A Brush with the Indians
by RLB Hartmann

Delia lay groaning on her grandmother's quilt in the back of the canvas-topped wagon. For days she had endured the heat of summer on the plains, and the torment of being jounced across ruts made by previous hopefuls heading West.

All afternoon Laurie had slowed his team more and more to ease the ride for her. Now they were so far behind their party that the dust no longer bothered her. A corner of the wagon soared as one wheel ran over a rock and crashed down again. She bolted upright, crying "Laurie!"

He yelled, "Whoa! Whoa!" and motion gradually ceased.

She fell back on the quilt with one arm crooked over her eyes. Dizzy and nauseated, she could hear Laurie climbing off the seat and coming around to her. The interior was stuffed with all the belongings that would fit in. She hoped they wouldn't have to leave half of their treasures alongside the trail, as others had done.

"We're stopping here," he said, smoothing a strand of moist hair from her forehead.

"Oh, no!" Delia clutched his shoulder. "We can't let the others leave us."

"They won't go much farther, and we'll catch up in the morning, while it's cool." He moved away, suggesting, "Rest while I unhitch and make a campfire."

Resting was impossible. She hadn't slept well since Laurie decided to set out on this hellish journey, describing with excitement the better life they could have in the fertile valleys of California. California! At this pace, weeks of travel lay ahead with few towns in between and many dangers and mishaps along the way. They'd be fortunate to reach their destination before winter snows closed the passes in the still-distant mountain range that posed the last obstacle.

Daily she longed for the tidy white house on Alexander Street, now in the possession of Laurie's older brother. She missed the shady lawn, comfortable furnishings, her mother's piano against the parlor wall, even the bright-flowered oilcloth on the table.

The wagon train had reached Fort Smith before Laurie noticed her pallor, listlessness, and state of nerves that caused her to jump when spoken to suddenly. They'd been married nearly a year, and both hoped she was 'in the family way.' Laurie wanted a son. Delia hoped so because then she would have an excuse to return home. But the doctor in Fort Smith had poked and prodded, asked a few questions, charged Laurie two dollars, and said, "Not this time."

Hearing hoofbeats, she lifted her head to peer through the rear opening in the canvas. The outrider from the wagon train rode past and said to Laurie, "Figured I'd best check on you folks. Anything I can do to help?"

"No, thank you," Laurie told him. "My wife isn't feeling well, so we'll camp here."

"Not a good place. Over that rise yonder, you'll find a bluff to shelter you. If you don't catch up by noon tomorrow, I'll come back to find you."

Find us! Delia thought, picturing their wagon smoldering, their bodies face down and full of arrows. Campfire tales these last weeks had lodged in her thoughts like burrs. She huddled on the quilt, watching Laurie patiently hitch up the team again. "Maybe you'd better not make a fire," she said. "I'm not hungry, and you can have the cured ham and cornbread from last night's supper."

"You should eat something, Dee. Wouldn't you like to get down and walk awhile? You might feel better."

"Not just now."

Soon the tilt of the wagon meant they were over the rise. She sat up and regarded a high, eroded cliff as he pulled into the hollow. Behind them stretched a vast, bleak grassland shadowed with the coming night. She shivered, turning from its emptiness. Her throat was scratchy from days of breathing dry, dusty air, and though water in the canteens would be flat and warm, she unhooked one strap from its nail and took a couple of swallows. She was replacing the container when movement startled her: a silhouette framed in the arched roof of the wagon.

Several yards away, facing the camp, sat a man on a horse. His mount's tail drifted in the slight breeze. He carried a war lance decorated with feathers.

For a moment, Delia could neither move nor speak, transfixed by the motionless figure that embodied all her nightmares. Then she stumbled over crates and bags and household objects to reach the front of the wagon, where Laurie, hunkered near his team with his tin plate of supper, could hear her hoarse cry. "Laurie! Indians!"

He dropped the plate and leaped into the wagon, snatching his shotgun from under the seat and clambering over parcels. Crouching together, they watched, and waited. Not for long. A burst of clops from unshod hooves behind them made him swing around, the click of the hammer under his thumb sounding loud in the hot, close space. Two more riders carrying lances pranced their ponies around to the front, where Laurie had sat moments before. Surrounded!

Darting pains in Delia's chest made her fear she would faint. A few nights ago, when the others were sharing stories after supper, someone had mentioned that a short lance meant the warrior who carried it was more ruthless than his tribesmen.

In the failing light, she could see that one apparently very young rider hung back. His older companion's long hair was white. Both wore castoff shirts and trousers, perhaps taken from a settler's cabin. The older man's feet were clad in moccasins, and around his neck lay a heavy necklace of claws or animal teeth.

The third rider, close at the back of the wagon, wore similar moccasins and necklace but no other clothing except a breech clout, revealing a warrior in his prime. His hair was fastened in two braids. He said in careful English, "You know signs?"

"No," Laurie answered from the shadows, and had to clear his throat. "Just English." Delia knew he was as frightened as she was, and her terror increased.

"Speak slow. I am Young Bear. We talk."

An interval of silence made her desperate to scream. Then Laurie lowered the barrel of the shotgun and said, "We are friendly. Friends."

"We, too."

Another silence, more uncomfortable than the first. "My wife did not feel like traveling."

"Good camp," the white-haired one observed, drawing her attention to him, his stout legged pony, a feather wafting from its bridle. And, hanging from the blanket, some kind of fur—

Not fur.

Scalps. Delia could not hold back a convulsed, strangled noise. Through a ringing in her ears, she heard the man ask, "Wife with child?" and Laurie's lie, "Yes. She is."

The Indian slithered off his pony.

Laurie raised the shotgun. "You leave now, she needs rest."

Motioning him off the seat, Young Bear continued, "I know cures."

For long moments, no one moved. At last, Laurie lowered the barrel of the weapon and stepped to the ground. "If you harm her, I will kill the old man."

Shrinking against a curved wooden stave, Delia watched the warrior gracefully clear the back of the wagon. He squatted near her and coaxed, "Come near."

She edged a bit closer, feeling the final glow of the sunset on her face. His necklace of beads and teeth caught the light as he breathed. His eyes sparkled with interest. She was surprised to detect no offensive odor, only familiar earthy aromas common to men who handled animals and wore buckskin.

After studying her for several moments, he reached out and touched her stomach. With playful accusation he whispered, "You not with child."

Her heart thudded. The lie trapped her, sealing Laurie's fate and hers. The Indian reminded her of a house cat playing with its prey before devouring it. "What will you do to us?" she whispered back.

"Pain?"

She nodded.

"Show."

She pointed to her stomach, chest, forehead, all having hurt for weeks. Since the first restless night on the journey.

"You go in wagon long time?"

"Yes." She had lost count of the days. The doctor in Fort Smith had prescribed little white pills which produced no effect. What would this savage do?

He untied a pouch from his waistband. Extracting three little wads of cloth, he laid them in a row on the quilt. His eyes searched the smaller items hanging from nails, and found a tin cup and the canteens. "Whiskey?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Rum. For baking."

"Rum. Yes." He held out his hand, palm up. Clean and sinewy.

