Lottie of the Lode
by Aren Lerner

John Bramwell stood on the rise, looking over a desolate landscape. Tawny hills of rock stretched away to meet the skyline, where black storm clouds rolled. A strong wind, smelling of rain, came raging up the barren slope of mine tailings, tossing the black mane of his mustang who stood beside him, and swaying the corpse on the hanging tree below him.

John sighed. Justice was simple when it was a rough, grizzled character who required the noose. But this time . . . . He sighed again and a mist of tears blurred the swaying corpse into a dancing phantom before his eyes.

"You're new in town, sir?" Lantern light flickered across her handsome, cheeky features, and gleamed on her bare shoulders.

"Yes, ma'am. Just drifted in this afternoon. What can you tell me about this place?"

Her finely-molded lips curved into a smile. She put down the beaker of ale and leaned her elbows on the bar, tipping her head to one side. "Depends on what you want to know," she said.

There was a rude gale of laughter from across the bar hall, and a dusty group of miners slapped the tabletop with satisfaction as their favorite played a winning poker hand. It was a few moments before the noise subsided.

"Well," said John, turning back to the barmaid, "I'd like just about any information you have to offer. Let's start with introductions. My name is John Bramwell, and I'd very much like to know yours."

Another smile flashed across her face, dimpling her cheek. "The name is Lottie, sir. Lottie of the Lode. Dove of Davidson. The best girl here for hire, the men will tell you, if you stick around long enough to learn. What brings you drifting through these parts? The silver, the whiskey, or the wind?"

"The wind, I reckon," John smiled. "What brought you to these parts? You're quite handsome enough to ply a better trade than baiting lonely strangers in a devilish spot like this."

"Just handsome enough to bait lonely strangers," the girl returned, giving a toss of her head that sent a bedraggled bunch of peacock feathers twirling in her curly dark hair.

John smiled. "I'm an upright Christian man, Lottie. And though I stoop to a shot of redeye to keep me in my saddle on long days, I don't hold converse with the soiled doves, of Davidson or otherwise."

"More's the pity," Lottie shrugged. With that, she turned her attention to a more susceptible customer who suggested a rich reward possible, judging from the engraving on his spurs and the gold watch fob across his waistcoat.

John drained his glass and turned to go. It was evident that she was going to offer him no important information without a fee. He would have to look elsewhere for clues to solving the case. Stagecoach ambushes. Word had been sent across the border to the California detective's office of stagecoach robberies by an outlaw gang as the coaches traversed the Virginia Mountain range, filled with silver from the booming Comstock Lode. Five stage drivers had been killed and an untold value of silver vanished back into the wilds, never yet recovered.

The street was dusty and clouded by the coal smoke that rolled from the pipes jutting from the massive tiers of mine buildings on the mountain side. Mount Davidson. Sunshine glinted from the steel roof panels. It was late afternoon and a heavy silence reigned over Virginia City, broken only by the raucous voices of the men at poker in the hall.

John walked down the board sidewalk, his rowels ringing in the still air, and mounted his horse who stood waiting in the shade, lower lip hanging and eyes half closed. It had been a long hard ride over the mountains from California, and grass was scarce in this barren land in the middle of July. John would turn him in for the night at the livery and, once that was done, hole up for the night at the hotel. Even a detective deserved a night of solid rest after a long hard ride.

A plump matron attired in faded gingham came bustling to answer the bell in the hotel lobby. "Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?" she inquired.

"Just one bed for the night, please, ma'am."

"I'm afraid it'll have to be half a bed, sir. I'm all full already."

John nodded his acceptance, placed his fare in the woman's outstretched palm, and she ushered him into the dining room where pans of steaming buffalo meat were just being passed. John sat down at the end of the table, his eyes scanning the assemblage. Men, all of them. Men with felt hats, straw hats, patched coats, trousers in their boot tops, and dirt under their fingernails. Some of them were talking of the War Between the States back East. Others were recounting their silver strikes or their day in the bowels of the Comstock. Still others were talking of Lottie down at the Red Lantern.

"You shoulda seen 'er the other night at the dance, all decked out. Man, she was a beauty," said one.

"Best thing about 'er is she ain't allus caterwaulin' about under foot like the missus back home," another guffawed. "That's the way I like 'em—there when ya wan'em, and gone when ya don't."

"Amen to that! Some folks thinks it's a pity a beauty like 'er got her wings soiled with the likes of us, but I says it's a mighty big blessin' straight from the Old Man upstairs!" grinned a third. "Thisaway we all gets the best of 'er and none gets the worst."

John shifted irritably. He was trying to listen to the more germane conversations of the other men, listen for clues about the case he was here to solve, the gang he was to uncover. But it was hard to do when Lottie seemed to dominate the atmosphere. Already he could feel her strange allure laying hold on his own mind. It annoyed him, there in the back of his thoughts like the high-pitched hum of an unseen mosquito.

"How long have you fellas been in town?" he asked, interrupting the conversation.

The three men turned to him, eyes still vague with memories of their nighttime revels with Lottie. "'Bout a month," said the first. The second shrugged and nodded in loose agreement. "'Nearin' a year," said the third with a prideful smile.

"Making your fortune, eh?" said John. "I heard the Comstock's a man's best bet these days. A fine sight better than getting shot full of Rebel balls back East, which seems the only other route to glory offered a man."

"Eh, that or the other side," growled a lean, handsome man down the table. "Nothing wrong with the fight for State's rights, and a durn sight more glorious to face down a line of bluecoats for yer own home and hearth than pick on a gaggle of poor cotton pickers with the whole mighty US government behind you. The first 'un takes pluck, the second a mere dog." His gray eyes flashed fire and his long, dark, curving mustache quivered.

"Well, thankfully we don't need to pick a fight about that quarrel out here," John reasoned hastily. "This is a free man's country, and each can think according to his own bent." But he carefully noted the man's characteristics, his build, and the sound of his voice. A Confederate sympathizer was a likely suspect around a mine whose yield funded the Union's war effort.

John turned in for the night congratulating himself on what appeared to be a good lead with which to begin his investigation. But it was hard to sleep. He was left little room by the board placed down the center of the bed between him and his strange bedmate, a tawny-haired man with a Roman nose and a cracked front tooth who had introduced himself as Thad. Moonlight slanted across the floor from between two crooked muslin curtains. There were hoofbeats on the road outside, a faint tune scratched out on a fiddle, and a girl's laughter. Was it Lottie?

The moon was still setting on the other side of the horizon when John was awakened by Thad getting up, blowing a sonorous note into his handkerchief, and sharpening his razor on a whetstone. From downstairs came the clink of dishes and the scent of frying griddlecakes. John got up and put on his boots. He took out the tract from his breast pocket and read a few lines of Scripture to brace him for the day. His mother had given it to him as a parting gift before he left for the West. "Johnny, I trust you will always walk with the Lord," she had said, tears in her eyes.

John spent the day wandering the town, talking with anyone who would pause long enough to return his "Good Day." He visited the mines on the mountainside. He checked on his horse at the livery stable. Nothing turned up a clue so likely as the man at the supper table the night before. He needed to discover more about him.

One place seemed a likely source of information. John retraced his steps to the saloon. It was quiet inside this morning. Only the owner stood behind the counter reading a newspaper. John felt his heart drop and only then realized that he had been personally wishing to see Lottie again, for reasons beside the information she might be able to offer. "I was wondering if you could tell me the name of this man I encountered last night," John addressed the disappointing manly countenance behind the bar, and proceeded to describe the Confederate sympathizer.

The saloon owner shrugged. "I don't note a man's looks so long as he paid for his whiskey," he said. "Sounds like a couple dozen who have passed through these parts recently. Lottie will be in later, she's the most likely to know who you describe."

John shook his head as he walked out. The town really did revolve around Lottie. But he returned at the appointed hour to scent out the information he required, and found Lottie sitting on a bar stool swinging one fine buttoned boot from under the hem of a dress of blue silk. Ringlets of dark hair rested on her white shoulders, and a red satin flower decorated the black belt clasped around her slender waist.

"Ah, so you're back," she smiled coquettishly at him as he approached her.

John felt flustered. "Well, yes, but no. I mean, not for . . . the reason you imply. I was wondering if you could give me a piece of information I'm in need of."

Lottie rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Not this again. I'm not here to offer free services of any variety, you understand? If it's a shot, lay down the dinero, hombre. If it's time with me, same rule. I'm a hardworking girl and nothing comes free."

John pulled out a coin and put it on the counter. Lottie pounced on it and spun it between her fingers. "I was wondering if you could tell me," John began, and proceeded to describe his suspect.

Lottie thought for a moment, her lips pursed. She tipped her head to one side. "Hmm, I might take a wager as to who you mean." She held out her hand and tapped her palm.

John put another coin into it, and reluctantly found himself smiling.

She winked at him, hitching up her dress to deposit both coins down the top of her silk stocking. "I think you mean William Hutchinson. He's been in town about five months. Working at the mine and gets his pay on Thursdays. He's from Tennessee, youngest son of a poor upland farmer. Boarding at the hotel since the rooming house is all fulled up. But he bought a lot next to the gunsmith and is starting to build."

Five months. The timing lined up perfectly with the start of the stagecoach robberies. John felt a stir of satisfaction in himself. He was onto the trail now.

"I could know as much about you, if you'll come back tonight," Lottie called after him as he walked back out of the saloon.

John patted the tract in his pocket to prevent his mind from conjuring images of Lottie's proposition. He was here to do important work and uphold the reign of law. Nothing could distract him.

John haunted William Hutchinson's steps for the next six weeks. Hutchinson went to the mine at 4:30 in the morning. He stopped to eat lunch out of a tin pail at 1 o'clock. He returned to the hotel at 7:30 at night, turned in to room 12, shared the bed with another miner named George Groscan, and Tom Fletcher slept on the floor. On Sundays he worked on building his house on Lot 9. On Thursdays after pay he visited the saloon for a double shot of whiskey and hit the Red Lantern afterwards. He was a very monotonous suspect. John kept his eyes and ears open for any other leads, but found none. The detective office in California sent requests for updates. But there were none.

And week by week it became more of a trial of soul to sit in the corner of the saloon every Thursday and watch Lottie flirt with her paying customers, sit on their knees, kiss them, toy with their hair, and dance with them. She was beautiful, there was no mistaking that. And of such a winning, playful nature. It was a pity she wasn't a reputable girl. In every way but her despicable trade she was the girl of his dreams. But only in his dreams did John admit this. How her velvety dark eyes and curved red lips plagued his sleeping hours! How he would rather haunt her steps than Hutchinson's! What strength it took to withstand her coy smiles, the glances she threw over her shoulders at him, and the affectionate teasing she gave him.

"We're having a dance tonight," she informed him one such day. "I think you ought to come. You're too tight-laced for your own good."

"And why should that matter to you? You'll have plenty of partners," John replied, with a bitter note escaping in his voice.

Lottie seated herself uninvited on his knee, and her bare arm curved about his neck. "You're the only one I haven't conquered yet. Consequently you're intriguing me," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.

John's arms stole involuntarily around her waist, holding her tightly until he could feel the bones of her corset beneath the silk. How delicious her scent was, and how intoxicating her touch. Her kisses grazed his neck, his cheek, his chin, and fixed on his lips. John felt his mind empty and the world swirl away into mist. He leaned in to her kiss hungrily, his hands seeking the curves of her body. How seductive and perfect she was. Yet, how he wanted her for himself alone. Not to have her, and then hand her off to Hutchinson, to Groscan, to Fletcher. For a second longer he clutched her fiercely, then pushed her off his knee and stood up, his muscles shaking from holding back from her.

Lottie looked silently after him, a sad expression in her eyes.

John's mind remained clouded. He charged off up the hillside behind town, forgetting to shadow Hutchinson, forgetting the robberies and the case waiting to be solved. He found a rock overlooking the barren landscape below him. Conflicting forces wrestled in his soul. He pulled out his mother's tract from his pocket and tried to read it. Then he crumpled it angrily in his fist and threw it into the dust. Even if he couldn't have all of Lottie, he could have some of Lottie. He loved her for herself more than the other men who got her did. Why should he not have her? Her kiss still burned on his lips and he could feel the warmth of her body against his. A raging fire in his veins consuming him.

