but it was catawampus, so's I shows him how to place it. Well that feller was too far out to get a good throw and missed the bat, so Two Toes gits another turn.

Them boys was all stirred up now and ready to go. Two Toes takes a couple of strikes on some wild swings, and then connects agin, this time hit it straight to a feller in center field, who snagged it outta the air.

Well, this nekkid Injun baseball game went on til everbody got at least one hit, even Buck, who was a terrible batter. The Lakota wanted to keep playin' but it was startin' to git dark. Cowperth wanted to parley with Two Toes and called him to the mound, which there warn't one, a course. They spoke a bit, grinned and then embraced like long lost brothers.

Well, Cowperth had cut a deal with Two Toes. We was off the hook. The Lakota was gonna keep all the baseball equipment, get a baseball card for each brave and get taught how to do the spell, which Cowperth explained had to be done ever day until the full moon afore it started takin' effect.

I dunno iff'n they believed him completely or not, but them boys was so enthused about baseball that it might notta mattered ennyways. Cowperth give 'em all a baseball card, waved his hands over 'em like a magician, and yelled "Play ball!" in a sonorous preacher voice.

Everbody got dressed back up, then Cowperth showed Two Toes the spell and had him practice it a few times to get it right and then it was time for them to go. Ever brave had a little gift for the wizard, sumpin they had made theyselves. Two Toes even give him a pair of toes outta his bag. Ol' Cowperth was happier than a gopher in soft dirt.

Me 'n Buck was too, but for a different reason.

Epilogue

Well, that adventure done seemed to straighten out ol' Cowperth. I figgered he'd wanna skedaddle home, but he had a hankerin' to paint the Badlands he said, so we pressed on. He started actin' regular even, not goin' natural no more. He declared he was havin' the best time of his life and was finally findin' peace with hisself. That suited me 'n' Buck jist fine, too.

We got there after a few days and Cowperth was excited 'bout the strange formations and valleys we was seein. He made quite a few sketches of 'em. The last day he wanted to git one of me 'n' Buck with our horses overlookin' a particularly pretty place. Well, that one turnt out to be the one that got us famous, though we never heared nothin' 'bout it till four years later.

That's when Capt. Morris called me 'n' Buck in. There was a big envelope that was addressed to me 'n' Buck care of the Captain. Come from Philadelphy. There was a letter inside from Cowperth and a big photogravure of the paintin' he had done from that sketch of me 'n Buck. It was even hand tinted to look like the paintin'. We thunk it was the best art we ever seen, and so did the Captain. He said that photogravure would be the pride of the town and wanted our permission to get it hung up in the church. Course that was afore he knew all the story. It ended up on the saloon wall behind the bar, which suited me 'n' Buck even better and got a lot more attention, not to mention all the rounds of drinks me 'n' Buck got stood for.

Cowperth had done all right after he went back to Philadelphy, even opened up another art school and had lots of students, even female ones, which was pretty strange, but so was Cowperth, so it didn't suprise us none.

He said he was always thinkin' 'bout me 'n' Buck and when the museum wanted the paintin' for its collection, he knew he had to do sumpin for us, so he had that photogravure made and sent us a copy. Said it was sellin' well around the city, too.

He wanted to know iff'n we had enny news of Two Toes.

Now that was a sad story for sure. Me 'n' Buck felt real bad about that, considerin' the whoppers we had tole them boys.

Seems the calvary was after him 'n' his bunch for awhile. Now normally, they woulda bin hard to ketch, but they had them buffaloes to watch and on top of that, the calvary come up on 'em all playin' nekkid Injun baseball.

This time, them army boys din't seem to have no sense of humor, and wiped 'em out to a man. I dunno what happened to them buffaloes.

Well, I never said nuthin' about it afore because folks was all braggin' on what a fine job the calvary done gitting rid of Two Toes and his bunch, stirring up the pacified Sioux with dreams of returnin' to the old days. Course a couple years later, after Wounded Knee, that dream was started up agin by them Ghost Dancers, but that was jist spiritual. The Lakota was done for by then. They warn't gonna wish the white man away.

Yep, they says the calvary kilt Two Toes, but I knows different. It weren't the calvary, no sir.

It was baseball.

Justin's Hole
by Johnny Gunn

The trail into Justin's Hole winds down from the craggy peaks of the Elk Range, towering some nine thousand feet into the clouds and thin air. From the crest, one can see the Justin River meandering through a long verdant valley, but the village is tucked away in a horseshoe bend, now named Justin's Hole. River mist spreads through the tall pines and hardwoods lining the river, offering a splendid vision of high mountain existence.

Three men had started the long ride down that trail just after first light and that ten mile trek will take them most of the day. Along with his riding horse, each man is trailing a pair of pack mules fully loaded. They make this trip every six weeks, come hell or high water, and they often face both either coming or going.

The tall skinny man wearing the fur hat and Mackinaw is known as Jake Willoughby, and is considered the boss of the group. Just behind him, James (Moose Nose) Sam, was a scout for Kit Carson twenty years ago, and still considered the best packer in Alaska, and eating the trail dust of those two, is Dennis Ledgermain, a French Irisher out of Manitoba, looking for a killing in the mines.

"Lookin' forward to a hot bath, a big chunk of Elk, and a pretty girl, and just about in that order," Willoughby said, fording a small creek running cold and fast. "Have to stop here on one of our trips. They's got to be trout in these pools." Neither Moose Nose nor Ledgermain answered, mostly because they couldn't hear what the skinny man was saying. That didn't stop Willoughby from holding his conversation.

Crossing the creek, Moose Nose swung low from the saddle and scooped a handful of that water, splashing his face, letting some get in his mouth. "Good water," he said to the rocks and trees surrounding the trail. Ledgermain was singing, a high tenor so sweet the trees and breezes seemed to respond, and his horse and mules never threw a fit. Ever.

About noon some of the people in the village started taking little furtive glances up the side of Bull Elk Peak, first the saloon keeper, then the dentist-barber, the fellow that ran the feed store and blacksmith shop pointed out to them that it would be a couple more hours before the village goods would arrive. "Need whiskey," the saloon keeper said, spitting a wad of t'backy juice into the dust.

"Sure you do," the smithy said, "and I could use a load of corn, flour, sugar, and coffee for my shelves too, but lookin' up that old mountain ain't gonna get it here any faster." So, as they did every six weeks, the three men went into the saloon and polished off the dregs of the last bottles on the shelf.

"Getting' any color?" Ledgermain asked the first person he saw.

"'Nuff to pay you boys for the run. How's the weather down in the valley? Been cold and rainy here for billions of years now," and another wad of juice flew into the mud and dust of Justin's Hole's only street. "Lost old Clem to the cons. Consumption is bad when it's always so damn wet."

The mules were unloaded in quick order, the fifteen or so residents filled their larders and pantries, the saloon keeper was all smiles, and the man that sells flour and sugar beamed his satisfaction. "Gonna be winter soon. You boys need to double up next load, just in case we get snowed in again, like two years ago."

"Already in the plans, Michael. Where's Mr. Dodd? We need to get settled up, I need a hot bath, and is little Suzie still in town?" Willoughby wasn't going to be denied.

"Old Clem went off to the Golden Hills, Willoughby. Geoff Dawson is running things around here, now. He's over in the mine office, wearin' clean clothes ever single day. Man's gone 'city-fied' on us," and he sent a shot of juice ten feet into the mud, cackling and coughing.

"Old Clem Dodd passed on, eh? Well, I never did much care for Dawson, but if he's got our money, I guess I better learn to talk to the fool. Clean clothes? In this mud-hole?" and he walked off shaking his head, splashing mud with every step.

"Even wears a string tie, Willoughby," the old man hollered out to him, giving off with a another loud cackle of a laugh.

"So, you're runnin' things, now, eh Dawson? Well, we got it all distributed, need to get my poke filled with some of your gold, and we'll be gone at first light." Willoughby was holding in a serious chuckle seeing Geoff Dawson in a clean suit of clothes, white shirt, even a vest with a watch fob and chain. "Old Justin's Hole becoming quite the metropolis, I see," and part of that chuckle came to the surface.

"I've changed the pay schedule for the shipments. You boys have been shorting us for years. I warned Clem about you thieving shysters. From now on you'll get ten dollars each, and I'm going to do a full count on the goods before they are distributed."

"Like hell, Dawson. The rate is twelve fifty each, and you even think of calling me a cheat again, I'll slice your liver for supper." He was fingering the big Bowie knife he carried on his belt, and those that knew the skinny little mule skinner knew more than one man went six feet down from that blade.

Willoughby stormed over to the door and motioned for Moose Nose and Ledgermain to come into the office. He also yelled out to the feed store owner to come in, "and bring that saloon keeper with you."

The small mine office was jam-packed by the time everyone squeezed in. "Dawson just told me that our rate for delivering all this good stuff has been cut from twelve fifty each to ten bucks. On top of that, he called me a thief. Now, I want you boys to know that I have not shoved this beautiful long knife of mine up his ass, yet, but I better get the answers I want, pretty quick.

"Sometimes this blade just does things on its own, without any help from me," and he faked a lunge at the well-dressed gentleman behind the desk. Only two men didn't chuckle. Willoughby and Dawson. "I ain't takin' a pay cut, neither are these fine skinners what work for me, and if I don't get an apology in the next few seconds, this little village might not last through the night."

Before the echo of those words had settled, Moose Nose reached across the desk, grabbed Dawson by the neck, and dragged the man into the street where he slapped him across the side of the head, letting the well-dressed gentleman go head first into the mud. Moose Nose rubbed Dawson's face in the mud a couple of times, jerked him to his feet, and marched him back into the office.

"Changed your mind?" was all the huge man said, slamming Dawson into his chair. More chuckles bounced off the walls, but not from Dawson or Willoughby, they glared at each other, and Willoughby slowly drew the large, gleaming knife from his leather.

Dawson's eyes got bigger, he gripped the arms of his office chair, everyone in the room feared they were about to witness a death. Jake Willoughby balanced the knife, his fingers curled around the hand-carved handle, smiled every so slowly, and Dawson caved.

"All right," he howled. "Your pay will remain the same."

The knife stayed out of the sheath, the fingers remained curled around the beautifully-carved oak handle, the gleam of death remained in Willoughby's smile, and the mule-skinner whispered, "and the apology?"

The whole village turned out that evening, all except one, of course, who was nursing a large cut across his left cheek, a cut that took fifteen stitches to close. "Do you think he was sincere when he finally apologized?" Moose Nose asked, draining a tumbler of foul whiskey.

"He was sincere," Jake Willoughby answered, giving cute little Suzie another pat on the bottom. "I thought it was a very sincere gesture to give us a little raise, as well."

The mule train left before sunrise, each mule carrying out the gold from the mine, as stated in the contract recently renewed.

A Chinaman's Chance
by Steve Myers

When the gambler came riding into the Lucky Dog mining camp the spring rains were over and most of the mud had dried but wasn't rock hard yet. The stream that came from up the mountain and split to flow around the camp was no longer a river washing prospectors' tents and tools away and flooding the Caldwell mine. The days were only warm not blistering hot and the nights still cool enough you needed a blanket.

