The Education of an Outlaw
by Dick Derham

"That's a pile of money. You'll need a big man to earn it."

"That's why I'm here."

"Here," was the Warden's office at Yuma Penitentiary, closed away from the ears of talkative prison guards. Mitchell had been yanked off the rock pile and marched across the yard with the usual unnecessary roughness, ostensibly for another round of Yuma-style discipline after an infraction of one of the petty rules so numerous that guards could always find a reason to inflict pain. Now he stood at disrespectful attention staring down at the man behind the desk. Across the room where he would be out of earshot, the Warden sat shuffling papers at a work table.

The visitor began his scheme to get the fish to nibble at his line. "Yuma breaks a man down into pebbles no bigger than those you've been making on the rock pile for five years."

"I don't break," Mitchell growled.

"Or it makes a hard man harder, refining soft iron into brittle steel, then turns the product out onto the people of Arizona, an angry man thinking he's entitled to collect back pay for his five years of pain."

"So you're scared I'll go back to taking your money. You think one thousand dollars is enough to bribe me to stay clear of your stages?" The Wells, Fargo & Company man ignored the scoffing in Mitchell's voice; he had bigger things in mind than the possible depredations of one ex-con.

"Would it work?"

"Hell no," Mitchell said. "Taking folks' money is what I do."

"A real bad boy —"

"That's right," Mitchell interrupted.

"But not an evil man," the Wells Fargo man continued. "You never killed anyone, not even when you could have shot your way out of the trap we arranged outside Bisbee and made your escape."

Mitchell shifted suspiciously. "You trying to tell me I got me a pair of angel wings hid somewhere under this prison shirt? If you just scrub off the prison stink, I'd be a real good man?"

"A good man would be useless for what I need." For the first time the Wells Fargo man thought he had Mitchell's attention. "I need a bad man. Maybe you, unless your soul has shriveled into a lump of uncontrollable hate."

Mitchell didn't respond, but he was alert, curious, suspiciously hostile, but he was listening. The Wells Fargo man began talking, telling Mitchell how the money could be earned, not talking about doing good, not making it sound like Mitchell would be working with the law, just laying out a business proposition that could work to mutual advantage. Once the talking, mainly the listening, was done, Mitchell was manhandled to the dark, dank hole earlier prisoners had pick-axed into rock. There he would sweat two days of isolation, his punishment for whatever infraction they had used to justify the interview.

As the Wells Fargo man swung to saddle outside the iron gates, he wondered whether he had wasted his time on a long ride.

"Throw down the box."

Six weeks out of the hellhole that had completely failed if its task had been to make him "penitent," Mitchell's life had quickly resumed its normal rhythm. This was the third Wells Fargo stage he had stopped, the third strongbox he had blasted open, the third set of travelers who had meekly surrendered their money belts to him.

Stopping a stage, waiting at the top of a hill while the horses lumbered upgrade and became too winded to make a run, or lurking in a boulder-strewn canyon where the twisting road was its own obstacle, all that routine work used the skills Mitchell had developed—the only skills he had—after the trail herd from South Texas that the fifteen-year-old had used as an escape from his pa's unending list of chores had reached the Gila River Valley and the trail hands found themselves with pay in their pockets, but no work.

Mitchell found he had liked having pay in his pockets almost as much as he liked having no work. So when the money ran out, he and an older hand, a man of the world with nearly twenty winters behind him, found that stages had money free for the taking.

After a year, after he'd learned the tricks of the trade, after his partner became a little too free with his cartridges to suit Mitchell, he'd done his work solo, building his skills, seeing the West, traveling north to the Colorado mining district during the heat of the summer, then back to Arizona and New Mexico when winter came to the Rockies. Not taking orders from any man in a big hat, Mitchell bragged that he'd lit on the ideal life for a man bold enough to take it.

Now he was back working for his living like before, the only difference being he knew about the roadhouse in Parson's Den, the isolated nest in a secluded canyon in the Chiricahuas habituated by men like him, the place the squishy-minded Wells Fargo man had let him in on, a good hunkering down spot for an enterprising man between work, a place the lawmen knew about, as the oblong mounds of dirt behind the saloon showed, but seldom visited, and then not for long.

His work finished. Mitchell had the driver unharness and scatter the horses to delay him from spreading the alarm. Ready for a vacation, Mitchell hit the trail to Parson's.

The Chiricahua Mountains had been uplifted by massive compressive forces that folded the sandstone sediment into ripples, producing a mountain ridge rising six thousand feet above Sulfur Springs Valley to the west and San Simon Valley to the east. Not high, not as Westerners measure mountains, they were rough, disorderly, broken, where water and ice had quickly transformed fissures into deep, but narrow slits, while above the canyon walls spires, columns and balanced rocks still remained of the volcanic overlay from millions of years past. Its harsh beauty was foreboding to strangers but reassuring to men who welcomed isolation from unwanted pursuers. No horseman found his way through the narrow defiles and into their recesses by accident. A rider in a hurry would find the twists and false turns in the narrow rock passages a time-draining obstacle. Posse men forced to ride single-file into its remoteness would end their day providing amusement to guards posted in secure firing positions high in the canyon walls.

Seth Parsons had chosen well when he went into business to serve the needs of a class of men willing to pay his high prices for their security.

The center of life in Parson's Den, the dimly-lit Parson's Saloon served as the social club for men willing to risk anonymity in sociability. The cribs were out back beyond the outhouse; what called itself the hotel was across the street with two-bed and four-bed rooms, moldy mattresses, and ravenous bed bugs. Most of the year, men staked out their space and spread their blankets in the open air, sleeping on the softness of needles from the Mexican pinon pine. "Living free," men in the trade, called it.

There were maybe a dozen idlers in Parson's when Mitchell rode in, men who watched him suspiciously, trying, maybe hoping, to get a whiff of badge stink that would lead to another narrow mound of dirt. After three days drinking solo, he watched an incoming deliveryman slip the barkeep the freshly-printed dodger Wells Fargo had put out after his last stage job. Only two-fifty and not worth anything dead, but enough to give him "cred" in this burg.

Not that men cozied up to him, but they stopped looking at him like they'd just as soon walk him out back and guzzle whiskey while they watched him dig.

Every saloon he'd ever entered stank of stale beer and man-sweat. Mitchell couldn't say why Parson's Saloon affronted the nostrils more than most. Long-forgotten phrases fought their way into his head: "The fragrance of honest sweat," "the joyous burn of hard-used muscles," a jumble of phrases his father had used which always seemed to mean "get about your chores, boy."

Mitchell had never succeeded in explaining the unfamiliar sense of satisfaction he felt in Yuma as he returned, muscle-sore, to his six-man cell after an unresisting boulder surrendered to his pick and crumbled before him to pebbles good for nothing more than pelting squirrels. How could battering a defenseless boulder into helpless submission cause a man to stand taller than when he stopped a stage and made the shotgunner crawfish before him? Did it show an unsuspected lust to destroy? Or was he learning to glory in muscles used for violence? Was it evidence of his growth as a man? Certainly not a pleasure of accomplishment of a meaningless task! His mind rejected the notion of "honest sweat" or "burning muscles," words which made him sound too much like his Pa. Hadn't he outgrown all that?

Maybe that Methodist minister whose yakking Pa and Ma had made him sit through would try to explain the mystery. And would fail. That sky-pilot stuff never fit with the real world Mitchell saw around him. Not with all the unanswered prayers he had heard screaming to heaven in multiple languages from pain-wracked prisoners in Yuma.

Mitchell scanned the saloon. Fifteen men now—bearded, scruffy men; strong, self-reliant men—who saw no need to doll themselves up like weak citified poodle dogs. Everyone here saddled his own horse proudly, made his own way in the world, standing on his own two feet. That old preacher-man couldn't hold their coats.

Still the stench of the saloon rankled his nose.

The two men approaching his table had caught his attention from the first, each man in his early thirties, carrying himself with arrogant confidence that caused other men to step aside. "We brought our own bottle," the older man said. "Like to set a spell."

Mitchell waved them to the chairs and waited. "Name's Blake Runnels," the talker said. "This here's Joe Ortega."

"Mex stink." He'd heard that sneer since he was old enough to hear man-talk. He'd seen men shift tables when Ortega and Runnels sat down near them. He'd suffered through the thick, rancid stench that emanated from one of his cell mates in Yuma after a hot day on the rock pile. As far as he could tell, its putrid odor polluted the air and offended the nostrils, suffocated a man's lungs, near as bad as Anglo stink. Ortega's glowering eyes waited for his reaction.

Mitchell reached across the table and grasped Ortega's hand. "Howdy."

He let Runnels freshen his drink, and they sparred a bit, talking about not much of anything, sniffing each other from one side, then the other, like two hounds getting acquainted. Finally Runnels got to the point. "Putting together some men for a little party down to Tombstone. Hear you got a rep for liking some action. Maybe you'll want in."

Mitchell stared at the two men intently. Blake Runnels was the name the Wells Fargo man had mentioned, the prize stallion he'd pay a hefty sum to corral, the man he'd wanted Mitchell to traipse up to Parson's Den to locate. A man worth that much to Wells Fargo interested Mitchell. Any operation he planned should have money in it, likely more than the Wells Fargo man promised.

"I'm listening."

It was a simple proposition. Banks pile up a lot of loose cash before the mines pull money out to make payrolls. "A quick visit and we got enough to head to St. Louis for a celebration," Runnels explained.

Mitchell's visit to Tombstone went uneventfully. He rode in, hitched up before the Consolidated Miner's Bank where he changed a double eagle like any cowhand in from the range and ready for a spree in town. He'd timed it right: with a line before the teller's cage, he didn't look conspicuous as he stared restlessly around the room, noting the back door, the location of the vault, and where the lead man should stand before moving in on the Head Cashier. He wet his whistle at two or three different saloons, like any visiting cowhand might, then trailed back north, figuring he found the quickest escape route from town. Did he take time to send a coded message to Wells Fargo? Hell, no! Comparing notes with Ortega, each had something to contribute, and the plan Runnels laid out looked to be good. Banks weren't his line of work, but a man advanced by learning new skills and Runnels promised he'd have a saddlebag full of gold when they rode out.