The sun was setting, sending last streaks of orange light across the sky and glowing on the sandstone. The town fell into shadow. Lights gleamed from the windows of the saloon and lively music began to play. John stood up, a rebellious resolve settling over his mind. Those who cared would never know, and those who knew would never care. Tonight was the night.

Just as he turned his steps toward town, John heard the distant rumble of stagecoach wheels on the rocky ground. Under cover of darkness, a stage was pulling out from mine headquarters toward the pass in the Virginia Mountains. John stood arrested, watching the dark coach sway off into the black night. Coming to his senses, he ran toward the livery stable, leapt upon the bare back of his mustang, and followed the coach, keeping a safe distance.

The stagecoach traversed the foothills, and at last entered the pass as the hour approached midnight. John guided his horse along the ridge above, every sense straining. Clouds shifted across the moon, casting everything in a lurid, ghostly light. Every step and breath of his horse, every squeak of saddle leather, seemed to shatter the night.

A cry from below and the frightened whinny of a horse brought John leaping to the edge of the ridge to peer over. In the moonlight, he saw a man standing in the middle of the road, the long, glinting barrel of a rifle pointed at the breast of the stage driver. "Hands up," the man ordered. Two others stepped from the shadows, guns leveled. Slowly the driver lifted his hands and stepped from the seat. One of the gang held him at bay, while the other two climbed aboard the stagecoach, slitting the ropes that bound a heavy trunk and prying open the lock. They tossed out the bags of silver, one by one, stowed them in their saddle bags, then leapt upon their horses, and galloped up the opposite ridge, disappearing into the darkness.

John knew it was a hopeless pursuit on his own, but he smiled. He knew those men. It was not Hutchinson. It was the three he had dined with on his very first night. The three who had extolled the charms of Lottie. He felt a great, grim satisfaction settle over him. These bastards could enjoy her caresses no longer, once he returned with his account of the robbery to the sheriffs.

It was in the wee hours of the morning that John, exulting in silence, rode back into Virginia City. He stabled his horse at the livery, and then, adjusting his lapels and smoothing his hair, he turned his steps toward Lottie's house, where the red lantern glowed its invitation in the murky night. He was almost to the front door, his heart racing with anticipation, when low voices at the back reached his ear.

"We'll get it out of the canyon once the news about it dies down," one whispered. "Shouldn't be longer than a week."

"I'll pay you then. Not before. I want it safe on its way, or you'll all suffer," another voice replied.

"I swear we'll get it out safe, we always have before," another voice reassured.

John stole closer, scarcely breathing, and peered with one eye around the side of the house. There was a cluster of people huddled close. At first he couldn't make them out. Then one turned slightly, and his features became clear. He was one of the outlaws. One. Two. Three. John identified them one by one. But who was the fourth person in this circle?

"All right. When you get back, you'll get your share," the fourth person promised. The three nodded, touched their hats, and faded away into the night. The fourth turned, and John's blood froze. It was Lottie. She reentered her cabin through the back door, and all was still.

John stood riveted to the spot, a thousand emotions tearing through his soul. Lottie, the beautiful, the seductive, the desired, was buying off men to rob the stagecoaches. What in the world was she doing this for? And what, the next question burned itself into his mind, was he going to do about it? But a moment before he had been relishing the opportunity to turn those men in, anticipating them receiving their just dues, and exulting that they would no longer experience the pleasures of Lottie that he craved. Now . . .  everything had changed. He could claim that he had failed to solve the case, and his career as a detective would be over. Innocent lives would continue to be lost. Silver stolen, and sent . . . where was Lottie having it sent? There was only one probable answer. Lottie was a Confederate agent and was sending funds to the Confederacy, playing her small part in destroying the Union. Anger rippled through John's soul.

He turned on his heel and resolutely turned his back on the winking red lantern and all the illicit joy he had been anticipating. His rowels ringing, he strode down the board sidewalk and rapped on the sheriff's door.

A rumbled, sleepy sheriff appeared. "What, man?" he grumbled.

"Another stagecoach has been robbed. I witnessed the whole thing. I will lead you to the three men who perpetrated the crime. And, furthermore, they have been paid off . . . " The memory of Lottie's kiss stung on his lips, and her face rose before his mind's eye, playful, beautiful, every feature perfect.

The sheriff was already calling the others, scrambling for his boots, fumbling for a light. "Who were they? Where are they? Tell me."

John, in a fog, described the three men's appearance, their names, and abode, the direction they had taken the silver. The sheriffs tore off, and John was left standing there, as the dim light of morning streaked the eastern horizon. He had obscured justice. But he had saved her. The Dove of Davidson. Stupidly, he turned and walked down the street. Her lantern was burning low, but he raised his hand and knocked.

There was the sound of footsteps, and she opened the door. Her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and her figure was concealed only by the thin folds of a lacy chemise. She smiled when she saw his face. "John," she said. "I knew you would come at last."

John looked at her. She could never again appear so exquisitely desirable as she had before. She had fallen lower than he had believed. She was not the destitute innocent who had had to sell her soul to feed her body. She was a fraud, a spy, an agent of the enemy. His dreams of redeeming her from her life of sin and marrying her, carrying her off to a place where no one would know her past and giving her a chance to start over . . . it all looked so foolish now. Yet, his heart still burned with this misguided love for her. So beautiful. So playful. So cheeky and filled with teasing and jest. He stepped inside and pulled her to himself, clutching her tousled head to his heart and kissing her white neck and bare shoulders over and over in an agony. "Oh, Lottie," was all he could choke out. "Oh, Lottie."

It took but a few days for the sheriffs to capture the three men. But they, they who had sat around praising the charms of Lottie of the Lode, they betrayed her. They showed no loyalty. No mercy. No desire to shield her from the wrath of the law. They told it all. And it was all discovered. The papers from the Confederate government stashed in her mattress. The correspondence, the payments for the smuggled silver. Lottie of the Lode was taken. A noose thrown about her beautiful neck. Dragged out of town to the hanging tree.

"John!" she screamed. "John, you didn't!"

John's heart felt shredded in his chest. He pushed through the crowd. He took her little ice-cold hand, as she sat trembling on the horse that was about to be led from beneath her. "Lottie," he whispered, "I knew, but I didn't. Your accomplices told it all. I wanted to save you. They pretended to love you, but I really did."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. John squeezed her hand before he was pushed away. The horse was led forward, and Lottie fell to her death.

And here she still hung. The crowds had dispersed. The sun was going down. Thunder rolled in the distance. Dust devils swirled across the ground beneath her. John blinked at the tears in his eyes. Slowly he walked down the arid slope of mine tailings where all plant life had been destroyed. He mounted his horse, and took out his knife, reaching above Lottie's lifeless head. The rope frayed, unraveled, and came apart. The cold body of Lottie fell into John's arms. He held it close and turned his horse to the West, where the storm was lowering above the rugged mountains. His work here was done. And at the foot of the Virginia Mountains, he dug a grave, laid Lottie within it, and with a breaking heart shoveled the rough rocky ground over her.

"Here lies Lottie of the Lode. A beautiful soul who lost her way." He pronounced her epitaph to the wind. It was better left unwritten. The wolves among men would not honor her even were her grave marked, and true men would never forget. Here, her memory, with her bones, could lie unmolested.

Crowbait
by T.L. Simpson

"You see that man?" one bouncer said, inclining his head toward the scrawny fella slurping whiskey at the bar, his shoulders hunched forward.

The other bouncer shifted in the lookout chair, shotgun across his lap. "I see him."

"That's Marshall Verge."

"That a name I should know?"

"Is if you want to keep workin here."

The lookout nodded, his Stetson dipping down like a bird drinking.

"Verge's got three stages of rowdy. Stage one is what he's doing right now, pounding down whiskey, sullen, still hurting from all the shit what happened to him four years ago."

"What happened to him?"

"Don't matter. Stage two go two ways. He'll work himself into a fighting mood or else get horny and go after one of the whores. Horny is fine. Fighty, you best sit up and notice. Stage three he starts something. You throw him out. Don't hesitate a minute. Stage three, you throw him out."

The lookout looked unimpressed. "What happens if I don't?"

"Son, they asked me to train you. Just do what I say."

"And ask no questions?"

"Verge apt to kill a man you leave him here. How about that? You throw him out before he do. Killing is bad for business."

"Seems like he apt to kill me if I do that."

The first bouncer chuckled, shook his head. "How you think this job come open?"

Verge viewed his life in two halves. Before Sept. 23, 1898 and after—split in two by the day Sisco Dent rode to Constitution with revenge in his heart, put a bullet in Verge's wife Charla, and choked to death his young daughter Addie.

Verge had found Charla dead in the kitchen and Addie in the middle of his bed, in the same place she had been conceived three years prior, where Charla had bent over in labor pains and pushed the child into the world, the same place she breathed her first gulp of air and took in her first eyeful of everything beautiful.

That was it: the line that divided Verge's world in two. The before and the after. He spent the after the same each day, haunted by their bright smiles, seeing them when he closed his eyes.

The whiskey helped. It blurred them into nothing. So he gobbled it like he was starved, drinking until the world vanished into black, as if he'd died and left everything behind.

Maybe one day he would. Get rowdy with the wrong man, maybe they'd put a bullet in him.

"Another," he told the bartender, sliding the empty glass across the wood. It teetered on the brink for a heartbeat before tumbling to the floor.

"What'd you do that for?" the bartender said, his face all tight.

"You relax now and bring me another."

"Can't you find someplace else to take your spirits?"

"Reckon you like my money good enough."

"Don't like your smell. Your attitude. Bout nothin else but your money."

"I'm drinkin tonight to forget. Give a man the goddamn dignity to forget, for Christ's sake."

Everyone knew what happened to Charla. They'd been sympathetic for a while, but Verge turned each of them against him over time.

"Your wife ain't comin back. You want to see her, put that sidearm in your mouth and pull."

"Talk like that makes me think I am unpopular."

The barkeep stared across the bar, locked eyes with the lookout. Verge was not too far gone to know what that meant.

"I just want to drink in peace," he said.

The barkeep put a bottle in the center of the bar. "My gift. Drink in peace at home."

"Ain't goin no place."

"Don't get ugly now."

Verge could hear the lookout approaching from the back, the tiny click of the safety coming off his shotgun. The lookout worked the lever. Verge spun, drew his gun and shot the man in the throat before he ever got that shotgun cocked. He leveled the gun at the other bouncer. "Don't you draw on me," he said.

"Ain't gonna." the bouncer said, showing his palms.

Verge grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table, still pointing his gun. He walked backward through the door.

"Somebody get the sheriff," the barkeep said, his voice drifting through an open window. "We gonna hang Marshall Verge for this one."

Verge made his way out of Constitution, to the craggy outskirts, where farmers tended to the scarce food that would grow between the rocks. No one had followed him out of town, but he walked with urgency, stopping only to take another pull from the whiskey bottle.

He staggered along the empty path until he came to a house hidden among the trees at the base of the mountains.

He slipped through the gate and stumbled to the front door.

"Crone," he bellowed. He knocked twice with the butt of the whiskey bottle, sloshing liquor down his shirt. The door cracked, a pair of eyes like dirty cotton flashing in the dark. "What do you want?"

Verge slipped his fingers into the cracked door and forced it open. The woman leveled a shotgun at his face. "Think real hard about what you say next," she said.

Verge lifted both hands. "Heard you was a diviner of secrets. I'm being run off, hag. Tell me where I ought to go."

The woman lowered the gun. She cinched her shawl around bent shoulders and stepped aside. "I ain't divining nothin for free."

"I can pay."

She led him to table, still holding tight the shotgun. "Let's see the money first."

He rooted around in his pocket, dropping several wadded dollar bills on the table. He eased into the chair, his head spinning with the drink. "Whoa there," he whispered, catching the world on its tilt with both hands on the table. "You done spelt me."

"You spelt yourself."

He picked up the bottle, roved for the tip with his tongue. He tipped it into his mouth and drank deep. "Reckon I did."

"It is nearly midnight," the woman said, sitting across from him, the shotgun still pointed at him under the table.

"Is it?"

"Who told you to come here?"

"Folk know all about you."

She smiled. "Do they?"

"Is it true or ain't it?"

The woman thought for a moment. She stood, walked to the far side of the room. She snapped open the latch on a small wooden box and produced a rectangular object. Verge struggled to focus in the dim lighting. She returned, leaving the shotgun leaning against a wall, and sat at the table.