His dress was fancy: a checkered suit, a coat with a velvet color, soft leather boots, and a brown bowler. He had a carpet-bag hooked over the saddle horn and an umbrella stuck in the rifle scabbard. The horse wasn't much, but nobody paid attention to the horse. He stopped in front of the Lucky Dog saloon and dismounted. He stood there surveying the place while the few men on the lone street looked him over. He raised his bowler, nodded to the curious, and entered the saloon.

The saloon had a long bar on one side and four tables on the other, and a canvas over rafters and joists making an A-frame roof. Lanterns hung from the joists and birds perched up there and flew around. Their droppings would land on someone's hat or in a glass of beer. Often, late at night, a drunken miner would pull a pistol and blast away at the birds resulting in more holes being put in the canvas. The birds came and went through the open eaves.

At that time of day,one in the afternoon,only three loyal and serious drinkers were at the bar. They all watched the gambler as he walked to the near end. Ed, the bartender, went over to him and asked, "What's your poison, mister?"

"I'm a stranger here, sir, what are your selections?"

"Selections? We have corn liquor, Tanglefoot and Red Eye, good rye if you got the cash, beer, and the twelve bottles of Old Overholt set aside for Dirksen. He's the man oversees the mine."

"I'll have a shot of the good rye."

Ed poured the drink and the gambler threw it right down. Then he said, "I'll have another and pour one for each of these gentlemen taking their ease this fine day. And have one yourself, my good man."

Ed poured and everyone drank.

"I wonder," the gambler asked, "what you gentlemen do around here for entertainment? I don't want to seem disparaging, but your little community is not exactly a metropolis."

"Well," one of the men said, "there's drinking, of course, and poker most nights and there's bowlegged Martha, which you can get if you buy her husband a bottle, and there's Jimmy One's whore, but she's Injun and fat and toothless."

"She's old too," another man said.

Another said, "Jimmy One was supposed to bring in some young Chinese whores from Sacramento but he never did."

"There are Chinese here?"

"Yep," the bartender said. "They work for the mine hauling away the slag and such. There ain't many. You got something against Chinamen?"

"Not precisely. As you gentleman might gather, I'm a professional gamer, an adept follower of Dame Fortune. I have usually profited in my profession except . . . " He paused and the others waited. "Except when a Chinaman has been involved. I was once doubling down in a game of Faro and a Chinaman walked by with a mop and bucket and I lost it all. In San Francisco I bet one hundred dollars that the next man through the hotel door would be wearing a hat and it was a bare headed Chinaman in pigtails. I was in a high stakes poker game with a pot of over five thousand dollars and I was drawing to a pair of kings and a pair of aces. I looked across the saloon and coming down the stairs in a red gown slit up the side to expose her leg was a Chinese lady of the evening. I drew a seven and got beat by a drunken cowboy holding three deuces."

The men shook their heads.

The bartender said, "I see your point there . . . say, you never give us your name. Mine's Ed and that's Frank and Buster and the real ugly one is Scratchy Parker."

The gambler said, "Glad to meet you, gentlemen. My appellation, as it were, is Baxter Baxter. I realize that is a bit unusual but my father liked his last name so much that he believed I should double it. Now, my friends usually call me Bax. I wish you gentlemen would do like wise. Ed, let's have another round of that good rye."

Everyone became friendly with the gambler and told stories about the camp and how it got named Lucky Dog: a man's dog went to the stream for a drink and started barking at something shining at the side of the water and that turned out to be the first gold nugget found. Then once there were other strikes Cameron Caldwell and his brother Claremont opened a mine and put Cameron's son-in-law Dirksen in charge because there wasn't a meaner son of a bitch in two hundred miles.

"The mine bring in much gold?" Baxter asked.

"Hell, yes," Scratchy said. "They bring it out by the ton. They ship the ore down to Caldwell's mill. He's got four working mines."

"Anyone else find gold?"

"Sure. A good number of prospectors make a go of it. Myself, I get a poke of dust a week. So do these boys. So far so good but it'll run out in time."

The others nodded.

"Now I need some information, gentlemen."

"Shoot," Scratchy said.

"Where, in this encampment of seekers after the precious metal, may I find accommodations?"

The three prospectors just looked at him but the bartender said, "Not much here that a gent like you would care for. Now I do have a room in the back that you can have if you can get somebody to sweep it out. I'll throw in a canvas tarp and two blankets. It's not much but there's no bed bugs, fleas, or snakes."

"I will take you up on that offer, sir. What is the damage?"

"Huh?"

"The fee, sir. What is the rent?"

"I don't know. You gonna start up a game here?"

"I am seriously considering that option."

"I'm guessing you're good enough to skin these miners so . . . how about ten per cent of your take?"

Baxter looked up at the roof as he calculated. "Well, my good man, have the room swept, add a mattress, and no charge for the rye and it is a deal."

The bartender did some calculating then. "All right . . . but we'll try it for a week to see how it goes. You got to pay for your drinks though. I mean, after these."

Baxter reached his hand over the bar and Ed gave it a good shake.

That evening the lanterns were lit, tobacco smoke filled the saloon, and tobacco juice mostly landed in the spittoons. Cheap whiskey scoured men's throats and Baxter sat at a table playing draw poker with four other men. He was winning, but not so much as to make his victims suspicious. All the time he kept remarking on the cleverness of the others and how surprised he was to find such sophisticated poker players up here in the hills.

Well into the evening Victor Dirksen and one of his foremen, a giant of a man with a large jaw that looked like a slab of rock, known as Irish Mike, entered and stood at the bar. Ed served them from the private stock as Dirksen surveyed the room. "Who's the stranger in the fancy clothes?"

"Calls himself Baxter. Just come in this afternoon. Seems straight enough considering he's a gambler."

"Keep a close watch on him, Ed. I don't want the men getting swindled by some tinhorn."

"I intend to. In fact, he's staying in my back room."

When two of the players quit and got up from the table, Dirksen said, "I think I'll take a closer look at this character."

Followed by Irish Mike, Dirksen walked slowly over to Baxter.

Baxter smiled and asked, "Care to partake in our little game, gentlemen?"

Irish Mike shook his head but Dirksen slid into a chair as he said, "Don't mind if I do."

Baxter nodded and said, "We've been requiring a two bit ante. By the way, my name is Baxter but most people refer to me as Bax."

Dirksen reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. In the pile of eagles, half-eagles, and silver dollars he found a two-bit piece. He tossed it into the center of the table and said, "I'm Victor Dirksen."

Two hours later Baxter and Dirksen were the only winners. The other men left the table. Dirksen said, "I see you deal an honest game, Baxter."

"I found that in the long run it is not the best policy to be dishonest. After all, it is simply a matter of playing the probabilities."

Dirksen turned to Irish Mike: "Have Ed bring over a bottle for me and Baxter, Mike, before you go."

Irish Mike told the bartender and left. Ed brought over a bottle of Old Overholt and two clean glasses. He set bottle and glasses on the table and Dirksen poured. The two quickly downed their drinks and Dirksen refilled both glasses.

"I wonder, Baxter, exactly what a man of your type is doing here. The word went around that a fancy-dressed gambler was here and I came to see just what was up. So I'm asking you, what are you up to?"

"Mr. Dirksen, I am only looking for a little action, as it were."

"I believe that. My question is: what kind of action? This isn't a place for a professional gambler. And it's certainly not a place for a sharper or any kind of swindle. I run this camp and I won't have any tinhorn come here and pull some kind of game."

"I assure you I am not here to cheat or swindle anyone. My game, as you call it, is simple and above board."

"What is that?"

"Have you heard of the pugilistic art?"

"You mean fisticuffs?"

"Yes. I am an advocate of the manly sport of bare-knuckle boxing. I am searching for a possible champion."

"Here? In a mining camp?"

"Where else can one find such strong and determined men eager to make their fortune?"

"Fortune?"

"Recall, Mr. Dirksen, that as far back as 1849 Hyer fought for $20,000. No more than two months past in a grove on the outskirts of Sacramento I witnessed a match where the stake was $10,000 and the side bets were several times that amount. Calculate the gain over several such contests on an investment of a few ounces of gold."

Dirksen became interested. This time he sipped his whiskey rather than throwing it back. "So, Baxter, what's your plan?"

"I propose to discover the champion bare-knuckle miner. We begin here in Lucky Dog and hold several matches to determine the best fighter. This will have the advantage of providing solid entertainment for the community plus encourage solidarity among the miners once a champion is found who will fight the champions of other camps."

"I see. Of course there'll be some fairly heavy betting."

"Certainly. I am not mistaken in thinking you have no objection to wagering?"

"Huh? No, nothing wrong with an honest bet. When do you plan to start these matches?"

"I would prefer it if this project were a mutual affair, Mr. Dirksen. Perhaps we could be partners in this enterprise?"

"I like your idea. I go along with you on it. We get our champion here and challenge all the other camps and then go to the towns. Every town has a man thinks he's the toughest there is. Yes, I like your idea."

Baxter reached across the table and Dirksen shook the gambler's hand.

The next day Dirksen gathered all the men in front of the saloon and announced the contest to find the toughest bare-knuckle fighter who would be champion of Lucky Dog. The winner would be awarded a prize of one hundred dollars.

A man at the back of the crowd asked, "Greenbacks or real money?"

"Silver and gold coin," Dirksen said. "Good solid coin. Now any man want to try out, he needs to sign up with Mr. Baxter here. Baxter will set up the matches. Winners move on, losers are out. The entry fee is ten dollars in coin or dust. A man or his sponsors pay that as he signs up."

"Sponsors?" someone asked.

"Some of you might want to back a man for a share of the prize."

"What about bets?"

"Baxter will handle all the wagers. Sign up now and we'll hold the first match tonight."

There was quite a lot of stirring around and discussion in the group.

Baxter stood by the saloon door and said, "Sign up in here at the bar, pay your entry fee, and receive a free drink of good rye whiskey."

First one man then another and another came forward and went into the saloon. The last man was Irish Mike. Baxter took the entry fee and wrote their names on a numbered sheet. Eight men entered. Baxter put eight numbered slips of paper in his hat and had the bartender Ed pull them out to set the pairings. With a black paraffin crayon Baxter wrote the matches on the mirror behind the bar.

He said, "The first contest tonight will be between Irish Mike and Gene Daniels. Place your wagers here with Scratchy Parker, gentlemen. He will supervise the transactions and the gentleman there with the shotgun will assure that the money is secure." The man with the shotgun was provided by Dirksen.

That evening four stakes were driven into the ground beside the saloon. A rope was strung around the stakes to form a square that Baxter called the ring. Lighted lanterns hung from the side of the saloon and on two tall poles. A crowd formed and bets were made. Baxter took the money and handed out slips. He put the money in a sack Scratchy Parker held.

Dirksen got into the center of the ring and said in a loud voice: "Rules are this: no kicking, biting, gouging, or throwing dirt. Breaking a rule means you lose. There are no rounds or any of that nonsense. The match lasts as long as both men are able to stand and fight. If a man is knocked down and can get back to his feet before a minute is up by my watch, he is not out. All right, men, let's get started."