Next came the waiting: four days caged with these men in a deserted shack in the hills near Tombstone until they judged the gold on hand would fill the most saddlebags. Mitchell looked around the small cabin at Runnels and Ortega, at Loney and Forsyth. Working solo, he hadn't spent this much time with other men since trailing from Texas. He didn't count Yuma where a wise man avoided showing who he was. He tried to compare these four men to Josh and Frank, and the other trail hands whose names he no longer remembered.

Around a dwindling campfire at day's end, the drovers had been tired men, ready to turn in for a few hours of shut-eye before rolling out to ride night herd. Talk had been minimal and he couldn't say he really knew any of them. Spirits always soared when Josh brought out his banjo for half an hour of unmusical growling through old songs before the trail boss gruffly ordered them to their bedrolls. Those days had been muscle-grueling work, the men dirty and sweaty, their shirts tattered by the end of trail. He'd have said those simple cowhands couldn't match Runnels and his crew in toughness; he realized what he meant was hardness. Josh and Frank and the others had a toughness the men in this hideout wouldn't understand.

But these were the kind he had chosen for his life's companions.

The afternoon before the scheduled operation, Ortega stomped in from his guard-mount gun-fisted and prodding a man before him. "Found him sneaking around, not riding in openly, just skulking through the brush. We can have us some fun before we plant him."

Forsythe and Loney quickly stripped the prisoner to his union suit. A search disgorged little money, not enough to make him worthwhile by itself; his saddle bags contained a change of clothes and an assortment of air tights but not much more. Then his boots were examined. A dumb hiding-place, Mitchell thought. These men he had teamed up with knew their business. They wouldn't overlook the recessed compartment in the heel.

"Wells Fargo," Ortega proclaimed as he tossed the tin on the table. "I could smell his badge stink five hundred yards away."

Even in his underwear, the prisoner stood erect and proud, as though proclaiming his superiority over the men about to kill him. The only man in the cabin who had troubled to scrape off chin whiskers in the morning; body trim without the fat or sag of a saloon-hound; the whipcord muscles of a man sure of his power. Can you admire a man just from looking at him? No more than average height, he seemed larger than Runnels, bigger then Loney, more muscle power than Forsyth, no slyness about his eyes like Ortega. Only one man had ever made that impression on Mitchell, the trail boss whose authority had kept all the hands in check with no more than a soft word. Just standing before them in his underwear, the Wells Fargo agent showed up the smirking outlaws of Runnels' gang up as pale imitations of manhood.

"Got something to tell us, Mister?" Runnels demanded. "Something that will make it worth our time to let you be?"

Mitchell watched the confrontation with foreboding. In a moment, the man would understand what he faced, his postured pride would crumble, of that Mitchell's knowledge of men assured him. And then what? Did this Wells Fargo man know about the conversation in Yuma? Would he turn to Mitchell, speak to him, demand his help? The man had no other hope of living. But the man remained close-lipped. So far at least.

"There's a shovel in the shed," Runnels said. "Let him work his muscles about three feet worth."

The Wells Fargo agent squared his shoulders and clamped his jaw tight. Mitchell finally breathed. Another man's life was on the line, but he was safe. He relaxed as Ortega lumbered across the room and clamped his hand roughly around the doomed agent's bicep.

"Got some sweating to do and then some bleeding."

"Not going to happen." It was an unconsidered impulse. Even as he got to his feet, surprising himself more than Runnels, Mitchell knew he was being foolish.

"You got a different idea of where to salt the carcass?" Runnels asked.

"The man was just doing his job." Mitchell stepped over beside the prisoner. Perhaps no one noticed, but now there was no one behind him. "I don't hold with killing."

"Maybe you're outvoted."

"Man's life don't turn on a show of hands." Mitchell's eyes locked with Runnels' and held them. "We tie him up while we do our business."

"Then?"

"Then we turn him loose. You're heading for the bright lights, so what can he tell?"

"Spoke like someone with his face already decorating a dodger," Ortega sneered.

"Hell, Blake," Loney spoke up, "before a job ain't the time to argue. I say we tie this stinking lawman up like Mitchell says. His blood will still leak when we come back to divvy up."

Mitchell knew, likely the Wells Fargo agent knew as well, the thread of the lawman's life was frayed with a slim likelihood he would survive their return. But his fate was days away.

Ortega and Forsyth trussed the agent hand and foot, and tossed him in a corner of the barn where he could spend the night and the days ahead keeping company with barn owls, vermin and rats. "Good company for a blood-sucker like you," Ortega jibed as he pulled the barn door closed.

In the morning, as the men saddled and readied to ride out, Ortega eased open the barn door and disappeared inside. Stepping quickly, Mitchell was no more than half a minute behind. "Knots got to be good and tight," Mitchell said as Ortega bent over the prisoner. "Make sure they got no play in them." There was a pause. Mitchell thought he heard Ortega's knife slide back into its sheath.

"He ain't going nowhere," Ortega said as he straightened and backed off.

Mitchell stepped forward to make his own check. He booted the bound man, not too gently, hard enough to bring a short snort of laughter from Ortega, hard enough to get the agent's attention. "Made a big mistake coming here," Mitchell told the Wells Fargo agent as he let his blade slide from his hand. He kicked again, and only the prisoner saw the swing of his leg spill hay over the knife.

Out in the yard, the men mounted, Runnels leading the way. "You coming?" Ortega challenged.

"I'm the last man on the trail," Mitchell declared. "Making sure no one straggles back to pay our prisoner a goodbye visit."

The operation went smoothly, like Runnels had laid it out, right up to the moment Loney swung the vault door closed on the bankers. That's when Ortega's gun dug harshly into Mitchell's ribs. "We figure a Wells Fargo lover like you don't need a share, Mitchell. We could do it right here, but it'll be more fun when we got whiskey glasses in our hands."

Mitchell had no chance to make a break for it as they marched out to the horses. He toted the saddlebags, heavy with cash and gold. His holster was empty, but he doubted he looked like a prisoner to the bystanders watching from a block away, and what difference did it make?

One hundred yards ahead, the hideout cabin looked much as it had when they left it, the Wells Fargo agent's mare still in the corral. That puzzled Mitchell, but he had more important things on his mind; like the man riding behind him, Ortega, happy to let Mitchell know he got a kick out of doing business with a moving target.

As his trail drew to a close, Mitchell wondered about the mistakes he had made. What was the Wells Fargo agent to him? What difference did one more dead lawman make? Why had he shoved his nose into the business? As he analyzed his loathing of his four captors, it came to him that he hated them not because of what they were doing to him. He hated them for what they were. What he was. He'd come to understand that wiping out a human life was nothing personal to them; it was just a routine part of the business they were all in, something he hadn't learned riding solo. Ortega's gun was about to remedy that defective part of this outlaw's education.

Then Forsyth was bending sideways in the saddle to swing open the corral gate. Time slowed down for Mitchell as every minute became precious to him. Loney's leg was out of the stirrup, swinging back over his roan's rump. Runnels was at the corral entrance. Ortega was chuckling lowly. "Have our fun soon, Mitchell."

Mitchell recalled the Wells Fargo agent's stoic fortitude in the face of his condemnation. This was the trail Mitchell had chosen. He would voice no complaint when it ended.

"Hands up."

The voice came from the barn, the sound of rifles cocking from the trees east of the yard. Runnels cursed and dug in the spurs. His horse jumped forward and a rifle spoke, pitching him to the ground. Others went for their guns. Mitchell dove from the saddle.

In two minutes the fighting was over. In ten minutes, the posse had them on the trail to Tombstone, two sagging in their saddles, their wounds attended to enough so they wouldn't bleed their lives out on the trail, the other two packed face down, and Mitchell himself riding with wrists bound to his saddlehorn.

The trial took twenty minutes. The jury found them all guilty without leaving the jury box, and his ticket back to Yuma was quickly punched. No word from Wells Fargo. He hadn't expected any.

The horsemen drew to a halt in front of the small cabin. "Inside."

That was the first word the hooded men—his captors? his liberators?—had directed toward him since they broke him out of the Cochise County jail shortly before midnight. Six hours on the trail had brought them up a narrow canyon in the Dragoon Mountains northeast of Tombstone and to this small clearing.

Mitchell swung down and walked stiffly to the cabin. His still-manacled hands fumbled with the knob and he stepped inside.

"Sit down," the Wells Fargo man told him. Mitchell sat. The Wells Fargo man reached across the small table and grasped Mitchell's wrists. In a moment, the handcuffs were off.

"We couldn't tell whether stopping a couple of our stages was Mitchell doing business as usual, or setting himself up to earn his pay." He placed a stack of greenbacks on the table and pushed them over.

"Maybe I wasn't sure myself," Mitchell admitted. "What made you decide?"

"Him." Mitchell followed the Wells Fargo man's gesture. The sentinel standing just inside the door removed the hood over his head.

Mitchell got to his feet and crossed the room. "You stand tall." He stretched his hand out to Ortega's one-time prisoner. "Been years since I shook with a real man."

Back at the table, Mitchell started to reach for the money. He guessed he had earned it, setting the Wells Fargo agent free, even if maybe he hadn't always been working the way the Wells Fargo man thought. Anyway, turning down money from Wells Fargo was against his religion. He flinched when he saw the second item on the table. A hostile burning rose in his chest. "What's that for?"

"That's the road you can travel. These last weeks, you learned you're not like the trash you just helped bring in. You'll never go back to being one of them."

Mitchell tried to speak, to throw the Wells Fargo man's words back in his face. His denial stuck in his throat. But neither could he admit what the Wells Fargo man said, admit that that he had ridden into a blind canyon from which there was no outlet.

"When you leave here, you can stumble down the owlhoot trail until it leads you back to Yuma."

Manhood meant riding free, Mitchell believed, making his own rules. But his time with the Runnels Gang made clear the price: working with two-legged animals, knowing he had to learn to become more like them. He'd saddled his horse long ago. Working solo, lonely, but his own man, what else was there for someone like him?