"The hell you got in your hands?"

She placed the object on the table. Verge could see it was several thin rectangular objects.

"Tell me. What is your name?"

"Marshall Verge."

She dimmed the kerosene lantern between them, throwing her features into contrast, her eyes vanishing into shadow. "What would you ask the spirits?"

"One question?"

"One."

Verge takes another pull of whiskey. "Where can I find Sisco Dent."

"The man who took everything from you."

Verge blinked, the world murky around the edges. There was something strange about that statement, but he was too drunk to discern it. "Reckon I sleep better knowing he's dead, no matter what else."

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Ain't I paying you?"

"Sometimes a box opened can't be closed. And hope is like laudanum to the hopeless."

"Do it, woman. I thought about it enough. All I done since the day he took them from me is think about it. I had enough thinking to last me three lifetimes over."

She laid six cards on the wooden surface and began flipping them, one by one. Verge leaned forward to read the text printed on the cards.

Three of Swords. Death. The Devil. Judgment. Ten of Swords. The Tower.

The old woman clucked, rapped a fingernail on the table.

"What is it?"

"Tarot does not tell you the future as it must be for we are the sole arbiters of our destiny. Tarot tells you things as they might be."

Verge took another swallow. "And how might things be?"

"You go after Sisco Dent, and you will see your woman again. Your child. Of that, I have no doubt."

Verge watched her face come into amber focus as she moved closer to the lantern. Her eyes seemed to drink in the shadows.

"Impossible," he said.

"The cards do not lie."

"Where is Sisco Dent?"

The woman shrugged. "Anywhere."

"Tell me where."

"The cards don't work that way."

Verge shoved the table away as he stood. The woman jerked from her chair and backed to the corner of the room. "Get out of here," she said, grabbing the shotgun from the wall. She jabbed the end at him, her hands shaking.

Verge showed her his empty palms. "I'm leaving, you jumpy bitch," he said. He tipped his Stetson toward her and thudded through the house toward the front door.

He stepped outside, his head filled with thoughts of splitting Sisco Dent's skull in two with a .45 slug. He wasn't sure how this might bring his family back, but the witch had said it could.

If it didn't, Sisco Dent would still be dead.

Who knew where Sisco Dent ended up? He'd had about half the United States law after him at one point. Other outlaws too. Verge searched his memory as he walked back to the trail. Who did he know that might know where Sisco Dent ended up?

A crow fluttered from the night sky, briefly eclipsing the moon. It settled in a nearby tree and eyed him, moonlight reflecting in its beady eyes.

"The hell do you want?" Verge said, pointing a finger gun at it.

The crow cawed once, then flew away.

Verge spent most of his savings at the livery getting a horse tacked and suited for travel.

He was three towns west of Constitution, where the sheriff or a posse or both waited to string him to the nearest tree.

He'd lived there for six months before spoiling it for himself. Sober, he did not recall exactly what crimes had been levied against him, just some dim recollection of a gunfight, of blood, of someone falling away from in the blur, clutching their chest with one hand, a rifle in the other.

"You headed far?" the stableman said.

Verge fed a handful of corn to the horse. "Far enough."

"Heard there was some business up in Constitution. Heard your name said a few times."

"Business follows me everyplace I go, seems like."

"Said you shot a lookout at The Wolf and Sparrow."

Verge mounted the mare, adjusted himself in the saddle. He looked down at the stableman. "You ever heard of Sisco Dent?"

The man blinked, his eyes small and stupid, like a cow chewing cud. "We all heard the story, Marshall. Goddamn have we all heard the story. About all you talked about since."

"Then you know why I am like I am."

Verge found Ben Carson playing poker in the same rundown saloon he'd left six years ago. Carson looked up from his cards and almost smiled.

"Why Marshall Verge," he said.

"Carson."

"What brings you to this fine establishment?" he swept his hands wide, gesturing to the entire room.

"You know what."

Carson looked down, as if contemplating the cards in his hand. "Sisco."

Verge pulled up a chair, squeezing between two fat gamblers. "Where is he?"

"I don't know, Verge."

"I think you do know. We was real tight once upon a time, weren't we?"

"We was."

One of the fat gamblers thumped his cards face down on the table. "Can't you see we are trying to have us a game here?"

Verge flipped the man a quarter with his thumb. "Buy yourself a drink. I'll be gone before you get back." He turned back to Carson. "Tell me where Sisco is."

Carson tossed his cards. "Fold," he said, standing. He walked to the far side of the room, to an empty booth and sat down. Verge followed him.

"Won't bring them back," Carson said.

"Don't need to."

"Won't make it better."

"Don't need to do that neither."

"Then why do it?"

"I got to have something or else I got nothing."

Carson's handlebar mustache bristled. Beads of sweat formed across his brow. He fished a red handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face. "Weren't right what he done to you, Verge. I want you to know that's why I got out. Sisco said I was a coward, but I just couldn't ride with a man who would backshoot a woman, choke to death a child. And over what?"

"Money."

"Sisco found a new way to make money. New game. Safer than robbing banks. Robbing from Wells Fargo trains. Having shootouts with Pinkerton cocksuckers. Safer than all of that."

"What'd he find."

"Started him up a church in Abbington. Traded the gun for hellfire. But he gets his money all the same."

The bar is quiet, as if everyone is eavesdropping on their conversation. Verge looks around the room. A whore on the far wall shakes her tits at him.

"Verge, I understand why you want this thing done, but you have to know one thing."

"What's that, buckaroo?"

"It don't fix nothing. That hole inside you just gets bigger. Gets bigger every drop of blood you spill. I promise you that."

It took thirteen days to reach Abbington. Verge drove his horse hard, digging in his spurs until her flanks ran slick with crimson blood.

He stopped on a hill outside town and looked down at the city lights, scattered across the valley below like the reflection of stars on the rolling ocean.

One of those lights belonged to Sisco Dent. Maybe he was at his church, taking care of a few things before service in the morning. Maybe he was nested for the night at a nearby parsonage, enjoying whatever family he'd been able to assemble in the four years since.

He cooked beans over the fire, chewed them slowly, their grit dissolving between his teeth. The fire danced in his pupils.

He slept. Restless. His soogan failed to block the cold. He woke before sunrise and prodded the dead fire. He fed his horse a handful of corn, then slapped her rear, sending her trotting away from Abbington. He wouldn't need a horse after today.

He turned to the city. He could see the gridwork of streets, only the earliest risers out and about.

Church began in an hour, worship soon after. He checked his gun, a pearl-handled Colt .45.

All six prayers accounted for.

Verge sat in the back row, his head low, face hidden from the the pulpit by the brim of his hat.

When the congregation stood to sing, he remained seated, listening to their creaky voices haw out the lyrics, "Because he lives, I can face tomorrow."

Sisco sat on a bench near the pulpit. He welcomed everyone to worship by clapping his hands. "Are you glad to be in the house of the Lord?"

Verge considered shooting him right there.

Sisco took the stage for the sermon after a few more songs. He thudded a fat King James Bible down on the pulpit.

"Good folk here in Abbington," he said. "But can I tell you something? It ain't about being good folk. I'm going to say that again, cause I want you to hear it. It ain't about being good. It's about the blood of our marvelous Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ."

The crowd said, "Amen." Verge kept his head low. He touched the pearl grip of his revolver, his finger twitching, heart thudding.

"I know about sin," Sisco said. "Lord knows I am a sinner. You all know where I come from. An outlaw life. I come here broken, and you fed me with the spiritual food of Jesus. Weren't for the Lord, my wife, my child, I would still be out there somewhere, living a life for who? For me. And me alone."

Wife?

Child?

Verge looked up enough to scan the room. He spied a woman and child sitting in the front row, their Sunday best crisp and clean in the light that filtered through the stained glass windows.

The girl was just a little older than his own daughter, her thin legs like the stems of a dandelion disappearing into her white dress. The woman was tall but fair, her hair pulled tight into a bun on her head.

Charla.

Addie.

Sisco's sermon droned out into a murmur. The world fuzzed like a pinhole camera, with the woman and child in crisp focus in the center.

When he glanced back at the pulpit, Sisco was staring straight ahead. "No matter what we done, Jesus' forgiveness is sufficient," he said. "I'm gonna say that one more time. No matter what we done. No matter what."

Verge downed another shot of whiskey. The man behind the counter nodded and poured another. "Say when."

"When it's empty," Verge said.

"Ain't many come in here on a Sunday."

Verge downed the next shot and placed it on the table with a clank. "So what."

"Something on your mind, stranger?"

The barkeep smelled like stale beer, his eyes like muddy puddles of water. He smiled like he cared.

"Somethin is. Sure."

The barkeep poured another shot. "You want, I can talk to you about it."

"You know Sisco Dent?"

"Sure I do."

"What do you know about him?"

"Know he was rough when he got here. Said he done horrible things. Things that ate him to his soul. Wouldn't say what. He's doing right fine there at the church these days."

"I know what he done. I know all about Sisco Dent. Give me the bottle."

The barkeep slid the enter bottle of whiskey across the bar. Verge caught it just before it tipped over the edge.

"It don't matter what he done."

"Don't it though?"

"Why don't you tell me, and I'll decide?"

"Sisco Dent kilt my wife. Kilt my baby child. Kilt them in my own home."

There was a long silence. Verge gulped down half the whiskey.

"Revenge then?"

Verge didn't answer, just kept drinking.

"Let me tell you something else about Sisco," the barkeep said.

No answer, just the sound of spirits bubbling from the end of a bottle.

"Sisco one of the best shots I ever seen. Had a festival here a while back, a shooting competition. He took first by a mile. I wouldn't draw on him."

"I know he can shoot."

"Man kills a man's family deserves to die."

"Amen."

"But you think it ought to be from you?"

"He ought to've hung a long time ago."

"Men are victims of all the things that happen to them. Ain't no one decides for themselves who they are. God shapes them with tragedy, and that's all. All men. Even Sisco. Leave this town, stranger. Find happiness somewhere. It ain't here. Not for you."

Verge downed the rest of the whiskey. "I'll leave. One way or another, I'll leave."

By mid afternoon, he was hiding out on the reverse side of a barn on Sisco's property. He slouched against the aged wood, turning the chamber in his pistol, listening to the delicate little clicks.

He watched a murder of ravens settle in the trees across the way, bustling their shoulders, bobbing their heads. They spoke to each other, argued and fought.

"You kilt men before," he said, still drunk. "You kilt a lot of men. What's Sisco dead to you? After what he done? What's his wife dead to you? His girl?"

The crows answered in little sharp barks. He sat up straight, the world tipsy beneath him. "What'd you say to me?"

He pointed his gun, watched the tip dance in front of him. He winked one eye, concentrated hard. "Why don't you be still?"

"Who you talking to, mister?" Verge jumped. A little girl stood at the corner of the barn, one pale hand spread around the corner like creeping ivy.

Verge lowered the gun. He hiccuped, swallowed vomit. "Them birds," he said, after a moment.

"Don't you mind them birds."

Verge laughed. She stepped fully around the barn, all legs and torso. She frowned at him, her hands on her hips, channeling her mother. "I ought to get my Pa."

"I know your Pa. We was friends one time."

"You was?"

"We was."

"I'll go get him. He'll want to know."

Verge tried to stand, but his legs collapsed like hot wire. "Wait now."

She took a step back. The crows rustled on the trees nearby, the sound of their feathers like an executioner's snare drum.

"Don't you point that at me," he heard her say. She danced at the end of his pistol.

He pulled the trigger.

Crows exploded from the trees like pollen on the wind, cawing and screeching. They flew in great whirling circles in the sky, pinwheeling through the clouds, specks of black on searing blue.

Sisco nudged Verge with the end of a .30-30.

"Wake up, boy."

Verge opened one eye. Nothing came in focus except the cold iron of a gun pressed against his temple.

"You cracked off a shot at my girl," Sisco said. Verge shifted, feelings around on his hip for his sidearm. He looked up at Sisco, a black silhouette against the sun. Sisco jabbed him with the gun. "Stand up. You think I ain't thought to disarm you already?"

Verge guided himself to his feet against the side of the barn.

"Walk," Sisco said. "That way." He motioned to the empty field with his eyes. The crows drifted back down to the trees. They seemed to hunch forward, eager to see what would happen.