She unearthed the bottle from among kitchen items, and gave it to him. His well-shaped fingers, with trimmed nails, blended small portions of rum and water in the tin cup. He selected one of the wads.

His voice was gentle when he asked, "We scare you?" Bits of some herb went into the rum water.

Her glance took in the motionless group, including Laurie, who was letting the shotgun waver. "Yes," she gasped, freshly aware of the hairy objects dangling from the old man's horse blanket.

"You hear things?" Young Bear lazily swished the herb in the cup. "Bad things?"

She nodded again.

He drew a quick, shallow breath. "Things . . . not true."

"But I can see . . . " She made a vague gesture.

Young Bear smiled, offering the cup. "Drink. Be cured."

In taking it, her fingers brushed his, warm against her cold skin.

She hesitated until he put his hand over hers and tilted the tin rim to her lips. Again his touch warmed her skin. The herb smelled and tasted like teaberry, faintly distinguishable through the heavier rum flavor. She swallowed the dregs, and their hands lowered the cup. "Will it make me a willing captive?"

In the darkened wagon, he placed the herbs back in the pouch, and she fancied he smiled again. "No. I am . . . your captive."

So quickly that she didn't flinch, he reached out and grasped the thick hair pinned at the top of her head. He laughed softly. "Good scalp." As he sprang to the ground, he said, "I leave lance. Mark wagon. No man harm you."

Delia leaned forward to tell him, "You are a good friend."

Taking up his lance, he secured it in the whip socket. With a fluid motion, he mounted his pony and declared, "I am Kiowa."

Then he wheeled and rode away, the other men following. Before the unshod ponies ghosted into the night, Laurie was beside her, hugging her and crying. "It's all right," she kept saying. "Young Bear promised we'd be safe."

Morning sunshine, windswept grass, high thin clouds—Delia thought she had never seen so perfect a day for traveling. Sitting on the wagon seat beside Laurie, she recalled the sound of Young Bear's voice, the words he had said, a smile that revealed clean teeth, the sparkle of humor in his eyes, the taste of teaberry and rum—and the warmth of his fingers touching hers.

For the fiftieth time, Laurie asked, "Are you sure you feel all right?"

Full of breakfast and a sense of well-being, she answered for the fiftieth time, "I feel fine."

Far to their right, parallel to their route and moving among clumps of chaparral, she caught sight of a rider. Snatching off her yellow kerchief, she held it over her head, waving it slowly back and forth.

"What are you doing?" Laurie cried. "It might be . . . "

A part of the speck disengaged, the rider's arm raised to return her salute. "Young Bear," she murmured, watching as he disappeared over the horizon.

Just ahead of them, topping a rise a little to their left, another horseman. With relief, Laurie exclaimed, "It's the outrider."

Not only the man from the wagon train, but five soldiers. His first words were, "Thank God you people are all right!"

Laurie stopped the team and stood up, his tone excited. "What do you mean?"

The troopers' dust-stained faces showed weariness. One of them answered, "Old chief Sitting Bear and some of his braves are off the reservation. The captain thinks they're on the warpath again." He paused. "I don't reckon you folks saw anything of 'em."

"No," Delia assured him. "We haven't seen any Indians on the warpath."

Mitchell and the Willcox Gold Shipment
by Dick Derham

The man calling himself Mike Jessup slipped into the five-foot gap between the Shiloh Saloon and Olson's Emporium. In the darkness, he quietly picked his way around the unusable stubs of lumber, the empty bottles, the discarded tin cans, the kind of useless debris that accumulates any place humans occupy.

"Jessup" paused at the rear of the buildings, his eyes probing right and left, readying himself to amble over to the community outhouse, just a man feeling the need. Once certain he was unobserved, he stepped quickly to the lean-to constructed against the rear wall of the saloon and knuckled lightly.

Immediately the door swung outward. "Step inside, Mitchell," the big man ordered.

"Jessup," the newcomer insisted as he pulled the door shut behind him. The narrow well-used bunk occupied more than half of the small space under the slanting roof. The big man and his partner barely left enough space for a third, standing nose to chin.

Two years he'd known Ed Quentin, lived with him, smelled his stink at the end of a sweaty day on the Yuma rock pile, part of the price society imposed on a man who chose to "live free," as he had always called it.

"Mitchell," Quentin repeated. "Got a fresh dodger printed up with your name in the big letters. How much is Wells Fargo paying for your scrawny hide?"

"Two fifty," Mitchell acknowledged. "Nothing dead," he added urgently. Quentin needed to know that.

"Already got your ticket back to Yuma punched," Quentin continued. The smirk belonged to the Ed Quentin Mitchell hated. "Seems like maybe a young sprout like you'd be wanting to work with men in the business."

Mitchell tried to change the subject. "We've been here too long, Quentin. Ruby will be bringing her next trick."

"Harve's keeping her company. He won't be coming out for his ride until he knows we're done."

It wasn't just the memory of the rock pile sweat that drove Mitchell to try to end the confab. His own smell had been as bad. It was the older man's arrogant finger pounding his chest that brought back his hatred for Quentin, for others of their kind. He had always worked solo.

"He's right," the other man said. "Can the talk. Let's get our business done."

Mitchell resigned himself to listen.

"Just rode into Willcox today, looking for work," Quentin said. "The stages we been stopping don't seem to have nothing but a few drummers and their money belts. We was thinking of making a bank withdrawal."

"I don't work banks," Mitchell said.

working Quentin ignored him. "Imagine our surprise when Harve and me spotted an old friend waiting to make us welcome. And for Wells Fargo, too. Two-fifty you say, just for telling them your real name?"

"Look—"

"But Harve and Fred and me talked it over. Seems you can put a lot more than two-fifty in our pockets." Mitchell listened. Quentin's demand was clear. They'd exchange their closed mouths for his tip-off of a lucrative shipment. Yuma graduate Dave Mitchell would never turn down such a proposition. But there was a trade to be made.

"I do that, I can't stay here," Mitchell said. "I get a full one-quarter share."

Quentin and Mitchell shook on it and Mitchell eased out into the night.

The two men waited for him to leave. "Him getting a quarter ain't going to sit well with Drew and Sid waiting back in camp."

"Maybe we got more men than Mitchell thinks," Quentin said. "What that boy don't know is going to get him killed."

Back on Railroad Street, Mitchell saw Chet Collins a block away, out in front of the Crystal Palace, Collins, his "partner" so Wells Fargo called him, the man who thought he had a ring through Mitchell's nose, a man whose very presence tugged Mitchell in a way his whole life had rejected, away from the free life he had lived until tangling his spurs outside Bisbee and spending his "vacation" from the business in Yuma. Mitchell turned the other way, always keeping at least one hundred yards between himself and badge stink, at least where eyes could see. He walked the long way around to his dingy rooming house with the stuffy, confining quarters. Not crammed with men like his cell—his cage—at Yuma, but its walls formed a prison just the same.

Freedom, that was what defined a man; freedom and action. Since he turned fifteen and ran out on his Pa's never-ending farm chores, since he learned that stages had money free-for-the-taking, those two words had driven him: action and freedom. Action more pulse-pounding than clattering down a bumpy road, cradling a shotgun on his knees, expecting nothing more exciting than a broken wagon wheel. Freedom of riding where you wanted, camping by a running stream, taking a sage hen for dinner, not doffing your Stetson to any man. Now, each day followed day, each boring wagon ride followed the one before, and Mitchell felt himself losing the vitality of life.