"Or you can pick up that badge, use what you know working for Wells Fargo."

"Smell myself up with badge stink?" Mitchell blurted, the one thing he knew would degrade him more than riding with the likes of Runnels. "Work for the man!"

"For yourself. Choose a life of satisfying labor an eighteen-year-old kid couldn't understand. But I think you can now, Mitchell. 'Living free' doesn't mean being chained to outlaw holes and men you hate. 'Living free' means taking charge of your life and doing work you're good at."

Mitchell's stiffly erect posture showed his rejection of what the Wells Fargo man was saying. What did some suit-wearing city banker know about manhood? He'd heard all he wanted to hear.

"You've been riding a dark trail, Mitchell. Pick up that badge and you'll be riding through sunny meadows, you and your partner."

"Partner?"

"Agent Conners."

For a while no one moved.

Finally, Mitchell reached past the shiny badge that represented everything he had scorned and grasped the stack of greenbacks. Wordlessly, he got to his feet, turned his back on the Wells Fargo man and strode toward the door. Pausing in front of Conners, he stared at the agent a long time. As he probed deep into the man's soul, Mitchell felt his life change.

"If we're partners, half of this money is yours."

Foolish Dreams
by Rafael Phoenix Blayze

The black ink smudged every time Bradley pressed too tight on the page. He could care less. I'm the great Bradley "Swift Hands" Calliou, he mused. One day it'll be my name on this here paper being smudged.

The horses in the stables were restless. They wanted to head out and graze. But Bradley was so engrossed in the Alabama Bugle story about how Buffalo Bill scalped a Cheyenne warrior—that was the very same indian that killed Custer in the Battle of the Little Bighorn—he didn't have time to take care of a bunch of whining ninnies. He set down the paper to get a sip of tea. He had a pint-sized frame with dirt smeared across his milk-white face. There was no facial hair on his baby-smooth skin and he had an arrow-point nose. His dark black hair and blacker-than-night eyes made him look more like an undertaker than a rancher.

Bradley stood motionless for a few moments; transfixed on the pitcher of tea. I don't want this anymore, he thought. Damn it all to hell! He swiped at the pitcher of tea with his hand, flinging it across the stables. It shattered to pieces and splashed all over the ground. He then released the horses and headed inside his home.

Walking straight to his room, he had gathered some supplies, rations, and his six-shooter, when a man almost identical in appearance to him knocked on his bedroom door. "Hey son, I got some good news," his pa said, "I got that banker's job in . . . " looking down upon Bradley's bed, "what are you packing?"

Bradley stared down at the bed and his belongings. "We talked about this pa," Bradley said, while he shoved the last of his supplies in his bag.

"Yeah, we did, and you said you weren't going," his pa said, as he shook his head with his arms and palms up.

"I changed my mind pa. You know I'm the best damned player in this here county. But there's no action here pa." He put his pack over his shoulder and grabbed his six-shooter.

"It's a hard life son," his pa said with a disgusted undertone. "You're better than those damned saloons."

Bradley finally looked up at him, "Don't worry pa, I'll be fine. Don't worry yourself, alright." With that he walked out and headed for the stables.

Sitting in front of the fire, Bradley occasionally gazed up at the stars. He thought about how he would make it big. He had been dealing cards since he was a kid. Now at twenty-two he wanted to put his skills to the test. He had won the county games every year since he was sixteen, but in all that time he never really played any one of real importance or fame.

For the past two years he'd been practicing with a Colt six-shooter. He bought it with his prize money he had won that year; considering personal protection, no one could really go anywhere without one. Everyone knew the law of the land was kill or be killed; at least that's what Bradley read about in all his papers and magazines. Someone was always trying to pick a fight with him. He figured his youthful looks didn't help any; Along with his friends making fun of him by calling him "Bradley the Kid". After he brandished the new pistol he earned, they stopped that altogether. That first thrill of power with his new piece gave him a real rush.

After a few weeks, Bradley ended up in a saloon at Fort Griffin, Texas. He would play at various saloons along the way to have an income. There was not much excitement, just the average low-lifes and drunkards he would encounter.

The midnight oil burned a hole in any fool who decided to stroll in with their green. Dirty wasn't the word to describe such filthy establishments. For each table there were piles of coins and money, watches and souvenirs, cards, and the hands that held them. Bradley sat himself down to enjoy a shot of some fine bourbon whiskey. Well, at least the thought of fine warmed him; piss water was more like it. He looked over his shoulder to one corner of the saloon where there was an obviously important poker game in progress. "What's going on over there?" he asked the bartender.

"That there is a poker game the likes of which this here saloon has never seen," said the bartender. "See that lanky feller in the dark black suit? That there is the infamous Doc Holliday. Best to steer clear. He's a cold man they say."

Disregarding the warning, Bradley stepped out of his seat with drink in hand and headed for the small crowd. He got through to see that three people were playing poker. He could tell by the discard pile it was western style poker, his favorite. He waited to see who would win the hand before he would invite himself into the game. Bradley prided himself on his gaming etiquette.

A few moments later Mr. Holliday lain down four aces. The crowd went buck wild. One of the men that was playing slammed a fist to the table and walked out while Doc Holliday grabbed all the green and coins with leather-gloved hands.

The other man at the table was sweating profusely and smelled like he just walked out of a pig farm. He was Ed Bailey. The one they call the town bully on account that he was used to getting his way.

Bradley stepped up to the infamous Doc Holliday, "Got time for another game, Mr. Holliday sir."

In a southern Georgian accent, "Oh please, call me Doc," Doc said. "And yes, I do. But you don't look old enough to be my cousin," he said with a twisted sneer. Some of the crowd chuckled.

Bradley looked into Doc's lifeless eyes; for the first time in a long time Bradley felt intimidated. He had read stories about the infamous Doc Holliday for years. He knew it was not the time to be tough or sarcastic. But he also didn't want to pass up this opportunity, or back down for that matter. This was his chance for some fame, and with his years of experience at card games, especially his favorite being western poker, he dared to believe he could take this rogue outlaw.

When Bradley pushed his hand down a deep pocket in his jacket, Doc swiftly placed his hand over the gun on his hip. It seemed the small crowd gasped at once. Bradley slowly pulled out his secret stash of dough. It was his life savings from all the prize money over the years and it was as thick as his fist. Everyone went wide-eyed; some were even licking their lips. Everyone except for Doc. No, Bradley was smart enough to know that this amount of money was chump change to the rich and playful Doc Holliday.

"Is this old enough for ya . . . " Bradley said with a youthful assurance in his tone—though he wasn't sure if it was wise to use Doc's name so nonchalantly, but he went for it anyway—"Doc?"

Doc sat there bewildered for a second at the audacity of this youngster. He exposed a crooked smile. "What's your name youngster?" Doc asked.

"The name's Bradley . . ." he thought for a moment, "Swift Hands Calliou. I come out of Alabama."

"Never heard a ya," Doc said prismatically.

Bradley knew there was no turning back now.

"Are we gonna ask twenty questions or play?" Ed Bailey said irritably.

"Well now Ed, is that anger I hear?" Doc said with sarcasm.

Ed gave him a nasty look.

Bradley could see the tension build and made a bold move. He put all his cash down on the pot and grabbed the deck, "Western Poker is it." Before anyone could say anything he began to shuffle. Doc was about to say something when his attention was thwarted by the remarkable shuffling techniques Bradley was using. He shuffled the deck with a fluid efficiency only the great deck masters could have had and passed out the cards in no time. Ed was not impressed, but Doc was tickled to death.

As the game wore on Doc had won five hands followed by Bradley's four. Ed had only won one hand. Bradley noticed that Ed was cheating by looking through the discards. This was expressly forbidden in western poker. Doc already gave him a warning and was about to give him another one. But Bradley figured that since Ed's cheating hadn't really helped him, why ruin a good thing.

Bradley observed that Ed kept his right hand under the table most of the games. His curiosity peaked even more when he noticed Doc's hand never left his hip gun.

"Now Ed," Doc started, "did I or did I not say in our last hand—"

"Oh to hell with you, you damned quack," Ed screamed. "You're both in it together ain'tcha," as he pointed at both Bradley and Doc.

"How dare you," Bradley retorted. Accusations of hustling were clear disrespect for any kind of etiquette of the game and this made Bradley angry; especially since it had been Ed who was cheating the whole game. "You're the one with your arm under the table the whole game."

In a flash Ed pulled out his gun and pistol whipped Bradley right on the forehead. Bradley was knocked off his chair. In the background he could see some people backing away or rustling in their chairs. "I won't be talked down to by no smartass kid," Ed said. "Ya hear me?" He pointed his gun at Bradley's face.

With blood trickling down his forehead and a bit dazed Bradley slowly got himself up. He noticed that while he was being yelled at by Ed, Doc had positioned himself right behind him with a shiny metal object in his left hand. Ed holstered his pistol and turned to sit back down. It took one second for Ed's intestines to be all over the poker table. Ed gasped for a moment then slumped to the floor. Bradley saw Doc stand over the twitching, lifeless body that had been Ed Bailey and heard him say, "I told you not to look at the discards Ed. Now yer dead, Ed." He chuckled to himself as the tasteless joke hung in the air.

A man behind Doc had unholstered his pistol. "Get down Doc!" Bradley yelled. Doc dropped and Bradley quick-drew his Colt, unloading three bullets square into the man's chest. Bradley's mouth opened wide and he dropped to his knees in shock.

Everyone in the saloon seemed to disappear in the shadows and some acted like they couldn't see or hear. Doc gathered up all the winnings and picked Bradley up off the floor, "Come on kid, we gotta go, now!"

After they rode for about two miles out of town Bradley and Doc stopped to compose themselves and make sure no one was following them. Bradley sat down on the grass. He pulled out his Colt and looked at it blankly. Doc stood over him.

"First time you killed a man kid?"

"Yes."

Doc tightened his lips and moved them to his right while looking left. "Look kid, you're an outlaw like me now. You got all the stuff. Just stick with me and we can make a lot of money and fulfill our wildest dreams."

"No, you're wrong Doc. I just killed a man. I'm going home."