Irish Mike and Daniels, both bare chested, entered the ring and slowly approached each other. Daniels ducked a wild right and hit Irish Mike square on the chin with a right of his own. He yelled and grabbed his right with his left. "Damn, my hand's broke." Irish grinned and hit Daniels with a left and a right. Daniels dropped to the ground and lay there. He glanced up at Irish but stayed down. Dirksen stepped into the ring with his pocket watch in his hand and after a minute called the fight over.

Baxter settled the bets and everyone went inside to celebrate or complain, except for Daniels who walked away cradling his swollen right hand.

The next three evenings brought the number of surviving fighters down to four. The crowd got into the excitement and shouted and cursed and stomped and the bets became larger. By the end of the sixth night the number of fighters had been reduced to two: Irish Mike and a tall bearded miner called Frenchy Valentine.

On the seventh day, a Sunday, the word had got around to some of the smaller camps and holdings and the saloon was filling up with newcomers along with the regulars. There was a lot of talk and speculation of who would win. Most said it had to be Irish Mike, but a few said they'd seen Frenchy "beat hell" out of three drovers in a saloon in Showdown. Then someone said, "No, that was in Burns Mills." "No it warn't." "Hell if it wasn't." The argument was settled by tossing both men out into the street.

Coming along that street, which was really no more than a widened dirt road, were two men on tired horses and leading a pack mule. The mule was loaded with a folded tent, several blankets, and a rolled up mattress. The first man wore a beaver hat and a sheepskin jacket. The second man was all in black from his hat to his boots, except for the silver band on his hat and the silver Indian ornaments that made his belt and the silver Indian designs on his jacket. The first man was so pale as to almost be an albino; the second man's face looked as if it had been baked for years in the sun. They stopped in front of the saloon.

The first man leaned forward and asked one of the men lying on the ground: "Mister, could you tell me where I could find Victor Dirksen?"

"You mean the mine super?"

"Yes, I do."

"How the hell should I know? I'm not his mother." The other man on the ground laughed.

The man in black slowly dismounted. He walked over to the two men and asked over his shoulder: "Mr. Comstock, which one you want shot?"

"It's all right, Jack. We'll let the insolence pass . . . one time."

Jack pulled out a Bowie knife with an eight inch blade and said, "I'll scalp them to teach a lesson they won't forget."

Both men pleaded for mercy.

"Answer my question then."

"He's up at the mine." The man pointed down the street. "Fact that's him and Irish Mike comin' right now."

Then the two got up and quickly scurried away.

Comstock dismounted and waited as Dirksen and Irish Mike came toward them. When the two were close enough, he said, "I understand, sir, that you are Victor Dirksen."

"That's right. Who are you?"

"My name is William Comstock Walsh. My uncle is Judge James Walsh of Virginia City and my mother is a Comstock of the same line as Henry Comstock. Maybe you've heard of them?"

"What man in the mining business hasn't?"

"Yes. I have a letter of introduction from Cameron Caldwell that explains my purpose. My uncle feels that before I begin developing my share of the claim I should study the way expert mining engineers, such as you, Mr. Dirksen, operate. I have visited several mines: Morning Glory, Hiram Randal's at Showdown, and Chinese Camp. I have a beginner's knowledge of how to handle heavy ground so it won't collapse into the stopes by using square-set timbering. I have worked at the mill at Gold Hill so I am not totally ignorant."

"May I see the letter?"

Comstock took out a folded sheet of paper from an inside vest pocket and handed it to Dirksen. Dirksen read it, nodded, refolded it, and handed it back.

"Cameron says I'm to help you all I can. He says you're a serious young man who has a claim that could be worth a fortune. Cameron's word is sure good enough for me . . . besides, he's my boss and my wife's old man."

"Thank you. Now I need to find some place to set up camp and then, perhaps, we could get together."

"Sure thing, Mr. Comstock."

"Please call me Bill."

"Right. You call me Vic. This big man here is my foreman Irish Mike."

Comstock nodded and smiled. "This man next to me is my bodyguard. It was my uncle's idea since I travel with considerable cash in greenbacks and my important papers. His name is Jack Wilson."

"Wilson?" Irish Mike asked. "Are you the man they call Apache Jack?"

Jack smiled.

Dirksen said, "Well, Bill, you got yourself a hell of a bodyguard. Set up camp wherever you want, but you're welcome to stay at my place. My wife's not here. She stays down in civilization."

"Thank you, Vic, but I prefer to rough it. My uncle says that will toughen me up."

"He's got a point there. Well, Irish and I are going in for a sandwich and see how the betting is going."

"Betting?"

"Yes, we've been having a bare-knuckle boxing contest to find the Lucky Dog champion. The big fight is this evening. I figure Irish Mike will win. You'll want to watch."

"I certainly will. I've seen one such contest in Virginia City. It was very exciting. I believe the money involved amounted to ten thousand in gold."

Dirksen liked the sound of that. He poked Irish Mike in the shoulder: "You might get out of the mines yet."

Some time later Comstock and Jack entered the Lucky Dog saloon. Dirksen, who was at a table with Irish Mike and Baxter, signaled and they joined the group.

After introductions all around a bottle of Dirksen's private stock was brought over and everyone but Comstock had a drink.

"I don't want to seem impolite but hard liquor goes to my head too quickly. I hope you understand, Vic."

"Sure do. In fact, I'm going to limit Irish here to six shots so his head is clear for the fight."

Baxter said, "Perhaps you would be interested in wagering on the contest, Mr. Comstock?"

"I just might do that. Are greenbacks acceptable? I do have some gold coin but paper is much lighter to carry when traveling."

Dirksen said, "Greenbacks are fine with me but some of these miners don't believe in them. I'll back whatever you put in."

"So," Baxter asked, "how much and on whom?"

"I know Irish Mike is one of the contestants but who is the other?"

Baxter pointed to a tall bearded man drinking a beer at the bar. "The other is Frenchy Valentine. He is very quick with his hands and he has a long reach. You can see Irish Mike's assets."

Comstock looked at both men and asked, "What are the odds?"

"Right now they're running two to one on Irish. But that is not the way to calculate the return. There is no bank, as it were, so the pay out is based on shares. If, say Irish Mike wins, then the men who bet on him divide the amount bet on Frenchy according to how much their bet is of the total bet on Irish . . . plus their initial investment. Of course, there is private person to person betting where one can require odds."

Dirksen said, "If you bet one dollar and the total bet on Irish is one thousand then you get one-thousandth of the money bet on Frenchy. Your payout is proportional to your risk. It's a good system. It generates large bets."

Comstock smiled. "And the wealthier you are the more you can risk and the more you can get in return."

"That is quite right," Baxter said.

"Is one hundred dollars enough?"

"It certainly is. On whom?"

"Oh, on Mr. Irish Mike, of course. Jack, could you hand Mr. Baxter the money?"

Apache Jack took out a thick leather pouch from a jacket pocket, unsnapped the cover, and counted out five twenty-dollar bills to Baxter.

Irish Mike raised his glass. "Mr. Comstock, you just made yourself some money."

Everyone but Comstock downed a shot.

The sun was setting, the lanterns were lit, the ring was set up, and a large crowd surrounded the ring. Dirksen entered the ring and repeated the rules. There was applause and loud shouts as the two fighters came through the crowd. Irish Mike's face was flushed (he downed a half pint before coming out) and Frenchy looked hard and determined.

The fighters entered from opposite sides and slowly approached each other. Frenchy shot out a straight left to Mike's nose, then stepped quickly backward. Mike came forward and got another left to the nose. Mad, he swung wildly, and Frenchy landed a right on the nose. For the next ten minutes or so that is how the fight went: Mike moved like a drunken bear swinging wildly, while Frenchy kept hitting him on the nose and backing away. Mike's nose began to bleed and blood flowed over his massive chin. Frenchy supporters began making side bets and Dirksen looked worried.

Now that Mike's nose was a mess, Frenchy started working on the eyes. In fifteen minutes Mike's left eye was nearly closed and there was a cut over the right eye. Mike stumbled after Frenchy but couldn't land a punch. After an hour Irish Mike was nearly blind but still standing. Frenchy still hit and backed away but not so quickly as before. He was breathing heavily and his arms were slack, his fists down by his waist.

Mike kept going after Frenchy and finally backed him into a corner. Frenchy threw a left and a right. Mike crowded him. Frenchy tried to slip away but slid into a thick fist. He shook his head and Mike landed a left to Frenchy's jaw and then a right that sent him flying out of the ring.

Frenchy lay stretched out on the ground. A man bent down and put his ear to Frenchy's chest. "He's still alive . . . but not by much."

Somebody threw a bucket of water on Frenchy but he still didn't move. Another man bent down to lift him to a sitting position. Frenchy groaned, opened his eyes, and mumbled something before passing out.

The triumphant Irish Mike was led to the saloon by Dirksen and followed by a crowd of cheering men. At the bar Ed poured Irish a large glass of good rye and placed it in the giant's hand. Irish Mike smiled and drank it down. The blood on his chin had dried, both nostrils were clotted with black blood, and only one eye would stay open. He slammed the glass down and Ed refilled it.

Irish Mike said, "I beat the bastard, didn't I?"

Dirksen slapped Irish on the back. "You did, Mike. He still is out."

"Did I kill him?"

"Almost, man, almost."

"Well, he had it comin'. Bastard near blinded me."

Others then came in to congratulate the champion and Baxter began to distribute the money bet. The total was over two thousand dollars.

At a table out of the crush of the crowd Dirksen sat with Comstock and Apache Jack. He asked, "Bill, what did you think of the match?"

"Very interesting. Your Irish Mike is a great bull of a man. The other man, Frenchy, didn't have the necessary stamina."

"Well, he sure couldn't stand up to Mike's punch."

"True . . . once the punch was landed."

Baxter came over to the table and sat down. He gave Dirksen five hundred in gold and Comstock one hundred in greenbacks and fifty in gold coin (two double eagles and an eagle).

Dirksen asked, "How did you do, Baxter?"

"I made fifty on the pool and another fifty some on side bets."

"How do you think Mike will do in the other camps?"

"He's a winner. He can absorb a hellacious pounding and still have crushing strength. I don't see how he can be beaten."

Dirksen poured drinks all around and Comstock even accepted. "In celebration," he said.

Baxter proposed a toast to the future of the champion and all his "coming conquests."

Everyone drank to that.

Dirksen proposed a toast to Baxter, who came up with the idea of the matches.

Everyone drank to that.

Comstock proposed a toast to the fighting spirit of the Lucky Dog camp.

Everyone drank to that.

Comstock proposed another toast, this time to Dirksen for being such a good host.

Everyone drank to that.

Comstock proposed another toast, to the fighter Frenchy.

"Why Frenchy?" Baxter asked.

"Because he did his best and that's all you can ask of any man."

Everyone drank to that.

By now Comstock wasn't too steady. He rocked in his chair and wore a stupid grin. He didn't quite slur his words but his tongue was thick.

"Another toast," Comstock said. "To the best fighter of that match even though he lost. I drink to Frenchy."

