Gunfight with the Devil
by Richard L. Newman

"You believe in the Devil?" the Marshal asked me. I'd just come back from checking a busted section of fence over at the Bartlett place, and the question surprised me. The Marshal was sitting at the desk, working on the monthly paperwork for the territorial authority—how much we had spent on meals for prisoners, how much for laundry, that sort of thing, which was paperwork he hated and I hated too. So, at first I thought he was asking about the tedium of the papers that came with the job, so I said, "Sure seems like I do, every month, doing all that writing."

But he said, "No, not like that. I mean the real, honest-to-God devil, Lucifer himself. You believe in him?"

To tell you the truth I hadn't hardly ever thought about it, so I considered for a moment, and then said, "No sir, I don't believe that I do. I haven't given it much thought, though. Why do you ask?"

He paused for a moment, looking off into the dusty light streaming through the window that looked out on the dusty street, and took a deep breath, and said, "Because I think I just might have met him this afternoon."

I looked again, and he looked real serious, not like he was trying to be funny. "Do tell," I said, and I sat in the wooden chair catty corner from his desk.

"Aw hell," he said, "I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy. I don't know." He sighed, and put his boots up on the desk, leaned back, looked up at the ceiling and started in.

"I was sitting here, earlier this afternoon. You'd gone off to the Bartlett place to check that busted section of fence, so it was just me, and this gentleman walks in. He's tall, maybe as tall as you are, and he's dressed real nice. A clean white Stetson; and a dark Green long coat, which was clean, too; pinstriped pants; and shiny black boots. Clean, you know? No mud, no sweat, no dust. Clean."

"'Good afternoon,' I says to him."

"'Good afternoon,' the Gent says to me. 'I just killed a man. I didn't even know his name.'"

"'Excuse me,' I said, and I remember I sat up a tad straighter."

"'Yes, indeed,' the Gent says to me. 'About fifteen, twenty minutes ago, over at the Mossy Horn.'"

I knew the Mossy Horn, a rowdy saloon for rowdy hands who'd just come in off long drives, with a big thirst and pockets full of cash. Over at the edge of town, far enough off so that you might or might not hear a shot, depending on which way the wind was blowing. Not the sort of place in which you'd expect to find a gentleman like the Marshal had described.

"I hadn't heard any shot," the Marshal said, as if he'd read my mind, "So I asked him, 'what happened?'"

"Oh, I forgot to say," the Marshal interrupted himself, "the Gent had an accent. English, I think. He spoke real well, good grammar, very articulate, but with an accent."

"So, anyways, the Gent says, 'I am travelling, St. Louis to San Francisco, and got off the stage with a bit of a thirst, as I'm sure you can understand. Being new to town, I wasn't sure of where to go when I saw a small group of your cow hands? Is that what they're called? Cow hands? Walking into the Mossy Horn. So, I followed them in.

"'It certainly is an odd phrase, isn't it,' the Gent says, 'Cowhands. One could almost suppose that they were men with hooves. Obviously, I jest, of course, but really, you must agree that the term has a certain element of absurdity.'"

"I thought that was odd, very odd—here's a man who's just confessing to killing someone, laughing at the word cowhands. 'Go on, I said.'"

"'Well, Sheriff,' he said, 'I went in through the crowd up to the bar and asked the tavernkeeper for a bourbon. Which he very promptly gave me. I turned, hoping to find an open table, or at least an unoccupied chair, and as I turned, I bumped into a cowhand. Or, one might say, he bumped into me. No matter. It was purely an accident. Or so I thought. I mumbled some brief word of apology, a little rueful that a good portion of my bourbon had spilled out of the glass. And I thought that that would be the end of it.'

"'But the young man whose path had intersected mine was not prepared to accept my apology, or to end the interaction. For I now saw that some of the bourbon had spilled onto his blouse, or shirt.'

"'"My new shirt, you—" here the young cowhand used a vulgar term, which I need not repeat—"what the hell did you do that for?"'

"'He was quite visibly drunk, swaying, bloodshot eyes, the odor of alcohol strong on his person.'

"'Again, I repeated how terribly sorry I was, and offered to buy him another drink, since I supposed that it was a desire for more alcohol which had brought him up to the bar.'

"'He continued to swear and grew increasingly agitated. He clenched his fists and swung at me. I was astounded—all this rage over a small bump and a small spill, which even now was drying in the heat.'

"'He called me names, insulted my heritage, mocked my speech, and finally called me out. The entire bar, by this time, I must say, was quiet, and I stood waiting, in the serene hope that someone would intervene, drag the poor drunkard back to his table, and put an end to this madness. But no one intervened. No one interceded. "Draw!" he fairly roared at me.'"

It was a common enough story, I thought. Me and the Marshal had had to deal with our share of drunks, just come in off the trail and feeling like they's ten feet tall. Usually it doesn't end in gunfire, though. Fists, sure, or, like this Gent was hoping, someone grabs one of the two would-be gunslingers, and there's an end to it. But this Gent had told the Marshal that he'd killed someone, so I was guessing that this story didn't have a happy or peaceful ending.

"So, then what happened," I asked John. John is John Withers, U.S. Marshal for the Territory. Me, I'm his deputy, Cale Grant.

"That's what I asked the Gent," John said.

"'I said "I don't have a gun" to the drunk,' the Gent said."

"And then the Gent says to me—I swear this is true, Cale, he says, 'I did have this,' and he snapped his arm, and pow! He was holding a derringer. Jesus! I jumped about a foot. And I noticed that he was real careful not to point it my way; just held it in his hand where it had appeared like magic."

"'But,' the Gent went on, 'I didn't think that such a weapon would suffice in this case, and I hoped that by explaining that I had no gun that the dispute would be defused.' And then the Gent flicked his arm again and that derringer disappeared. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

"'So, they didn't know you had that?" I asked the Gent, and he said, 'Correct. I kept—and keep—it concealed, only for use if my life should be threatened in a small or intimate situation. Hardly appropriate for a gunfight.'

"'I see. Please continue.'

"'Well, as I say, I hoped that someone would intervene, or that, seeing as I had no pistol, the matter would simply end. It did not. Some helpful person placed his six-gun on the table nearest me and said, "Here! You can use mine. It shoots real straight. All you got to do is pull the trigger." Not the outcome I had hoped for.'

"'I noticed, just then, that the bar had cleared. Everyone was way off to the side or had gone out into the light and heat, leaving the drunken man and me facing each other. I knew then that there was no avoiding this. I knew that he was drunk and I was sober. I knew that I would kill him. "Pick it up! He screamed at me. "Pick it up!"'

"'As though in a dream, I took a step closer to the table. I could see the gun lying there, dull silver, with brown wooden grips. I stalled for time. "What are the rules?" I asked the drunken young man. "Do you wait until I have picked up the gun? Do we turn our backs and pace off ten steps?"'

"'My questions seemed to confuse him. "Pick it up!" He yelled again.'

"'I picked up the gun. It came to my hand easily, as though with long practice. Of its own volition, it aimed itself. I heard the noise as he fired his gun and missed me entirely. I hesitated, wondering if, after missing, after seeing my gun aimed at his heart, he would relent, but he did not. He staggered a little and swore and fired again. And missed again.'

"'I shot and did not miss. Or, rather, say that I did miss, for my shot did not kill him, as I had intended. I missed his heart, and shot him instead, low, in the abdomen. He fired twice more, once very near to me, and another into the floor between us. I shot again, and this time my aim was true. I shot him between the eyes, as he stared at me. His eyes and mouth both open very wide. What do you think he saw, what do you think he thought, in those last instants of his life?'