"Did I kill that girl?" Verge asked, walking.

"Girl's fine."

"Shame."

"Walk harder."

Sisco pressed him further and further into the frontier. They stopped for a minute so Sisco could rest his fat ass, and drink from a waterskin.

"Always reckoned you'd come," Sisco said.

"Come and find you here with the very thing you stole from me."

"I know it."

"I was trying to live clean, Sisco. Built me up something. A life. You steal it away from me, and I got no choice but to go dirty again."

Sisco pointed to a nearby tree with the tip of the gun. "Why don't you sit down by that tree."

"I ain't sitting no place."

"Your choice," Sisco said. He lowered the gun and blew out Verge's knee. Verge hit the ground screaming. "You always got a choice, Marshall. Take me, for example. I could shoot you dead right now. Or I could let you live."

"Shoot me dead, you cocksucker."

Verge pulled himself backwards, holding his bleeding leg until he could rest against the base of the tree.

Sisco cracked the lever on the .30-30 and lowered it again.

"Do it," Verge said. He touched himself on the forehead. "Right here."

The rifle roared. Verge's good knee buckled. He screamed, clawing up fistfulls of dirt and rock. He writhed against the tree, foam gathering in the corners of his mouth.

"See you, Marshall." Sisco said. He turned to leave.

"Don't leave me."

Sisco kept walking.

"Sisco, don't you leave me here. You leave me here, my blood is on you. You leave me here, you kilt me. You kilt me, Sisco. You kilt me."

Sisco turned and looked at him, his face scrunched as if he were looking at something confusing. Then he shrugged and kept walking.

Verge screamed until his voice went out.

Verge saw Charla in some green country, snow dusting the deep spaces of giant pine trees. She carried Addie on her hip, the little girl's hair in delicate blond ringlets.

He crept behind her, uncertain—afraid to call out, to find that it was another woman, another child, another trick of the mind.

Charla turned, saw him. Her eyes were bright, open like two wells straight to her soul. "Why Marshall Verge," she said, smile growing across her face.

Addie kicked her little legs and clapped her chubby hands. "Papa."

"My beautiful girls."

"Come on over here," Charla said. "Put your arms around us."

Verge stepped toward her.

Somewhere, a hot sun blistered the sky. Crows huddled around a tree, furious for the smell of blood. Verge took his wife in his hands. He kissed her. He kissed his child.

The crows descended.

The Circuit Rider
by Shaun M. Jex

The circuit rider sits atop his horse as it walks slowly along a rocky path that runs along Honey Creek. The sun is just slipping below the peaks of the Arbuckle Mountains and the rider is making his way toward a thin column of smoke rising up from a campsite.

He is a thin man with gaunt features. His cheeks and jaw are sharp, and his eyes suggest a nervous energy. They are pale grey and alert, always scanning his surroundings. His skin is ruddy and weathered from many days riding. It is clear that the circuit rider is young. He is perhaps in his early 20s. A well-trimmed beard adorns his face, as does a small scar that runs just below his left eye. He wears a broad-brimmed hat and a long, black coat. In one hand he holds the reins of his horse, while the other clutches a Bible.

As he draws closer to the camp, he can see two men sitting beside the fire. They do not appear to have heard him approaching. One is holding a bottle while the other greedily eats from a tin plate. They are bandits, or so the circuit rider assumes. It is rare to find an honest man in the Indian Territories. It is a country in need of salvation. Knowing this, he decides that the safest course of action would be to announce his presence. They will, he thinks, likely greet him with guns drawn, but if he surprises them the greeting would likely come in the form of bullets.

"Hello!" he calls out. "Do you have room by your fire for a weary circuit rider?"

The men look up, both drawing pistols that they aim in his direction. As the circuit rider draws closer to the camp he can see that the men have been drinking for some time. Their faces have the glassy look of the drunkard, and though they've drawn their weapons, they seem slightly unsteady in their aim.

One of the men rises up unsteadily and looks the circuit rider up and down. His eyes linger on the Bible and then he begins to laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned," the man says. "Look here, Jesse. Looks like a preacher come to save our souls."

The man named Jesse sneers and spits. He lowers his pistol and then turns back to his plate of food.

"We ain't got much call for a man of God in these parts," he says. "Tell him to move along, Silas"

"You hear my partner, preacher?" Silas says. "I'm afraid he's a bit of a heathen. Probably worried that if you join us that he'll be struck by lightning."

"It ain't the wrath of God I'm worried about," Jesse says. "We ain't got food or space to share. What are you doing out this way anyhow, preacher?"

The circuit rider climbs from his horse and walks slowly toward the camp. Though he still holds his Bible, he makes a point of keeping his hands where both men can see them.

"It's my mission," he says. "I travel the country and teach the Gospel."

"I don't reckon you'll find much of an audience in these parts," Silas says. "Don't you know it's mostly outlaws and thieves above the Red River?"

"Sounds like the kind of country that could use the Good News," the circuit rider says. "However, I have no intention of forcing you to listen to a sermon. Nor will I eat any of your food. I merely ask a place to sit by your fire where I can rest a bit before I move on. I've been riding for some time and could use a moment's rest."

Silas looks at Jesse who offers a shrug and then returns to eating.

"I don't give a damn," Jesse says.

"Well, take a seat, preacher," Silas says.

The circuit rider walks to the edge of the fire and sits down on a small log. Jesse deliberately ignores him, staring intently at his food, but Silas sits next to the preacher and slaps him on the shoulder.

"Gotta say, we don't often get company out this way," Silas says.

"It's by design," Jesse mutters.

"Tell me," the circuit rider says. "I heard you refer to each other as Silas and Jesse. Are you by any chance Silas Turner and Jesse Waters?"

Jesse looks up quickly, a glint of suspicion in his eye. His hand moves slowly back to his gun, but Silas is all smiles.

"How about that?" Silas says. "He's heard of us. You hear that, Jesse."

"I heard it," Jesse says. "Why do you ask, preacher? What exactly do you want with us?"

"Oh, I apologize if I startled you," the circuit rider says. "I only know your name because of the dime novels. I'm quite a fan of the books. There's been more than a few written about your adventures. You look exactly as you were described. It's remarkable."

"Doesn't seem likely Godly reading," Jesse says.

"I'm afraid everyone has their vice," the circuit rider says. "Dime novels are mine. I'm particularly fond of Ned Buntline, but I read them all. Tell me, are the stories faithful to your exploits?"

"We done even bigger things than that," Silas says.

"Ah, you know those books are all full of lies," Jesse says. "We ain't met anyone that ever wrote a book about us and I doubt there's a true word in them."

"You're just sour on account of you can't read," Silas laughs.

"Neither can you," Jesse says. "You don't know what any of them books say. I'm telling you they're full of lies."

"But they're spreading our reputation," Silas says. "Just look here. We got a preacher who knows our name because of those books. Maybe he'll tell us about them. How about it, preacher?"

"Oh, I'd be happy to share what I can recall," the circuit rider says. "Let's see, the first I ever read was about the robbery of a train on the Tyler Tap Railroad near the Big Sandy Switch. If I recall, that book suggested that the robbery is what first caught the attention of the Pinkerton Agency."

At the mention of Pinkerton, Jesse sprang to his feet with his gun drawn. In a few quick strides he was towering over the circuit rider with his gun pressed against his forehead. The startled preacher throws his hands in the air.

"Forgive me if I offended you somehow," the circuit rider says.

"What in the blue hell is wrong with you?" Silas says. "Put that piece away and let's listen to the man talk."

"I don't like this," Jesse said. "How do we know that he ain't a member of Pinkerton or some other lawman? Hell, how do we know he ain't a bounty hunter of some sort?"

"If he were Pinkerton or law he wouldn't have come alone," Silas says. "If he's a bounty hunter he's the damndest fool bounty hunter I ever seen. The only one that announces he's coming and brings nothing stronger than a Bible. Now put away that gun and let's listen to the man talk."

Standing over him, the circuit rider can smell the sour stench of alcohol on Jesse. It confirms his belief that the men have probably been drinking for hours. The smell seems to radiate from his pores, suggesting that it's been days since he was last sober. For a moment, Jesse keeps the gun pressed to his head, but his resolve seems to falter. He slowly draws the gun away and holsters it and then walks unsteadily back to his seat.

"I'm telling you I don't care for it," Jesse says.

"Perhaps it'd be better if I just moved along," the circuit rider says.

"Ah, don't run off now," Silas responds. "I want to hear more about these books. What else did they say?"

The circuit rider looks with concern at Jesse, but the outlaw's attention has drifted. The alcohol has taken a firm hold on him. He is humming to himself and seems to have almost forgotten about the circuit rider's presence. A moment later, he snatches up the bottle of whisky beside him and takes another long drink.

"Well, it said that the raid on the train was one of the most daring ever attempted," the circuit rider says. "Especially since it was carried out by just two men."

"Easier to work with a smaller gang," Silas says. "Less liabilities. Get too many involved and you're like to have someone you can't rely on. Now, what else have you read?"

"There was another book about the time you robbed the Walker Gang in Decatur," the circuit rider says. "The book said that they had just robbed a bank in town and that you ambushed them outside of town and made off with all of their loot. There was quite an exciting shoot-out in the countryside too."

"Well, that ain't exactly how it happened," Silas says. "Still, I like that better than the real version. If that's what folks believe, I'm happy to have it."

"What did happen?" the circuit rider asks.

"I don't reckon you need to know," Jesse slurs. "Even if you are a preacher, you ask too many damn questions."

"Never mind, preacher," Silas says. "Let's not ruin the story. We did take money from the Walker gang outside of Decatur. We'll just leave it at that. Tell me some more."

"There's one in particular that stands out," the circuit rider says. "The book was called 'Death on the Blackland Prairie.' It was a different sort of story than the others."

"How's that?" Silas said.

"It took place about ten years ago," the circuit rider said. "It was, according to the author, somewhat before you'd made a name for yourselves. The book tells the story of a single robbery that took place near Cottonwood Creek."

Jesse is drifting again, but a look of confusion crosses Silas face. He reaches up a hand to his chin and scratches at the scruff of beard growing there.

"I'm not certain I recall anything happening there," he says. "What did it say we did?"

"The story says that one day you and Jesse were riding through the Blackland when you came upon a pair of boys watering their horses by the Cottonwood Creek," the circuit rider says. "One was a teen, no more than fourteen. The other was his brother, a young man who had come back from fighting the Yankees a few years before. It says you rode up and asked them for some water and a bite to eat. You said that you'd been riding for a long time and could use some sustenance. The older boy, his name was Josiah, went to his pack to fetch you some jerky and hardtack and while he was collecting the food, your friend Jesse there emptied his gun into the back of his head. The younger boy ran to save his brother as he collapsed to the ground, and you fired a shot that struck him in the face, just below the left eye. Then, you took their pack of goods and rode away."

As the circuit rider speaks, the color drains from Silas's face and Jesse's stupor begins to lift. The words seem to strike them both like a freight train. Jesse begins fumbling again for his gun, but his drunken hands will not cooperate. Silas looks at the circuit rider and finds the man is holding a pair of pistols. One is aimed at him and the other at Jesse.

"We ain't never told nobody about that," he says. "Who in the hell are you?"

"Oh, the story isn't finished yet," the circuit rider says. "You see, the boy you shot in the face didn't die, even though you left him for dead. You might say it was something of a miracle, like the grace of God. He woke some hours later and dragged his brother's body back to his family home. He collapsed on the porch where his mother found him. He spent a long time in the hospital, but the doctors were able to save him. These days all he has left is a little scar. It's the only thing to remind him of that day. After he recovered, his mother begged him to give up any dreams of revenge. She even persuaded him to become a preacher. You see, her husband had been killed in the war, and now her oldest boy had been killed by bandits. She thought if she gave her youngest to God, it would keep him safe. In a way, she was right. He took up preaching and began travelling from town to town, baptizing and helping build churches, but he always kept his ear to the ground. He kept hoping he'd find the men who shot his brother. Then, one day he stumbled across some dime novels. They were about a pair of bandits. He read the books and recognized the descriptions of the men. He could see their faces clear as day and knew that they were the ones. Now the book I'm talking about, it isn't finished yet. There's still one chapter left to be written. Let me show you how it's going to end."