"Hold on there," Dirksen said. "The best fighter won."

"Exactly," Baxter said. "One determines the best fighter by the outcome of the match. Irish Mike won, therefore he is the best. Quod erat demonstrandum."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Baxter. Your hero, Irish Mike, is not a boxer. From what I have seen he can be easily defeated."

"Oh, you think so?" Dirksen asked.

"I know so, sir. It is obvious to the most casual observer."

Apache Jack leaned over and said, "Mr. Comstock, maybe you've had too much whiskey."

Comstock shook his head. "Maybe so, Jack, but I know what I know. I understand why these men would defend their hero, mainly because they are ignorant of the art of boxing. It's not their fault they're ignorant."

Dirksen and Baxter bristled.

"I say that your Irish Mike was merely lucky tonight. If Frenchy had had more stamina it was his fight. In other words, your champion is a mere brute."

"He is, is he?" Dirksen asked as he stood up. "Who is going to beat him?'

"Give me an hour with any healthy man and he would destroy your champ."

"In the classic idiom of all challenges, Comstock, put up or shut up," said Baxter.

"Yes," Dirksen said, "put up or shut up."

"All right, gentlemen, I'll bet all the cash I have on hand and the deed to my Comstock holdings that I can train a man in one hour to be able to win a fair match against Irish Mike."

"All right, I'll see that bet. What's the value of your holdings?" Dirksen asked.

"I have been offered one hundred thousand for my deed. I don't suppose you can match that."

Dirksen shook his head.

"One half? No. Well, one fourth comes to twenty-five thousand."

"I can get that much in the camp and with my own added in, I can do it. All right, Mr. Comstock, I bet twenty-five thousand dollars that Irish Mike can beat your man. Who is it?"

"I haven't one at the moment, obviously."

"Obviously," Baxter said with a sneer. "And I'll put up everything I have, two hundred, against two hundred of your greenbacks."

Apache Jack said, "Mr. Comstock, you've had more whiskey than you're used to. You can't do this."

"Jack, bring out my deed and give it to Mr. Baxter here to hold. I mean it."

Apache Jack reluctantly brought out the pouch, removed a folded stamped-with-a-seal paper, and handed it to Baxter. Baxter opened it, read it, nodded, and said, "It's legitimate all right."

Dirksen said, "You claimed any man could do it. There are plenty here. Pick one."

Comstock, blurry-eyed, scanned the crowd of drunken miners.

"Well?"

Comstock smiled. "I pick the next man through the door."

"Whoever he is?" asked Baxter.

"Yes."

They all turned to face the saloon entrance and a small Chinese man walked in.

Dirksen laughed but Baxter went pale.

Dirksen yelled, "Hey, grab that Chinaman!"

Four men surrounded the man and one grabbed him by the arm and led him over to Dirksen.

"Here he is, boss."

The Chinese was trembling and looked from face to face as if trying to get a clue of why he'd been grabbed.

Dirksen said, "He looks healthy enough for a Chinaman. He's your man, Comstock."

Comstock stood up, wobbled some as he came around the table, and said, "Do you speak English?"

The man said nothing.

"Do you understand English?"

The man nodded.

"Good. What is your name?"

The man spoke a string of rising and falling tones. The only one anyone understood was Kwong.

"So your name is Kwong?"

The man nodded.

"Do you understand boxing?"

Kwong shook his head.

Dirksen made two fists and boxed the air. "Boxing, fighting, understand?"

Kwong looked left and right trying to find an escape route. He shook his head and muttered, "Nooo, no fight."

"Yes," Dirksen said, "you have to fight."

Kwong shook his head again.

Dirksen said, "Listen, Chink, you will fight or I'll have you whipped." He mimicked a man swinging a whip.

Kwong spun quickly and ran for the door.

Dirksen yelled, "Catch the bastard! Grab him!"

One man tackled Kwong and another held him down. Dirksen, Comstock, Baxter, and Apache Jack came over. Dirksen said, "I want to see you teach that man to box, Comstock. I'm looking forward to the fight, if you can keep him from running away. And if he does run away, the bet is forfeited."

Apache Jack said, "The only thing to do is lock him up until the fight."

Dirksen said, "We don't have a jail. Besides, he's your problem, not mine."

Comstock said, "Well, we can tie him up and keep him in my tent."

"Up to you, Comstock."

"I'll need some rope."

Dirksen scanned the crowd of drunks surrounding them. "One of you get some rope."

A man went out after the rope. Irish Mike pushed his way through the crowd and staggered up to Dirksen. "What's going on, boss?"

Dirksen pointed to Kwong lying on the floor. "There's your next opponent."

"Huh?"

"The next man you're going to fight."

Mike, nose swollen nearly twice its original size, his one eye closed, asked, "A Chink?"

"Yes. Comstock here bet this Chinaman can beat you."

"The hell he can! I'll take him on right now . . . with one hand tied behind me."

"I'd let you except Comstock needs to teach him the art of boxing first." He turned to Comstock: "Would tomorrow evening give you enough time?"

Comstock, suddenly seeming sober, nodded.

A man came in with a length of rope. Kwong was pulled to his feet. Apache Jack formed a loop and slipped it over Kwong's head. Then he used the free end to tie Kwong's hands behind the back and left a tail of rope to pull taut and control the man.

Comstock, Apache Jack holding the rope, and Kwong worked their way through the crowd and left. Dirksen said, "Anybody want to bet on Irish Mike against that Chinaman? See Baxter. Looks like we're going to own a deed to a hundred thousand dollar mine."

The rush nearly knocked Baxter down.

Comstock, Apache Jack, and Kwong stayed in their tent for the whole day. Several curious men would walk by but the flaps were closed and they couldn't see anything. Apache Jack did come out to water and feed the horses and the mule. He gave everyone watching a cold hard eye so no one came near.

Irish Mike slept until late afternoon. He drank nearly a gallon of water before eating a whole fried chicken. His nose was still swollen but both eyes were open. He asked Dirksen to bet his prize of one hundred dollars on himself.

Baxter sat at a table in the Lucky Dog with Scratchy Parker collecting bets and handing out slips. He was nervous and didn't say more than a word or two. When Scratchy asked him what was wrong, he said, "A Chinaman."

Scratchy said, "Hell, Irish Mike will kill him. What could go wrong?"

"I don't know. Perhaps an earthquake or a lightning bolt would hit Mike."

Scratchy laughed and poured himself a shot of Baxter's bottle of good rye.

The crowd around the ring was rowdy. Everyone bet on Irish Mike and were expecting a great good time watching a Chinaman get beat to death. Some even said that Irish could knock the man's head off. There was a lot of whiskey being drunk and laughter and friendly cursing.

The lanterns were lit and Irish Mike waded through the crowd with cheers and slaps on his back. Mike entered the ring with Dirksen and they waited.

A few minutes later Comstock and Apache Jack, leading Kwong with a rope around his neck, came down the street. Laughter and curses greeted them. As they worked through the crowd, more than one man spat on Kwong. Apache Jack pulled his Bowie knife and a clear path opened up.

Comstock stopped by the rope but Apache Jack lifted it and pulled Kwong into the ring. He cut Kwong's hands loose and took the loop off the neck. He showed the Bowie to Kwong, who nodded.

Dirksen announced the rules and stepped out of the ring. Apache Jack pushed Kwong toward Irish Mike before getting out.

Kwong was trembling as Mike came at him.

Irish Mike swung a roundhouse right and Kwong, a foot shorter than Mike, ducked and ran toward the rope. Men standing there stepped up to the rope to stop his escape. He ran to another side and was stopped there. He turned around just in time to duck another wild swing. For the next five minutes he kept running around the ring and Irish Mike couldn't catch him.

The crowd began to get mad. Yells and curses and stomping shook the night air. "Fight, you damn yellow bastard!"

As Kwong ran by someone stuck out a pole and tripped him. Then he was poked hard with the end of the pole. When he stood up, Irish Mike was on him, not two feet away. Kwong was caught in a corner. Irish Mike pulled back his right hammer-like fist. Suddenly Kwong's left darted out and his palm smacked Irish at the bottom of the nose, driving it back into his face. Mike roared with pain. Kwong's small right fist, a fist of nothing but knuckles, struck Mike just above the stomach. Stunned, Mike couldn't breathe and his legs turned to rubber. As Mike's knees folded, Kwong landed a sharp hard straight right just below Mike's left ear. Mike's eyes rolled up to show only white. He fell face down over the rope, collapsing the ring.

Yells, shouts, curses sounded. Dirksen jumped into the ring. Comstock yelled, "Time it! Time it!"

Dirksen pulled out his watch. Irish Mike lay face down without moving. Two men struggled and turned him over. Only the whites of his eyes showed. People rushed to get a better look. It was then that Kwong saw his chance. He took off running into the dark. He was so fast and gone before anyone could know for sure which way he went.

"The Chink!" someone shouted.

"The hell with him, what about Irish?"

Dirksen called for water and a bucket was brought and emptied on Mike. Dirksen slapped Irish Mike's face several times. Nothing. Then he grabbed the mashed nose and twisted it. Irish sat up with a yell. "What happened? Did I kill him?"

Dirksen turned away in disgust.

Comstock and Apache Jack were already in the saloon collecting their winnings from Scratchy. When Dirksen, followed by a staggering and humble Irish Mike and a small crowd of depressed miners, entered. Comstock was smiling and Apache Jack had one hand on the revolver stuck behind his belt and the other hand on the sack containing the money.

Dirksen said, "I don't understand it? A Chinaman scared shitless gets in a lucky punch or two and it's over."

"He was fighting for his life," Comstock said, "not just for money. That was the difference."

"Is that what you taught him?"

"Yes. I told him it was a ritual that white men performed. Once a year when the moon was right they beat someone to death. It had to be a foreigner: an Indian or Negro or Chinaman. I told him Apache Jack would butcher him if he didn't fight."

"Damn," Dirksen said. "I admit it, you won. That was damn clever. You cleaned me out but I admit I was outsmarted. Maybe I should use the same method on Mike."

Mike was over at the bar downing shot after shot.

"Well," Comstock said, "I think we better be leaving. I can't assume I'm very popular around here right now."

"You have a point."

"We'll go out the back. I'll return some day for instructions on mine engineering."

Comstock and Apache Jack left by a back door.

Dirksen went up to the bar. "Ed, pour me a double."

Just then Baxter entered. He walked to the bar like a man who had lost everything he ever had or wanted to have or hoped to have. When he looked at Dirksen there were tears in his eyes. Dirksen nodded to the bartender, who poured a large whiskey for Baxter.

Baxter said, "It had to be a Chinaman. It's my curse." He drank the whiskey and slammed the glass down. "It's enough to turn a man into a drunkard. Fill it up, bartender, I need to drown my sorrow."

Dirksen said, "Baxter, I think I'll join you."

It wasn't until late the next day that Baxter climbed on his horse and started out. He had told Dirksen that he was through with pugilism but that Irish Mike could probably beat anyone but a Chinaman. Since he was broke, Dirksen gave him a half-eagle and wished him luck.

Baxter said, "I think I better remain in the profession I am most suited for . . . poker."