Six weeks had gone by since the judge consigned him to another five years in Yuma Penitentiary this time for the Tombstone robbery; six weeks since Wells Fargo busted or bribed him out because they credited him with the capture of the Runnels gang and saving Collins' life. Now he was working for Wells Fargo, partnered with Chet Collins. So Wells Fargo thought. Himself? He'd bought into the deal for a chance to ride the open range stirrup-to-stirrup with the five foot-six inch Chet Collins, the biggest man he'd ever known. [1] But five weeks now, penned up in town, riding shotgun on stages in the robber-infested Cochise and Willcox Counties, left him bored with town life, with town smells, with town routine, hungry for some real action.

Had Quentin brought what he needed?

Then came word of the gold shipment, to Quentin it was the opportunity to fatten his money belt, to the Wells Fargo "suit" back in San Francisco, the chance for Mitchell to earn his wages by entrapping the robbers, to his own self-interest, a chance to share in the swag from the robbery, turn his back on the sterile responsibility Chet Collins represented and ride free again.

He had made his decision, and it tore at him.

Rattling down the road, his shotgun in his lap, Mitchell's nerves jangled more than in any solo stage robbery of his career. The way he laid it out for Quentin, the plan seemed perfect on paper. Nothing should go wrong. As long as each man did his job.

"What?" Mitchell asked the driver.

"I said, hot today, Jessup," Dyson repeated.

That it was, Mitchell conceded. And it would get hotter once they entered the shadows of the pass.

The freight wagon had pulled out of the Wells, Fargo yard in Willcox on schedule, just after noon. Stacked and loaded carefully were the sacks of potatoes, the boxes of air tights, a heavy motor to replace one whose best days were behind it, and carefully situated under the potatoes, the box labeled peaches that held the monthly payroll. The Lucky Coin Mine was a small operation, there was no reason to expect its supply wagon would attract unwanted attention, but the Willcox Station had lost three stages in the last two months to Ed and Harve Quentin, and paying Mitchell to ride shotgun added extra security.

Or so the station master thought. If he had known his guard's mama called him Davey, not Mikey, he'd have thought different.

Off in the distance a half hour or more, Mitchell could see the rim of low hills emerging from the heat haze. They had turned off the post road an hour ago, still had three hours travel after they emerged from the narrow pass and made the wide swing toward the Lucky Coin Mine, scheduled to arrive in time for supper.

Except they'd have an unscheduled stop in the pass. "The team will be breathing hard from the upslope," he'd explained to Quentin. "Halfway through the pass, the hills close in and the road narrows down to just double ruts. You three ride out there, and there's nothing between you and the box but my shotgun which I'll toss down once I see I'm outnumbered."

Quentin liked the sound of it. "Easy pickings," he said. "That's my kind of work."

"No killing," Mitchell had insisted and Quinton had agreed. One thing about Mitchell that even the Wells Fargo man had known about him back when he'd braced him in the warden's office at Yuma and tried to talk him in to stinking himself up wearing a badge, Mitchell didn't hold with killing.

Wells Fargo had doubts about him, of course they had. He'd made his choice, or appeared to, when they broke him out of jail and paid him off for the role they thought he had played in capturing Runnels. He had signed up on their team. But had he really? Collins must wonder. Mitchell had wondered himself. Money in his pocket from this robbery would restore the freedom that working for wages denied him. A man's life, wasn't that what he wanted? Did he really know what he wanted?

Jogging on a wagon seat, the old ways called to him in a way that drove him to ponder the mysteries of life. Is a man's trail set for him, even before he was born? He'd heard that some preachers held to that. Had his life been predestined from the beginning? Had Ed Quentin been in his future even before his Ma met his Pa? Did a man have a choice?

Since Texas, his trail had taken him where he could hear the owl hoot. Work the Colorado mining district in summer, head south to Arizona when the mountain air turned nippy. Never have to listen to wordy nothings from an empty head like Dyson. Living free. That seemed to suit his nature.

Then he met Collins and got all confused, Collins standing proud in his union suit before the men fixing to kill him, Collins who showed up the smirking outlaws of Runnels' gang up as pale imitations of manhood, Collins the first real man he had known. Whenever he thought of Collins, a different trail called to him. Could his nature be made to fit it?

"Creek's up ahead," Dyson said, as though Mitchell couldn't see the blue ribbon meandering across their path.

"Same place it was last time," Mitchell replied. The wagon began to slow as Dyson prepared to ease across the rickety structure, not a sturdy taxpayer-funded Road District bridge, just a thrown-together mass of boards and nails put up by the Lucky Coin Mine.

In the distance, off to the West, a couple of cowhands came into view over a rise, lazily driving three steers before them in the heat of the day, a typical range scene. "Some sweat-and-dirt cowhands up ahead," Mitchell said, a life he had gladly avoided for the easier life of a man who took what he wanted.

The cowhands and their steers neared the bridge at the same time as the wagon. Suddenly Mitchell's nerves jangled. Cows don't fight against splashing across a shallow creek. Why were the cowhands driving them toward the bridge?

Dyson's lead mules were clumping onto the wooden planks, when the driver pulled rein. "What the . . . ?"

Mitchell came alert. The irony struck him: the scheme he had worked out could be smashed all to hell by two free-lance interlopers here, two miles of short of the planned robbery. It would be a good joke on Quentin; a good joke on them all. He tightened his grip on his shotgun, but the cowhands made no moves toward their holsters.

"Move them," Dyson ordered. "Get them out of my way."

The cowhand with the handlebar mustache raised his hand, his gun hand, in a peace gesture. "Things will be quiet, old man," he said. "'Less you want it the other way."

The other man spoke next. "Harve and Ed are bellied down up on the hogback to your left. Good rifle distance." He looked at Mitchell. "Drop the shotgun, or fall on it."

Mitchell hesitated long enough to make sure Dyson saw his reluctance. "Do it quick, Jessup," Dyson said. "Potatoes and canned tomatoes ain't worth gun smoke."

In five minutes the sacks of potatoes and canned goods had been carelessly tossed aside, no matter that several broke open and spilled their contents on the hard ground, the "peaches" checked and tied on behind Handlebars' saddle, and Dyson and Mitchell mounted bareback on the lead mules to be led away toward the hills.

Sitting cross-legged on the ground shamming a prisoner in front of Dyson as he and Quentin had arranged, Mitchell watched the gang work the cook fire and prepare supper. Now was when the tension of the past month should evaporate. Among this sort of men, he should feel none of the dissonance in his soul he felt around the sturdy Collins. Now, he was among his own kind.

"I say we've been lollygagging here long enough," Drew Alvord said through his handlebars. "We ought to be in the saddle and pounding leather through the night."

"We got plenty of time." Ed Quentin turned to Dyson. "When you due at the Lucky Coin Mine?"

"Around six."

"Three hours before any posse even knows they got a trail they need to follow. We stop here, let the horses graze, do some grazing ourselves and push on rested. We'll be halfway to New Mexico by the time they even get started."