Billy Bingo
by Mitch Hale

Swish!

Clara James' bustle fell to the floor, followed by her corset, and other intimate clothing. She stood bare-skinned and beautiful in the afternoon shadows.

Billy Bingo kicked off his boots, socks, pants, got tangled up in the bustle, tripped and fell.

His Colt pistol hit the floor and went off. The bullet embedded itself in the wall a foot from Clara's beautiful blue eyes.

"Whoops!" Billy fell into Clara's arms onto the bed.

"You've got to learn how to handle that big iron," Clara whimpered.

"I never was good with a gun, but I'm an expert lover."

A big fist banged against the door. "Open up! We heard gunfire."

Billy kicked their clothes under the bed. He pushed Clara into a corner, wedged his rifle into

the corner walls creating a temporary curtain rod. He strapped on his gun belt, threw the bed sheet over the rifle, making a cover for Clara to hide behind.

The knock grew louder. "Open up, or we're coming in."

"Hold your horses, ya damn Jack Wagon, I'm coming," Billy drew a bull's-eye with lipstick around the bullet hole. Then he opened the door.

Sheriff Chad Davis stormed in, followed by rancher, Red James.

"What the hell is going on?" Chad demanded. "We heard a gun shot."

"Just practicing my quick draw," Billy bragged.

"Hell, you're naked! Are you loco?" Red stuttered.

"You hit the bull's-eye," Chad said, as he admired the bullet hole.

"That's not all I hit. I found Red's stolen cattle herd."

Chad whistled. He looked at the ceiling, not wanting to see Billy in his naked glory.

"Where are they?" Red demanded.

"In the Black Rock Canyon, near Red Mesa. They're all your brands. I have two men watching them and have arrested the four rustlers. They confessed and rolled over on the leader of the rustling gang," Billy replied.

Red stepped towards the door, pulling his gun out of his holster.

Chad reached for his gun.

"Hands up! Both of you," Red said, putting the Smith & Weston against the sheriff's chest. "My perfect plan! You ruined it! I rustled my neighbor's cattle, blamed it on each of them, changed the brands, and started a range war. When the fighting was finished, I would have owned all their ranches and the whole Macksville Valley."

"Really? I thought it was Jonas Black," Billy asked, looking a little confused.

"Get your hands up, Billy," Red snarled.

Billy, who was still holding his gun belt, raised both hands. His gun belt slid down, the Colt hitting the floor.

"BANG!"

The gun shot was deafening. The bullet shattered the window.

Billy fell, tangled in his gun belt.

Chad drew his Colt and bashed Red in the head, knocking him silly. Red's pistol slid across the floor.

Billy reached under the bed, grabbed Clara's corset, threw it over Red's head, jerked the laces, wrapping them around Red's body and pinning his arms. He made a knot like he was tying a steer's legs.

Billy stood, his foot holding Red to the floor. "So, you're the rustler Kingpin after all!"

"You are under arrest for cattle rustling, Red. You will hang for this," boomed Sheriff Davis.

"Billy, who the hell are you?" One of Red's eyes was glaring through the corsets' laces.

"Bingo, Billy Bingo!" Billy smirked.

Billy grabbed the bed sheet for balance. It fell to the floor uncovering the luscious Clara in all her bare-skinned splendor.

"Clara!" Red sputtered. "Clara is my wife!"

"Miss Clara! Damn, you're married? I thought you were Red's sister," said the sheriff, tipping his hat to Miss Clara.

"Sheriff, excuse us. I'll be down in about two hours for the five-thousand dollar reward. You'll remember my name?" Billy demanded.

"Billy Bingo! Bounty hunter and detective, it's an honor," the sheriff said, nodding his head.

The door slammed shut behind Sheriff Chad as he ushered Red to jail.

Clara kissed Billy soundly.

"Billy, my Uncle Hollis will make good on the $1,000 reward for his cattle, and the other ranchers' rewards, too."

"What about the reward you're offering?" Billy whispered, as their lips blended together.

Two hours later.

"Billy Bingo, you're amazing. Stay with me and help me run the ranch. I'll make you a happy man. I love you, Billy Bingo!" Clara pleaded.

"Do you love me for my crooked grin or the scar on my chin?"

"No!" Clara giggled.

"Do you love me for my straw-colored-hair or my steely-gray-eyed stare?" Billy posed, staring at Clara.

"No!" She smiled as she ran her toes along his arm.

"Is it 'cause I'm tall and thin or because I'm the best lover there's ever been?"

Clara pulled him back in bed.

"I love you 'cause you're a bounty hunter and good in bed. But, I really love you 'cause you got rid of Red." Her lips found his for the third time. She sighed. "I'm lying. I love you 'cause you like to spoon. I love you 'cause you make me swoon." She crawled up to straddle her lover. "I love you 'cause you've got lots of powers. Truthfully, I've never met a man who could last for two hours. Billy, Billy Bingo," she moaned.

"Bingo!" he yelled.

"You're a winner, Billy. You're even better than Sheriff Chad."

"Hmmm, I thought that lawman had your number. How'd that happen?" Billy asked tossing her back on the bed.

"Red used to be on the sheriff's posse. One day, Red galloped off to join the posse leaving me and our pussy cat, Precious, on the porch. A few minutes later, Sheriff Chad came riding up. He asked, "Sis, have you seen my posse?" I thought he said pussy and I replied, "No, have you seen mine?" Clara giggled, "I pointed at Precious, my pussy cat. The next thing I knew, we were in the bedroom doing show and don't tell."

"How was the man with a silver star?" Billy asked.

"He was the best! Until I met you, Billy Bingo!" Clara smiled.

Sheriff Chad Davis went to the Macksville Valley Bank and made arrangements for eight thousand dollars reward money to be put in Billy Bingo's account. When Billy dropped by The Sheriff's office, Chad said, "Billy, here is a poster on Bart Clemens, they call him Big Bart. There is a thousand dollar reward on his head and five hundred each on his two brothers, Little Jim and Twister Clemens. Bart boasts he has killed twenty men. Jim is an expert tracker and Twister is meaner than a rattlesnake."

"I'll bring them in, Sheriff," Billy bragged.

"Dead or alive!" Chad grinned.

Secretly, Chad thought: if you get them it'll help me. If they get you, Billy, it'll help me with Miss Clara. I may be a little slow, but I think, she and Billy were up to no good in his room for two hours.

"Big Bart's gang has been spotted at Platte City where they robbed the bank and killed the sheriff. It's a four-day ride," Billy said.

"Good luck, Billy Bingo." The Sheriff said, thinking, for eight days Billy will be gone.

Billy mounted his horse and the saddle fell off. His horse, Butter, looked down at him and nickered.

Billy slapped the dust off his chaps. "Help me with this saddle, Sheriff. I never get the straps right."

Clara was waving from the hotel window as Billy rode out of town.

Billy waved. He looked back to see the sheriff waving. Dumb smuck, Clara's waving at me, he thought.

The Sheriff waved. He saw Billy waving, too. He thought Billy Bingo has collected his last reward from Miss Clara. A man who can straddle a woman, but can't even saddle a horse, shouldn't trust another man to saddle it for him.

Billy rode West. Sunsets turned into sunrises. The Platte River was plentiful with fish, and berries on the river banks. Billy made snares and caught rabbits for supper.

He discovered an Indian strapped naked to a tree. Someone had made cuts in the tree to release sticky sap. It covered the Indian's body. Ants, flies, and bugs of all kinds, were feasting on the sap and the Indian.

Billy cut him free. The brave collapsed, unconscious. Billy rolled him into the river and with soap from Macksville, scrubbed him down.

"I lost a challenge. I was sentenced to die a painful death," The Indian spoke after recovering. "I'm called Little Hawk."

Little Hawk was soon quenching his thirst by drinking from the river.

Billy, who had stripped off his clothes to avoid getting sap on them, scrubbed himself in the river, after his invigorating rescue and scrubbing of Little Hawk.

Billy's horse, Butter, whinnied as three riders, holsters low on their hips, guns drawn, stopped to let their horses drink. Two blonde-haired women were tied to the back of pack mules, trailed behind the three outlaws.

Billy eyed his Colt lying fifty feet away. He smiled. "You must be Big Bart." He nodded to the smallest outlaw, who must be Little Jim Clemens.

"I'm Big Bart," The outlaw leader said, puzzled by the stranger's remark.

"I thought you would be smaller," Billy said.

"Huh?" Big Bart grunted.

"I'm the Platte River Kid," Billy said. "This is my special friend, Two Dogs Knotted. We have come to join your gang."

"We don't need any help." Twister Clemons said.

"You will need me to help you rob the mining camp," Billy said. "They have been panning for gold for a year and have a fortune stashed. Their camp is two hours east of here. You probably should keep Two Dogs Knotted alive. He's a great hunter, cook, and an expert lover."

"How did you get the name, Two Dogs Knotted?" Bart asked Little Hawk.

Billy said. "It's an Indian custom. His Father named his children at their birth after the first thing he saw. His sister is Running Deer. His brother is Angry Bear." Pointing at Little Hawk, he said, "He is Two Dogs Knotted."

Bart roared with laughter.

"An expert lover?" The Indian frowned. "I speak white man's language and —"

Billy kissed him.

Bart shuffled. "Stop that!"

Billy grinned. "I'll be your huckleberry."

Bart pointed his gun at Billy. "What about the gold?"

Billy stepped out of the river.

Twister Clemens whistled. "You're skinny as a rail and have the butt of a nine year-old."

Billy winked at the two women, who actually blushed.

"Get out of the river, Two Dogs Knotted! Don't be shy. The water is not that cold. We're part of Big Bart's gang now. We got gold to steal and whiskey to drink. What's the deal, Bart? Me and Dog, sixty. You boys, forty!"

Bart's gun bucked. Dirt flew by Billy's foot.

"You think I'm a fool? Two minutes ago, I was going to kill you and this queer injun."

Two Dogs Knotted started to speak. Billy gave a smooch sound and Dog shut up.

"Kill us and no gold," Billy smirked. "Seventy, for us. Thirty for you, that's my last offer."