As he watched Baxter ride away, Dirksen was trying to figure what he could tell his wife that she'd believe.

In a secluded section of a restaurant in San Francisco's Chinatown, a Chinese man, in a silk gown covered with detailed drawings of golden dragons, sat drinking tea with a very attractive Chinese woman. The beaded curtain parted and three men entered the room.

The man at the table looked up and smiled.

The man known as Comstock said, "To be honest, Kwong, you should get the lion's share."

The man known as Baxter said, "Well, maybe Kwong and me since I did most of the work."

The man known as Apache Jack, now with his face cleansed of berry-stain, said, "No, we should fight over it."

They all laughed.

Kwong said, "I don't believe we should try this again in California. Three times is the charm, as you people say."

"That might be right," "Baxter" said. "We could move into Nevada."

"Or Texas," "Apache" said. "Texans will fall for anything."

"Comstock" said, "We made enough to last until we can decide on a sound plan."

Kwong said, "Yes, let everyone enjoy the rich fruits of life: subtle tea, satisfying food, and delightful women. Always remember we owe this full life to our ancestors."

"Our ancestors?" "Baxter" asked.

"It was my father's brother who taught me zhongguo wushu and the essence of quan fa."

"Apache Jack" said, "You sure as hell did in Irish Mike."

Kwong shrugged. "Truly, it was not a contest. I almost pity him." He paused and smiled. "But not quite."

The Reata
by Jeffrey A. Paolano

A bellow of dust at the ponies' hooves provides a most poignant farewell. The tight crew assembled for the fall round up is dismantled in minutes.

These hands were together as kith and kin for three months now there is zero chance they will encounter one another again.

What is left of the crew squats at the fire; the reins trail down from the halters. The boys flick the ends against the legs of their chaps, wishing for coffee.

When all is said and done, Mr. Wathings, Mr. Rennards and Mr. Walsanes, the management of the range, stand a piece away and palaver while Bennie and Josh maintain their vigil at the smolder.

Hovert Walsanes, Strawboss, comes over and squats. Reaching out to warm his hands he says, "Well, we've had a good round-up, everybody's got a little dinero, time to go into town have a hooraw, right boys?" Hovert diverts his gaze in grassland courtesy awaiting one of the two to make reply.

"I reckon," says Josh into the fire, ruddy face accentuating eye glint.

"What if'n you could choose? What've there's winter work?" The Strawboss pitches a couple of pebbles as a time killer.

Josh raises the sombrero brim slightly by a head tilt squeezing out, "I reckon."

"I'm thinking youse could wander up to the foothills of the Musselshell, worry them beeves out from the scrub, push 'em on down to the range whereat we can have at them calves at the spring round up."

Bennie, not looking up mumbles, "What's it pay?"

"Winter work, you're inside two days out of three, at your ease, let's say thirty and found."

"A little thin for freezing hands, maybe a lost finger, frost bite and all; let's say a dime bonus for each growd animal."

Mr. Walsanes plops his last stone at the coals and ashes that now comprise the fire, saying, "Let's shake on a nickel."

The men rise, shake hands all around and Mr. Walsanes wanders back to the Range Boss and Foreman.

Not wanting to show their hand the two pards walk to the bunkhouse, not expressing joy at their good fortune until out of eyesight.

Dumbfounded by their good luck in having fallen into a job for the winter thus assuring grub and a warm bed til' spring with good wages to boot.

Mr. Rennards, the Foreman, is generous in allowing each of them four ponies and a mule.

They tie their outfits on the mule racks with double-diamond-hitches. String out their remuda. Bid farewell to the camp and are away.

Two days finds them ensconced in their line shack, doing the necessary. Chopping wood and hauling it to the pile, digging the latrine, pulling their food up to hang, the rope passed through a cut out in a tin plate held with a knot in the line to keep vermin from crawling down.

Tomorrow they will go out and scout the lay of the land. To know what-is-what before they start pushing wild and ornery cattle, never having seen a man before much less been herded.

But tonight there is what remains of a jug, a warm fire. They've had a fill of beans, sowbelly and biscuits washed down with strong coffee.

Bennie fools with the Henry they were let have, rubbing it with a greasy rag. Facing the fire, Josh wraps in his blanket as his rear gets no heat.

Pulling on the jug, Josh waits for the swallow to make sure it is going to stay down before passing the jug.

The boys wabash into the night. Their good fortune means fall round-up wages plus winter wages all together, more money in a lump than ever before.

This fact excites discussion as to what they should do with this magnificent sum. The ideas fly fast and furious.

New rigs, Linsey-Woolsey shirts, britches, pistols and Stetsons are beyond question. It's what to do with the rest that begs the question. They could go to Kansas City, St. Louis or maybe even Chicago.

The images in their heads inspired by the mention of such exotic places hold little compatibility with reality. To their minds these are fantastical places, swirling with activity, in which pleasures abound.

Obscuring the boys vision a veil hides the truth that all is designed to relieve the participants of money.

Maurice Renners is Senior Waddie, a man entangled in the life and unable to disentangle himself. A man able to endure the rigors of cattle herding beyond the year's most men must give over listens to the vacuous blather of the young cowhands in the cowcamp concerning the girls they seek while the reality is that no self-respecting woman is ever going to entwine themselves with the likes of these. "I reckon you boys are aware that the slickers in them cities are going to separate your wages from you right quick?"

The boys stare at the old fella as they figure his age has caused him to become scaredy and cautious. "Well, we'll keep an eye out, watch close; we can handle what they shovel."

"You think so, but you'll get skinned just the same. Have you an idea how you might protect yourself some?"

"And you say how's that?" Josh has an interest in protecting himself that's certain.

Maurice in a generous mood and feigning a desire to be protective of the youths as well as to slather on the benefit of his years of experience says, "Separate a little of your boodle, enough to get you home in a modicum of comfort and carry you til the next job. Hide it away and don't touch it, then you will be alright, have a roaring time with the city ladies, pick a few fights, win some, lose some and see the sights."

With that he rolls into his blankets leaving the youths to make eyes at each other an expression likely interpreted as… not much to that.

Principal amongst their fanciful notions is the conceptualization of the females available in the city. They have of course seen pictures of such lasses as they now imagine, on the bar back in saloons, in the collection of cards an occasional waddie passes about in the bunk house or most appealing of all the pictures to be found in the dream books of Sears and Roebuck or Montgomery Ward.

Such visualization contrasts starkly with the actual women found in the watering holes they frequent or those employed in the menial labor of domestics, seamstresses, and shopkeepers.

The most revolting of all, the infrequent wives commonly acquired in the mail order bride trade.

Against the reality these ladies actualize, the fair maidens of the various pictures are another race. Their dainty features, exquisite figures and magnificent hairdos conjure ecstatic thoughts of titillating rapture to the cow hands.

While the reality remains that these boys would have no idea of what to do with such a maiden should they ever encounter one. In truth in the luminosity they would be paralyzed with fear and awkwardness.

Still on the freezing prairie the erotic dreams keep them warm.

And truth be told most are willing participants in the shenanigans of the hoax perpetuated in the cities. Believing in their hearts, as they wander back to their bleak lives on the Great Plains, having gone to the big time and seen the elephant is an experience that will hold 'em for the rest of their days.

Each wanderer satisfied he received full value for the coinage squandered.

Such wool gathering courses through the minds of young men whenever chance allows thoughts to wander from the nitty-gritty demands of the issue in hand.

With the dawn they shake out the stiff, put fire in the stove, brew coffee, breakfast on biscuit and sow belly which prepares them to face the day.

Having segmented the range they will empty it by turns. Their stratagem is to clear the area in such a way that the cattle can't get behind them and repopulate a vacated area.

The intention is to push the cattle into a gather and move the bunch down into a valley. Hoping the herding instinct will be rekindled and the cattle will remain herded until the spring round-up.

The valleys provide protection, grazing and water, so there is no reason for the critters to move back up the slope.

The labor is so onerous the boys each take out two ponies, for fear of overworking one should they use it a full day.

After several weeks the kinks are out of their style and the work progresses seamlessly. On an average day, they put thirty head into a valley.

That is a dollar fifty cents, if they maintain that production for the full ninety days they will appreciate one hundred and thirty five dollars in addition to their pay of ninety dollars.

With fall round-up money they will have a combined stake of four hundred and ninety five dollars.

The possibilities of what can be accomplished in Kansas City, St. Louis or Chicago with that kind of money staggers the imagination and provides for endless evening conversation in the glow of the pot stove and a belly full of beans and pork.

They put a mule deer in a tree and treat themselves occasionally to venison.

Bennie rolls out and yelps for Josh to wake-up and get going. Bennie fusses with the fire, puts the coffee pot on to boil, sets the biscuits in the oven and fries the sow belly. The difference between breakfast and dinner is at breakfast there are no beans.

An hour sees the lads out in the hills, their spare ponies hobbled with pig strings and grazing in a meadow bowl sheltered from the ceaseless wind by the surrounding trees and an escarpment to one side.

The boys separate. Each quietly pushes cattle, so as not to rile them, out onto a bald. Once together the critters herd up, gently, easily grazing.

Josh sees a cow with a spread of horns six feet wide in his estimation. He guides his pony to get on the outside whereat he can urge the critter to the bald, but each time he gets inside of it. The beast bolts for deep cover.

Finally, Josh decides to drop a rope on the horns, (there being no room for a throw) and pull the beast out.

When he approaches, the animal bolts and Josh gives chase, as they break from the brush to where there is an open space, wherein Josh can throw his lasso, his pony puts his foot wrong, or maybe puts it in a hole, either way the chestnut cracks, the horse dips and twists simultaneously, screaming with the pain.

The wild convulsion twirls Josh who is headed away from the twist and is well out over the withers to make the throw, flinging him out of the saddle. Pitched up against a tree he hits his head rendering him unconscious.

As his limp body loses momentum his back is impaled on the ragged stump of a limb torn away in a storm with a greenstick break. The stub catches Josh just below the shoulder blade and makes a hole three inches deep and two across.

After the puncture he falls to the ground, still unconscious and lies in the snow.

At Josh's mount's scream, Bennie's pony rears and wild eyed bucks, arching his back. Bennie is trying to see what caused his pard's horse to scream and is caught unawares when his pony goes into convulsions; he is thrown onto a rock pile. Landing on his elbow and knee, he damages both. The pain is excruciating.

Upon recovering his wits, Bennie crawls along to Josh who is regaining his senses and begins to appreciate the pain of his injury.

Bennie, sprawled in the snow, with only one working arm tries to manipulate Josh into a more comfortable posture.

The screaming of the horse irritates him. The rifle is in the boot on the right side. The pony lays to that side although in its thrashing it raises up occasionally giving Bennie an opportunity to grab the saddle gun and snatch it out. The horse must raise his croup high enough to expose the haunch in order for the young man to secure the weapon. Several attempts are required before this act is accomplished.

With the piece in hand he scurries about crab like to the horses head and dispatches the suffering beast.

Returning to Josh he tips him up on a side to get a look at the wound and immediately recognizes the severity.