The Marshal dropped his feet down to the floor. "Jesus, Cale, have you ever heard anything like that? And look, here."

He fished through the papers on his desk and found the piece of paper he was looking for. "Then the Gent pulls this out. It's a list, he says, of witnesses to the shooting. Names, he told me, that we'd know. People who would confirm that it was a shooting in self-defense. And we do know them. Curly Joe, and Kate, and Bill Winslow, and the Packer brothers. And Santiago and Lopez, too.

"So, The Gent tells me that he's going to be in town for the next three days, until the Westbound stage comes through again, and I tell him that I'd appreciate it, so's I can go check out his story. He tells me he's going to be staying at the Gold Star Hotel, and leaves. And I figure that I'll go on over to the Mossy Horn and see if I can find any of these witnesses and hear what they have to say."

The Marshal reaches over and has a sip of that cold coffee which he likes to drink all day long, and then continues.

"Which I do. I go over to the Mossy Horn and some of them are still there. There's Curly Joe, and Kate, and Don Packer, and Miggy Lopez. The others on the Gent's list have gone, but I talk to them that are still there, and each one of them confirms what the Gent has told me. The cowboy, whose name they didn't know, but who I later learned was Joel Watson, seemed drunk and ornery; and it was like he just kept getting madder and madder, no matter what the Gent said or did. And then he shot at the Gent—drew and fired first, and then the Gent shot him—twice— gut shot, and then right between the eyes, just like he told me. Pretty clear case of self-defense, I was thinking to myself. Thinking I'd head over to the Gold Star and tell the Gent that he was cleared, and could leave town whenever, figuring that he'd be here for the three days until the stage came anyway, cause where else was he going to go?

"Only then something odd happens. I'm turning to leave the Mossy Horn, and this little fella comes up out of the shadows, from the corner where I guess he'd been sitting. Louis his name was, Darnell Louis, a drummer, sells canvas from town to town.

The Marshal takes another swig of that coffee, and a deep breath, and sighs, and then says, "He comes up to me, and says, 'Marshal? Can I talk to you for a minute? Somewhere private?' 'Yes Sir,' I says, and leads him over to the other corner of the bar, where no one is sitting, no one is nearby, and I say, 'so, what's on your mind?' He says, 'I heard you asking them all what happened, and I heard what they said, and they all got it right, just as it happened. Only, I just wanted to tell you this. I've been on that stagecoach with the English gentleman ever since we left St. Louis, almost two weeks now, what with stops and layovers. We've shared that coach all along. And I have to tell you that this is the third time this has happened.' He's looking at me real earnestly, like he's trying to tell me more than his words can say.

"'That what has happened,' I ask him.

"'This,' he says, 'this shooting. Third time that he's gone into a bar, gotten into a fight, and shot somebody dead. Three times in two weeks. I just thought you should know.'

"Well, Cale, that set me back for a minute, I can tell you. So I ask the drummer to come back to the office here, and fill me in. Which he did. It's the damnedest thing. The way he tells it, the same damn thing has happened three times now, us being the third time. The Gent goes into a bar, bumps into a cowboy or something—some minor little thing— and the cowboy gets more and more mad, crazy mad, calls him out, the Gent borrows someone's gun, and shoots the cowboy dead. Three times.

"Oh, it's always self-defense, never the Gent's fault, but it sure seems odd, don't it? And I'll tell you what else. Remember how I said that the Gent asked me, right after he'd shot the guy between the eyes, he asked me, 'What do you think he saw, what do you think he thought in those last instants of his life?' Remember? Yeah? Well, he was smiling when he asked me that. Weirdest damn feeling I ever had."

He sighed again, sipped again. "So, what in the world are we gonna do? He didn't do anything wrong. Pure self-defense. Only three times running?"

"Well," I said, "why don't we go talk to him, find out what he says, and suggest that maybe, henceforth, he might stay out of bars where the cowhands are so apt to be so prickly."

"Yeah," John agreed. "Let's go talk to him. Henceforth—good word, I like that."

Walking up to the Gold Star, I had a couple more ideas.

"You said, these cowhands got real mad, all of them? Way overreacted? That seems a bit odd, doesn't it? Why do you think that is? Think it's got something to do with him?

"I honestly do not know," John said.

"And he's got that derringer, huh? Little two-shot thing? Maybe we shouldn't stand right next to each other when we talk to him, you know?"

John agreed. "Yeah, good idea. I'll ask the desk to send up for him, meet him in the dining room. You can already be in there, off at your own table, and as far as he knows, I'll just be there talking to him myself. How's that sound?"

"Sounds like a plan," I said.

Which is what happened. Me sitting at a table nursing a beer, when the Gent comes in and walks over to the Marshal up near the bar. I was close enough to hear the conversation, but that's not what concerns me right now. It started just the way you'd suppose, the Marshal telling him it was self-defense, and that he was free to go, but then it took a turn when he started asking the Gent about these other two episodes. We'd set it up so that the Marshal had his back to me and I had about a three quarters view of the Gent's face. And was it the light or were his eyes now sort of reddish? Anyway, the Marshal starts asking the Gent about the earlier episodes, and the Gent mutters something, something under his breath, which I couldn't quite make out, and whatever it was, it set John off. He raises his voice and says, "Now look here, you! I won't have that in my town!"

The Gent says, "Now, Marshal," but it doesn't do any good, the Marshal is mad and getting madder. And the air seems colder somehow, and I'm getting mad, too, feeling waves of anger. Goddamnit, I'm thinking who the hell does he think he is? Only I'm not sure who I'm mad at, or who does who think he is. And I kinda wonder about that, as I'm loosening the tie-down on my holster.

But the Marshal is beyond wondering. He is boiling mad, mad as I've ever seen him, and he says, loud and belligerent, "I'd call you out, you son of a bitch, only you don't have no gun. Or does that little ladykiller you wear up your sleeve—will that do you right now, right here?"

The Gent laughs, a little. You can see just how happy he is to be here right now, so alive. And I ease my gun out of its holster, real slow and careful, and get ready, just in case.

I'm thinking he's going to flash that little derringer before the Marshal can even clear leather, so right quick I yell, "I've got a gun you can use."

Which is a lie, because the only gun I got is now pointed right square at the Gent's heart. As he soon discovers. He looks over at me, smiling a little, like to thank me for the kindly loan of the gun against the Marshal, only his face freezes and looks real serious when he sees that I'm wearing a badge, and pointing that gun right at him.

"Now, Sir," I say, 'cause I still don't know his dern name, "would you kindly raise up your hands, real, real slow?"

And is it me, or does he look different, somehow? Menacing, sure, but that's to be expected. Only the Gent now almost seems like he's glowing, and the wave I had felt before, of rage and madness, now seem to be swirling out more strongly toward me, inflaming and angering me. Only I had just seen how the Marshal got, and I was on my guard, so I took a step back, (still well within range if I needed to pull that trigger), and the waves of hatred seemed to subside.

"And I'd take it kindly," I said, "if you could stop that spell you're trying to cast on me. It won't work. You can't reach me."

I thought he was going to explode. Now his eyes looked black as the Pit, and he seemed to grow or swell. All the while glaring at me, hating and loathing me. And the gun I was pointing never wavered.