The gun in the circuit rider's left hand bucks, sending a bullet across the camp that lands square between the eyes of Jesse. The man falls backward without a sound, blood trickling from the wound and down the side of his face.

"Preacher, you gotta have mercy," Silas says. "What about forgiveness?"

"The Bible is a funny thing," the circuit rider says. "I spent a lot of time reading it since that day by the Cottonwood. One verse always stuck with me. It's Numbers 35:19. Do you know it?"

Silas's hands are trembling and his stomach is tied in knots. He glances at the body of his friend. He thinks for a moment that if he can keep the preacher talking he can get his hand to his gun.

"What's it say?" he asks.

"It says, 'The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him,'" the circuit rider says. "I reckon that's the God I've come to believe in."

Silas makes a move to draw his pistol, but before he can raise his hand the circuit rider has fired the gun in his right hand. The bullet rips through Silas's neck. He drops his pistol and clutches at his throat, gasping for breath. The circuit rider stands and makes his way to the bandit. He stands over him and presses his pistol against the back of his head. A moment later he squeezes the trigger three times in a row.

The bodies of the two men lay in the dirt. The circuit rider puts his guns away and gives them a final look before turning and walking away from the camp. He pats the neck of his horse as he climbs on and grabs hold of the reins.

"Let's move along now," the circuit rider says. "We got a long ride ahead of us."

No More Flyin On Past
by James Heidinga

The lawyer letter said I had till the end of May,1890 to get married, and be living with a wife on the ranch, in order to inherit.

Here it was already May 28th. I had no prospect in sight for the first condition, and so no hope for the second then neither; much less in 3 days. Pinkie told me I should'a never let that letter lay around unopened for so long, but I wuz busy with John Barleycorn and a few friends up in the hills havin a wild time as usual, and couldn't be bothered.

Pinkie wuz, to that point, the best friend I ever had. He got his nickname from us teasing him about his ruddy complexion and his fiery red hair, and the name just stuck somehow. His real name wuz Patrick Hinke and so P. Hinke easily became Pinkie that way too. Only his closest friends ever dared call him that as he had a quick temper to match. But right then he wanted to help.

"None but a spinster as what is desperate to get married might be willin, and onliest place you can find a spinster woman, on such short notice, is a school house," he wisely said.

Well, that made righteously good sense to me, as most everyone knows teachers wuz same as spinsters. Pinkie and I were both still considerable under the influence of the liquor, and so it seemed like wonderously good reasoning at the time.

My uncle Rad Wallens had a weak heart what gave out on him, and bein his next of kin, he left me his ranch conditional on terms as noted. Me failin to meet said terms on time, the letter went on to advise the ranch would pass to a more responsible distant cousin livin somewheres out east. I couldn't let that good fortune slide out from under, so me and Pinkie went direct to the nearest schoolyard.

Well, peekin in the schoolhouse window first, wouldn't you know all the children wuz in there with that teacher woman and, of course, we had no ways figured on that. The question then wuz, how to cut her out from the herd. Pinkie suggested lassoing her, but I guessed she might not have taken kindly to that. Besides, what with me staggerin a bit, I might have missed my throw an lost her altogether. But then the teacher lady tinkled a little bell, and all those youngsters up and skedaddled for home. That monstrously fine solved that problem. We taken us a quick swig from the bottle for courage, and marched in the front door like two truants facin the music.

Everybody knows teachers have a way of starin at people for to intimidate them until they knuckle under. Myself, bein some scared on that account, I right away and over loud hollered "I needs me a woman right quick for to marry up with me and figure you, bein a spinster an all, might we willin to give it a go."

First off her face started twitchin like she wuz tryin real hard not to bust out laughin. After that she wuz quiet for a moment, like she wuz thinkin it over. Then she said "All right, I am willing to marry with you provided you pay me one thousand dollars."

I didn't have no thousand dollars, but I thought brightly to handle one problem at a time, and so I said "Done."

When she marched up bravely from her desk by the back of that room, I said to myself "She sure is a cute little thing, all tiny only comin up to my chin for height, neatly dressed, with jet black hair and white skin, bright eyes and a mouth upturned at the corners like bein smiley all the time." Me . . . I am easily six feet tall, fair haired, well-muscled and slim, have a hardly noticeable hook nose probably more from fightin than bein born with it, a firm slightly cleft chin, and then there are those dimples in my cheeks. Pinkie has said I have a twinkle in my eyes, what ain't always there from liquour, and to watch out cause that, and those dimples, is what makes them "nestin" girls just swarm.

Pinkie and I never spent much time gettin serious with women folk . . . horses and cattle taken most of our attention to this point. Oh we liked girls alright, but seemed to us they wuz all about "nestin", and we wuz all about "flyin on past."

My handle is Calvin Wallens, and I might be a little lackin in being held to the reins of your idees for respectability, what with the fighten and drinken and just havin a generally good time, but I don't mean no real harm at anybody. I guessed uncle Rad's aim was to see could he steady me up some.

Sorry Uncle Rad, but as far as I wuz concerned, I wuz just jumping thru this hoop for temporary to get that ranch. I wuzn't no way gettin hornswoggled into makin this a for keeps arrangement, an my plan wuz to shake that young woman off soon's I could. Lucky she is teacher minded and so not all about nestin was my consoling thought then.

Pinkie ran out to catch up the circuit preacher, while I explained the whole deal to that there slip of a girl. I surely had Pinkie to thank for comin up with how spinster girls wuz all so desperate for she wuz still willin. Happily the preacher was in town, and sooner you could say "I do," it wuz all done. We wuz hitched legal and proper . . . me and the spinster.

I had left her talkin to Pinkie while I ran around town to find a wagon and horses, Then I picked her up back by the church, where she had asked me to. She'd earlier gathered up a carpet bag of clothes and what not . . . probably all she had in the world.

By that afternoon, ridin in a buckboard headin for the ranch, and sobering up, the whole marriage idea seemed to be losin its shine. It were a 2 day drive out to the ranch in west Texas, and there I wuz married to a "strange woman." I got increasingly morose and silent, while she waved her hands about and gabbed away about the scenery, the colour of the sky, and looking forward to seeing the ranch. She sure wuz a chatty thing. Out of the corner of my eyes, I couldn't help but notice her dark hair curled a bit at the edges, her eyelashes were long, and her fingers were slim.

She kept sayin "My name was Amy Andrews and now it is Amy Wallens".

I couldn't help thinkin Amy is a pretty soundin name and I guess just fittin to her. My next thought was Whoa . . . I ain't gettin my feet hobbled by no girl, even a pretty one like this. I gotta find a way out of this, as soon as I get squared away with that there lawyer.

It wuz all Pinkie's fault, cause it was him as suggested it. Well, he better then help me find a way to shake her off. I done hired Pinkie to help with the ranch, so to not let him squeeze out from under his share of the blame. He wuz following . . . somewhere back of us for some reason.

We stopped later at a small settlement, and she got taken in for overnight by a local family, while I spent the night sleepin under the buck board. It do beat all how, in no time at all, they were treaten her like a long lost daughter. Anyways, it solved my immediate problem of how to explain the need for separate sleepin arrangements, us bein only married fer convenience like.

Next day wuz more of the same, only she seemed to be tiring of my apparent lack of zeal, so she quieted down. As soon as we got to the ranch, I dropped her off and headed for town to meet with that lawyer, time bein tight. Well all wuz in order pretty quick, only when I got to hintin about what the terms actually meant as regards the marriage, he said we had to live on the ranch for an unspecified but reasonable time, and in his judgement, that would be for a minimum of a month. "I wasn't countin on that I can tell you."

Then I went to see the bank as to what cash or line of credit I might have inherited on the ranch. There were no debts outstanding, but the funds available wuz pretty limited, and all deemed to be necessary just to operate the ranch. What I wuz hopin for was an extry thousand dollars so's I could pay the little woman off as promised. My thought then wuz Pinkie . . . what did you get me into?

After pickin up some groceries in town, my slow drive back to the ranch didn't solve anything, except the horses got to crop some grass here and there along the way.

Comin over the last rise, I seen a wagon bein unloaded at the ranch. Pinkie had showed up and wuz bringin furniture into the ranch house . . . a rockin chair, a bureau with a large mirror, a desk of some kind, wood chairs, a bedstead, and clothes . . . lots of clothes. Goin in the front door, I seen Amy had ben busy as the place wuz swept up and even some of the floors wuz washed. Uncle Rad lived on his own, an so naturally fer just him, housekeeping might not have ben a priority. Windows were open to air the place out. Next she got getting Pinkie to put up curtains already. The place wuz lookin . . . gasp . . . like a "nest" instead of a ranch.

Soon's I could, I got Pinkie aside and asked him what in tarnation he wuz doin, an where all this "foofura" and stuff come from.

He says it wuz every bit hers, and he can't say no more about it, except she wuz playin fair with me and I better see to play fair with her . . . a deals a deal an all.

I wuz plain flummoxed. Pinkie had gone over to her side.

Well, she could cook too. I had to say that for her. She took them groceries and whipped up a belly scratchin supper in no time, and we polished that off in less time. Pinkie wuz fer sure bought, sold and delivered then, cause he ain't never ben shy about food and, when she told us she wuz going to bake a pie next, he looked at me with big calf eyes like he'd gone to heaven and he wuzn't comin back no how.

I shaked my head at him " . . . no . . . no."

I told her I wuz residing in the bunkhouse as we only had us a business arrangement, and hang it, I wuzn't ready for to get tangled up permanent with no woman, especially not one formally and properly courted for at least a few years first.

She said "Fine, you and Pinkie go sleep in the bunkhouse and you can keep doing that because I am not leaving until I get my thousand dollars."

I said "Dang woman, I don't have no thousand dollars now, but I am good for it, and you ken leave any time after a month is up."

She said "I do not take IOU's or cheques or money orders, only cold hard cash, and now get out of here because I am going to bed."

That is how it went on from there. For starters, she wuz up with me and Pinkie, wearin old clothes and doin her share of chores in the barn. I got her to muck out the stalls, as for to discourage her, but she wuz a trooper. I did see her upchuckin a few times though  . . . heh, heh.

After a while I gave up, on the whole idea of her doin chores, as she fairly had enough to do th'out that. She dressed up prim and proper otherwise, and she could bake alright. Word had for sure got out bout that, and we suddenly had many new "acquaintances" droppin in for coffee, with cake, or fritters, or pie, or cookies, or what have you. Even mister lawyer came by to check up on things, so he said, but I knew he wuz thinkin pie right along with the rest of em.

I watched as everyone seemed right away enamoured with her, and sayin what a lucky man I was. I thought If you only knew.

I wuz of course expected to play the genial new husband, which wuz hard for me. I had work to do to keepin this ranch operatin and couldn't always follow those pretty little ankles around.

All Pinkie wanted to know wuz "What is she makin for supper this time?"

He wuz always a good worker, and knew livestock as well as me. I would have ben in trouble without him, and might have needed to make him a partner to keep him, but no worry then as he wuz lickin his lips all day as it wuz.

I myself wuz gettin so's I looked forward to comin in the door, and seein Amy, and hearin her talk about her day. I expected I wuz honestly going to miss her when she wuz gone. But she had to go, most 'suredly when I started thinkin like that. She absolutely had to go.

So I told her. Right off she came back with "And where is my thousand dollars?"

I said "I don't have it now but I told you I was good for it."

She said "Then I am not leaving," and that wuz when the tears started . . . hers.

It wuz bad enough havin a woman laugh at you, but when they are cryin at you . . . that takes the cake. I stomped out hollerin "Woman, I am goin up into the hills with a couple of friends and stay there a week while you come to reason."

Pinkie tracked me down after some miserable days up in the woods north of the ranch. He asked me where were my friends?

I showed him two unopened bottles of hooch.

He said that was not like the old me to have left them stoppered. Then he said "The problem with you Calvin my friend, is you really don't want her to leave. But that may cease to be an issue soon anyways as she has had a gentleman caller, duly chaperoned by his mother, come visitin for to sit on the porch with her most every evenin you have ben gone."

I said "What?"

He said "Yup."

I said "You mean someone is down there every evening makin time with my woman?"

"Looks like it, kinda," he says.

I said "That there is my woman and no one is gonna take my woman from me."

By that time, I was hoppin mad. "Where is my gun" I said, as I rooted around in the underbrush.