His first priority is to staunch the flow of blood. Unbuttoning his coat, he removes it and the shirt underneath, re-dons the coat and applies the shirt to the gash.

Bennie moves into the brush and finds a sapling suitable for a crutch. Hacking the wood into a prop, he is able to rise to his feet. There is a decided increase in his mobility.

Now the daunting task facing him is to find a sheltered location for the injured friend. However, there is a quick realization that even should he locate a suitable situation he would be unable to move the man to it.

Quickly, he concludes the dead horse provides the needed cover and well within range of his damaged friend. He uses his knife to slice the belly of the carcass and removes the entrails. He skins what he can of the beast. Then moves Josh into the cavity in the animal and covers the hole with the hide.

Assembling a fire, to the outside of the opening, he hopes to add warmth to Josh.

Cutting strips from the thigh he roasts them on the fire. In all the boys are as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

Bennie unsaddles his pony, hobbles him and allows him to drift on the grass. Tomorrow he will have to saddle the horse again, build a travois and move his friend back to the line shack.

After having eaten Bennie crawls in the hole with Josh to preserve what warmth he can.

Josh has been asleep or more accurately adrift on the wave of pain and cold that his body is enduring for most of the time since the accident, now he awakens at Bennie's entrance and says, "Now, folks aren't hardly going to be able to believe how that happened."

"You're right there pard, that is a strange one and that is the truth," Bennie says.

"I suppose tomorrow you're going to have to look after me like a babe in a basket, I'll just luxuriate along like a king of something," so said with a glint of the thankfulness he feels.

"Yeah, you just take your leisure and I'll do all the heavy lifting to move you along."

Soon each is occupied with their fitful sleep and concerns for the reality of the morrow.

In the morning Bennie, fashions a travois from two saplings, he hobbles about on his crutch, with increased alacrity as his knee is beginning to loosen. His elbow too increasingly flexes.

After considerable trial he is able to saddle the animal, affix the poles, and attached the flint hide between them. Then he wrangles Josh onto the skin, covers him with all available clothing.

He sets out on the plod back to the line cabin. Once there he finagles Josh inside, lights a fire, makes Josh as comfortable as possible and puts the pot on for coffee.

Then he is back outside to unsaddle the horse, put him hobbled to graze and carry the truck inside.

Pouring the coffee, he offers Josh a cup and settles with his own upon his bunk with his back to the wall. He can only think so far, so good.

Josh, almost whispering, "Bennie, I'm beholden to you."

Bennie makes no reply, wraps in his blankets and turns to the wall. The heat on his back feels good, he just barely smiles.

The next morning Bennie tends to the wound. He removes the encrusted shirt, pulling away a portion of the scab causing Josh to yelp at the pain of it. He drowns the spot in red eye and makes a patch from a portion of clean sacking.

He threads the needle with the carpet thread they use to mend their clothes and sews the gap closed. Looking at his handy work he says, "You're going to have a right pretty scar."

"I always fancied a little art work," says Josh grimly holding on to his humor while fully aware of the consequences should the injury become infected.

During the course of the day they banter back and forth, Bennie checks the hurt occasionally and is heartened with the lack of red tinge and oozing puss.

Josh takes a fever and is in its throes for two days. The episode is mild and on the third day Bennie suggests they ride to the headquarters.

"You don't think this will just heal up, you sewed it up tight," inquires Josh not relishing a thirty mile bounce on the travois.

"Well, fella, I'm thinking the thing should be looked at by a doctor, you can't do no work no how and you could just have a leisurely trip in the invigorating fresh air for what ails ya."

In the morning they set out. Bennie strings the remuda out, uses one of the mules for the travois thinking it more reliable than a pony.

The drifts are deep and several days of sun have crusted the snow and iced it in spots. As the miles pass they work through the horses at a good pace. When he unsaddles one he just lets the animal go off.

Sitting the horse stiffens his knee although handling the reins does flex his elbow. Each time he has to dismount and unsaddle a pony and saddle another it takes a toll. The cold takes a toll. The breaking trail in the snow takes a toll.

Bennie drags himself through the motions of what he must do; his muscles resist him adding to the burden, requiring of him supplemental mental force to cause their performance.

The strain on his mind incites delusions. He finds himself waylaid from the task at hand. Wandering about in his mind he allows the pony to drift off course and the remuda to become entangled requiring additional exertion to put things aright.

He feels of warmth coming up off his feet and knows that it is a sign his toes are freezing. His fingers too are immobilized. He flexes them and blows on them to no avail.

Bennie realizes that if he suffers so, moving about, it must be worse for Josh prone on the travois exposed to the cold with no opportunity to fight back.

Each horse in turn lasts a little less time than the previous one. Whenever, he must struggle through the changing of the saddle from horse to horse he checks on Josh who gratefully is usually a little out of his head so maybe he is not experiencing the cold so severely.

To sleep through the misery which can't be alleviated is as good a way to pass as another.

Bennie saddles the last animal. He knows that once he works this creature down there is no salvation so he must break the trail in front of the beast to safe its strength.

Leading by the reins he stomps through the snow, legs painfully expressing their being overtaxed.

The drifts now approach his waist; he is barely able to thrust through. As he emerges from each trial he can't imagine that he will be able to gather the strength for another test.

But in each case he is able to bull his way through for there is no other option. Since no relief is available the only alternative is surrender, he must make it through.

This calculus changes when he spies an arroyo with an accumulation of dead wood.

Here the two boys might get down out of the wind; they may light a blaze and warm themselves. They might survive until such time as Providence divulges their deliverance.

In the gully Bennie unsaddles the pony and retrieves from the saddle bags his most prized possession, his reata. Purchased in Texas, the most exquisite item he holds, more valuable than his saddle.

The last pony is led to the place where Josh will lay in front of the fire. Bennie grips the horse's head and turning it severely forces the animal down on its side.

Tying the reata about the horse's four hoofs he secures the beast from rising. Laying the skin upon the pony Bennie then places Josh upon the skin so the heat of the animal may warm his backside.

The reata will be ruined by the wet of the snow but it is of no matter in comparison with the comfort of his friend. The choice is made without consideration or reluctance. He gives over the cherished item as if a gift.

Retrieving his tobacco tin of matches and papers from his saddlebags he strikes a light. In short order there is a good blaze under the heaviest concentration of flotsam.

The conflagration slowly gains ferocity until at last it stands twenty feet high lighting the sky as well as the surrounding prairie.

Warmth seeps into their bones displacing the cold. They begin to feel rather comfortable.

As the flames rise the heat becomes increasingly intense, so that the deep freeze begins to dissipate. They actually begin to feel contentment lifting their spirits.

"Are you at ease?" Asks Bennie eager to erase whatever pain Josh is feeling if he possibly can.

"I'm ok, my back is getting stiff but it sure feels wonderful not to be freezing."

They sit and speak of trivial things, each fearful of touching on a subject which will set the other off in a spasm of despair, for each believes that with the warmth comes no true relief from the eventuality.

As they watch the fire burn away, creating a blanket of red, glowing coals, they begin to feel the cold encroach upon them once more. It comes as a sinister invasion messenger of doom, as it moves inwards from their outer appendages they will slowly succumb to its embrace.

Bennie realizes that what will keep them alive is staying alive; as long as they don't die they have a chance. Further, he knows that sleep is the cold's greatest ally for once they surrender all is lost.

Now he is frequently dozing, repeatedly catching himself and rousing with jerks and snaps. He would like to get up and move around but he must share what body heat there is with Josh.

He takes out his fixings and puts a pinch of tobacco in his cheek, when it is moistened he puts a little juice in his eyes. The burning keeps him from falling asleep.

Now only a tendril of smoke rises from the ash, they will not make morning. Bennie searches the sky for a sign of pre-dawn, but the ink dark is complete, there is no hint of the eventual rise of the sun harboring the possibility of salvation.

A soft zephyr brings a warmer air which against the cold snow covered earth creates a mist, not quite as thick as a fog but enough to give an ethereal context to the scene.

The haze blurs Bennie's vision and causes his exhausted mind to run to fantastical visions. In his conjuring real and unreal are melded without distinction. The young cowman is lost in the swirl of what is and what is not.

There is then a sound, faint, he is uncertain of its truth, it could as well be an imagining, his mind playing a game on him in his enervation.

There is the creak of leather, the jingle of halter chain, a tinkle of cascabel, a horse snort and grunt of men in the cold.

The horse's heads appear from the miasma as apparitions, wafts on the ether, in time the bodies are revealed and upon them riders, hunched in buffalo robes or bear skin coats. Scarves are tied about their necks and over their Stetsons, in protection of their ears.

"You got any Arbuckle on the fire?" The sparkle in the man's voice is palpable. Bennie imagines the cowboy thinks this a fine joke without any consideration whatsoever for the trials of all concerned, given the dire circumstances.

The despondency of an instant ago is completely forgotten as Bennie communes with his saviors.

Bennie's mind is slow to operate and he can't think of an amusing rejoinder before the man says, "We seed your fire from yonder way and wondered how big you was since you needed such a blaze," there is now an outright laughter in the voice; he is enjoying the encounter immensely.

Bennie imagines now the rest of the story, the sling between the two horses which will convey Josh to safety, warmth and medical attention.

By tomorrow there will begin the oft repeated telling of the tale, in the glow of the stove in the bunkhouse with a cup of steaming cafecito in his hand as he responds to the rapt attention of all hands and the cook.

For now his portion is the coiling of the ruined reata which he will carry always as a reminder of the price he paid for the good he'd been permitted to do.

In it all, is Bennie's gratefulness for having been allowed to save the life of his partner.

Three Kings, Part 2 of 2
by Michael Matson

Part Two
Shots fired

For the next two days Dee Bandy rode the Double B like a hired hand, looking for strays, keeping his eye open for rustlers and mulling over the problems Ben's return was sure to cause. As much as he tried to keep his mind on the matter, he found his thoughts straying to Feather. He'd had no specific thought of her when he decided to return but after seeing her, the lovely half-Arapaho girl had slipped into his head like a cat burglar and taken control of his emotions. There was no doubt in his mind he was smitten. And he had no idea what to do about it.

On both days he covered large sections of the Double B on both sides of the Fox River. On two occasions he saw riders in the distance but when he spurred the big bay toward them they ran. On the morning of the second day he came across a flame-blackened fire pit that could have been used to heat a running iron. The ashes were cold and there was no one in sight.

It was late afternoon of the second day as he was returning home that he heard pistol shots. Thinking one of his father's punchers had stumbled across some of Lindsley's men, Dee urged the bay into a dead run, drawing his Colt and pulling back the hammer as he rode.

There was a small meandering brook just ahead, shielded by a stand of cottonwoods. Whatever was happening was on the other side. Dee charged around the trees and pulled up short. About thirty yards away, Feather stood holding an old Cooper double-action revolver. In front of her on the ground before an old fallen log she had set a line of bottles and cans and broken glass and punctured metal littered the ground. A picketed gray gelding grazed peacefully near the brook.

Startled by Dee's mad approach, Feather was desperately trying to re-load. When she saw who it was, she stopped and glared at him.

"What do you mean rushing up on me like that?" she yelled. "I might have shot you."