"That's more like it. Get dressed and let's ride," Bart gloated.

That night after they made camp. Twister and Little Jim scouted the miner's camp.

Billy, aka 'The Platte River Kid,' cut the women loose.

They ran.

"Why did you let them go?" Bart screamed.

Billy shouted, "They'll come back or the rattlesnakes and wolves will get them."

The two women came stomping back into camp.

"I know they make better coffee and cook better than Twister." Billy said. "Tomorrow, we hit the mining camp."

They ate the rabbit Billy had snared and ravaged the trout he had speared.

The next morning, Twister Clemens was gone. Little Jim retched at the river's edge.

Big Bart paced back and forth

"Little Jim, What is going on?" Bart demanded.

"Little Jim is sick from the horse hair the women put in the fire and mixed in his coffee," Billy announced. "I unloaded Twister's gun while he was sleeping. Then, I put wolf urine from a female wolf in heat all over his clothes. Five wolves have him up a tree down river."

Billy showed his badge.

"Bart, you are under arrest for the murder of the Platte City sheriff."

Bart drew his twin Colts. They slipped from his hands. He tried to pick them up, but couldn't get a grip.

"Hold it right there!" A strange voice commanded.

Bart looked up.

Ten miners had rifles trained on Bart.

Two Dogs Knotted tied the retching Twister to a tree.

Two prospectors led Little Jim into camp.

"My guns! What did you do to them?" Big Bart screamed.

"Rabbit grease makes them too slick to handle."

The two blonde captives sandwiched Billy in an embrace.

"Platte River Kid, my eye, who are you?" Big Bart yelled.

The two captives, Grace and Kate, sighed. "Bingo! Billy Bingo!"

"You slept with my prisoners?" Bart whined.

Billy drew an imaginary gun. He pointed his finger at Bart. "Bingo!"

"I guess you're after the bounty on my head, Billy Bingo?" Big Bart scrowled. "I'd bet you're going to turn us over to Sheriff Chad Davis. Well, you fouled my plans, got my women, but there's one thing you'll never get, Billy Bingo."

"What's that, Big Bart?" Billy asked.

"My sweetheart, who lives near Sheriff Chad's town, rancher Red James's sister, Miss Clara is her name. She's sweet, she's innocent, and she'll be true to me forever so she can be my bride," Bart yelled, as he broke loose, ran and jumped on Butter, Billy's horse. He jumped into the saddle and slapped the reins, and said, "Git-e-up!"

The saddle fell off and Bart cursed, looking up at Billy from the ground.

"Bingo!" Billy Bingo said. "Here's a little piece of advice for you, Little Bart. Never let anyone saddle your horse after you've straddled his woman for two hours."

"Huh?" Big Bart grunted.

"Strap that saddle back on Butter, Little Hawk, then let's hit the trail," Billy said.

They herded the prisoners toward town to collect the reward money and get a little honey.

Billy Bingo's voice rang out loud and strong.

"Moving, moving, moving, keep them outlaws moving.

I always get my bounty 'cause there's one on every head.

I always get my bootie, 'cause there's one in every bed.

Riding with Dog and Butter, I make the outlaws shudder.

Got a gal in every town. I always shoot the bad men down.

I'm known high or low, wild as the winds that blow,

Just say my name and they'll know, I'm Billy Bingo!

Bounty hunter, Detective, Extraordinaire!"

Amigo Juan's War
by Tom Sheehan

The argument didn't rage in the bunkhouse, but it seethed, a kettle on the hind end of a wood stove tossing off steam, the words now and then rising in like manner, slowly but surely and every once in a while the argument, or elements of it, came tinged with a taste of vindictiveness. Speedo Tamiroff thought it exposed a long-muted hate that right now might be gathering speed, heading somewhere, possibly into the middle of the crew. His gut was roiling but he had made his pitch to the seven other cowpokes.

"That's all damned wrong, my friend," Amigo Juan had said in reply to the disgruntled Tamiroff. "'You can't make a wrong all right all of a sudden,' my pa used to say. He also said, 'An inquisition becomes a revelation,' and when he was getting to the core of things he'd say, 'An I becomes an Us.' He believed it. Every word of it."

Through talking he might have been, but paused and went on with, "And reading was his great joy."

That pause was significant, as though measurement was necessary, part of the pitch he was about to make, his mind shaping the process. He'd be ready for them, one and all, and thought back over all he'd said, and simply added. "War is hell no matter what, no matter where you fight it, no matter against who, and the who, it sparks me to say, is somebody against our boss, against that old man up there in the main house."

He hoped he was not in the midst of indifference, realizing he'd always been different from the others . . . trying so hard not to let go of the past and yet hold onto the present, the future. This country, this new world, was wide open, full of promise as far as a man could see, as far as a man could ride.

"If they're against the boss, if they're against this old man who treats us like sons, if they want his cattle, if they want this land of his that we're living on and working on, then they're against us. They want us out of here. And by God, they're not getting by me."

Amigo Juan shifted his weight, the way you've seen some boxers do, with a certain haughtiness caught in the spice of the movement, a derring-do carrying a voice of its own, like a look right in the eye coming on hard as a horseshoe kick. It was his natural way of bracing questions, making a statement a long step beyond the general talk of most bunk houses; rumors coming wide as the grass, gossip slippery as a hooked fish being banked, and rankling innuendos by the wagonload all over the town of Salvation Creek, the saloon, the barbershop, any place where all kinds of men gathered. They were seen by Amigo Juan as enemies, for they did not mumble what they meant. They were fully understood.

There was no two-way traffic about Juan Amigo. Recently he had begun settling matters in the bunkhouse where no one else spoke up against any bully with power in his back pocket. Some had said it was a tough enough task for anyone "but extra hard for a gaucho from the pampas, 'the gent with the funny clothes.'"

The fact is, Juan Amigo was the first gaucho ever to drive cattle for Hughes Anderson in Utah, and old and sickly Anderson seemed about to pass on his holdings, The Swedish Dream ranch spreading over 40,000 acres of foothill brush, Salvation Creek itself slipping out of the mountains in several points, merging for a flow alongside the luxurious grass he'd grazed his cattle on for more than 20 years.

To stir the pot, not a single member of his family was left from the early days. He was a kind, lonely old man who owned a grand piece of real estate. It salivated some very ordinary men, and also all who knew about it and were not ordinary men.

There were secret jostlings going on in the background that most people, including Anderson himself, were aware of because the secrecy was not of any importance to those taking aim at his property. Included in the opposition side were two extreme groups in their plans; one was willing to wait for Anderson to die, by accident or by natural cause, either apparently on the old man's horizon the way he went at life; and the other side of that stance was about to make a move to hasten his death and hurry the impending acquisition.

The one grace in this plight was the high admiration old Anderson felt toward the young man from South America, like a bright light on horseback every time he saw him working a herd, tending to his horse, minding his manners as though he had been educated in the finest schools. Yet the only schooling in his background was obviously that which he'd learned on the wide grass of the pampas and added to here in western America growing by leaps and bounds through exposure to people arriving from all over the world. Some of those places were farther away than his pampas.

Anderson once observed, "Amigo Juan learns more of the trades and less of the tricks of newcomers crossing the territories in wagon trains. He's got an eye for it. He's a student of people."

Special Amigo Juan was, and different from any man who had ever worked for him, bar none. Anderson had picked up a good deal of the Spanish from his wife as well as from a number of hands he had hired over the years. He found nothing strange at all in calling him by the name he had given in introducing himself, the tall, wide sombrero in place (often changing it for a small derby-like affair, also making a statement of origin), the large curved knife (faucon) stuck in the back of his belt, the belt also holding a lasso and three-balled bolas for near instant hobbling of a target or an enemy. His loose trousers were distinctive, along with a chirpo or wrap-around and its accompanying poncho worn for weather protection. An artist would certainly, and with relish, paint him different from other cowpokes . . . the outcome also being a stick-out on a horse; he could ride like the devil himself.

On the prairie he was auspicious; in towns along the way he was looked at as invader, wet-back, odd-lot, stranger from far off, an awed oddity in the funny hat or funny pants or a scary knife near at hand saying hand fights were gambles against a stacked deck.

He was auspicious, too, in the bunkhouse, by his speech, his phrasing."A wrong becoming a right." "An inquisition becoming a revelation." "An I becoming an Us." Somewhat off-handedly, Amigo Juan had spoken words he'd carried for years, the very annunciation and subsequent echoes being part of his precious memory. Now they were getting up to speed, being used for the first time in a long span of driving cattle across dry grass, endless miles of it, eating grub he'd hardly favor come his choice, hearing the taunts from dozens of drovers. And the meanest and vilest from one drover in particular who bragged about killing unwanted men, useless people in his judgment.

Shove Dexter, talking about Juan Amigo's long haul up from the lower continent, said, "Hell, man, his back's wetter than that Injun we tossed over the falls at Break Bone Ridge one time, him too coming from another world of silly hats and silly tricks."

Amigo Juan knocked him totally hither with one punch, neither man carrying a weapon in the bunkhouse and Anderson gone to town in a buggy, unable to mount and comfortably ride a horse anymore. And he didn't bother to wear his gun belt or carry a rifle; an easy touch for any skunk met on a lonely stretch of the road or a bushwhacker.

The old man didn't last long on his own; in fact, he didn't get to town, a bushwhacker's slug catching him in the back as the buggy traveled over the rough stretch of road about two miles from that destination; the echo of the single shot fading in the grass.

A passerby heard the shot and investigated. He found the old man dead and raced to the ranch to tell the hands. Amigo Juan, already mounted, rushed not to the scene of the murder, but into town, getting a place at the end of the bar, out of sight on new entrants. He kept a steady eye on everybody who came in, where they went in the saloon, who they spoke to, who they huddled with if they huddled.

Of 7 more customers who entered the saloon after him, he made particular note of two of them; one was a cousin to Shove Dexter, a mealy-mouthed gabber and rough-house like his cousin, one side of his face ever-reddened by a pot of scalding water a woman had hurled into his leering face in self-defense. His name was Host Dexter and if a man was ever misnamed it was him, because the livid red scar traveled down beside his left ear and came to a knotted end where his jaw exhibited an uncomfortable lump. The travesty of the scar gave the cousin not a sympathetic and curious presentation, but a hideous look. Amigo Juan thought it would be difficult to sit with the scarred man at a table and enjoy an evening beer; tales often told but not spoken. For now, this Dexter sat alone, spared of company, a loner.