Mitchell conceded that from a slick robber's point of view Quentin's plan had been better than his own. The robbery had gone smoothly. In taking Dyson and him along, they'd assured there'd be no pursuit for hours.

Or so they thought.

Some nights back in his room, tossing in his blankets, the idea of trading the companionship of a real man like Collins for the freedom of the outlaw life seemed too big a price to pay. Other times, he had known that Collins was so far above him that he was only play-acting to think he could be more than an ex-con Collins had to work with.

Be yourself, a voice urged him. He'd heard that voice before. That voice led him to the adventure of the trail herd away from Texas. It led him to the freedom of stage work. "Be yourself," it said again. But what kind of man was he? What kind of man goes back on his word? On what he promised to Wells Fargo—no, not to Wells Fargo, those bankers had never really claimed his allegiance; it was his word to Chet Collins that robbed him of sleep.

The tin plates were filled from the cook pot and passed around. The cook fire burned down, only a few freshly-cut creosote branches still burned slowly. The men had finished eating now, had rolled their smokes. Still they dawdled, secure in the knowledge that Quentin had planned well, that it would be hours before a posse could mount and if the posse ever closed in, the posse would be tired and their own mounts fresh.

Mitchell looked around the camp, at Ed and Harve Quentin, at Drew Alvord and Fred Durning and Sid Abbott. These were his kind of men. He hated himself for that truth. Yet now here he was, squatting in an outlaw camp, a share of money about to come into his pockets, and the only man in his life he had ever looked up to already convinced that he was a liar and a double-crosser.

His future was set, perhaps had always been set. He would live in back canyon hideouts with men like his new partners until his luck ran out. His wanted dodger would be in bright colors now, a rich bounty high enough to draw attention. For Wells, Fargo would never give up, pursuing him wherever he ran, not a robber, not even a killer, but a man wearing the brand "traitor."

Whatever he thought of Quentin and his gang, Mitchell's own security, his survival, rested on them making good their escape.

Yet still he held back from warning Quintin that pursuit was at hand. Unwilling to disclose his uncertain role, was he? Or because his heart was with Chet Collins, and even Wells Fargo, despite the heavy cost their victory would exact on him?

"What's that dust," Durning asked. Fred Durning's outstretched arm pointed to a clump of riders on their back trail. "Can't be no one chasing us, not this quick."

"Don't matter who," Quentin said. "Just four saddles needing to be emptied. Five of us who know the business, and shooting downhill, should have no trouble plunking four horsemen."

Mitchell knew who they were. Not a posse from town, but Collins and his men, fresh from their stake-out in the walls above the canyon where they expected to take down three unsuspecting outlaws in the middle of a robbery, the plan Mitchell had assured Collins would work, Mitchell who had fought between his desire to live a free life again and his admiration for Chet Collins and made his decision. Much good it would do him. But Collins had expected three men, not five; now he would be outgunned. With the posse dead, Mitchell could still ride free.

"Harve, flank them from that knoll up there." Ed Quentin watched as his brother grabbed up his rifle and jogged into position. In open terrain the attackers would have no choice but to advance without cover against defenders waiting and primed. "Let them get within one hundred yards," Ed Quentin ordered. "Then we bring 'em down fast and hard."

"What about—" Alvord asked.

"Get it done," Quentin ordered.

Mitchell watched Alvord stalk toward the fire. Suddenly Mitchell understood. Quentin had never meant to keep his promise to let Dyson live. Mitchell's mind insisted that he didn't care one way or the other about the fat, dull teamster, but he quickly lost the debate. He'd told Quentin about the shipment. That made him responsible.

Alvord stopped three paces away and palmed his revolver. He was unhurried as he extended his arm, ignoring, no, smiling at, Dyson's pleas. Cross-legged, any move Mitchell made would be clumsy, slow, without leverage. Still he dove, sprawled more like it, toward Alvord's legs. He heard the gun discharge, but only after he'd collided with Alvord's knees and toppled the man sideways. Alvord's revolver clattered away.

Behind him he heard Dyson, boots on the ground and running, running away, the fool, not coming to help. He heard another shot, a scream cut short. And then the guns of Collins' posse opened up. Mitchell heard Abbott grunt.

Mitchell held Alvord tight around the thighs as the man tried to kick free. Alvord twisted and rolled on top, the bigger man's weight pinning Mitchell. The fire's heat started to smoke his shirt. He freed a hand, reached out and grasped a smoldering brand. The hot wood scorched his flesh. He gutted through the pain. Swung hard. Connected. Alvord screamed as his hair blazed up and rolled away in agony. Mitchell searched for Alvord's pistol. Saw it. Dove forward.

Durning's shot found Mitchell as his hand closed around the revolver. Pain lanced through his thigh. He rolled. Brought the gun up. On the knoll, he saw Harve Quentin prone, a good firing position. Nearer, Ed Quentin, his rifle braced on a boulder, taking careful aim at the approaching posse. But Durning was his peril, fifteen feet away, killing range, and readying for his second shot.

In a gun fight, with death a trigger pull away, a man has less than a second to get it right. Mitchell raced Durning to squeeze off the first shot, felt the buck of the gun against his palm, saw his shot strike home. Even as Ed Quentin staggered, Mitchell spun toward Durning, knowing he was too late, seeing the muzzle flash, feeling the fist slam into his chest; then he was sprawling backwards, the hot wetness spreading down his side.

As he yielded to the darkness, Mitchell heard a commanding voice, Collins' voice. "Toss down your gun." He saw Durning drop the weapon and raise his hands. Then Mitchell surrendered to burning agony, to weakness, and knew no more.

Mitchell swam upward through pain and fever, fighting for semi-consciousness. He found himself in a bed in a back room that smelled of a doctor's house, his right wrist handcuffed to the bedstead, the expected reward for his perceived treachery and double-dealing.

Yuma didn't matter now. He had tried the other life, the life of a man like Collins. He had tried to do his job for Wells Fargo, to plan a trap for an outlaw gang. But he had been outsmarted. Thinking through the fever haze, some things were clear. He had failed. No one would ever believe his story. Truth didn't matter; not when facts showed that he led Collins to a false stake-out; not with the unarguable evidence that the robbers would have made good their escape had they not loitered to eat.

So Mitchell would go back to Yuma, or maybe not, maybe if Dyson had died, he would hang with the rest of them. Mitchell resolved to face his future like Collins would: without whining.

He surrendered again to the darkness.

The light of full day flooded through the window. Mitchell awoke to find the Sheriff unlocking the handcuff around the bed post.

"Doc says you can limp the two blocks to the jail."

"How's . . . how's Dyson?"

"Dead," Sheriff Talbot replied. "One in the back. Maybe your gun, maybe not, but you're on your way to Yuma either way. You and the rest of your gang."

"Not my—"

The Sheriff wasn't listening. "On your feet. I'm not one for wasting breath on killers."

As Mitchell struggled to sit up, to swing his feet to the floor, he sensed a man stepping into the doorway behind him. "Thought you'd gone on," the sheriff said.

"Wells Fargo's first responsibility was to deliver the payroll," the voice in the doorway said. "I figured the posse could get everyone to town."