There was no green dress today. Feather wore fitted deerskin pants, fringed at the sides that covered short riding boots, a blue flannel shirt and a white Stetson pushed back on her head.

"Probably not," Dee said, swinging down from his horse and walking toward her. "That Cooper's a fine gun but it don't work real good when it's empty. All that shootin', I thought I had me a rustler."

Feather grinned at him. "No, just a lot of dead bottles."

Dee walked over to the fallen log and sat. "Looks like you pretty well killed the log too. You do this a lot?"

Feather holstered the Cooper and sat beside him. "More now than before. Joseph taught me how to shoot long ago. He said it wasn't only men who have to learn to defend themselves in this land."

"I reckon he was right but I hope you never have to shoot someone." He looked out over the rolling pasture land before them and thought of the old Indian. "You probably miss him."

"More than you know. If it hadn't been for Joseph, I'd probably have died in that Pawnee raid. He hid me and he brought me here. I do miss him but sometimes he still comes to me in dreams."

"Dreams?" The vision of the old Indian sitting by his fire was strong in his mind.

"At times they seem more than dreams," Feather said. "He always said you'd come back, you know. The night before you showed up, I dreamed he was sitting by my bed. It was nearly morning and still dark but I could see him just like day. He didn't say anything, just sat there grinning like something good had just happened."

Be damned! Dee thought, a brief chill raising the hair on the back of his neck. Maybe I should believe in ghosts.

"How much of this war is dad's fault?" he asked.

"None of it really," Feather said. "He's defended himself and the Double B and he shot the man who killed Ed Spiller but all the push is on Lindsley's side. I know you think he's a hard-hearted man but he grieved when you ran off. And under that crust he covers himself with, he's got a heart as big as the Rockies. Look at how he took me and Joseph in. He treated Joseph like an honored warrior and raised me like his own daughter."

The sun had dipped down toward the western hills and cast a golden glow over the meadow and cottonwoods. Soft rays of light kissed Feather's face and Dee was struck again by how beautiful she was. Embarrassed, he stood.

"It's late," he said. "We should be heading back."

He offered Feather his hand and as she rose and stood close to him he felt his heart start to beat so loudly she must surely hear it.

Feather still held his hand. "Unless you want to stay and help me shoot a few cans to death," she joked.

"No," he said. "Guess I've killed enough logs in my time."

Scrambled eggs

The next morning Dee Bandy strolled into the ranch kitchen and found Danny Spiller seated at the cook's table wolfing down a mountain of scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes. The boy looked up with his mouth full, blinked and swallowed.

"So this is where you run away to," he said.

Dee pulled up a chair and looked at him. "You figure I turned tail and ran?"

Danny considered. "No. I guess you didn't. You busted up them two Lindsley hands pretty good. They wasn't in no kinda shape to go chasin' after you. 'Sides, no one knew where you went."

"So they were Lindsley hands."

"Yessir. Though they's not likely to be of much use the way you left 'em." He dug into his breakfast again.

Behind him Dee heard someone enter the kitchen and turned to find Caitlyn holding a cup of coffee. "I see you've met our spy," she said.

"Spy? This homeless kid gobbling eggs faster than hens can lay 'em?"

Caitlyn laughed. "Homeless? You think dad would turn him out after what happened to Big Ed?"

"I guess not. But spy?"

"It was Danny's own idea." She tousled the boy's unruly hair and smiled at him affectionately. "He wanted to get back at Lindsley so he moved to town, pretended to be abandoned and used his ears. It's due to Danny that we know so much about what Lindsley's up to."

Dee regarded the ragged boy with new respect. It took courage to do what he'd done. He held out his hand. "Dee Bandy, Mr. Spiller. I'm proud to know you."

The boy shook the offered hand gravely. "Likewise, Mr. Bandy."

"What else happened after I left?"

Danny wiped up the last of his breakfast with a piece of toast. "Well, Charlie showed up . . ."

"The Sheriff," Caitlyn said. "Charlie Morgan."

"Yessum. Him and Perez, his deputy. They checked the hotel and the stable barn but you was long gone. Later in the day Lindsley and his no-good son rode into town with three hands and they ran up and down Clinton yellin' and carryin' on. When that didn't do no good, they went over to the Three Kings, got drunk and bragged about what they'd do when they caught you."

"What kind of man is this Morgan?" Dee asked Caitlyn.

"Charlie's not a bad man, but no hand with a gun. He's straddling the fence over this mess, trying to keep the peace but he's in over his head."

No help then, Dee thought. It's all going to come down to them against us and God help the losers.

"You able to hear any of the braggin' they were doing?" he asked Danny.

"This and that," the boy said. "I lay down near the Kings' door and listened to all of 'em blow hot air. Only thing important was, they know Ben's comin' home and they're plannin' to lay for him. Oh, and they had that pistolero, Riendeau with 'em."

"Riendeau?" Dee said. "I've heard that name somewhere. Maybe down near Laredo. Dark fella with a big mustache?"

Caitlyn nodded. "That's him. They say he's half Cree and half French. I've seen him in Clinton. He always tips his hat and acts polite but I think he'd kill you in a Chicago minute."

Dee shook his head. If it was the same Riendeau, Lindsley had sure stacked the deck in his favor.

Reconnaissance

Dee had cleaned and oiled the two pistols he'd taken from Lindsley's rowdies in the Three Kings. He loaded the H&A .44 and gave it to Danny.

"They tell me Hopkins & Allen is one of the guns favored by that outlaw, Jesse James," he said. "I don't want you robbin' no banks though. Just keep it under your shirt or someplace you can get your hands on it quick. If we get into a jam when Ben comes back, hand it to me or whoever needs it."

He was tightening the cinch on the bay with the other gun, the unloaded Schofield, tucked in his gun belt when Feather stepped out onto the ranch porch and stood watching him. Her dress today certainly fit her name, he thought. It was a delicate white with soft fringe on the sleeves and Dee imagined she could just spread her arms, rise up and fly away in it.

"You off for another seven years, Dee Bandy?" she called.

Dee grinned and walked over to the porch. What he wanted to say, but didn't have the courage for was, now that I've seen how you grew to be so blamed pretty, I'd be a darn fool to leave. What he settled for was, "No. I need to take Danny back to Clinton and talk to Charlie Morgan."

He plucked the Schofield from his belt and handed it to her. "Next time you get an urge to kill that log again, try this."

"I've got to admit it's prettier," Feather said.

"Easier to reload, too. Here let me show you. Step down and aim at the near corral post."

When she had her arm extended, Dee stepped behind her, put one arm around her waist to steady her and put his other hand on her gun hand. "See that switch on the left hand side by the hammer? Flip it like this."

The Schofield fell open exposing the cylinder.

Feather nestled back against Dee. He could smell the freshness of her clean hair, the faint scent of her perfume and feel the soft-hard suppleness of her lithe body. "Nice," she murmured. "You're a good teacher, Dee Bandy."

At that moment Danny Spiller popped out of the house, banging the screen door behind him. Dee jumped back as if he'd been caught sucking eggs.

Feather watched him, suppressing a laugh, as he stalked back to the bay, mounted and pulled Danny up behind him.

"I'll be back for supper," he said and spurred the big horse into a trot.

When they were almost at the outskirts of Clinton, Dee dropped Danny off, making sure no one was within eyesight to link the two of them. He watched the boy scamper off toward town then turned the bay so he'd approach Clinton and the Union Pacific station from a different direction.

The station at mid-morning was empty under a cloudless sky. The station master, Henry Thornton, sat alone, leaning back and half dozing on a luggage hand truck pushed up against a shady overhang of the station wall, his billed cap low over his closed eyes. At the sound of Dee's boots on the wood station platform he sat up and tried to look alert. Henry was a young man who took his duties seriously when he had them. Otherwise, he was content to find a shady spot and put his boots up. When Dee inquired about the arrival times of trains arriving from Laramie and points east of there, he sprang to action, producing a handful of printed schedules and answering Dee's questions eagerly until he had satisfactorily pinpointed the required information.

The Sheriff's office was set back from the caliche road by a short porch holding a bench and two chairs and sat snug-up against the east side of the red-brick Clinton & Western Bank. The office consisted of three rooms. The first was about fifteen feet deep by twenty, dominated by Charlie Morgan's square oak desk. A smaller table, pushed up against the right-hand wall beside a locked gun rack holding a 10-gauge shotgun and three rifles, served as a desk for Morgan's deputy, Andy Perez. Behind and left of Morgan's desk was a door leading to a storage room and three cells, all currently unoccupied.

The Sheriff, a dark-browed, silver-haired man with a thick brush mustache, looked up and regarded Dee without comment as he pushed open the door and entered. When Dee told him who he was and offered his hand, Morgan studied him for a long moment before taking it.

"I suppose I ought to lock you up for what you did to those two hands the other day," he said.

Dee held out his wrists close together. "I'm here," he said. "Slap 'em on."

Morgan waved him to a chair. "Guess not. Frog Addams and McKendry both said Fat John started it. You just ended it kind of extreme."

"Figured they'd back shoot me if I didn't."

Morgan nodded. "Likely."

"I need to know where you stand on this hostility between the Double B and Lindsley," Dee said.

"I don't stand anywhere, young man," Morgan scowled. "My job is keeping the peace. Standing between your father and Lindsley is like trying to balance on a greased teeter board. I've known your father for a good many years. He's a fair man. Lindsley's a problem but until I catch him or his hands breaking the law, there's nothing I can do."

"You're aware Lindsley's swearing to kill my brother if he comes back to Clinton?"

"I am. But sayin' isn't doin' and Ben isn't here."

"He will be," Dee said. "Day after tomorrow. He and Emma are comin' back on the 12:15 out of Laramie."

Charlie Morgan looked a long time at the gun rack, a sour expression on his face before shaking his head. "Didn't know that," he said. "It's just what I need."

"No, sir," Dee said. "I figure what Clinton needs is for you and Perez to meet that train and make sure Ben gets home safe."

Morgan's face flushed angry for a second then relaxed. "I don't need you to tell me my job, Mr. Bandy. You're right but hear this, if you or your father start something, I'll treat you just like I would any other lawbreaker."

Dee stood. "Knew I could count on you Sheriff," he said. He hoped he managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He'd found out what he wanted to know. Caitlyn was right, Charlie Morgan wasn't going to be much help.

Riendeau

Anticipating a hot thirsty ride back to the Double B, Dee reasoned that a little pre-trip drink might ease the passage. The Three Kings was considerably more active than it had been on his previous visit. Four citizens were bellied up to the bar where McKendry stood polishing a glass with a soiled dishrag. One of the men wore a gray suit with a tie and a black bowler hat, a lawyer Dee guessed. The other three were dressed less formally, two in black trousers with elastic bands on their shirts to keep them from sliding down their arms. Probably clerks or shop owners drinking their lunch. The fourth was a rough-looking man in dusty overalls over a worn green flannel shirt. Gray whiskers covered nearly all his face so completely it was hard to know where his mouth was until he lifted his glass of beer and poured some down his gullet. None of them appeared armed, although the lawyer could have been carrying a pistol under his coat.