The second man made note of, and so marked, was a stranger, wearing the dingy remnants of a Stetson and worn drover clothes as if he'd just left the saddle after a drive of many months. Everything about him appeared to be on its last legs, worn to the nub, tattered or in ruins. The only saving element to his appearance was an apparent morning shave and his shiny gun belt, the belt carrying a pair of pistols with wear-clean, bone-white handle grips. Immediately on entrance he sat himself at a table with two other men as though he'd been expected to bring news of a late journey or escapade, the men waiting with impatience filling their inquisitive looks. The two men at the table were cowpokes who worked at a spread up the valley and Anderson's favored hand recognized them right away.

Amigo Juan had never see this other man before, of that he was sure not only because of his state of dress, but the man's coal-black, deeply-set eyes looked back at him loaded with danger and all kinds of Hell waiting for ignition, the man obviously recognizing Amigo Juan from some quick description uttered at the table. This, Amigo Juan concluded, was an enemy, not only for him but for Mr. Anderson in a very recent past . . . only proof at the moment lacking for the hangman's knot, or a quick, clean shot face to face or a bolo wrap about his thick neck.

Amigo Juan wished for dialogue to accompany his thoughts, set the scene as it was developing in his mind. And it was often that he was able to fill in gaps of knowledge with an intuition that grasped him with suddenness, and unwitting accuracy. He could smell danger, secrecy, murder, back-shooting, as if each insidious deployment had just been skinned of its outer covering, like a pungent lime that he had not smelled in years, an acidic taste sitting in his throat.

The silence in the saloon bothered him. Then he wondered what last word or words Mr. Anderson had muttered, something besides "Oh" or "What's that?" or "Amigo Juan, where are you?" Maybe he said, "I recognize the man standing over me, making sure I'm dead. I must keep my eyes still and open, stare at the sky, crook my finger under my leg like it's on the trigger. Maybe write a word in road dust that describes this bushwhacker, pin on him to a characteristic mark, one that Amigo Juan will recognize, for nobody else but him will pursue this death of mine. Perhaps, perhaps, I have already passed here."

The sensations of sound, imaginative and created sound, came upon Amigo Juan with considerable force. Once, a long time in the past, he had heard the wind sitting in the bottled end of a canyon catching the wind and tossing words at him that had no recall once they faded away. Warnings, he realized, were like that, minute alerts that heeded observation, understanding, reaction.

In a boisterous blast from youthful days, came the yells and howls of his friends as they raced on the pampas; "Así se hace, Victor." "Gran tiro, Juan." "Carmín, el gran vaquero." ("Way to go, Victor." "Great shot, Juan." "Carmine, the great vaquero."), the boladeros whistling in the wind, the hoof beats like drums from a near jungle of trees and the mysteries, the elusive joys that he knew would never come again in the same sounds, would never bring the same feeling. But he knew he'd have gone back if it hadn't been for the friendship and love for the old man shot dead in the road dust, but surely by now brought home by some of the hired hands. There'd be hell to pay if he hadn't been taken care of; and now it was his turn, his piece of the war someone had started from the depth of Hell and one old man the lone target.

This other yell coming at him was different . . . no joy in it . . . coming across the otherwise sudden silence in the saloon, gravelly, guttural, full of vitriol and hate and bigotry: "Hey, you, you sod Americano from Sod America. How come you keep starin' at me? What's this new crap of yours have to do with me? I just came into the saloon for a drink and you keep starin' at me. What you got goin' on me, huh?"

"I heard this minute the echo of a single bullet. One shot from a coward's place of hiding. One single echo of an old man dying at the single shot of a coward shooting from the darkness of trailside trees or a big boulder, or from behind a log big as a dead mule. One echo that traveled all the way from the west road to town and ending up right here in this room."

'Well, well, well, the Sod Americano's got something to say about someone dying. Is that it, Amigo? Is that it, Sod Americano? You sayin' I killed some old man who couldn't even take care of himself?"

Amigo Juan stepped away from the bar. "I didn't say anything about an old man. How did you know an old man died, if you weren't out there?"

"Oh," came the reply. "My friends here told me."

"You're a liar, señor. They were here when I got here and I came right from the dead man, the old man with the bullet in his back, and then you came in, and those two pals of yours better get away from the table because I'm coming over there to smell both of your pistols to see if either one has been fired in the last hour, or aproximadamente. And before you die you're going to tell all of us who hired you to bushwhack an old man who sold his ranch to me a month ago."

The two men at the table, suddenly aware their plan had caused a useless death, started to slide their chairs away from the table. One said, "We got nothin' to do with you, Grayson. Nothin' at all."

Grayson's fist slammed down on the table. "You two sit still and don't move. I'll talk to you after I finish all my business. I think your war has started already, just the way you wanted it, by Jingo. You think you're gonna own half the world out here before you die, huh? Better think again, the pair of you eggheads. If I go down, you go down with me." His face was drained of color, as if his blood had run away from him, filling his boots.

As cool as any vaquero ever spoke, Amigo Juan said, "None of you have it that cut and dry, Grayson," defiance exhibited in spades once more.

"It's my war now." Again he amplified his voice, the softness departed from it, a new hardness in its tone. "And you are going to have a piece of it. You'll be the second victim in this war, if the other two there at the table will kindly step aside."

His hand waved its warning.

It was an opening not to be ignored. He motioned to the two men who'd cooked up the murder scheme, flipping one hand against the boladeros swinging at his belt, the sound a threatening hollow issue, promising personal danger. There came announcements with that move, stories, pampas tales, vaquero mysteries afoot.

From half a world away, in an otherwise silent room, new circumstances had arrived at Salvation Creek.

"Believe this one thing before you die, Grayson," Amigo Juan said, letting the words slide through his lips with little moisture and just above a whisper, like Hell itself had stepped out on a sly move.

But the whisper penetrated all ears.

"Death is not easy by any means," he continued. "Often it is not quick like a bullet slamming its way through the chambers of your heart, or it is not explosive inside the head like cannon-ware or a foul grenade. It can be as ugly as venom, and as slow . . . as slow as clotted blood in the last vein available. It can curse its half-way grasp on the breath like the hangman's noose without your feet taking a single step in death's final dance."

His body shook in a rhythmic and related gesture. At his side, in another move to instill fright and the full awareness of danger, he maneuvered the rawhide-wrapped boladeros with slick finesse; he'd brought that weapon from Argentina as though it was part of his person. It looked nothing more than a simple trio of leather balls attached to a braided set of leather cords. But most of the cowpunchers in the saloon had seen this weapon in action, taking down a horse, or a wild bull or a runaway target, or, without harmful intent, taking down squaw pine limbs off a dead tree for a campsite fire, the soft whir and whistle as they cut the air, and old Anderson once saying, "It was sure like blowin' on the embers of a fire before the flames came to light."

It was easy to see that Amigo Juan was transparent in all his motions, all his threats. As messages they could be seen, felt, almost tossing into the room the real smell of slow death. Here he was once more the true gaucho wrapped in honest conviction, in loyalty, with speedy and accurate use of pistol and boladeros and an imagination borne from the fields of home ringed by dark jungles. Those jungles, word had spread, were peopled by native tribes specializing in the darkest tortures. The stories he'd told around dozens of campfires raised the hair on the necks of many tough cowpokes, and even chilled a few of them with exaggerated fear. In truth, he was an odd danger to behold, on the wide prairie, in the confines of a saloon, and especially in the eyes of lesser men. Reputation as well as concord moved about with the man.

One of those lesser men was Grayson, for a moment frozen in place, his heart holding back on him, his breath too. This other man, the foreigner, was in command of the saloon, not himself as he had envisioned so many times. His eyes searching the room for support found nothing; not a raised eyebrow, not a wink of a sly eye, not the beginning sneer at the corners of a pair of lips, not a slow hand settling down on a side arm ready for wild commotion. The saloon stood as still as windless grass out on the vast prairie, hushed, not a single flicker of a blade.

He was alone . . . at the end of the trail, against the stone wall of a last stand, catching what breath wavered in the room. His heart pumped too loudly, he thought, and the Stetson fell backwards from its perch on his head, the drawstring holding taught against his throat, a breath suspended at that juncture. His hand, too shaky to dare a quick draw, to ask for death at the hands of a damned foreigner, remained in place; judgment trying to exert itself, good sense.

It didn't help him, that unstable feeling. He struggled to compete, to stand up to the cowboy from another country, another world. And in that split second of judgment, of disbelief and wonder at the same time, his boots immovable, he knew he was servile in front of this man. He was beaten at his own game, his fingertips telling him so, the nervy lengths of his arms, his boots floating like loose stirrups, signals moving up and down his back as swiftly as clarions or the blast of a bugle.

None of it in his favor.

Slowly, still shaking, Grayson moved his hands, one at a time, to the buckle on his gun belt. His head was down, as though all the years told him he was going to end up this way . . . like his mother had told him a hundred times or more, "Perhaps you'll be as dead as a log at the hand of a faster gun . . . there's always a faster gun in the crowd, Sonny."

That wisdom was attendant again around Amigo Juan, new land owner in the new world.

Crossing the Range
by Benjamin J Gordy

"Noon. It's got to be noon . . . Right?"

"Would you quit staring at that sun kid? You're gonna go blind. What if we run into some trouble? This here is Mexican territory."

"Those critters are nasty too boy let me tell ya. The captain's right. Keep your eyes and ears on the task at hand, kid."

The three men rode on horseback through the sparse landscape for some distance, before setting their sights upon a small river, shaded by trees, and surrounded with grass. It was nearly sunset before they approached the river and dismounted their steeds. The tall, tan, brisk leader wears a thick, black mustache, with narrow tips; and a brown ten gallon hat, creased in the front, and brimmed upright ever so slightly. "You boys water the pack horses too." He said as he led his own horse to the surprisingly cool river, amidst the vast heat of what will one day be called Texas.