"They did. Then they stopped at the saloon and started drinking up the reward Wells Fargo posted for bringing in Mitchell." The sheriff thumbed toward his prisoner.

"Wells Fargo won't pay a penny for this one," Collins said. "That's not Mitchell."

The Sheriff turned to the Wells, Fargo agent. "What you mean? That's what Durning called him."

"Guess I should know Mitchell, Sheriff. I ran him in after the Tombstone robbery. About the same size and coloring, but it's not him."

"Then who is he?"

"Jessup," Mitchell said. "Shotgunner for Wells Fargo Stage Line."

The sheriff stood uncertainly. "You're saying you were just a prisoner like Dyson?"

"More than that, Sheriff," Collins said. "It was him making a ruckus in the outlaw camp that turned the tide, brought down the leader and kept two other men busy fighting him while we closed in. Likely we'd have had some down on our side without him."

Mitchell rode slowly, weak, his shoulder and leg throbbing in pain, but the urgency of putting distance between himself and the suspicious Willcox lawman overrode all else. Finally, twenty miles out of town on the southern edge of Dos Cabezas Mountains where the trail entered Apache Pass he pulled aside, down-saddled and picketed his grulla to graze while he set up camp.

Later, Mitchell thought back to other campfires and took stock of the unexpected direction his life had taken since the Yuma gate closed behind him, roads that left him torn between the life that came naturally to him, the life of the outlaw, and a different life whose appeal he didn't understand, at the war he had felt raging within him even around Quentin's campfire where his destiny had seemed carved in granite.

Did he even know who he was anymore?

Maybe not. But as he looked over the dying embers of the campfire, he knew who he wanted to be.

"Where to next, partner?"

"Mesilla," Collins told him. "We rest you up a bit. Then it's Colorado. The Fowler Gang hangs out in an outlaw haven called Brown's Park."

Randall Macomber
by Lela Marie De La Garza

Max tied his horse to a post and then wondered if he should stable it. No—he didn't expect to be here that long.

He wasn't.

He found the information he was after in the first saloon he entered. "I'm looking for Randall Macomber," Max told the bartender. "Has he been in here?"

"No. But two other men came in looking for him."

"Where did they go?"

"There was a rumor he was at the Jarvis ranch, so I reckon that's where they went. Though nobody ever knows where Randall is. He's supposed to be one place and turns up another." Max nodded. He knew that as well as anyone. "Are you bounty hunting, or is this personal business? If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't mind." But Max didn't answer. "Where can I find the Jarvis ranch?"

"Ride west out of town till you come to a clump of scrub oaks. The Jarvis ranch is just after that." Max thanked the bartender and tossed a coin on the bar, even though he hadn't drunk anything. Then he unhitched his horse and rose west.

The Jarvis ranch looked rundown, with a sagging house and outbuildings. Max wondered what connection Randall had to these people. He knocked at the door and a woman answered. She looked as dispirited as the property. In answer to his question she said "Randall Macomber isn't here. That's what I told the other two men who were looking for him."

"But he was here," Max persisted. The woman compressed her lips and nodded. "He's no relative of yours, is he?"

"No. He and my husband ran together years ago. Then John married me and went to ranching, and Randall Macomber became . . . well, what he's become." Max knew very well what that was. "They were drunk for two days," the woman said. "I was glad when he left."

"Where did he go?"

"I'm not certain. But I think it was up Valero." She pointed to a mountain in the distance. "That's where the others were tracking him."

"Much obliged, Ma'am." Max touched his hat, got back on his horse, and rode toward the mountain. He thought about going back to town, getting a night's sleep, and starting out early in the morning. But he decided he'd better get as far as he could tonight.

Max camped at the foot of the Valero mountain that night. As soon as it was light enough to see, he started up. There was only one trail a horse and rider could use, and he took it. He could tell there'd been others riding ahead of him. He came on them around dusk, ready to make camp for the night. "I'm riding after Randall Macomber," he said. "And I'm guessing you are too." He got off his horse. The two men got up slowly, watchfully.

"I'm Jake," one of them said. He was older, taller than the other one. "This is Hiram." Hiram was fair and stoutly built.

"I'm Max." He shook hands with each of the men.

"There's a five thousand dollar bounty on Randall Macomber's head," Jake said. "I want it."

Hiram said "Macomber killed my best friend and my uncle in a shoot-out. That's why I'm after him."

"Hiram and me are going to split the money if we catch Randall Macomber together. The bounty holds good whether we bring him in dead or alive, and I don't figure he'll be taken alive." Jake narrowed his eyes and gave Max a sidelong glance. "We hadn't figured on a three-way split."

"I'm not interested in the money," Max assured him. "But I wouldn't mind riding a piece with you." The two men looked at each other and nodded assent. "And if it's all right, I'll share your camp. I've got my own food—beans and biscuits and a little side meat."

"Sure," Jake said, affable now that he knew money wouldn't be a problem. "We've got jerky and corn cake."

Max talked easily with the men that night, but never revealed anything personal about himself or what his business was with Randall Macomber. As he lay down to sleep, he wondered if they really were going to catch up to Macomber. He'd whored, drunk, and gambled all his life, but Randall was smart. He could easily be a hundred miles away right now, laughing at the idea of them searching for him here. Max figured he had just as good a chance on Valero as anyplace else. He'd stay with Jake and Hiram for awhile . . . 

The next morning, as soon as there was light enough to see by, they began searching the top of the mountain—every cave, every rock, every clump of bushes. There was no sign of Macomber; more important no sign of a horse. He might have hidden himself, but he couldn't easily have hidden his mount. "I don't guess he's up here," Jake said. "I think we'd better go down before it gets dark and figure out what to do tomorrow morning." Max and Hiram agreed, and they took the only good trail leading off Valero.

The other two were dispirited that night as they made camp, but Max was philosophical. He'd catch up to Randall sooner or later—it didn't matter when. He didn't want money or revenge.

When they mounted up in the morning and started down the trail, Jake wasn't sure he wanted to go on. "Bounty 's my trade," he said. "I can't waste my time on one hombre when there are other rewards being offered for those easier to catch."

"I'm not in this for money," Hiram said. "I'll go on without you."

"I feel the same way," Max agreed.

"I'll ride on a ways with you," Jake finally said. "Not too much further."

Then they came to the trading post. The three of them went inside, though not with much hope. "We're looking for a man named Randall Macomber," Jake said, starting to pull the wanted poster out of his pocket.

"Never mind that," the proprietor said. "Everyone knows who Randall Macomber is. He was here maybe an hour ago, maybe less. He took all my money and as much food as he could carry. And one of my horses. It's funny—he was on foot.

The three men looked at each other. "Here's the way I make it out," Jake said. "Macomber lost his horse. I don't know how. But he was hiding on Valero all the time we were looking for him."

Hiram shook his head. "We looked everywhere on that mountain there was to look."

"Then Macomber found someplace we didn't see. Someplace nobody would have thought to look. He's a slippery, savvy bastard, don't forget that. Anyhow, he waited till full dark and climbed down the mountain. He sneaked past our camp while we were sleeping. He had to go a good piece to get a horse, and now he doesn't have much of a lead on us. We can catch him."

Which way did Macomber go?" Jake asked.