And after a moment, his arms went up, nice and slow like I'd asked, and he exhaled and the pressure went out of the room or something, and he seemed to shrink back down to normal dimensions. And smiled, ever so sweetly, ever so happily.

Well, now, what to do? That, I was hoping, was a decision for the Marshal. After all, what had this Gent, or whatever he was, what had he done? He hadn't said or done anything to the Marshal, not so's you could prove in a court of law. It was the Marshal that had called him out. And we'd already cleared him of the murder of that young drunk cowhand.

But I'll tell you what,I thought that Gent—or whatever he was—was pure poison. Rattlesnake dangerous. And I didn't trust him as far as I could spit.

The Marshal shakes his head like he's just waking up, just coming too, and rubs his hand over his eyes. "Jesus," he says. And I notice that his hand drops to his gun, and moves the tie-down off, and wiggles that pistol a little in the holster, making sure it isn't wedged in there too tight. Just in case, I guess.

"Now," he says, "I'd like you to come down to the jail with me, so's we can talk privately. And just before we leave, I'll thank you to hand me that derringer you carry. Real easy, now."

Well, the Gent couldn't have been nicer or more accommodating. He drops his arm, real slow, shakes his wrist, the derringer drops into his palm, and he offers it, nice and easy, over to John.

So why am I not relaxed?

"I'll be right behind you," I say to John as he and the Gent step out of the Gold Star. And I was—right about ten feet behind them, my gun hanging at my side, where I still kept ahold of it.

It was the damnedest walk I ever took. First off, Curly Joe's mule Ellie, tied out at the hitching post and normally a calm and placid animal, backed and shied and bucked and squealed when we passed. And then I saw probably a dozen rattlesnakes as we walked over to the jail, where I knew full well that they should ought not to have been any of them. And the Marshal, who always kept his wits about him, either didn't see them, or didn't think they were worthy of commenting on, or the idea came to me that maybe they weren't even real, that the Marshal didn't even see them, cause there wasn't nothing to see. That maybe the Gent was up to some trickery of some kind, although how, I couldn't say. Or maybe there really was just about a dozen snakes had come out to lie and warm in the late afternoon sun. Hell, I don't know.

Back at the office in front of the jail, the Marshal sat down in his seat, and the Gent took the wooden visitor's chair. And I stayed in back of him, near the front door.

Well, you can probably guess what happened, you probably already seen our mistake. What made us think that the Gent only had the one derringer? Maybe I was so damn busy thinking nonsense about mysterious spells and snakes and whatnot that I got dumber than I normally am, but whatever the reason, neither of us ever thought to pat the Gent down. Lord God, he was quick. He had the second derringer out and pointed at the Marshal before I could say boo. And I could swear I heard him hissing.

But I ain't as dumb as all that. Yes, I did forget to pat him down, I'll own up to it. But I hadn't ever trusted him, and so when we got back to the office, and I was standing right back of him maybe six, eight feet behind him, where I could watch him, and he couldn't see me, why, right then, I'd pulled that pistol up and aimed it at him. So quick as he was, quick as he had that derringer pointed at the Marshal, I was just that tiny bit quicker, and I shot him down. He managed to fire that little derringer as he was blown out of the chair, but only broke the Marshal's coffee mug. And then he was down on the floor and dead.

And this time, you'd better believe, we checked him real good. He had a knife in his shiny black boot. And a wallet, with papers saying his name was Ernest Hollowood. Nothing to say where he'd come from—England, or, who knows, maybe Pittsburgh or Boston, someplace back east. It didn't matter now—he was dead.

There wasn't hardly any blood, and what there was looked thick, and dark, dark red, almost black. And Harley, the undertaker, when he came over to pick up the body, said he didn't hardly weigh anything, sixty, seventy pounds tops; and this for a man as tall as me. I don't know—that's just what Harley said, and he's well known for drinking too much. Hell, I guess I would too if I was in his line of work.

So, there you go. The Marshal asked me if I believed in the devil, and I said no. And now, now I'm not so sure. And I wonder just what in the world—or out of this world—I shot there, anyway.

The Death of Billy Bluefeather
by Roger D. Keith

Captain Savage felt the Cheyenne arrow pierce his lower back, just above the hipbone. A surge of blinding pain coursed through his body as he struggled to stay in his saddle. Reaching back, he snapped off the shaft, leaving the arrowhead embedded deep in his flesh. All around him, members of "G" Troop were fighting desperately. With every passing minute, unit strength diminished as valiant troopers fell to the onslaught of enemy arrows and rifle shots. Then, just when the battle seemed lost, the Cheyenne warriors, led by the one-armed chief known as Stone Face, broke off the fight and withdrew to a small ridge a half-mile to the south. There, they gathered their forces for what Captain Savage believed would be one last assault—but that assault never came.

"Capt'n, let me help you down. You've been hurt, sir," offered Private Lewis, who was bleeding from wounds to his upper right arm and forehead.

"Don't worry about me, Private," replied the Captain. "It's too far from my heart to kill me."

"I don't know, sir. It looks pretty bad. Come on now, let me have your horse. You need to get down before you fall off."

"I'll be alright," insisted the Captain as he slid down from his horse. "See if you can find Sergeant O'Malley. I need to speak to him."

"I'm sorry, Capt'n, but O'Malley is dead, sir. I saw him go down myself. Shot in the head. He never made a move after he hit the ground."

"Oh, I see," replied Captain Savage.

Private Lewis helped the wounded officer to the shade of a large rock. There, up against a large outcrop of standing stones, the remaining troopers also gathered.

"Where'd they go?" asked the Captain.

"Well, now, I'm not sure, sir, but it looks like they're up there on that dry ridge yonder. It looks to me like they've had enough for now."

"Don't you bet your life on it, Private. I guess they're just regrouping for the final assault," replied the Captain. "Now listen close. I want you to go now and see if you can find Lieutenant Miller and ask him to report to me as soon as possible. Also, make a quick assessment of who we have left, anyone who can still fight. And one last thing, Private: see if you can find Billy Bluefeather. Tell him that I want to see him—now!"

"Sure will, Capt'n. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Private Lewis scampered off through the rocks while Captain Savage repositioned himself for a better view of the battleground. Everywhere lay dead Indians and troopers. Horses, from both sides, grazed among the dead and dying. Occasionally, a single shot rang out as a trooper finished off a wounded Indian. "My God," thought Captain Savage to himself, "how did this ever happen?"

Within a few minutes, Lieutenant Miller arrived, limping and bleeding from a gaping wound on in his thigh, which he had wrapped with a scarf, now blood-soaked.

"Sir, you're wounded!" he said as he observed the Captain lying on his side. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I'll be alright. What's our condition?"

"It'll do for now, but from what I can tell, sir, we're in bad shape overall. We've lost upwards of fifteen, dead or seriously wounded. I can only account for eight men who can fight—not including the two of us. Sergeant O'Malley was killed early on, as was Sergeant Jacoby and Corporal Lane. There are six wounded—some worse than others, but most can still fight to some extent, if necessary. The men seem to have adequate cover, but no one has any water or food. Ammunition is low, and all of the mounts are scattered."

"Did Collins get away to Fort Hayes?" asked the Captain in a strained voice. The initial shock of his back wound was now starting to wear off, and the pain was making him nauseous.

"No sir, he didn't get a hundred yards."

"What about Bluefeather—have you seen him?"

"No sir, not since the fight began. I suspect he's dead like the others. Last time I saw him, he was pulling a Cheyenne down off his horse. He had that big 'ole knife he carries clenched in his teeth. I was busy myself and didn't get a chance to look back." Lieutenant Miller paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "He's a tough one, though; if he is dead, you can bet he took a lot of 'em with him."