"Hey Boss?" The young greenhorn named Paulie inquisitively questions. "How soon you think we will get there?"

"Hell. I don't know kid. We got a ways I expect. I never been there. Map says we got to pass one more river . . . I suppose we might be there in another night or two." Captain Samuel Jones stated, providing the little knowledge he had acquired on the topic.

"Hey Captain? You expect your brother is doing well out here? I mean look at this place . . . It's not exactly paradise. He gonna have work for us?" The second in command worriedly questions as he drinks from the river.

"Well Bradford, I don't rightly know. His last letter was the summer of 1813. While we were still fighting in that dern war. He said he had a ranch on a beautiful piece of land. He said he had horses and beef. He even told me he had a brood of pigs. He slaughters them on special occasions, you know... Sure sounds nice to me. Better than those dang bombs bursting in the air." The Captain informed his second in command as he shifted his gun belt, and knelt to drink from the calm river.

"Yeah I know, Cap. But that letter was over five years ago. He might have left since then. Or maybe the rivers shifted. Maybe the maps no good no more. I mean no whites live down this far . . . Who would? I sure as hell don't trust these Mexicans." Lt. Luke Bradford said in a displeased and untrusting tone. The Lt. is a shorter man, but scrappy as can be. He stands five foot, seven inches, atop the prettiest, most well-kept boots anybody had ever seen on a trail. Every morning he would walk around in his skivvies shaking the dust from his clothes and spit shining his boots. He was determined to stay clean, no matter the weather conditions.

"Maybe we should sleep for a couple hours then travel some more at night." The Captain looked around the empty landscape. "Looks comfortable enough to me. We can sleep off some of this trail. The dogs will wake us if there's any trouble." He looks to the labs, lapping up the water nearby.

"Sounds good to me boss. I'm beat." The young, scrawny, inexperienced, boy said with hopeful slumber in his eyes. Paulie Greeley is only seventeen, picked up by the captain and Lt. in Louisiana. He said his folks and kid sister were killed by Comanche's when they were moving west. So he came back to Louisiana to his uncle's house, but they were naught to be found. The neighbors told him, his uncle moved a few years ago. Sold their land for a nice piece of coin too, they said.

The three men slept a few hours before they woke to the dogs growling. Each of them reached for their baker rifles nearby, except for the kid, he only had a single shot, flintlock pistol. "Keep calm boys, lift the sleep from your eyes . . . Luke you see anything?" The Captain quietly questions his Lt. and scout.

"No. What those dogs see anyhow?" Only the dogs can be heard faintly growling. "Awe, Captain . . . Those damned dogs is sleeping." He stands to his feet and steps towards the dogs. "These mutts are just dreaming." He lightly kicks one of the dogs. "Some watch dogs you are. Fall asleep on the job . . . " He spoke with the dogs, as they snarled back, displeased at the prospect of awakening on such harsh terms. "Don't you get mad at me. I'm not the lazy asshole. You is."

"Leave those dang dogs alone Bradford. It's good they were just sleeping. Them Indians run nearly as thick as the vaqueros down here. We're lucky to only have sleeping dogs for company. We ought to be moving anyhow. Go grab our gear. We'll break our fast with some jerky as we ride." The other two men groaned as the Captain mentioned more jerky for another meal.

"I sure do hope your brother slaughters the fatted calf for us when we get there. Like the prodigal son's return in the good book. Lord knows we could use some different eats. Anything but this dern jerky." Bradford ranted in an unpleased tone.

"I expect he will feed us better than we've had in the past few years. No reason to fret over it. At least this jerky is fresh. Remember those meals we had in the army? Now those were something to piss and moan about. This jerky is rather nice when you remember those meals." The Captain stated, bringing up a memory and taste Bradford would have rather forgotten.

"You certainly have an interesting take on life. Replace a bad moment in your life with a worse one. Most people get through the bad times by thinking of something good. No, not you, you replace bad with worse. I don't understand how that makes you feel better 'bout the situation." Bradford chuckled as he relished over the Captains perspective.

"Luke is right, Boss. You sure can be funny at times." Young Paulie said as he looked to the Captain with a wry grin.

The troop traveled all night and into the morning before coming upon a small run down ranch. "Whoa. Whoa. Slow your step boys. We seem to be coming up on someone's land here. Grab your rifle scope Bradford. See if anyone's home." The Captain ordered.

Bradford removed his rifle from the saddle holster and peered towards the cabin. "Broken windows Cap. Looks abandoned . . . Wait I see movement inside . . . Nope, just a bird, Cap. Don't think anyone's been here for some time."

"Well I suppose we can get a little shade for a time and check out the situation." Everyone agreed and made their way towards the abandoned shelter in a cautious, hesitant, fashion. They reached the shelter as a few birds scurried from within, leaving through the broken windows and the opened door. Captain Jones was the first to enter the sparsely lit room, with his single shot pistol at the ready. "Looks like we've got some company, there's a critter over yonder." Samuel gestured with his gun. "Maybe we can have some lunch? What the hell is that thing, Bradford?"Each of the men looked at the shelled creature curious as to its breed.

"Why Captain, that's an armadillo, I seen one once. Quick little buggers they are." Young Paulie stated. "I never heard of anyone eaten them." He said, sickened by the thought.

"Oh hell kid, people eat all sorts of funny stuff. I'm game to try something new." Luke eagerly salivated as he thought of some perfectly delicious new meat. He pulled out his buck knife as he shifted toward the scared creature. "I'll get this little varmint." Bradford approached the creature cautiously, unsure of the critter's defensive ploys. The armadillo just stayed in the corner attempting to not be seen. As the Lt. picked up the critter its legs wiggled to find a grasp on the familiar ground. "Yee-Haw, we're gonna eat some fresh meat tonight boys!"Bradford exclaimed. "This shell is hard, how much meat you think these buggers have?"

"Golly, you're really gonna try to eat that thing, Luke?" Paulie questioned.

"Sure am. Why the hell not? If it don't taste good we still have our jerky. And if it's good eats, well hell, we'll have something to eat on the trail besides that dern jerky. Either way, we're gonna camp here for the night, might as well try it out." Luke stated with his no nonsense logic.

"The Lt. is right. If he can figure out how to gut it and pull some meat from that hard casing, we might as well give it a go." The Captain reassured his young recruit.

Bradford had the boy start a fire while he got to cutting open the creature. After killing the small critter he hit the shell a few times with the butt of his knife, to crack the hard exterior. Luke toiled over breaking the shell apart and stripping the meat clean. He grabbed a couple of skewers from one of his saddlebags and pierced the meat in chunks. While Bradford kept busy, the Captain braced a couple sticks alongside the fire, using them as rotisserie rods for the skewers. "The things you learn in the army, I tell ya, that's probably the best thing I received from my service . . . Learning from the other guys."

"I hear ya Cap. Some of those boys had tricks that not only saved our lives, but also made them more bearable." Bradford added while agreeing. The boy just listened, hesitant to remember his own experience with violence. While the meat cooked, all three watched the fire and relaxed their minds, enjoying the comfort of silence. Bradford grabbed his flask of whiskey and had a nip. He gestured to the Captain, but the Captain just shrugged it off.

"I'll wait till we're safe with my brother. Best to keep a clear head in this territory." Samuel stated, knowing full well Bradford would not only do as he pleased, but would also be able to handle himself in a semi-inebriated state. If anyone could hold their liquor, it's Bradford.

Luke just nodded his head as he capped the cork. Then pulled out his knife and cut off a chunk of meat. "Looks good." He blew on the hot slice and then ripped a chunk with his teeth. He chewed for a moment then said, "Eat up boys, it tastes like rabbit." Luke informed the others with a smiling mouthful.

Everyone ate and enjoyed their small meal. After swallowing the last bite, the Captain remarked, "Remember Private Josiah? I just remembered, he told me once that you could season your meat with gunpowder. Wonder how that tastes?"

"Yeah I think I heard that as well. If there was anyone who could survive in the wilderness it would be him. Josiah knew everything about tracking and hunting. It's a shame. If he was in the forest with a bear stalking him he would have survived. Unfortunately it's hard to outwit a cannonball, especially when their coming from all over." Bradford remarked with a grin, unbefitting the tragic memory.

Samuel noticed the grin as he said, "He was a funny kid. I sure did like him."

"Quiet . . . Did you guys hear that? Put that fire out kid." Luke said as he grabbed his rifle. After Paulie had kicked enough dirt over the fire to smother the flames, Bradford ordered. "The house. Make your way slowly to the house. Someone saw our fire. They're coming our way."

Samuel and Paulie followed Luke's lead. They all made it to the house and found a window to rest their rifles upon. "Did you see them Bradford, or just smell them?"

"I heard them. I think they're Indians. Quiet and smart. Not sure how many, but they usually scout with no less than five. I doubt the whole tribe is on the move, but if so . . . There is no way we could hold off an entire tribe until morning."

"That little bit of meat was nothing to get killed over. We should have just ate that jerky." The Captain grumbled at the predicament.

"Cap, no need to relive our unintended mistakes. We have to figure a way out of this, we can't do that if we're focused on the past. I've seen two so far, one is still there. If need be I might can pick him off, but I don't want to start a fight if that's not their intention. I guess they ain't Indians, they're wearing hats, not feathers . . . Might be we settled in their camp." Luke guessed at the possibilities.

"Well hell. They're probably banditos. I don't think we are lucky enough for them to be friendly. We shouldn't expect a warm welcome." Samuel persisted with his grumbling.

"Why don't we just yell to them and see what they want. They know we're here. They saw our fire and probably see our horses. And they definitely hear those dang dogs."The kid suggested.

"I suppose the kid has the right of it." Bradford looked to the Captain and nodded. Captain Samuel Jones began to yell to the surrounding threats. "We're not looking for any trouble! We just wish to move on! No need for gunplay! Let's just all go our own ways! You hear me? We don't want trouble!" The men listened for a while without response.