"I done took it," he said, "fer I don't want you doin somethin foolish just cause you are mad."

I said "I am goin down there and bust whoever it is in the snout."

Well, when I got to the house she was alone. I said "Listen Amy, you are my woman and no one is gonna sneak around for to try and take you from me."

She said "I am not your woman."

I said "Well ain't we married all legal and proper?"

"Yes" she said.

"Well what does that make you then" I said.

She said "It makes me your wife."

I said "Well that's what I meant."

She said "Then say it."

I said "Okay, you are my wife and no lay about is stealin you away from me."

"Say it again," she says.

So I get mad and holler "You are my wife." Then I say it softly "Amy, you are my wife."

That wuz when she up and kissed me. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather duster, for my knees went all weak and my head started a swirlin.

Just then, the lady, from the next ranch down the road, drove up in her buggy with her 5 year old son who jumped down, sat up on the porch, said how he is back again and does Amy maybe has any more pie for him.

I was flummoxed . . . but must confess to like'n it by then.

While Amy wuz entertainin her guests, Pinkie up and told me he had to break a promise he made her for him not to tell me, but he had knowed most from the beginin she wasn't desperate, and she wasn't a spinster, and she wasn't even a teacher.

"Remember how you left me talkin to her whilst you wuz rounding up the wagon and horses thet first day?" Pinkie went on to say how her mother ran the bakery shop back in that there town, and that is where Amy really worked. This explained how, around here, she was the "queen of baking." Turned out Amy was only just fillin in, as sorta like babysittin, for the teacher man back when we sashayed into the school house. Pinkie then explained how Amy had right off arranged with him to get all her furniture and clothes from her mother's house.

"Calvin old bosum buddy", he said with glee "While I was gettin that furniture an stuff, her mother told me, what but already six months ago, Amy pointed you out to her and said 'Mom, that is the man I am going to marry.'"

Then my now second best friend, Mr. P. Hinke, had the nerve to laugh at me and said "Yes, she is after all one of them "nestin" women and all your "flyin on past" days is over."

So I said, "Okay, but I ain't payin her no thousand dollars now neither."

Clear Creek Bounty, Part 2 of 3
by Benjamin Thomas

Charlene wiped a drop of sweat from her upper lip as she swung her head from one side of the trail to the other, eyes darting behind every tree and branch. She urged her horse forward at a slow walk, letting him pick his way through the overgrown trail. The branches brushed across her trousers and long-sleeved button-up work shirt. Lips pinched in a thin line, she observed her horse's ears twitching about. Skittishness was not its normal behavior.

Somewhere up ahead, Leland's life was hanging on his hope that the plan would play out as expected.

Had the ambush already taken place? She hadn't heard any gunfire so that was a good sign. But if it had happened, she would have expected to have heard something. A skirmish or at least a horse neighing in confusion. She wasn't that far behind, after all. The forest was thick here and the trail, if you could call it that, was narrow. Trees were dense overhead and the birds had been plentiful as they pursued their never-ending quest for food.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realized she wasn't hearing any bird song. No noise of any kind really. Had something already happened up ahead to quiet them?

Something erupted from her left, knocking her from her saddle, pitching her into a clump of scrub oak. A calloused hand clamped across her mouth and nose, followed by the quick insertion of a foul-tasting rag shoved deep. Dazed, she brought her hands up in an instinctive attempt to ease her breathing only to discover both arms efficiently pinned behind her. Meantime, somebody had roped her legs and had now grasped her ankles, tying them together quick as a cowboy on branding day.

A thinly-mustached narrow face thrust itself up close. Foul breath let loose on Charlene's recovering senses as a wicked grin spread across the man's features. She caught a glimpse of another man's back as he grabbed the reins of her horse and spoke softly to settle it down. The whole episode had started and ended in a few quick seconds.

"Hey there, Red," chirped Charlene's captor. He had a Mexican accent. "Carmondy told us you was la belleza but I think 'ee was holding back on us."

"Shut up Reymundo," said the other man. Charlene could see now that he had long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. "Gotta keep quiet, at least 'till we get her back to the house."

"But I wanna see the dress. Carmondy said she wore a dress that made 'ees eyes water." His voice trailed off though and turned into a mumble to himself as he worked to finish tying up Charlene's wrists.

She attempted to pull an arm free but was immediately punished by a sharp yank at her elbow. It felt like she'd pulled her shoulder from its socket. Rendered helpless, she ceased her struggles and tried to focus on her surroundings, memorizing every detail she could of the two men. But then a burlap sack was thrust down over her head, dashing all hopes of gathering more information, at least by sight. But her ears still worked. She still hoped Leland was out there and could come to her rescue. More likely he had been taken as well. She would have to bide her time and try for an escape when she could. Waiting, however, was never her strong suit.

Leland made his way back to the wagon at the gold camp as swiftly as he dared. Something had gone wrong, that was certain. He had meandered his horse up and down the trail hoping to get ambushed but either he was in the wrong place or Padgett had come up with something else. His worry compounded when he failed to encounter Charlene anywhere on his back trail.

So now his plan needed to adapt. To evolve. Leland had been a teacher of mathematics before his current vocation and he liked the precision of that profession. On the other hand, he would be the first to admit that his plans, as his granddaughter had recently pointed out, often went awry. To evolve a plan was not a foreign concept to Leland. But to evolve a plan, one needed to know the new constants and variables. And right now, all he had to work with were variables.

He still had the small vials of his sleeping draught with him. He had intended to drug Padgett's water or food following his own ambush and capture but now he would need additional tools. He began to gather some basic ingredients.

Digging through the contents of the wagon he located a cast iron pot, a small wooden box, some empty tin cans, a mallet, and several other components. He carefully measured out three parts saltpeter to two parts brown sugar and added this to the pot. Outside the wagon he built a small campfire and then began to heat up the pot, stirring the mix with an old wooden spoon. He noticed some leftover crusted tomato soup stuck to it and hoped it wouldn't affect the blend.

It was hard to take his time and make a proper job of it but haste wouldn't help. While stirring intermittently, waiting for the saltpeter and sugar to completely melt, he started to pound out the tin cans, flattening them with the mallet. He arranged the pieces inside the box to act as a protective shield against the mixture he was cooking. At the same time, he couldn't help but let his anxious mind ponder the current situation. What had gone wrong? Where was Charlie? If she had been captured it seemed likely they would take her to their ranch house. But what fate awaited her there? Leland didn't want to ruminate about that too much. And what about Billy? Was he still acting in his role of Tandy, the infamous bounty hunter or had he been taken or killed as well? Too many variables.

The handle of the cast iron pot brought Leland back to his task. It had heated up so much now that Leland had to grab it using the bottom portion of his shirt to keep from burning his hand. The concoction was beginning to caramelize and had taken on a blackish brown color. It had also started to smoke a little so he removed the pot from the flames for a bit. Couldn't overcook it or let it catch on fire. It was nicely melted now anyway so he added a tablespoon full of baking powder. After stirring that in, he moved the whole pot over to the tin-lined box and carefully poured in the mixture.

Once again, Leland darted into the wagon and returned, this time with a combustion delay fuse. He had always made sure to have these on hand since the beginning; one never knew when they would come in handy. It consisted of a compressed column of black powder wrapped in thick paper. This particular one was a ten second type. That had better be enough.

Jabbing the fuse into the mixture, he was thankful that he hadn't delayed any further for it was already starting to harden. It would take a good hour or so before it was hard enough to use but he had no notion of waiting around that long. He needed to get back to that ranch house before something happened to Charlene. He refused to let his mind think that it may already be too late.

Charlene wiped a drop of sweat from her upper lip as she swung her head from one side of the trail to the other, eyes darting behind every tree and branch. She urged her horse forward at a slow walk, letting him pick his way through the overgrown trail. The branches brushed across her trousers and long-sleeved button-up work shirt. Lips pinched in a thin line, she observed her horse's ears twitching about. Skittishness was not its normal behavior.

Somewhere up ahead, Leland's life was hanging on his hope that the plan would play out as expected.

Had the ambush already taken place? She hadn't heard any gunfire so that was a good sign. But if it had happened, she would have expected to have heard something. A skirmish or at least a horse neighing in confusion. She wasn't that far behind, after all. The forest was thick here and the trail, if you could call it that, was narrow. Trees were dense overhead and the birds had been plentiful as they pursued their never-ending quest for food.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realized she wasn't hearing any bird song. No noise of any kind really. Had something already happened up ahead to quiet them?

Something erupted from her left, knocking her from her saddle, pitching her into a clump of scrub oak. A calloused hand clamped across her mouth and nose, followed by the quick insertion of a foul-tasting rag shoved deep. Dazed, she brought her hands up in an instinctive attempt to ease her breathing only to discover both arms efficiently pinned behind her. Meantime, somebody had roped her legs and had now grasped her ankles, tying them together quick as a cowboy on branding day.

A thinly-mustached narrow face thrust itself up close. Foul breath let loose on Charlene's recovering senses as a wicked grin spread across the man's features. She caught a glimpse of another man's back as he grabbed the reins of her horse and spoke softly to settle it down. The whole episode had started and ended in a few quick seconds.

"Hey there, Red," chirped Charlene's captor. He had a Mexican accent. "Carmondy told us you was la belleza but I think 'ee was holding back on us."

"Shut up Reymundo," said the other man. Charlene could see now that he had long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. "Gotta keep quiet, at least 'till we get her back to the house."

"But I wanna see the dress. Carmondy said she wore a dress that made 'ees eyes water." His voice trailed off though and turned into a mumble to himself as he worked to finish tying up Charlene's wrists.

She attempted to pull an arm free but was immediately punished by a sharp yank at her elbow. It felt like she'd pulled her shoulder from its socket. Rendered helpless, she ceased her struggles and tried to focus on her surroundings, memorizing every detail she could of the two men. But then a burlap sack was thrust down over her head, dashing all hopes of gathering more information, at least by sight. But her ears still worked. She still hoped Leland was out there and could come to her rescue. More likely he had been taken as well. She would have to bide her time and try for an escape when she could. Waiting, however, was never her strong suit.

Leland made his way back to the wagon at the gold camp as swiftly as he dared. Something had gone wrong, that was certain. He had meandered his horse up and down the trail hoping to get ambushed but either he was in the wrong place or Padgett had come up with something else. His worry compounded when he failed to encounter Charlene anywhere on his back trail.

So now his plan needed to adapt. To evolve. Leland had been a teacher of mathematics before his current vocation and he liked the precision of that profession. On the other hand, he would be the first to admit that his plans, as his granddaughter had recently pointed out, often went awry. To evolve a plan was not a foreign concept to Leland. But to evolve a plan, one needed to know the new constants and variables. And right now, all he had to work with were variables.

He still had the small vials of his sleeping draught with him. He had intended to drug Padgett's water or food following his own ambush and capture but now he would need additional tools. He began to gather some basic ingredients.

Digging through the contents of the wagon he located a cast iron pot, a small wooden box, some empty tin cans, a mallet, and several other components. He carefully measured out three parts saltpeter to two parts brown sugar and added this to the pot. Outside the wagon he built a small campfire and then began to heat up the pot, stirring the mix with an old wooden spoon. He noticed some leftover crusted tomato soup stuck to it and hoped it wouldn't affect the blend.

It was hard to take his time and make a proper job of it but haste wouldn't help. While stirring intermittently, waiting for the saltpeter and sugar to completely melt, he started to pound out the tin cans, flattening them with the mallet. He arranged the pieces inside the box to act as a protective shield against the mixture he was cooking. At the same time, he couldn't help but let his anxious mind ponder the current situation. What had gone wrong? Where was Charlie? If she had been captured it seemed likely they would take her to their ranch house. But what fate awaited her there? Leland didn't want to ruminate about that too much. And what about Billy? Was he still acting in his role of Tandy, the infamous bounty hunter or had he been taken or killed as well? Too many variables.

The handle of the cast iron pot brought Leland back to his task. It had heated up so much now that Leland had to grab it using the bottom portion of his shirt to keep from burning his hand. The concoction was beginning to caramelize and had taken on a blackish brown color. It had also started to smoke a little so he removed the pot from the flames for a bit. Couldn't overcook it or let it catch on fire. It was nicely melted now anyway so he added a tablespoon full of baking powder. After stirring that in, he moved the whole pot over to the tin-lined box and carefully poured in the mixture.