"Yes, Lieutenant, you can be certain of that," replied the Captain.

An exhausted Private Lewis returned to confirm what Lieutenant Miller had already reported. The few men that were left were scattered around the rocks. Although they had adequate cover, their location was indefensible. Any sane person could easily see that the ten or so remaining troopers were in a hopeless situation against such a superior force.

"Captain, why haven't they attacked? What are they waiting for?" asked Private Lewis. The blood streaming down his face from a forehead wound gave him a ghastly, corpse-like appearance. "I mean—there's just a few of us. Why don't they get it over with?"

"They're in no hurry, Private—no hurry at all. They know how many of us remain and our condition. They'll come when they're good and ready. Right now, they're tending to their wounded and counting their dead. I doubt that we'll see them again today. They have us just where they want us—pinned down behind these rocks. They'll probably send a few warriors to finish us off in the morning, with us low on ammunition and without water. Why risk the deaths of any more of their own if they don't have to?"

"You think we have a chance, sir?" asked Lieutenant Miller. "I mean—realistically?"

"No, Lieutenant, to be completely honest with you, I don't. We'll have to do the best that we can. All we can hope for is to take a few of them with us when they attack. Now, get back to the men and see if there is anything that you can do for them. Try to spread out the remaining ammunition and make sure everyone has adequate cover. Any questions?"

"No, I mean, I will, sir," said the Lieutenant as he turned to go.

"And one more thing, Lieutenant, let's keep this conversation to ourselves. There is no need to upset the men. That goes for you too, Private."

"Yes, sir, I'll keep it to myself." replied the Lieutenant." The Lieutenant turned and hobbled back toward his men in the rocks. Overhead, the late afternoon sun beat down without mercy on the stranded men. All needed water and food, but they kept their positions, hoping the Indians had given up and gone home. Given the severity of their losses, it was a reasonable thought.

"Private, you're a sorry sight. Find something to wipe your face with."

"I'm sorry, sir. It just keeps pumping out."

"Well, Private, I hate to ask this of you, but I still need to know for certain the fate of Billy Bluefeather. Could you check around to see if anybody knows anything about him? I'd like to know it, but I want to see him immediately if he's alive! That's an order."

"I'll do what I can, Captain," replied the private, still wiping blood as he hurried away to search for the missing scout.

As predicted, the Cheyenne did not attack or leave for home again that day. At sunset, they built three large bonfires on the ridge in full view of the trapped troopers. Around them, they danced, sang, and fired their rifles into the air. They were celebrating their victory and not hurrying to kill the remaining enemy.

Time passed slowly for the exhausted and wounded men. Coyotes could be heard fighting over the corpses left behind from the running fight in the darkness. The moon rose and set, slowing time to a crawl.

Sometime just after midnight, Captain Savage heard a movement off to his left. Raising himself onto one arm, he listened.

"Hello, Captain," came a soft voice. "I have come to talk to you."

"Billy—is that you? Where have you been? I was afraid that you were killed."

"I have been to the enemy camp. They are celebrating a great victory tonight."

"Yes, I can hear them. Tell me, Billy, who is this chief that takes such delight in killing us?"

"It is Stone Face, my father."

"Stone Face? Why is he here? And what does he want with us?

"He wants revenge. It was the white soldier who cut off his arm. It was the white soldier that killed his woman, and it was the white soldier that stole his son."

"But, you're Sioux, Billy. How can this man be your father?"

"Stone Face captured me during a raid on our village when I was still a small child. He is the only father that I have ever known. Even though I hate him, he's still my father."

"You spoke to him?"

"No. I only listened to their plans."

"What plans?"

"Tomorrow, at sunrise, Stone Face will send out a party of warriors..."

"To kill us?" interrupted the Captain.

"No, that would not satisfy the wrath of Stone Face. He intends to capture you and your men and torture you to death. He'll kill the men but save the last punishment for you and your officers. Even now, warriors collect wood for the fires that will consume your body. For two days, they will tear your skin and break your bones. They will cut off your hands and feet, careful not to inflict too much injury lest you die before the fire can do its work. Then, well before you are dead, he will feed you into the fire, feet first, until you die. It is a terrible, slow death. One that I do not wish for you."

In the dark, Billy Bluefeather could not see the tears streaming down the cheeks of the injured Captain. They had known each other for many years, returning to the Great War. Twice, Billy had saved his life—once at the Battle of Chancellorsville and again at Gettysburg. Both times, Billy's advice had averted disaster and sure death. When the war was over, the Captain convinced Billy to follow him to the West to serve as a scout under his command. Now, here in the dark, the Captain realized that he had finally gotten his men and himself into a situation where even Billy could not help.

"Billy, I am afraid that this is the end for us," said Captain Savage, his voice choked with emotion. It was hard for him to express how he felt, knowing that his men would die a terrible death at the hands of the vengeful chief. "I am truly sorry that I got you into all of this. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Do not worry, Captain. I can assure you that your men will not suffer the torture at the hands of my father. Tonight, your men will walk among their ancestors.

"I don't know what you mean, Billy."

Billy moved closer. Captain Savage could see the dim features of his face. From his soft leather boot, Billy withdrew the long, sharp knife Captain Savage had once given him as a birthday present. Bringing it forward, he swiftly and expertly cut the captain's throat.

"Goodbye, my friend. The Great Spirit awaits you."

Billy Blue Feather crept back through the camp, stopping briefly at each man. With a quick and silent motion, he killed each one in turn. A few yards away, he stopped and exchanged his clothing with that of a dead Cheyenne warrior. "Now Stone Face will meet his ancestors," Billy thought as he turned toward the Indian camp.

The following morning, the Indian camp was gone. All that remained was the huge, smoldering remains of a bonfire that held the half-burned body of Billy Bluefeather. Stone Face was also dead, but the war party had taken its revenge, if not on the men of "G" Troop, then on the traitorous son of Stone Face.

The Mountain Man and the Woman
by Holly Seal Kunicki

Jess Cooper sat hunched forward in his saddle, bracing himself against the cold as he rode towards the column of rising smoke that had piqued his curiosity since sunrise. His mule trailed behind, hauling a pallet of fur. He had been heading for the nearest trading post but had decided to take a detour when he spotted the smoke. Jess was a tall man with broad shoulders. His weathered, suntanned face made him look older than his 47 years. Jess shivered; the Wyoming winter had come early this year. He pulled the flaps of his beaver hat down over his ears to keep out the cold, but still, the icy wind penetrated his fringed buckskin pants. As he rode along, he reminisced about his youth when he and his brother left home in search of adventure. They had heard of the rugged and fearless breed known as mountain men. Soon they too were living off the land, trapping beaver, muskrat, fox, and otter, and then trading the pelts for goods at the yearly rendezvous gatherings. Together, they explored virgin territories, acted as guides for wagon trains going west, and scouted for the army. In the earlier years, it had been a wonderful life for Jess, but since the death of his brother, he has been lonely. He had attended all the rendezvous of mountain men every summer, but over time, their numbers had dwindled, and the last gathering had taken place in 1840. To make matters worse, the price of beaver pelts had fallen from six to eight dollars per pound to one dollar. Jess was weary of his solitary life. He hadn't seen another human in months. It was time to make a change and settle down. He figured he could build a cabin near a town or settlement to ease the transition from his rugged ways into a more civilized life. Jess kept the pillar of smoke in his sights as he rode towards it, hoping to find some human companionship.