"What should we do Cap? If we wait it out, we might be giving them time to steal our horses. If we make a run, they might kill us, then steal our horses. I don't see the path. Do you?" Bradford questioned hopeful in his Captains wits.

"Our horses are right outside. It is dark. Maybe we can make a break for it. Might be we stand a better chance fleeing. They may have been riding all day, might be their horses are tired. We may get lucky if we leave now, but if we stay . . . They could burn us out, steal our horses, and leave us for dead. If they're friendly they will let us leave. I doubt they have a large group, if we go quickly we can head south. The river should not be too far, we might make it there by daybreak. Then we head west. My brother said he would be on the Brazos River. The fourth or fifth river from Louisiana, depending on our route. This map shows many rivers, but if we kept true and traveled how I believe, we should be there tomorrow. Let's make a run for it. Grab your own pack and lead horse and worry about nothing else. Just grab your leads and make a dash south. Keep a wide berth, we will reunite when it is safe." Luke and Paulie nodded in recognition and reply. The three men made a break for the horses, quickly untying their leads and mounting their steeds. They headed south in a rush, continuously looking behind, awaiting their unwelcomed company. But they were naught to be found. They rode until morning, yet they still had not met a river. All three were getting tired on account of not being able to sleep for a stint. They were glad for the rest they had, while it lasted, but unfortunately it made them more tired. The horses did however gain enough relaxation for the long ride, but they too grew tired. The men pushed their mounts hard for fear of the suspicious gang they left behind. The river was naught to be found, soon the sun began to set behind the horizon. And the men grew worried as their horses sleepily trotted.

"We're gonna have to rest these horses. We been pushing them too hard. I don't know where this damned river is. You see any trace Luke?"

"Not here . . . You grab this here pack horse. I'll ride off ahead. My gelding has more stamina than your old steed . . . I'll whistle if there's a river, yell if there's trouble. Sound good?" Bradford questioned his approach, making sure the others were on the same page.

The captain agreed and decided they should walk the horses for a spell. "Hop down from your mount kid, we'll give these horses a break." The boy nodded and descended from atop his grey colt. As Luke and his black gelding strode off, the Captain started to feel a little uneasy about the territory. Trees lined the valley that slowly cascaded downward. The two men, walking five horses, were in the wide open valley, with no cover. "I don't like this . . . We don't know this land and those men that ruined our respite probably live off this land. Not good, kid. We shouldn't have gotten ourselves in such a position. Grab the leads, direct the horses to act as a fort around us. If we can safely walk within the shield of our horses, I would feel more comfortable." So the boy grabbed three lead rains creating two walls alongside. Captain Samuel Jones held a lead in each hand and trailed the horses behind the grouping. Closing off any unforeseen attack.

Bradford rode his mount at a comfortable gallop down the sloping valley. There was no visible river, but he had a feeling it would be at the base of the valley, beyond the growth of trees. He had soon escaped the sight of his party. And came upon the tree ridge, he slowed his mount and listened for running water. The wind was heavy enough to create a howl within the trees. It was indistinctive from any other flowing sound. He turned about to see if his friends were still in sight, pulled out his rifle and looked through another vantage. He saw the brood of horses and grinned at the Captains fortitude. 'He sure knows how to stay alive', he thought to himself, and chuckled at the notion. Then turned his black about and ventured into the shaded unknown.

After a small tromp through the trees he came to a short clearing and a steady flowing river. Luke turned back around after a short drink, for him and his mount. In the midst of the shortened wood Bradford heard a gunshot, followed by a few more. Luke pushed his steed hard, dashing through the branches and traversing the trees. Upon reaching the base of the valley he pulls out his rifle and peers through the scope, attempting to sway with the motion of the prancing steed. He could not see well, but what he did see was three loose horses heading his way. He slows his mount and gathers the loose reins, quickly tossing the leads into a thick, round, entangled bush. He then heads toward the slow crackling gunfight. He looked through his scope once more and saw two horses lying down, with two men tucked in between the once animated fort. They seemed to have their pistols at the ready, while being bombarded by the staggered shots. Bradford noticed the mists of blood as the bullets hit the dead horses. Bradford demounted, kneeled under the neck of his horse, holding the reins, while steadying his sight down the barrel of his gun. He first examined his mates, then peered towards the tree line, soon finding a brush of smoke. Short bursts of smoke periodically puff out of the stagnant grey cloud, near the tree line. Bradford levels his aim and shoots for the envisioned man, behind the growth of trees. He then moves on, loading his flintlock rifle with another bolt, while searching for a different target, unbeknownst to success or failure. Bradford found a target within sight and possibility, so he shot the man in his chest, but again moved on without confirming the kill. Luke loaded his rifle and looked for another target, he found just that. He struck down the foe, with a swift second shot to the head after missing his first attempt. The gunplay abruptly stops, Luke did not see another foe, nor even a sign. He looked for movement amidst his company, but saw nothing there either. He loads his rifle then mounts his steed heading towards his comrades, all the while searching for the enemy. Bradford cautiously arrives to his friends, that are covered in blood, from what he hoped was the dead horses. Luke called out as he dismounted and approached his company afoot. "Cap? Greeley? You boys alive?"

"Is that you Mister Luke?" Paulie questioned, hopeful for the rescue. "Is the shooting over? Did you kill them all?" The boy asked not wanting to raise his head and be shot.

"Them that isn't killed, must have fled. Are you and the Captain alright?" Luke questioned for the second time.

"Boss is shot, but still breathing. He passed out when you started shooting. He told me to just lie still and play dead. He said if you couldn't fend them off, no one could . . . My leg is pinned under this horse. I can't get up." The boy informed Bradford.

Luke walked over and helped the boy free, continually observing his surroundings for the enemy. Once freed, Paulie struggled to his feet, then hobbled over to help Luke move the Captain. They gently slung him over the front of the black gelding. Bradford went back and grabbed what gear he could from the two dead pack horses. Paulie hopped atop the horse with a little help from Luke. Then Bradford put what he could on the horse, and carried the rest himself. They all made their way to the other three horses amidst the entangled bush. Paulie moved to a different horse, with many moans and groans over his broken leg. Then Bradford mounted the Captains old steed and led the four horses to the river that they had waited so long for.

Luke allowed everyone a quick drink while he checked the Captains wounds, he was shot twice, once in the shoulder region of the chest, the other shot was taken in the leg. Bradford, clumped some mud together, and packed it in each wound, to slow the bleeding. Then gave Samuel a drink when he awoke, during the cleaning of his wounds. Captain Jones told Luke, "Find my Brother, and do not stop. He should not be far west. I think there were six men firing at us . . . You did not kill them all."

"I know Captain, they gave up because they couldn't see me. But they will be back, this is their land, and they know how to hunt us. We will not stop until we are all safe, but Cap . . . Your wounds are bad, a hard ride . . . I just don't think . . . "

"You can't think about me, or we are all dead. There is nothing you can do anyhow. I need a doctor, not a scout. Just go. Don't dilly dally." The Captain ordered.

The group headed west, down the river. It was only four hours before they saw a ranch on the other side. But the river was too vast to cross by horse, especially with two injured men, and four tired horses. Fortunately one of the ranch hands noticed Bradford approaching and waving his hand for help. The ranch hands quickly sent a raft across the river and picked up the tired men.

Upon reaching the other side, the ranch hands tended to the wounded, and in doing so they noticed the Captain was not breathing, nor did he show any signs of life. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your friend here . . . He ah . . . He's gone. We can't do anything for him." The older scruffy hand informed the already suspicious Bradford. "Hey, what the hell are you men doing this far south anyhow? This here is dangerous land to be traveling in such light company. Especially if you're white. Don't you know this here is Mexico?" One of the hands questioned.

Luke was the first to answer. "This man is my Captain. He was a good man. His name is Samuel Jones. Brother to Jebidiah Jones. I believe he is the man that owns this here ranch. Is that so?" Bradford questioned with grave hopefulness.

"Yes Sir. Mister Jeb is the boss here. You say that's his brother?" Bradford just nodded, unable to come to terms with his friend's death. The ranch hands carried the dead Captain inside the adobe walls of the ranch.

Jebidiah Jones was informed of his brother's homecoming and death, and came out to greet the comrades of his fallen brother. "So this is Samuel, come home at last . . . I have waited so long, to see my brother again. Though, I had not thought it would be like this. How did this happen? When did this happen?" He questioned Bradford, because Paulie was not there. Some of the hands brought the kid to see the doctor, in order to treat his broken leg.

"I sure am sorry to bring such heartache to your home." Bradford apologized, though none of the fault was his doing. "This happened just a few hours back. We was ambushed between this river and the last, by some banditos. The Captain just wasn't prepared for such an ambush. Those damned Mexicans surrounded the kid and your brother." Bradford raised his hat and massaged his forehead. Then said, "I was afield when the shooting started. If not for that we might all be dead." Luke said, realizing the Captain probably sheltered the kid, and saved his life. "Your brother was a good man. I have known him for many years."

"Well, I appreciate you returning him to me. It's good to see him one last time . . . Even if the circumstances are grave." Jeb stated, grateful for his brother's homecoming, yet mournful for the circumstance. That night they ate and drank in Samuel's honor, sharing failures and triumphs, reliving the life of a great man.

The next morning the ranch held a funeral and burial for Captain Samuel Jones, fallen brother, and friend. Lt. Luke Bradford gave the eulogy. "Today we say goodbye to a friend, a brother, and a captain among men. He served his country true, when so many fled. During the war, our brigade held the Chesapeake Bay, thwarting the British Navy. During the last moments, we raised the American flag, letting the British know we are here to stay . . . Samuel was a funny man. We defended our land, only to leave America and settle in Mexico. He fought for the land of the free, and died in this God forsaken place . . . He loved his country, enough to envision a greater territory not just in size, but in honor, and valor. He believed, now that America has defended its land from foreign attacks, we should spread west into the lands Lewis and Clark mapped out. It's a shame he could not witness his dream. He was a good man." Luke bowed his head and said a silent prayer, then lifted his head, put a gentle hand upon the coffin, and said aloud. "Goodbye old friend. Maybe we will meet again, not in this life, but maybe the next."