Once again, Leland darted into the wagon and returned, this time with a combustion delay fuse. He had always made sure to have these on hand since the beginning; one never knew when they would come in handy. It consisted of a compressed column of black powder wrapped in thick paper. This particular one was a ten second type. That had better be enough.

Jabbing the fuse into the mixture, he was thankful that he hadn't delayed any further for it was already starting to harden. It would take a good hour or so before it was hard enough to use but he had no notion of waiting around that long. He needed to get back to that ranch house before something happened to Charlene. He refused to let his mind think that it may already be too late.

The Aztec Raiders
by Tom Sheehan

It was, all of them would agree later, as if they had passed through a sense of time. And few of their countrymen, and few occupants of the first saloon they'd go to singe their thirst, would believe where they had been and what they had accomplished . . . gone deep into Mexico and brought home a chunk of the Aztec treasury, right out of one of Montezuma II's formidable Holy Caissons dug for eternity. Where many historians attested to the grand structures the Aztecs had raised in the midst of jungles, Pappy Dyk, in his own right, knew about the secret caissons the Aztecs had dug and chiseled into Mother Earth herself. No one in Hidalgo but Pappy Dyk knew from what tribe he had come on the land, coming a whole year earlier to Hidalgo to plan the expedition, now coming back from Mexico.

Time after time, on their way home, on the way to get across the final river, they traversed death-borne areas covered with bones and burial markers, ravines and canyons and mountains that put heavy strain on their horses and spirits, thick jungles crawling with threats, and then, in one canyon after another, wild rivers claiming some of their more timid horses. The remuda had been good size at the start, with pack animals a necessity for the expedition, as Pappy Dyk called it. It was, from beginning to end, fraught with physical perils from all corners and all comers, as well as the insidious likes of dysentery and scratching hints of morbidity.

But, all in all, it was the biggest heist in the west, led by the renowned Pappy Dyk, surname never revealed, who, in spite of his appearance, his language and his morals, always knew that history sat on his lap every time out of the corral, so his aspirations were always monumental. This time he had not ignored the summons at all, for Mexico had called him, the Aztecs had called, and Montezuma II himself had called, from beyond the void, from his unique place in history's queue, atop a holy mountain of wealth.

His voice had come loud and wide and rocking with vibrations into too many of Pappy Dyk's deep sleeps, too loud to be ignored, too rocking with dare and challenge, too mystic to call it a dream. It shook him awake on those many nights, a simple message waiting for a reply.

Pappy Dyk, with a faint prophecy of a tribal shaman, heard of the Holy Caissons of the Aztecs, the deep sanctuaries where the wealth of the emperor was distributed into parcels of value so that each caisson was unique in its own contents, deep, virginal, pure of insurmountable wealth. It was told him that a single yellow-breasted Verdun had gained entrance to the secret caissons and came away with the knowledge of all therein, and sang of it to those who could hear the music in the magical places of Mexico and southwest America, calling with its sweet song . . . tswee-swee, tswee . . . tswee-swee, tswee . . . tswee-swee, tswee. Pappy Dyk heard the music calling, heard the song it sang, knew the words it spoke.

Pappy Dyk could, in some inscrutable way unknown to the rest of the party, measure history and his impact on its pages, knowing he was born for great things. Did not the Shaman and the sachem say at his birth, in a cave in the Tetons, at the bottom of the earth where the tremor fires kept them warm all their first winter, that he was born to move men and the time of men? That he was born at the very foot of Earth was a sign in itself. He did not feel at all squeamish about taking any of the Aztec treasure; they had hidden enough to light up the continent, he was sure, though the blood of thousands of slaughtered, sacrificial innocents had stained the emperor's hands and in turn had tinted gold and jewels in the hidden treasuries. The payoff would transcend many levels of recompense.

Thus, as the stories tell it, the expedition came back from the border beaten to a pulp, every one of them. But if not whole as men, for in truth most of them were shot up or carrying arrow wounds, one hand missing, a few fingers, one big toe still under a huge rock back down the trail, they were still whole as a gang of adventurers. And Pappy Dyk was still out front, the leader, his saddle bags full. When they crossed the tough rivers, he made sure his saddle bags were set on maneuverable log rafts and not placed within the peril of frantic horses caught in an awful stream.

As they entered the quiet town of Hidalgo, latest part-time home to most of the men, hoof beats setting a musical tone and touching his mind, Pappy Dyk was remembering, to the last detail, how the Indians had come out of a wadi as if they were cavalry horsemen, in skirmish lines, bare feet apart, headlong in their run, feathers and spears and all colored ornaments waving like streamers in the awful sunset. It was the way Custer would have trained them. Or some old line officer now sleeping with a squaw in a teepee village or, more likely, in a cave of Mexico's high mountains.

Shaking his head in admiration, he was still thinking about that charge as they rode into town, looking for a bath, a shot of whiskey, a woman, and a bank where they could do business.

It had been a perilous adventure. Now, on entrance, coming home to a new depository, he reflected on the men who had made the journey with him, whom he called the Redoubtable Nine, him included. They still rode with him and had never faltered in their quest, not in the face of steepest odds, gallant warriors, or geography so harsh they'd have a hard time describing it to people. Yet here they came with the hoof beats and he looked slowly at each man, marking him, measuring him, wishing he could mend him: Quincy, Tanker, Yancy Joe, Berlingswell the Brit, Black Dan'l, Volkstaj, One Big Water they called OBW and the Comanche named Sheep Peril who had the finest eyesight and the keenest ears of any man yet born of woman.

In turn Pappy Dyk smiled, laughed inwardly, shook with pride, felt the pains of bodily loss, and knew courage and valor had ridden with him on every foot of the journey. The hoof beats continued their music, their cadence, like a line of marchers was sounding out. Indeed, he had moved men to a world away from their natural confines, and had moved them into another time, all as prophesied, all part of history moving within his vision. He imagined Quincy's thumb under the rock he had pushed Pappy Dyk away from, only to have the rock smash and obliterate his thumb. They had cut it off, the straggly remnants, even as Quincy had said, bowing to accolades, "We ain't getting' there without you, Pappy Dyk, and we sure as hell ain't getting' back home without you leadin' the way."

In one visionary leap he caught Tanker, as the line of Indian infantry came in on their flank from the defiled wadi and what they had seen in passing the day before as a blind canyon, take down with his rifle nine of them abreast in the front line of the charge, not sweating, not rushing, barely breathing, his rifle smoking, him talking pause and patience all the while: That's a one . . . that's a two . . . that's a three . . . that's a four . . . until the whole of the line was down, half the horses down and broken too, his mouth never closed, his voice a soft hunk of security with every word he uttered. Pappy Dyk remembered another incident as he sat by a stream soaking his feet in the rushing water, and Tanker, from the shadows, saying, "Don't you move none, Pappy Dyk, when I squeeze off this trigger 'cause there's a mean lookin' snake comin' up on you from the backside and I aim to cut off his head."

"Don't talk," Pappy Dyk had said, holding perfectly still, not even swishing his hot feet in the cool water, "just shoot."

Shoot Tanker did and the head of the snake, having left the main body, popped in the air like a jack rabbit had jumped in place and fell right beside Pappy Dyk 's hand.

"How long did you have your eye on him, Tanker?"

"Oh, a bit. If he went away I would have saved a bullet. Never know when we'll need the last one."

"No other options?"

"Not for the livin'. Only for the near dead, and you was it."

The hoof beats, like drums at a tattoo, came again, dust rising in the road, the images leaping, as OBW loped into his vision, and the restful night, deep in the jungles after a perilous river crossing had been accomplished, and Berlingswell the Brit, just putting a fresh log on the fire, asked One Big Water where his name had come from. "Were you pointing at a massive lake or a wide river or the very blue Pacific Ocean itself? Is that how you received your name? I understand that is how names get assigned, the signatory act of the individual." His head was cocked in its professorial angle, curiosity a familiar scamp on the face of the deadliest knife fighter Pappy Dyk had ever seen in action, like a Whitehall's Jack the Ripper in a southwestern costume.

"Oh, no," OBW said, "in my Nation we have no names other than a papoose name until we reach the age of 20 moons."

"Well, what came about then? What should I surmise from that, if there is no forthcoming explanation?"

"It is a simple tale. I was with my elder brother and my father on the appointed day of naming and we had been fishing on a wide river and woke after spending the night beside a great waterfall, and they were both taking a leak, and crossing swords as you say it, off the high cliff edge down into the deep ravine and I simply said, when pointing at them, 'One Big Water.'"

Pappy Dyk shook again with the laughter that had exploded in the jungle that night, which somehow softened the entire jungle, setting leaf and frond and blossom at grateful ease, their sleep the first solid sleep in a month, their guard down one time and one time only. That is the one night, the one moment of relapse, he believed, that they could have been set upon with little recourse to saving their butts, but laugh again he did, a muted laugh, a pleasurable laugh, as if all good things were at hand after the completion of the perilous expedition, and Hidalgo coming to wrap its arms around the troupe of them.

He added a soft "perhaps" to that last thought.

He felt good, extremely grateful, saved. His senses warmed him all over, and in one look, warned him.

It was at that moment, when he saw the sheriff who had long professed his disdain for black people, that Black Dan'l rode into Pappy Dyk 's vision. "I hope," Pappy Dyk said in another whisper, "that that mean son of a bitch doesn't open his mouth about Dan'l because I'll be the one to shut it first. We all know he's got some of the blood in him, and that makes his life a whole rotten lie."

Black Dan'l, handsome as a sunset, singer and hummer of innumerable songs, wayfarer of pleasantness, deadly with fist, knuckle, knee, elbow, head, and now and then a knife or a bow or a machete in a perilous swath, rode beside Pappy Dyk in some kind of a salute. He harrumphed loudly, a personal knock at a known adversary, the sheriff, letting the sheriff know that he was on the aft end of a great journey, that he had carried his weight as well as any man, that Black Dan'l was a man entirely accountable in a match, a scrape, an invasion into the heart of the old Aztec Empire. The sheriff should know that half a mountain in Tennessee was waiting on his return, a mountain begging to be bought by a promising son.

If there was one act that Pappy Dyk would see commissioned before all this was over, it was Black Dan'l's purchase of healthy land for his parents, for his family.

"See him?" Dan'l said, riding up closer beside him, "setting back like a lavender toad, the sun a lie all around him, squeezing what he can before he finally tempts the good Lord with persuasion."

"He tried riling last time, Dan'l, and you put him solid in his place, and I know you'll do it again before this day is out, the way he's wearing that tin of his, all shined like he was the real luster."

"No luster about him, Pappy Dyk," Dan'l said. "That man's more coward than sheriff."

"Don't let him stand in the way of that half of a mountain back there in Tennessee, Dan'l. He sure isn't worth it."

"Only if he goes for a weapon, Pappy Dyk. I'll take anything for my folks, but not a weapon. He's dead then."

The finality of that expression socked home with Pappy Dyk as if the old shaman had made another prophecy and Dan'l dropped back in the line of march into Hidalgo as if he had been dismissed.

Djon Volstaj, on the same horse he had left Hidalgo on three months earlier, a huge and long-legged roan stallion, chest thick as a tree trunk, two searing scars across his chest from gunfire on a riverbank fight that Volstaj had treated with devotion, wearing white stockings on three legs, came up beside Pappy Dyk.

"Is Dan'l worried about that rat ass, Pappy Dyk? Set me on him tonight and I'll clear it all the way back to Tennessee for Dan'l. That night in the big cave, when he caught those rabbits of sneaky knife wielders, is due a lifetime of payback as far as I'm concerned. If anything happens to me, tonight or ever, I want my share to go to Dan'l and no chances otherwise. Every dollar of it when it gets to be counted that way, or my lump of everything else coming my due. If Dan'l gets messed up, see that his folks get that whole damned mountain for their own. It's the least I can do for a man who stuck his butt in the way of death for me."

"The man knows a knife, doesn't he, Djon?"

"Slicker'n butchers afore a shivaree, Pappy Dyk. I bet some of them gents ain't felt the slice of that blade yet."

He shook his head as he looked back at the sheriff sitting back on the small porch of the general store like he was the clerk taking a break from work. Sunlight glinted off his badge and shone like a ray into Volkstaj's eyes.