Around noon, Jess approached a thickly wooded area. Above the tree line to the north, a series of jagged hills spanned the horizon. Jess entered the forest, heading towards the smoke as it spiraled upwards before disappearing into the gray winter sky above. Eventually, the trees began to thin out, and Jess halted his horse in front of a broken-down sign that read, "Welcome to Brooksville." Along the dirt road that led through the center of the abandoned settlement were crudely built shacks and cabins tucked in among the trees. Rusted mining equipment was rotting on the ground. Jess had heard the old story before. Just as quickly as a mining settlement popped up, once the vein ran out, folks pulled up stakes and headed for greener pastures. The weather had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and Jess needed to find shelter before the snow began to fall. Just past a stand of pine trees, a cabin came into view. Smoke billowed from its chimney. This was the source of the smoke Jess had been tracking since morning. He approached the cabin cautiously on his horse, hoping to find welcoming folks inside.

"Hello in there," he called out in a loud voice. Suddenly, a woman came to the door holding a shotgun. She aimed it straight at Jess. A young boy stood by her side.

"Mister," she said, "my husband will be home any time now. Best clear out while you got the chance; now git!"

"I mean you and your boy no harm, ma'am," Jess said. "I'm just lookin' for a place to hole up during the storm. I reckon one of these shacks will do just fine."

Jess took in the scene. The woman wore a plain dress of brown homespun cloth with a blue and white checkered apron tied around her slender waist. He figured her age to be around 35. She had pulled her dark hair neatly back to reveal a handsome face. Although she was not a beauty, to Jess, she was a sight for sore eyes.

He nodded towards the woman, "I'll be movin' along now, ma'am," then turned and headed for one of the abandoned shacks to spend the night.

When Jess awoke, a blanket of white snow covered the ground. He grabbed his rifle and headed for the woods. That day, Jess caught a rabbit and two quail. He hung the quail in the rafters over the woman's wooden planked porch to keep wild animals away, but kept the rabbit for himself. As evening approached, he hauled water from a nearby creek in an old black kettle and heated it over a fire. It felt good to wash up and trim his beard. The next day, Jess noticed a pile of wood that needed chopping in front of the woman's cabin. She watched him from her window as he worked. On the third day, Jess left a stack of his finest furs on the woman's porch, enough for her to make warm winter coats for herself and her boy.

That night, Jess lay on his bedroll and wondered if the woman's story was true. After all, a woman alone had to defend herself against intruders, even if it meant stretching the truth a little. Yet it had been three days, and her husband had not returned. Why had she stayed behind when the others had left, and who was the occupant of the freshly dug grave near her cabin? If her husband did not return in a few days, Jess decided he would offer to take the woman and her son to the nearest settlement.

When Jess returned from hunting wild turkey the following day, he spotted two horses tied to the bushes near the woman's cabin. He hastily hid his catch under a pile of leaves and then went to investigate, putting his ear to the cabin door. Inside, he heard the gruff voice of a man issuing orders, and suddenly the woman screamed.

"You leave my ma alone," the boy shouted.

That was enough for Jess. Rifle in hand, he burst through the door and took aim at the varmint across the room, but when the man grabbed the woman for a shield, Jess hesitated, and suddenly, the room went black.

When Jess awoke, he was lying on a cot with his hands and feet bound, and the boy was standing over him. His head throbbed something awful.

"Pa, take a drink of water," the boy offered.

Jess immediately played along. The boy held the cup to his lips, and he took a few sips. "Thank you, son," he murmured.

Still dizzy, Jess gazed around the room until it came into focus. It was dark now, and the soft glow of the lamplight filled the cabin. He must have been unconscious for a long time. Two men sat at a little table. Jess figured it was the second man who had slugged him from behind. He listened to their conversation as the men greedily woofed down their food. The man named Claude outlined the plan. They would hole up in the woman's cabin for the winter, keeping out of reach of the law, and in the spring, head for the New Mexico Territory.

Hank, the big man with the scar, wasn't listening to his companion. He was too busy mopping up every morsel of food from his plate. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he remarked, "Mighty good vittles, ma'am," and belched loudly.

Now, the woman spoke, "Please," she begged, "let me tend to my husband."

Hank pulled out his gun. "OK," he nodded, "but remember, lady, I got my eye on you."

When the woman covered Jess with a woolen blanket, he felt her slip something into his breast pocket. Then she laid a damp cloth over his forehead.

"Hey lady, no blanket for him," the man with the scar grumbled and yanked it off.

"My husband has a fever, and he needs to be kept warm. If he's sick, he'll be useless to you tomorrow," she pleaded.

Then Claude poked Jess with the butt of his rifle. "Your woman told us all about the gold and how you hid it in the mine. No use denyin' it," Claude said, "in the mornin', sick or not, you'll take us to the gold. Remember, we got your family."

"Don't worry," Hank chuckled, "he ain't gonna give us no grief, not after the pistol whippin' I gave him." Then Hank directed the woman and her son to a cot in a dark corner of the room and bound their hands and feet. "Sorry lady," Hank said, "can't have you wanderin' around in the middle of the night gettin' into mischief."

The men decided to sleep in shifts, so Claude took the first watch. He sat in a chair with his rifle propped up against the little table, while Hank spread his bedroll on the floor and promptly fell asleep.

Jess knew the woman had saved his life by concocting a story, but in the morning, when the men realized there was no gold, they would kill him. He dreaded thinking, what would happen to the woman and her son?

Jess remained vigilant, and around 2:00 in the morning, he caught a lucky break when Claude's head began to droop. Soon, the sounds of two men snoring filled the little cabin.

Now, if he could only get his hands on Claude's rifle. Bless the woman; somehow, she had managed to slip a straight razor into his pocket. He placed the handle between his knees for an anchor and began sawing away at the rope that bound his wrists. Jess had almost cut through the rope when suddenly Claude let out a loud snort, his head jerked upwards, and he opened his eyes. At the same time, Jess quickly let the razor drop to the cot beneath him and feigned sleep.

Satisfied that his prisoner was secure, Claude tried to wake up Hank by kicking his bedroll. "Git up, you lazy bum," he complained. "It's your turn to keep watch."

Finally, Hank sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Now that Hank was awake, Claude left the cabin to pick up some gear, taking his rifle with him, and as soon as the door closed, Hank fell back into a deep sleep.

Jess was in disbelief. A second lucky break! He tugged at the partially severed rope that bound his wrists, and it fell away. After freeing himself from the remaining ropes, he tiptoed across the room and bolted the cabin door. Next, he freed the woman, putting his finger to his lips to indicate silence. All at once, a pack of coyotes in the nearby hills began yipping and howling. At the same time, Claude returned and began to pound on the cabin door, demanding Hank let him in.

With all the commotion, Hank came to his senses and quickly rose to his feet. As he drew his weapon from behind his belt, Jess charged forward in a desperate attempt to keep him from reaching his firearm. In the violent clash that followed, the gun fell to the floor. When Hank made a dive to retrieve his revolver, Jess kicked it out of his reach, where it skidded across the room and stopped in front of the woman's feet. There was no hesitation. She picked up the gun, aimed it, and pulled the trigger. Hank fell to the floor and landed with a thud. Outside, Claude continued to pound on the cabin door. Again, the woman did not hesitate. She aimed the gun directly at the door and emptied the chamber. Finally, Jess took the smoking gun from her hand, and she fell into his arms, sobbing hysterically.