"You're on the right trail," the trading post owner told him. "It leads to Salinas."

"Are you sure that's where he went?"

"Pretty well has to be. He filled a canteen with water, but Macomber's not fool enough to go off into the desert with no more than that."

"All right then—we go on to Salinas. Everyone agreed?" Max and Hiram nodded. They got back on their horses and soon left the trading post behind.

They rode hard now, not speaking, intent on only one thing. Suddenly they heard a shot. Jake spurred his horse to a gallop, and the others did the same. It wasn't long before they came across a dead horse. There was a bullet through its skull. A man was walking away from it.

Jake grabbed his pistol." "Stop! I've got you covered. Take out your guns real slow, put them down where I can see them, and turn around." The man obeyed. "Now come over here." He looked Randall Macomber up and down. "Seems like you've had bad luck with horses."

Randall shrugged. "Seems like. I took a horse from the Jarvis ranch, but it spooked at something on the mountain, threw me, and ran off. I couldn't catch it. This one stepped into a hole and broke its leg. I had to shoot it."

"Bad luck for you, good luck for me," Jake said. He raised his pistol. "Now. Seeing you're worth as much dead as you are alive . . . "

"Stop." Max raised his own gun and leveled it at Jake. "You and Hiram throw down your weapons."

"Jake shook his head in bewilderment. "What is this?"

"Throw down your weapons," Max said again. "I won't kill you, but I can shoot you through the leg, and I will." Hiram and Jake hastily dropped their guns. "But Max kept his gun on Jake. "You've got a derringer in your boot. Take it out and hand it to me, butt first."

Jake did, asking again "What is this. Are you in cahoots with this varmint?"

To which Max answered simply "He's my brother. Hello Randall."

"Hello yourself. You're not planning to turn me in for the reward, are you?"

"No. I've been trailing you a long time, but I just met up with these men yesterday. Hiram wants revenge, and Jake wants money, but I don't want either."

"Randall pushed his hat back on his head. " Why are you here?"

"Mother died in June. The last thing she said to me was 'Find Randall. Make sure he's well.' I promised I would, and I've been tracking you ever since. So. Are you well?"

Randall half smiled. "As well as I can be, considering that most of the country wants to lynch me. Considering that this hombre here—he indicated Jake—wants to shoot me and sell my body for five thousand dollars."

"He's not going to do that. I don't suppose you'd come peacefully into Salinas with us?"

"No. There's nothing but a rope waiting for me. I won't be taken alive."

Max nodded "Okay then Hiram, he's taking your horse. Also both canteens. You can ride pinion with Jake. Randall, pick up your guns. I'll give you fifteen minutes head start."

Randall touched his forehead in a salute. "Good bye. And thanks, little brother." He began to ride.

Max pulled out a battered timepiece and consulted it keeping one eye and his gun trained on Hiram and Jake. Nobody spoke. At last he said "All right. You can pick up your weapons and go. But I'd advise you not to go after Randall Macomber. He's armed now and mounted, and he'll be watching for you."

"They'll get him sometime," Jake growled.

"Maybe so. But not today." Hiram got on Jake's horse and the two headed for Salinas. Max turned his horse around. He was finished here. He'd made a promise; he'd kept that promise. Now it was time for him to ride away.

And he did.

The Brothers Bowie
by B. Craig Grafton

"Do you see him Jim?"

"Oh yeah I've been watching him for the last fifteen minutes."

"Well where there's one there's more you know."

"I know."

"You're lost aren't you brother? You don't know where the mine is, do you?"

"Yes Rezin I'm lost. I admit it so we better go back to camp now. The boys will be looking for us soon and we need to lose our friend here. See that pile of rocks and that ridge ahead. We'll stop there among the boulders. I'll hoof it the fifty yards from there up to the top of the ridge, look over and see if our friend has any friends. You stay with the horses and guard the rear. If all's clear, we'll mount up and ride back to camp."

"If not?"

"Well we're the Bowie Brothers and we've been in tighter scrapes before."

Jim took his rifle and ran to the ridge of rocks and peered over the top.

"Holy Hannah! Two of them galloping right for you brother."

"And the one that's been following us has a rifle and is about a hundred feet to your right along the ridge. Don't try to run here Jim. You'll never make it."

Two Comanche mounted warriors armed with lances, but no rifles thankfully, rode around the ridge and raced toward Rezin. He was trapped in a pile of boulders big enough to give him cover but still trapped nonetheless with fifty yards of open space between him and his brother. And now in all the excitement he had forgotten to secure their horses and they spooked and ran off. He was trapped. His brother was trapped. They'd been outsmarted by Indians.

Jim was not a marksman and he knew it. The Comanche popped his head up among the rocks every so often but no part of his body was ever exposed. There was no target for Jim.

On the other hand there was no target for the Comanche. Jim knew that if he shot first and missed he could never reload fast before his enemy ran over and shot him. He didn't dare take a shot. The odds were against him.

Think Jim think. Stay cool. You're a Bowie. You don't panic under fire.

Rezin had the same problem. Oh he knew he could kill one of them but before he could reload the other would be on top of him and he wasn't about to go mano y mano with a Comanche war chief. Jim was the knife fighter. He was the marksman. Didn't his brother always brag about him that he could put a bullet through the eye of needle at fifty paces. Think Rezin. You're a Bowie. You remain calm under fire. You can get us out of this.

One war chief circled him clockwise and the other counterclockwise. One took the inner circle and the other the outer circle and they kept their distance.

Rezin hunkered down and steadied his rifle on a rock. He watched the two mounted warriors in all their paint and glory continually circling him hooping and hollering their war cries just waiting for a chance to strike. Waiting for him to make a mistake. These Indians were a clever formidable foe.

But a Bowie doesn't make mistakes. Comanches make mistakes. Rezin knew the answer now. As the Comanches circled him at one point they were lined up. One was directly in front of the other as they crossed each other. For a split second, just a split second, there would be one head target for two bodies. That's when he'd get them. It was the Bowie brother's only chance.

Rezin steadied his rifle, closed his left eye and squinted down the barrel to the rifle sight. He waited as they made a few more circles. He had gotten his bearings now. He knew exactly where the inner warrior blocked out the outer warrior directly behind him. Studied it a couple of time in his mind. He had this under control now. He was confident that he could do this.

He aimed, steadied his rifle, held his breath and fired his one shot.Two warriors dropped from their horses. One shot, two bodies with holes in their heads.

He reloaded. The last Indian made a break for it. He and JIm fired at the same time and the third warrior fell. Time to hightail it back to the boys before any more braves suddenly appeared from nowhere as Comanches were prone to do.

As they rode back Jim finally broke the silence.

"Wait till I tell the boys. One shot, two dead Comanches. They'll never believe it brother."

"That's right. They'll never believe it. They'll just say its those Bowie brothers bragging and boasting themselves up some more. Don't say anything. Just let it go. Are you going to tell them we didn't find the famed Bowie brothers lost San Saba gold mine."

"No I'm going to tell them we found it. They'll believe that.