"Man's a pretender from the starting line. Nothing lower than that. Playing games, making believe. Makes me throw up when I think about him, ashamed of the woman brought him into the world. That's a horror story I would have ended in a damned hurry if I was on that drive. I can't imagine them cowpokes taking a black woman on the trail, tying her up during the day and letting her loose at night for favors. I'd a shot them all. Maybe it's him just hating anybody rides horses, herders or not." He paused, bouncing in the saddle, looking around, seeing a woman now and then on a boardwalk or at a building's doorway, his head keening with pleasant memories almost half a lifetime ago. "Where was them drovers from? How'd she ever get away?"

"Some Shawnees set on them," Pappy Dyk said. "Dropped all the riders, and the father of her baby, I'd guess, but she was tied up in the bed of the wagon and the Shawnees wouldn't go near her. Afraid of some spirit hanging around. Just rode on and left her there in the wagon, to her own being or whatever god might come her way. Run off with the entire herd, they did, enough to feed a whole Nation, but wouldn't go near her. Some other wagon driver came by and freed her. Some months later, not back in town but at the ranch of a widow, she gave birth to the baby. Before they knew it, he became sheriff."

Volkstaj slowed his horse, looked back again at the sheriff, nodded at Pappy Dyk and said, "I was always counting on you, Pappy Dyk. No different now, or tonight, rich or broke to the last dollar." With that said, he slipped back in the line still advancing into the heart of Hidalgo.

In a matter of seconds, Yancy Joe was at his side. "I guess this is my turn in the turn of goodbyes, or how you'll have it Pappy Dyk. We sure are going on from here in short order. I know you're headed up river and somewhat overland, and Dan'l will be hightailing it for that damned mountain he's been dreaming about for years. Blessed be a man who carries a decent dream that long in his tote bag. Speaks well of him, he's man enough for any mountain Tennessee has."

"Yancy, don't get me crying after all this time. I had a good laugh back on this road about The Brit and OBW's name day."

"Well," Yancy Joe said, shifting the conversation, "I can't stop thinking how Sheep smelled out those bandits that night on the river. They had to be a mile away and he said he got them on the wind. I swear, Pappy Dyk, I wouldn't want him chasing me even in the dark. He said it was no more than ten men and it was nine of them. I don't know whether he smelled them or heard them or saw them, but none of any way would surprise me."

He held his hand out, touching Pappy Dyk on the sleeve. "You're the best man I ever rode with, Pappy Dyk, and they're the best damned bunch of hoot owls ever skinned half a continent. Glory be, Pappy Dyk, we did it." He let out a victorious, unabated howl that went right on down the street and was bound to wake up any girl who was still sleeping behind shades. Pappy Dyk was positive more than one of those girls would recognize that yell and would be scrambling already.

He was sure that his men, before the liquor got to them after the long ride, before a woman took hold of any one of them to her own covers, before a sack of gold and a diamond or two dropped into their hands, had arranged among themselves to pay personal tribute to the man who took them into the heart of Mexico and brought them back, onto the main street of their part-time hometown, and most of them soon to leave it behind.

It touched him deeply, and it was not yet over. Sheep Peril, dressed in solid black, a warrior of the night, a tell-tale black band still circling his forehead like a tattoo, a formidable foe by eyesight and hearing, sidled up beside Pappy Dyk. He was somewhat of a chameleon, whether afoot or on horseback, and in his turn at accolades and thanks came forward cautiously. Though he rarely spoke, much of his communication coming from hand signals, a shushing was at his mouth as he tested his senses, or expressed something he had discovered, behind them or ahead of them on the street.

Looking like an Indian deacon rather than the full-blooded Comanche he was, Sheep Peril said, giving his warning in short words, his voice little more than a whisper, "Two man leave chair back there. Go behind big barn, I think come up ahead of you. Before you get to bank. One is tin man."

Pappy Dyk whistled lightly and the rank of horsemen stopped. He told them, in a huddled group, "Sheep saw the sheriff, and another gent, duck behind the livery and he thinks they'll come out in front of us, with some more men hidden, before we get to the bank and divvy up the goods. That's not about to happen now. Brit and Yancy go on ahead, making noise like we're all coming. The rest of us are going to follow trail. If they aim to bushwhack us and grab the goodies, we're giving them a similar dose. We have to cover both sides of the street, because it smells like those two have it all planned and they sure aren't doing it alone. Let's split up and do it our way. Now let's trot."

The two smaller parties, well schooled in such tactics, slipped in between building on the street and were out of sight in seconds. Only the trail dust moved in the road, and very few innocent people.

Berlingswell the Brit, in his fancy hat still in one piece though it wore a few holes, and Yancy Joe, looking twice the size of his horse, took to hollering and setting claims on the world and all its worldly women. Yancy Joe yelled as loud as he had ever yelled. "Maxine, Maxine, darling, are you out of bed yet or ready to get back in it?" He said it three times, loud and noisily, as if he was on a weekend bender; and the professorial-look-alike and sound-alike Berlingswell started shooting his Peacemaker revolver in the air, emptying it, and making his horse rear up and paw the air for balance.

They came on as hellions, but had reduced their approach to a slow saunter as they beamed in celebration and good causes.

"Maxine," Berlingswell the Brit, yelled in his turn at sociality, "There's a man out here waiting to see you, darling." He laughed and roared and stood his horse again on its rear legs.

It came off as a fair and noisy disruption, and only that, and the commotion was duly noted by hidden parties who were ready to pounce on them and relieve them of their burdens. The sheriff, leading the men, had posted half a dozen men out of general sight from the road. None of them had any idea they were, in their turn, about to be set upon, despite the disruptive but harmless noise bouncing in from the road.

Not a shot was fired at anybody in desperation or in the act of attempted murder, by either function, as Pappy Dyk, putting one harmless round between the legs of the sheriff, ceased all clandestine activities with the one shot. "Tell them all to put down their guns, sheriff, or you're going to be hanged first from the tree out front, as a plain old bushwhacker, and the others will follow in turn, each one of them."

He then yelled across the road, "You got them covered over there, Comanche?" Pappy Dyk knew the word would stick right in the guts of all cowards who dared sit in wait.

"All on knees," the Comanche Sheep Peril answered, a guttural exclamation, but one loaded with quick disgust. "All on knees," he said again, and the pain of embarrassment was worn on a half dozen faces.

The council sat uneasy as Pappy Dyk consigned the sheriff and six other men never to set foot in the town again. They rode off in a bunch, not to be seen again. The town grew quiet, but fully curious, as the Redoubtable Nine entered the bank.

Proceedings went quickly. The bank president called a carpenter and the wagon maker into his office and gave instructions on how to further protect the bank. Even as the meeting proceeded, lasting well over three hours, men were making changes suggested by Pappy Dyk to the building entrances, covering up the back door, blocking off two windows with solid boards taken right off a building next door. A barkeep brought pitchers of beer, with a sidekick carrying meals that sat uneaten until the beer was replenished.

Pappy Dyk made further demands. All were signed and legalized. A lawyer was summoned to assure all the promises of the meeting would be legally written down and witnessed.

A few of the Redoubtables began to get uneasy. Pappy Dyk kept them in place. "We are one group and we act as one." It was a dictate that none would disobey.

As the meeting began to draw to a close, Pappy Dyk had visions of them scrambling down into the Holy Caisson, guns blazing, knives flashing, yells and screams of horror coming from their mouths as they released more horror than banshees were ever capable of issuing. He looked around the room, at the last gathering they would ever have, and saw them in their redoubtable actions. The Indians, honored guards for all the years, from a tribe that still demanded sacrifices on every new moon, finally had met their match. The song of the verdin had told Pappy Dyk everything he wanted to know, and what the Indians feared most, dreaded to the roots of their souls, was the spirits of the sacrificial lambs coming back to haunt them in return visits. They had dressed as women, every one of the Redoubtable, like the lambs that had been tortured for the gods. They had screamed in higher octaves, like women shrieking in their death knells. The Holy Caisson ached and echoed with their screams, their gunshots, their knives slashing in the air and at tender bodily parts. The lambs, indeed, had returned with a vengeance.

Pappy Dyk, almost in a trance, finally stood up. "Beware of your travels. Men will be looking for you, seeking you out. The story will travel far and fast, so keep your eyes open, your nose clear, like Sheep Peril, and your hand on your weapon. Remember, that you are, from this minute, marked men, at least in this locality, in all of Texas I would fear." He paused, as if taking his last look at them, and said, "We must know where each other is, at all times. Lay out your plans and destinations now, so we will know each other's whereabouts, just in case. We went too far, did too much, and came back almost whole." He laughed as he looked down at the remnant of Quincy's thumb, "Mark of a man, sir," he said. Quincy blushed. The room was silent again, waiting for Pappy Dyk to send them on their way.

He said to Dan'l, "We all know where you're going to be, Dan'l. Say hello to that mountain for us, and your good folk."

Dan'l simply nodded, though the dream sat in his eyes, like it had always been. He patted his saddle bag, and then his hidden money belt.

Pappy Dyk said to Djon Volstaj, "How about you, sir, where are you bound?"

But all in the room knew what his answer would be except Dan'l. "Hell, captain, he said, standing as if in the ranks, "I ain't got any place to go, so I'm hitching along with Dan'l to see that mountain he's been dreaming about, to say hello to those who been waiting on him all this time, and to those who might be along the way planning on no mountain for Dan'l or his folks. That just drives me crazy, and I almost been there a few times already."

Dan'l stood again in a solemn salute, though no words were exchanged.

"Hell," Berlingswell the Brit said, "I haven't any idea of destination for my own purposes, so I might as well plan a Tennessee itinerary." He smiled at his own sense of humor."

Dan'l stood again.

Quincy stood and said, "I'm sorry I can't keep you gents company on the way to Tennessee because I am going to Montana and am going to have the biggest cattle ranch up there. It's been my own secret dream." His nods were a decided affirmation of promise; he kept nodding, as did the others.

Tanker, sitting in place, said, "I'm off to Chicago, Pappy Dyk. I've had my share of horses, campsites, cold meals, hot fights, and no woman to give my life to. I will find her in Chicago, or New York. I think she's a singer or an actress. I hope her name is Genevieve or something like that. Maybe Justine or Christine or plain old Molly, but she'll have dreams that I will fit into." He closed his eyes and nodded into infinity. "When you gents get to that mountain in Tennessee, or wherever you'll be, send me wires or mail in Chicago. I'll tell you what her real name is." He laughed and said, "When I find out for sure."

There was significant banging on walls of the building. More beer came in pitchers. Pappy Dyk, waiting on Sheep Peril and One Big Water to advance their own plans in their own time, sat back with a whole pitcher of his own. He heard the verdin singing to him, heard the prophecies on the air and the secrets that had come unto him, and marveled where he had been in the company of these men. There was no other group like them and he had taken them elsewhere, to another time, and brought them back, but with all their prodigious help. He felt the marveling of it really beginning to unfold itself, flicking through his mind in innumerable images that moved onto each other in smooth succession.

Knowing where Pappy Dyk was at that moment, Sheep Peril waited for visions to subside, songs to fall away into far corners, satisfaction to sit down in its place, before he finally said, "I go into the Nations. To my mountain. It waits for me. The papoose I left will ride with me. I go now."

As slick as a greased skid, Sheep Peril, in black, the fearsome head band in place as a sign for all, was gone. Pappy Dyk knew only another Comanche would stand up to him, threaten him. The future for his chief scout was assured. He could see it.

One Big Water, smiling all the while, seeing old visions come anew, said, "I go to see my father and my brother, to make three swords of water, to fish the big stream for the big fish I lost as a boy."

The Brit laughed again, and then they all laughed and the banker sat in another room hearing them laugh and contemplating the promising future.

In an hour all the men but Pappy Dyk were gone from the room, some of them en route to their wherever, some to their whomever. He went to the banker's office, closed the door behind him, and said, "You shoot off your mouth, mister bank president, and I will personally rob this bank of all it contains. If I did the Holy Caisson, I can do this place, and there's no doubt about that. Not a single doubt in my mind. You are going to make some good money here. Don't spoil it. And, if I'm hearing it right, there may be more. Much more."

He looked out the banker's window, saw the setting sun, heard a bird sing and, cocking his head as if listening, held up one finger for silence.

The sunrays and the song settled into the room. The bank president felt like rubbing his hands together, but dared not.

The song continued.