In the morning, Jess wrapped the bodies in tarps and dragged them to the shed, where he had stabled the horses. Before returning to the cabin, Jess went through the men's saddlebags, hoping to discover their identity. Inside, he found a poster featuring the Deacon Brothers, Hank and Claude, wanted for attempted bank robbery and murder. The bank was offering a 500-dollar reward for each man, dead or alive. Although Jess figured the woman could use the money, he had no intention of leaving her and the boy alone to fend for themselves while he went off to collect the bounty. As soon as the ground thawed, he intended to bury the bodies. The Deacon Brothers would never trouble anyone again.

Jess headed back to the woman's cabin, but first, he retrieved the wild turkey he had hidden under a pile of leaves the day before. Luckily, critters hadn't gotten to the bird, and the cold weather had preserved it. The woman had suffered a terrible shock the night before, and Jess figured she'd still be sleeping. As he approached the cabin, he was surprised when the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. Not wanting to barge in, Jess knocked on the door. The woman bid him enter, and he stepped inside just in time to see her remove a fresh batch of biscuits from a grate over the hearth.

"Well," she said, "don't just stand there; put the bird in a pot. You boys can clean it later. I got some wild raspberry preserves that'll make a mighty fine pie to go with it."

Finally, Jess found his tongue and asked the woman the one question he'd been yearning to know for a long time: "Ma'am, may I know your name?"

"My name is Hannah Wilder, and this is my son Benjamin." Then she smiled broadly, and the room lit up.

Jess couldn't help but think about how the name Hannah suited her. It was a plain-sounding name, yet it captured her strength and courage.

Jess decided it was high time he introduced himself. "Hello, ma'am, my name is Jess Cooper, and I'm pleased to meet you and Benjamin. I was on my way to the trading post when I spotted the column of smoke comin' from your cabin. I'm happy to have been of some assistance to you and your boy in your time of trouble." Then Jess removed his beaver hat and stood awkwardly near the cabin door.

"There's no need to be so formal, Jess. You can call me Hannah." Then she offered him a seat at the table. "Make yourself t' home; breakfast is almost ready."

After freshening up at the wash basin, Jess sat at the little table. Hannah sent her son to milk the cow and fetch some eggs from the chicken coop. Then she poured Jess a piping hot cup of coffee and set a plate of biscuits before him. After joining Jess at the table, Hannah began telling him her story.

She had come west with her husband, father, and son, hoping to settle on free government land. The family joined a wagon train in Missouri, heading for Oregon. When they reached the small frontier town of Willow Bend, they had run out of money and supplies and decided to stay for a spell.

One day, not long after they had arrived, the whole town was abuzz with the news of a rich gold strike. An old timer named Amos Brooks, who had been prospecting for gold in the hills of Wyoming, had hit pay dirt. Soon, the news spread like wildfire throughout the region. People flocked to the new mining settlement of Brooksville, located 60 miles west of Willow Bend, so named for its founder.

That was when Hannah and her family decided they would try their luck at prospecting. When they arrived at the mining camp, they found the living conditions to be primitive. The settlement consisted of tents and lean-tos, and in some places, the mud was knee-deep. Tired of living in their covered wagon and with winter fast approaching, Hannah and her family built the first solid living structure. Other miners followed their lead, hastily erecting shacks and cabins.

Every day was a new adventure for Hannah as she panned for gold in nearby streams with little Benjamin while her husband and father worked in the mines. Soon, newcomers to the area depleted the placer gold deposits at the bottom of streams and creek beds. Nonetheless, the mines dug into the hillsides north of the settlement remained productive. During this time, Brooksville flourished, and Hannah decided to start her own business. She purchased baking supplies from the nearest trading post. Using wild berries, herbs, and mushrooms that grew in the nearby forest, she produced baked goods and sold them to the miners. Her huckleberry pies, cornbread, and savory mushroom meat tarts were favorites among the men. In this way, Hannah made her contribution to the family fortune.

After a brief period of prosperity that lasted for three years, the gold vein suddenly ran out. As a result, people left their makeshift homes and moved away. Around the same time, Hannah's father fell sick, so the family stayed behind. After several months of boredom, Hannah's husband grew restless and dreamed of a new adventure. One night, he left for the gold fields of Montana, absconding with their family fortune. In the meantime, Hannah looked after her father until he passed away. She and her son buried him near their cabin. That was two weeks ago. Hannah made it clear she had no interest in reuniting with her husband and hoped never to see him again!

Hannah let out a long sigh and looked into Jess's eyes. "I got deep roots planted here," she said. "Brooksville is where I buried my pa, and where I plan to raise my son. One day, pioneers travelin' west along the Oregon Trail will stop to fill their water barrels from our streams and hunt for game in our forest. While most settlers will move on, a few will share my dream and take up homesteadin' in the empty shacks and cabins. Soon, cities and towns will be springin' up across the west, and Brooksville will be one of them. Life is an adventure," Hannah continued, placing her hand over Jess's, "and I'm invitin' you, Mr. Jess Cooper, to share the journey with us."

At that moment, Jess realized he didn't need to return to civilization to find companionship. He had found it, far from the big cities, with a brave pioneer woman named Hannah and her son Benjamin.

Early the following morning, Jess grabbed a can of paint and an old paintbrush, and on the sign that read, "Welcome to Brooksville," he added, "Population 3 and Growing."

Johnny Grey's Death Ride
by James Burke

President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation sent a wave throughout America. To some it was a wave of elation and joy. To others a wave of terror and horror. There were those convinced of the opinion that, if ever freed from bondage, blacks would spontaneously transform into rampaging Vikings or Huns! Of course no such nonsense ever occurred. It was near the end of summer, after the tragic news of Gettysburg had reached friends of the South in Missouri, that a column of Yankee Cavalry of African descent galloped down a wooded path on route to Arkansas. About a company's strength and armed with the new-fangled Spencer Carbines. And how they sang the ballad of "John Brown's Body," they must have thought themselves more than ready to prove their mettle against their oppressors. The stern, but proud white officer at the head of the column seemed to agree with them.

As did Johnny Grey as he sighted the officer with his Henry Repeater atop a fallen log, Capt. Adam Jackson beside him. The other twenty of their band were scattered in the trees nearby. All awaiting Johnny's shot, the signal to open fire. As the best shot among them, Johnny had quickly risen to be a kind of sergeant, if such a rank could apply to a band of guerrillas. He had fought beside Jackson and the others in many scrapes and scraped through many a narrow escape with them. Yet for the first time in two years he hesitated to pull the trigger. Johnny had wisely elected not to mention his politics or beliefs. The others simply assumed he was of their number, given they found him in a bloody heap after a scrape with some Red-Legs. The murdering varmints having gunned down Johnny's wife left little doubt in his hatred for them. None had paused to question his love for "The Cause." There was none to be lost. Johnny was a Republican, a Lincoln-lover, a scalawag, a "damned Yankee!" some would call him. But his die was cast and all he could do was stick with the men who hadn't tried to kill him. Men whose cause he did not believe in. With a whispered curse, he exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The captain flung limp from his mount with a hole in his head in the wake of the gunshot. Instants later a volley of hot lead ripped into the column of black in blue. Bullets tore through man and horse. Mutilated cloth, fur, skin, and bone alike. The guerrillas levered their Henrys before sending another volley seconds later. What few black "blue bellies" were not already down dove to the dirt. Cries of agony went up from the wounded as they writhed. Some cried out in panic at the deafening roar of enemy rifles and horrible silence of dead comrades. Others cried out in defiance, daring the wrath of those who would deny them freedom. The latter took cover on the roadside behind fallen soldiers and horses, and returned fire with their Spencers. Some of the panicked and wounded managed to find their courage along with their weapons to fire back at their attackers.