They Were Intrepid, Part 1 of 2
by John Kallenbach

The stars covered the Western plain, as a warm blanket would for a shivering child. Winslow loved to gaze at the night sky, especially after a long ride…which was the state he found himself in. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered. Yet, as he stared above and felt his eyes grow weary, drifting into a mild form of serenity, he enjoyed a moment of peace. Time well spent, not passing judgment on another soul nor having judgment passed upon himself.

Winslow Nash was a reputable lawman, one who had made a reputation for himself as an Indian fighter and conscientious lawman in many towns. Nash had been the sheriff of Albuquerque, New Mexico for the last two years. On a hot August evening the sheriff pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned back in his wobbly old wooden chair, staring at the stars, pondering what the meaning of them were, starting to have the inclination to sleep. Yet he would take a moment to consume one last cigarette before turning in.

At the moment he started to roll his cigarette Nash heard a commotion. One block over a woman was screaming, and an obviously drunken man was howling in laughter. The sheriff drew his .45 Colt pistol and ran to the fray. He then observed a woman, a prostitute known as Laura Niles, running for her life draped in ripped clothing, and a man, a known drunk by the name of Daniel Morgan, chasing her with the obvious intention of slicing her with a long knife. The sheriff felt he had no recourse but to dispatch him before he could do any more harm to the young lady. Unfortunately, it later seemed the Town Council did not agree that a half-naked man brandishing a saber, chasing a woman through an alley was just cause to shoot him in the head. So, Nash had no choice but to tender his resignation, and head to Yuma to take up their recent offer to make him their sheriff.

Two days into his journey he made camp beside the Red Branch River. As he stoked his fire, a buckboard wagon approached from the east. As the wagon approached, he saw that the driver was his old friend, Michael Lear.

Nash had fought along with Lear in the Indian Wars; they had ridden together for many years. Lear had saved Nash's life, and Nash had returned the favor many times. Lear was a tall man; he wore a 10-gallon hat, had grown a large beard, and one could see merely by looking in his eyes that he was a man to be reckoned with. Many years back he had been shot with an arrow in the shoulder as he drove his knife through the chest of Sioux Chief White Fox. His right arm never worked too well after that, so he had an eight-gauge shotgun special-made for him which could blow a man clean in half. Lear was with his new bride, JoAnn. She had long brown hair and seemed a higher class of woman, the type that Nash would've expected Lear to acquire; Lear had always attracted the best of women. He had that gift.

They sat at the campfire telling old stories from their past for hours; then, Lear's face grew a stern look and Nash knew he had something of meaning to say. "What is it Lear? I've seen that look before," Winslow mumbled.

"It's Gabe, Winslow. He be going to take a job as a deputy in Abilene."

"Damn that boy," Nash retorted. "I guess I'll be heading to Abilene before I be heading to Yuma, to give that boy a whooping."

"What you going to whoop him for, for doing the same thing you've done?"

"Maybe so, Lear, but killing ain't any way for a man to live." Nash packed up the next morning, and said his goodbyes to Lear and his wife JoAnn. "Lear, if I never see you again, you just remember I'll always be beholding to you for all you've done for me."

Lear nodded his head in compliance; he then mounted his wagon with his wife; and as Nash turned and started to ride away, he shouted: "Hey, Nash. Try not to get yourself killed anytime soon, you son of a bitch!" Lear then belched, as a last word of salutation to his old friend.

Nash entered Abilene under the assumption that his brother Gabe was now the Deputy Sheriff there. He had ridden hard for days before he entered the town. He retrieved his .45 Colt revolver from its sheath and spun its cylinder to affirm it was fully loaded with cartridges, as he approached the main street, for he had no foresight as to what he would face once he entered.

Nash immediately went to the Sheriff's office to verify the information that had been given to him. Abilene was not the town one would have expected it to be by its reputation. It was dusty, yet with muddy roads filled with horse scat. And it did not seem anything near as bustling a town as one would read about in the magazines prevalent in the East. He opened the door to the Sheriff's office, finding his brother Gabriel at the desk, cleaning his gun. "So it's true, damn it! Gabe, I told you a lawman's life is a dead end. No one wants to be around you, no one cares about you until trouble starts; then they come to you to stop it and eventually you will die. Damn you, I told you to be a farmer, a storekeeper, raise cattle, whatever would put down that gun that father taught us to shoot. Use your mind, not your gun, to prove you are a man."

Gabriel growled back: "Winslow, you son of a bitch. I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I heard you were dead two years ago." Then with a smile: "You look good, my brother."

Nash didn't smile back. "Can you tell me why you've done exactly what I told you not to do?"

"Oh, you mean don't do exactly what you have done to try to be a good man and save others, and use our skill with a gun to help the helpless?"

"Damn, I wish you weren't so much like me," Nash retorted. "I just want you to have a good, safe life, and I know from experience that the life of a lawman is a lonely, shallow existence that will sooner or later leave you dead and forgotten."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before and I know you're only trying to help; but I am following in my father's and your footsteps, so how can you blame me? Look at me; I'm making $40 a month and I am the Deputy of Abilene."

"Yes, you done well for yourself, boy. I guess I'd be a hypocrite if I sat here and said you were not doing the right thing, when you are doing such as I am." Nash thought for a moment. "Just remember please, Gabe: take it slow and easy and let your brain make your decisions, not your heart."

"Let's get a shot, brother," Gabe commanded his brother. "How long has it been?"

"Too long, my young brother. Too damn long, Gabe." They had a few shots at the saloon across the way, and spoke of their childhood: their beloved mother, and their intrepid father. Winslow had hoped Gabe would not follow in his family's footsteps and be a gunman, yet how could he say Gabe was wrong in doing exactly what he was doing? So he gave Gabe his blessing, and left town that evening, heading to a new job that would make him the Sheriff of Yuma.

Three weeks after Winslow had visited him, Gabe's boss, a man that had a reputation of being a good lawman, but one who drank deep into the bottle every night and sometimes shirked his duties, left the town and said he was going in pursuit of a wanted man. Truth be known, he was merely spending the night with his fancy, Mary Paulson. That next morning, the outlaw Tracy Amidon approached Abilene; he was immediately spotted by three drunken so-called Vigilance Committee members. Wishing to reap the rewards of their deeds, they approached the gunslinger in the saloon. Tracy had not shown any sign of aggression, yet they knew it was him by his clothing, demeanor, and especially by the scar that wrapped around the left side of his face. They approached him like the drunken inept fools that they were, and tried to subdue him. Before they could even begin to draw their guns, all three fell dead. They lay on the dirty floor, reminiscent of large bags of flour thrown upon the store-keeper's dock. Gabe, alone and in charge by the Sheriff's absence, had no other option but to try to subdue Tracy, until he could obtain all the information he would need to ascertain if it was murder or self-defense.

Tracy turned to Gabe. "Boy, I have done nothing wrong. Those men drew on me and I had no recourse but to dispatch them. I have no problem with you; I can see you are yet a young man that has many years to live. Please just let me walk away."

Gabe swallowed hard. "Sir, I cannot do that. The Sheriff is out of town, and I am the law in Abilene today. I need you to come with me until I figure out what happened here."