Frog Addams was fiddling away at his piano, not really playing a tune but kind of chasing one back and forth as if he was trying to catch it but had no idea where it was hiding. Ivars Gudson was passed out at a table near the piano and two other tables were occupied by card players. Dee recognized the man Charlie Morgan called Fat John at one of the tables, his arm in a sling. He had a small pile of coins in front of him and looked disgusted. Behind the fat man, watching the card players, a slim, dark man with a drooping, black Mexican-style mustache sat leaning against the wall, his chair balanced on its back two legs.

No one looked up as Dee entered but as he walked to the bar, Fat John looked up then jerked up out of his seat as if he'd been clawed by a barn cat. He slapped the table with his good hand and turned to the slim, dark man. There was a whispered conversation and the man slowly tipped his chair forward and stood.

Dee turned his back to the bar and watched the dark man walk toward him, noting the graceful way he moved, the deadpan expression on his face and the fact that his right hand never moved far from the pearl handle of his Colt. When the man was just a step or two away he surprised Dee by holding out his hand.

"Riendeau," he said. He had a soft voice in which Dee imagined he heard the faint accents of Canadian French.

"Figured," Dee said and took the offered hand. "Dee Bandy."

Riendeau turned to the bartender. "Two glasses and a bottle." He indicated an empty table with his head. "Let's talk."

Riendeau sat sprawled in his chair, legs extended, holding his shot glass in his left hand. "There was a Dee Bandy shot a sheriff down in Kansas. Cobb, I think it was. Pretty good with a gun."

"Not much of a sheriff," Dee said. "More like a thievin' murderer hidin' behind a piece of tin."

Riendeau grinned. "Here's to dead, thievin' murderin' sheriffs." He tossed back his shot, watched Dee down his and poured them both another round.

"I want to make something plain to you," he said. "I got no beef with you personally and I'm not real fond of goin' up against men who are good with a gun. I heard you were fast."

"Middlin'," Dee said.

"Uh-huh." Riendeau sat up and looked down at his glass, fiddling with it for a moment before looking up. "Thing is, Lindsley hired me to watch his back. I get no joy from pickin' fights but if it comes down to a face-off between you and him, I'll have to kill you."

Dee raised his glass. "Here's to findin' out if you can." He tossed back the shot and stood.

Riendeau regarded him without changing expression. "I'll drink to that," he said.

Promise

There was little to do but wait.

Clive Bandy told his hands to carry on as usual but carry side arms and keep their eyes peeled for any trouble. The previous night after dinner the family held a war counsel and decided Clive and Dee would ride into Clinton early to be in place before the 12:15 from Laramie. Caitlyn and Feather would bring in the buckboard to carry any luggage Ben and Emma might have. They'd also trail in two saddle mounts for the couple and insist they return to the Double B. The Clinton Hotel was just too dangerous.

The day dragged on hot and endless. Dee curried the big bay, fixed a splintered plank in the corral one of the barely tamed ranch horses had kicked in and cleaned and oiled his Colt. Finally bored, he selected a dun mare from the Double B remuda, slipped a rope halter on the horse and rode bareback a half mile to a cool spot on the Fox River.

Sometime in the distant past, the river had flowed into a surface field of oxidized basalt and veered sharply south for a few hundred yards before encountering more forgiving soil and resuming its way east to join the Platte. The bend, and a shallow nearby pool fed by the deviation, were shaded by cottonwoods and alders and the area was covered with sufficient grass to graze the dun.

Dee hobbled the mare then sat at water's edge, playing over the possibilities the following day might present. Perhaps a half-hour later he heard a horse approaching as its hooves passed over a patch of rocky ground. He rose carefully, moved into the cottonwoods and cocked the hammer of his Colt. An instant later he recognized Feather's gray gelding. He holstered his gun and stepped out into the open.

"I thought you might be here," Feather said. She slipped from the saddle and led the gray toward him. "We all used to come here when we were kids, remember?" Today her hair was brushed up under her white Stetson. The collar of her blue shirt was open and Dee noticed she wore a simple beaded necklace.

"I remember catching you and Caitlyn skinny dipping here once," he said.

Feather blushed. "We couldn't have been more than six or seven so you didn't see much. Besides we were in the water up to our necks. What I remember is you yelling to get out and put our clothes on . . . which we couldn't do with you standing there."

"Yeah, you didn't obey real quick," Dee grinned.

They hobbled the gray and walked back to where Dee had been sitting. Feather looked out over the river to the vast land beyond.

"There's so much space here," she said. "I don't understand men like Lindsley. The plateau is big enough for him and your father. And there's plenty of good grazing land north and south. Fighting is just stupid."

"There are always some men who want more than their fair share," Dee said. "And some who see something someone else has and try to take it away from them."

Feather took her hat off, turned her head and looked at him. "And what do you want, Dee Bandy?"

He plucked a stem of long grass and chewed on it. "Something of my own, I guess."

"You know your father wanted you to have the Double B. That's why he worked you so hard. So you'd learn what you had to know to run the place."

"I reckon," he said. "At the time it didn't seem worth it."

"And now? After Ben and Emma get home safe, will you leave again?"

Dee looked at her a long time before answering, a jumble of thoughts bouncing around inside his head. Words like, I'll never leave as long as you're here. Words that wanted to break out but were tied up like the legs of a pigged calf.

"No," he finally said. "I won't leave."

"I'm glad," Feather said. She rested her head on Dee's shoulder. "I think if you did, it would break my heart."

Well, I'll be double-d-damned, he thought.

Far to the west the sky thickened and heat lightning danced over the hills. A breeze sprang up, riffling through the leaves of the cottonwoods and alders but neither of them moved for a very long time.

Meeting the 12:15

In the morning Feather was gone.

Dee and Caitlyn checked her room, the barn, stable and out buildings. There was no sign of her. Sometime before the others were up, she had saddled the gray gelding and ridden off.

As time grew increasingly short, Dee became more and more worried but there was no choice but to leave. Caitlyn continued to search as Dee and his father headed for Clinton.

The station was unoccupied except for the station master, Henry Thornton. There were no waiting passengers, no Lindsleys and no Charlie Morgan. They left their horses in back and Clive Bandy went into the office to ask if the sheriff had been there while Dee paced the platform scanning the adjacent streets for any threat.

A few moments later he spotted Danny Spiller running hell-bent toward him. As soon as the boy got close enough he yelled, "They kilt Morgan!"

"The Lindsleys?"

The boy leaned against the station platform, gasping for breath, his head bobbing up and down like an apple in a bucket of water. "Yessir. They come through Clinton and Charlie tried to stop 'em. They gunned him down like a dog. Perez is bad hurt too."

"Get behind the station with the horses, Danny," Dee said. "Caitlyn is comin' in with the buckboard. Give her the Hopkins and tell her to stay there. We may need to make a run for it."

The boy nodded and dashed off as Clive pushed open the station door and stepped out.

"What happened?"

"The Lindsleys have gone kill crazy," Dee told him. "They killed Morgan."

"Good God! They coming?"

"Bet your life on it." Not a good choice of words, Dee thought, but damned accurate.

"We're sitting ducks out here, dad. Best get inside 'til the train shows."

Clive nodded and they took shelter in the station where Henry Thornton cowered behind his desk in the office. Every minute that passed seemed like twenty, an eternity measured by the click of the minute hand on the big Union Pacific clock on the far wall. They tried to stay away from the window overlooking the platform except to check constantly for any sign of the Lindsleys.

They saw nothing.

"What we've gotta do," Clive said, "soon as Ben and Emma step off the train is get 'em in here. The train might shelter 'em a little but we gotta move fast. Once we get 'em safe inside we can stand off the Lindsleys."

Dee said nothing, just checked his Colt and watched the clock.

It was 12:10 when they heard the far-off whistle of the Laramie train.

"You ready?" Clive asked.

"As I'll ever be."

They could feel the train now. The station windows shook as it pounded nearer. There was another piercing whistle and the iron monster arrived, braking to a grinding stop in a shower of sparks and a cloud of steam. A moment passed before the door to the second passenger car opened and a young, spectacled man wearing a brown suit stepped out. Ben Bandy strongly resembled his brother, but Ben was slimmer, less broad through the shoulders. His coloring resembled his father's, he had thick brown hair and cool gray eyes. He turned back toward the coach and held out his hand to a pretty somewhat plump, blonde girl.

Before their hands could touch, Ben crumpled to the platform and the retort of a rifle was heard over the hissing steam of the locomotive. Dee and his father darted from the station as a second round tore into the platform close to Ben's head. Working quickly, they grabbed Ben and a screaming Emma and dragged them into the station.

Dee bent over his brother, loosening clothing and checking for the wound.

"Is he . . . ?" Clive couldn't bring himself to say the word.

"No," Dee said. "It looks a lot worse than it is. He's hit high in the right shoulder."

Outside, the train hadn't moved, the engineer uncertain what to do. Dee opened the door a crack and yelled for him to move, clear the way. The man needed no more prompting. He released the brake and opened the throttle. The train slowly gathered steam and moved off. The sound of running boots pounded across the platform. Caitlyn burst through the door and ran to Ben.

"He'll live," Dee told her. "See if you can find something to stop the bleeding and help dad calm Emma down."

There was a shout from outside. "You can't hide in there forever, Bandy. Come out and we'll settle this once and for all."

Clive moved toward the door but Dee stopped him. "Wait. When I make my move, come out shooting."

He pushed open the door and stepped out. He was surprised to see Lindsley's pinch-faced, hard-jawed daughter next to her father and brother. All three were mounted and drawn up close to the station platform. Blond, squat and heavy-shouldered, Lindsley held a Spencer lever-action carbine across his lap.

"You're Ben's brother," Lindsley snarled. "Well, you can be just as dead as he is."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dee saw Riendeau step out onto the platform from behind the west end of the station.

"I told you if it came to a contest, I'd have to kill you," Riendeau said.

The Lindsleys didn't move. They sat their horses, anticipating what Riendeau would do and enjoying the show.

Dee drew faster than he'd ever done in his life and shot Lindsley in the head. As the man fell, Dee dove to his right and rolled. He felt a bullet tug at his left sleeve as he came up and fired at Riendeau. The first round caught the gunslinger in the stomach, the second hit him dead center in the chest. At the same instant Clive Bandy jumped through the open station door and shot Jacob Lindsley.

Stunned by the gunplay, Ella sat staring at her dead father and brother. But not for long. Screaming like a banshee, she drew her pistol and aimed at Dee. Before she could fire, two shots rang out. Ella turned toward her right in disbelief then slumped forward and tumbled to the ground. Feather stood at the east end of the station platform with the Schofield held in both hands. Slowly she walked toward Dee until she was close enough to touch his sleeve where Riendeau's bullet had grazed him.

"I had a dream you'd hesitate to shoot," she said. "It's over, isn't it?"

Dee wrapped his right arm around her and drew her close. Her body was trembling and when he looked into her eyes her face was streaked with tears.

"Yes," he said. "The worst is over. I figure the best is just beginning."

He wondered if Joseph Broken Arm, wherever he was, could hear him.