Bullets pelted the trees and bushes hiding the rebels. Some hit home, toppling several gray and brown-clad guerrillas. Johnny ducked below his log in the nick of time, was sure he felt the searing heat of a bullet as it grazed his hair. But couldn't bring himself to grasp his head. If a river of blood came trickling down into his eyes, he'd know to visit Doc. The old country physician was already at work on the down rebels. Soon roars of fury and indignation rose up from the rebels, which joined to form the iconic "rebel yell" that was the rallying cry of the Confederacy. The rebel renegades resumed fire with renewed vigor. Raining hellfire and lead down on the desperate cavalrymen. Scant few still shot back, but this only enraged the rebels further. One fresh young lieutenant, Claudius Frost by name, drew his gold-trimmed-sword and leapt in front of the rebel picket so his flashy gray uniform and yellow cape could be seen. His plumed hat with wide-brim reminiscent of the English cavalier. "CHARGE, MEN!" he cried in his boyish voice that almost sounded feminine. "LET'S GIVE 'EM A THRASHING!" The men followed with a feral roar, surging from the trees and down the slope upon their battered foe. What ensued was not a melee so much as a butchery. Some rebels couldn't even find a live enemy to bludgeon with their rifle-butts or stick with Bowie knives, instead landed blows upon the dead and dying. Johnny's stomach heaved as he gazed down in horror behind his log.

"My God!" exclaimed Jackson beside him. Johnny was relieved that he wasn't the only one who saw the insanity of it.

"Shoot!" spat Jack Carver as he slung his Henry across his shoulder. "They sure is making a whole lot of fuss over a half-dead passel of varmints!" Johnny didn't know whether to be even more relieved or disgusted. "Hell, them black blue bellies was on their last limb anyways! We could just as well have hunkered down up here and let them spit lead till they bled out! Why does that rich-boy always gotta do things the hard way?" he finished with a harsh laugh, his leathery skin put a villainous edge on his features that made Johnny's skin crawl. He'd ridden with him long enough to know he wasn't what you'd call a bad man. But Carver's cynical nature and morbid humor rubbed many the wrong way. Nearby Doc looked up from his work at the wanton barbarism downhill only to shake his head with a mumbled curse.

"Alright, that's enough!" Jackson growled as he stomped down the slope with Johnny and Carver in tow. The rebel rabble continued to rampage atop their long-dead foes as their commander closed in, levered his Henry and fired a shot at the heavens. All eyes were on him in an instant, Frost's nearly shot from his skull. A shudder rippled down his body, which he visibly tried very hard to pretend was not fear but excitement.

"Captain, must you interrupt the men's fun?" Frost whined, trying very hard to give his voice a cool, intellectual tone and failing miserably. His fancy sword dripped blood, clearly it wasn't the men's fun that concerned him.

"CAPTAIN, indeed," Jackson seethed. "I am in command of this here company, LIEUTENANT Frost! NOT YOU!"

"Of course, Captain," Frost feigned submission with a delicate bow, rather than a salute. "Pardon my eagerness to remind this lot of their place," he coolly gestured to the mutilated corpses underfoot.

"Shoot! You ain't reminded nothing or nobody of any manner of place!" cackled Carver! "Why that lot's so dead they'd need a map to find the road to Hell!"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Jackson roared. "What matters is that I'm the one who decides if and when we charge! Or does SOMEONE think they're gonna challenge me on that?" he glared daggers at Frost's perfumed skin. This time the Louisiana socialite was more convincing.

"Certainly not, sir!" he shrank back in a gasp. "But surely I'm not to be disciplined for my zeal? Least of all as my brother's blood still cries out to me for revenge?" Jackson's anger cooled, the boyish charm had worked. Everyone knew that Frost's older brother had died a Border Ruffian at the hands of John Brown. Most of the men, watching the confrontation with anticipation, bowed their heads in mourning for the lieutenant's loss. Any man slain by John Brown was looked upon as a martyr by the South. Regardless of the torment and indignity the said martyrs inflicted upon any white who dared NOT to advocate slavery. Johnny, like many southerners, knew full-well that most men slain by the butcher Brown were themselves butchers. Though few were fool enough to voice such opinions.

"I suppose not," Jackson conceded. "But from now on, you'll clear such maneuvers with me first. Is that clear, lieutenant?"

"As you command, Captain," Frost saluted with a smile just crooked enough for Johnny to recognize it. Having seen such insufferable facades before. The worst kind of bully was not the big and strong kind. Those you could dispatch with one solid punch. It was the weaklings with parents in high places that boiled Johnny's blood. Frost was from a prominent planter family in New Orleans. But for all the sugar crops their slaves raised, there was little sweetness to be found in that family. Hence their oldest son left home to terrorize free-staters in Kansas and the little one, deemed too weak for the regular army, traveled north to Missouri to throw his family's weight around! In his full uniform, which he rarely disrobed, he stood about five-foot-6. Not uncommonly short. But on the rare occasion he bathed, usually at night, a calculating eye would peg him for no taller than five-foot-four. Never had Johnny seen such a big ego on such a small man!

A flash of momentum caught Johnny's eye and he turned to see a blue uniform trampling off towards the adjacent treeline. A survivor was making a run for it! Johnny narrowly bit off his instinct to cry out. It seemed fair that at least one should survive this horror. At least he could say he had only shot their commander, though as the thought occurred to him he realized how little it did to numb the pain in his gut.

"LOOK, BOYS! WE GOT A RUNAWAY!" shouted one of the rebels. A shot cracked off instants later to strike the dirt by the runaway's feet, spurring him on even faster. Without thinking, Johnny dropped his rifle and sprinted after the fugitive. Another shot snapped overhead before Jackson snapped at the men to hold their fire. Just as Johnny hoped, he wouldn't let them risk killing his best shot! He closed in on the blue-belly quickly, the poor devil must have been exhausted.

"Stop!" Johnny huffed as he came within arms-reach. "You'll never make it on your own out here, don't be a fool!" He wanted to shout louder, but knew if he betrayed even the hint of tenderness towards a black man his comrades would turn on him. Probably even Jackson. He didn't even want to think of what Carver would say, or do!

The pursuit dragged into the forest. The upward slope and the narrow spaces slowed the cavalryman down. Johnny knew the others would be hot on their heels, some might even run for their horses. This had to end! With a burst of momentum, he sprang forward and tackled the runaway to the ground with a painful thud. A high-pitched gasp went up from the blue-belly. Johnny figured he was just a young-un, he smirked that it might make it easier to get them to spare the kid. The smirk vanished as the fallen figure sprawled and kicked like a wild hog. But Johnny was bigger and pinned him down after a moment's struggle.

"Easy there, boy! I ain't gonna hurt!" he said with a gentle sternness as he rolled the soldier over. His breath caught in his throat and, despite the summer heat, froze like a statue in surprise. The figure pinned beneath his knees had the slight frame of a boy, but the uniform jacket was open and the shirt beneath unbuttoned to reveal decidedly unmanly shapes. Not only was the soldier's neck and chin of a narrower mold, but the trooper's hat had fallen off in the struggle to reveal hair longer and more delicate than even the least disciplined soldier could be expected to have. "Hey!" Johnny blinked with realization. "You ain't a boy at all!" In an instant the girl hissed and clawed at his face like a cornered cat. Johnny brushed off the scratches and flailing slaps with some minor difficulty before grabbing both her wrists and pinning them down on her chest.