Tracy looked at the Deputy. Gabriel could feel his thumb quivering, sweat pouring from his face; he had never felt a fear stronger than this. This man's piercing blue eyes, his demeanor, his voice; everything told him that if he faced this man he would die. But, he had sworn his word to the people of Abilene; he would defend them and be the law in the Sheriff's absence. He stared about; the storekeeper, the barkeep at the city saloon, the dressmaker from across the street, the twelve-year-old Cooper boy that had always looked up to him. They all stared at Gabe as if he were the one man that could save them from the ensuing evil. He had no choice; he thought of his father, and of his brother, and his beloved mother, and could not turn away. "You, whoever you are, come with me, or I must take you by force."

At that point, all of the townspeople ran and closed their doors; Gabriel knew he would be left alone to face this nemesis, a man he knew that could squelch his life as if flicking a fly from a window. Still, his pride and honor would not let him turn away. "Boy, I beg of you: don't make me kill you. Let me go; I am Tracy Amidon. I know you've heard of me; you don't want to face me, nor I you. Just let me go."

"I can't do that, sir," Gabriel replied. "I have an obligation to this town."

"For the love of God, I wish you did not feel that way, boy. I just wanted to come in town to get a drink, and leave. You're not taking me in. Walk away. If you try to stop me, you will die."

Gabriel was petrified. Yet he knew he was good with the gun, and he did not exactly know who this man was. He could not just let him turn and leave town, or he would be disgraced, and shortly lose his job. Gabriel pulled his revolver, aiming it at Tracy's head. "Please mister, come with me peaceably, or I will shoot you." Tracy turned and drove his piercing blue eyes into Gabriel's soul, overwhelming him with fear and the absolute certainty that he was about to die. But, he was too proud to relent.

Tracy then stated: "I am leaving. If you try to stop me, you will die." Tracy mounted his steed. Gabe was anxious, but was still able to admire the confidence and grace in which Tracy turned and slowly rode away.

"Stop there, or I swear I'll kill you dead! Now get off your horse and drop the gun," Gabriel said, as calmly as he could.

It was not even a second, or a half a second or an eighth of a second; it seemed instantaneous that Tracy turned and lodged a bullet between Gabriel's eyes, seemingly as easily as one would snap his fingers. Gabriel was dead.

Afterwards, Tracy wandered from town to town, trying to conceal his identity. He knew that Gabriel's older brother was attempting to track him down, yet he knew he could probably stay a few towns ahead of him. The closest Winslow had ever come was two weeks after Gabriel's death, 50 miles east of Yuma.

Winslow Nash had ridden into Red Bluff. His first stop was to the tumble-down saloon owned by Laura Rose. Winslow had a relationship with her, off and on, for many years. Nash slung the shutter-doors back in front of the saloon. Laura looked up from the bar that she had been gazing at in boredom, and saw the man she had always loved and admired. "Nash!" She ran and embraced him. "What are you doing here, Nash? I'd given up hope of seeing you again."

"Laura, it's my brother Gabriel. "He has been killed by a gunman called Amidon. Tracy Amidon."

"Winslow, that bastard was here two days ago. He killed three men. They called him out when they recognized him as the great shootist. They were only boys, 18, 19 at the most. I suppose all who see him have the inclination to take him down, to feel they are the best.

"I saw it myself," she went on. "Tracy did not provoke anyone. He simply sat at the bar and ordered a drink. The three young men recognized him and called him out. He tried to avoid the fray, yet they would not allow it." Her voice wavered a bit. "They pushed him. Confident in their numbers, I guess, the biggest of them confronted him, barking, 'You, Tracy!' Tracy stared at his shot glass, trying to ignore the ramblings of an idiot." Laura caught her breath, and went on: "The big one said, 'Tracy, I am calling you out.' Tracy looked up at the boys. He didn't raise his voice. He told them: 'I'm going to say this one time: leave me alone.' All three boys cackled with laughter, mocking Tracy's repulsion. The biggest and dumbest of the boys drew his revolver. Winslow, I'm telling you: before a man could blink his eyes all three were shot in the head, their brains splattered on the wall. Then, Tracy threw his shot glass at the mirror behind the bar, screaming, 'Dammit, these three young men are dead!' He stared into the faces of all who were in the bar. 'Why? Why? I came here to have a drink, not to kill.' And then he turned and left. It was horrible, Winslow!"

Laura begged Winslow not to chase Tracy. She insisted he was not human; he killed people at will and no one could out-draw him. Nash calmly told her: "He may be the toughest man God ever strung a gut through, but I know he is the man that killed my brother."

Winslow followed Tracy's trail for a few more months. He was not hard to follow; he left dead bodies wherever he had been. But he was hard to catch. Laura's words finally sunk into him. Why follow this demon? He could not bring Gabe back by killing Tracy, and he would probably lose his own life for the effort. So, with a troubled mind, Nash eventually felt it was time to relinquish his quest.

Tracy had heard that Winslow Nash had settled down in Yuma, and was the Sheriff there. So, years later when he figured Nash had stopped looking for him, he was relieved; Tracy already had his hands full staying clear of every jackass west of the Mississippi, since he had a bounty of $10,000 on his head in three states. Tracy was sure Nash was just lying in wait until the day he could come and view his body in some town square, under a torch, with a crudely-written sign laying above his head stating: Murderer. So, Tracy stopped worrying about Winslow Nash, for it was already his full-time job squelching all of the would-be gunmen attempting to slay him every time he approached civilization.

Tracy walked cautiously into a saloon in a small town 20 miles west of Yuma, Arizona. He wore an unusually large rimmed black hat that had obviously endured many years of inclement weather. All of his attire was black. He wore his hat low, barely revealing his brow, in a failing attempt to conceal the six-inch scar that stretched from his eye to his chin. This scar was to his detriment, as it was the distinguishing mark that was used by all to identify him as the notorious gunman, Tracy Amidon. At a glance, his chiseled, weather-beaten, scarred face spoke many words. It was that of man tortured by his past; yet one could also see that he possessed a power that few could ever attain.

He approached the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. After consuming the contents in one gulp, he tapped the shot glass on the bar so to request another. At that moment, two cattle hands, who considered themselves to be proficient with a gun, queried, "Are you Tracy?" Amidon did not answer. Again, the cockier of the two men repeated, "I said, are you Tracy?" Amidon whispered to himself, 'Damn it, it usually takes at least four drinks before someone recognizes me.' Then, Tracy replied:

"What if I am, you ass? Just let me be. I am in route west. I wish only to be left alone."

"Oh, so you are the one, the one they say is the best. 'Tracy'…what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?" The two jackass cattlemen roared in laughter with their brethren in the saloon.

"I'm going to say this one more time: leave me the hell alone," Tracy commanded.

"How do you think you have the right to give us orders, Mr. Bad Ass Gunman? I think all that they say about you is bullshit, and you are just a coward living on your reputation."

Tracy turned to face the two men. "If you are going to do something stupid, do it now, or shut up."

Seemingly at once, the two would-be gunfighters attempted to draw their guns from their holsters. Tracy turned and proceeded to dispatch both men before their guns came close to becoming a threat to him. Before either man hit the floor, Tracy was already consuming the remaining contents of his shot glass. He whispered: "God, I am so done with this life. Both of these men had mothers, and maybe wives and children. I cannot live like this another day; I am tired of killing."