"Take it easy, I said, I ain't gonna hurt you!" She growled like a panther and sank her teeth into Johnny's hand. With a growled curse he shook it free of her maw and pressed her down by the shoulders. "Bite me again and I swear to God I'll bite back!" His piercing blue eyes blazed down into her hazels. Tears began to flood and flow down her cheeks. She squeezed them shut and began to squirm and wail, defiance mingled with futility and humiliation. With a gasped curse he shoved a hand over her mouth. "Will you cut it out? You want the others to find out you're a girl?" she stopped to gaze up in confusion. With a deep sigh, Johnny removed his hand from her mouth, shoved her hat back on and clumsily buttoned her shirt and jacket. Brushed himself off as he stood up and held a hand down to her. "Listen, just stick close to me. No more fighting, no more BITING, and no more running off, and I'll do what I can to keep them from hurting you. Got it?" The girl's eyes began to dry, but her face contorted in distrust. After a moment's hesitation she gave a sharp nod. "I'll hear you say it! Got it?"

"I got it!" she hissed before stomping to her feet unassisted.

"Good," Johnny snapped. "Fix that hair better as we walk." She obeyed as he grasped her shoulder and began walking her back the way they came. Barely a minute later they emerged from the trees to a round of applause. Cheers went up for Johnny, curses and threats for the girl.

"Shoot, Johnny! You gone and run you down a runaway!" Carver chuckled.

"Well done, Sergeant!" Jackson nodded.

"Indeed," Frost cooed. "Thank you for returning our prisoner," he paused to turn to Jackson. "Captain, shall I have the men prepare a noose?"

"What for?" Johnny blinked. A few laughs went up. Frost blinked back in astonishment.

"Surely you'll remember, Sergeant, that by order of our congress and President Davis any black man captured taking up arms against the Confederacy shall be put to death?"

Johnny swallowed hard but recovered quickly. "Seems an awful waste to me."

"What was that?" Frost challenged, with a hint of apprehension.

"The whole point of this here war is to keep them as our workers," Johnny sighed, as if his objection should be obvious. "They can't very well work if we hang them all, can they?"

A harsh laugh howled from Carver's lips. "Shoot! And reading the latest papers outta Richmond, you'd think this whole thing was all about State's Rights, or something more Enlightened!"

Frost glared. "Our government softens its rhetoric to appease bleeding-hearts in Britain and France! Anyone with half a brain knows we fight for the 'property we gained by honest toil'," he smugly quoted the famed Bonnie Blue Flag song.

"Is that it?" Carver gasped. "Shoot! Most of us ain't never owned no slaves! Hardly even seen 'em except in rich folk's fields myself!

"We lose slavery, the white man loses his place! His dignity!" huffed one of the rebels in the crowd.

"Dignity? Place? Shoot! Unless we's one of them big planters we ain't got no place nor dignity, you damned fool! That's why I took to the mountains as a young-un!" Frost's face turned beat red and looked as though it would explode.

"If the planters go down our whole society is dead in the water!" Jackson stomped between Carver and Frost. "Unless Mr. Lincoln is gonna reimburse everybody their bondsmen, he'll be freeing them just to live in destitution and squalor with the rest of us!" A sullen silence settled among the men. Frost's face cooled but still burned.

"More reason for us to make an example of servile insurrectionists," Frost turned his glare on the girl.

"What if his enlistment don't count?" Johnny asked. The others grimaced in confusion. "If he enlisted illegally, legally it don't count, right?" he smirked awkwardly and prayed his ploy would work.

"How you figure that?" Jackson's eyes narrowed. Johnny swallowed hard and snatched the girl's hat off. Mouth's dropped, eyes bulged, and soon whistles went up. The girl bowed her head and sniffled. "Cheeky little wench!" Jackson huffed.

"Shoot! Look at you! The Joan of Arc of Missouri!" Carver laughed. Some of the men grimaced in confusion at the reference, Johnny among them. He wondered how Carver would have learned about a French warrior-maiden. "Shoot! I suppose that means she ain't a real soldier then!" Carver shrugged. Johnny was almost relieved, then he saw the carnivorous smile that split Frost's lips and braced himself for what was to come. The girl noticed Frost's gaze and trembled.

"On the second thought, I'm inclined to agree with you, Sergeant," Frost stepped towards her with an outreached hand. "I'd say she's fair game." His hand, groping for the girl's chest, struck Johnny's as he stepped between them with a glare to melt steel and shook his head. "This was MY charge, MY victory! To the victor goes the spoils, SERGEANT!" Frost hissed. Johnny showed no sign of backing down.

"This is MY company, Lieutenant!" Jackson snapped. "I thought we had settled this earlier. And I say; he caught her, she's his!" the rest of the company grunted in agreement with Jackson. Frost scanned the men with disapproval but bit back his glare with a nod.

"Then perhaps the sergeant would name his price?" Frost's tone softened considerably.

"I'll take her to market for that," Johnny huffed. He turned to grab the girl by the shoulder and dragged her up the opposite slope towards where they left the horses on the other side of the hill. "I got your permission, sir?" he stopped to look back at Jackson, who nodded.

"Splendid!" Frost cheered. "Then I shall escort him." Johnny and Jackson both frowned in suspicion. "Well, if the sergeant won't sell her to me, someone else will. What's more I could do with a reprieve. A leave of absence to recharge in . . . something resembling civilization. What's more there's safety in numbers. The sergeant might run into some trouble along the way, and that fiery gal might make trouble for him. With your permission, of course?" he smiled coyly at Jackson, who again nodded.

"Nearest friendly town is Stephensville, three day's ride." Jackson turned to Johnny. "Take the road north, and mind the fork in the road; the sign's been torn down."

Johnny nodded, "I know the way."

"Good! You'll remember I am a newcomer to these parts," Frost chuckled. His crooked smile never left the girl.

"Got a name, girl?" Johnny huffed to the hand-tied figure at his side. Her eyes had grown fierce as the day's ride dragged on. Even as the sun set, her eyes kept blazing silent hatred.

"Best be getting back in the habit of speaking when spoken to, girl!" Frost snapped from across the flames. Johnny turned to glare at him when the girl spoke.

"Daphne!" she grunted. Johnny blinked in surprise, he recognized the character from Greek mythology. His mother had insisted on giving him a classical education, or as best she could manage in a log cabin.

"Ah! Apollo's irresistible nymph!" Frost sighed, the red silk suit jacket he had swapped out his uniform for gave him a devilish look. Johnny shrugged, of course he knew the legend too! "But I'm afraid there's no escape for you, girl. Unless you can turn yourself into a tree, like your namesake, of course," he giggled menacingly and took a swig from his hip-flask. Johnny rolled his eyes, at least the fool would be asleep soon. Frost fancied the facade of manliness that gulping down hard spirits gave. But it put him to sleep in a matter of minutes.

"Have some beans," Johnny scooped a spoonful of baked beans from a can he had opened a moment ago. He waited for her to open wide, she only glared. "You need to eat," he growled, still she clamped her mouth shut in defiance. He tried gently holding the spoon to her lips, she only turned her head away with a huff. With a huff of his own, Johnny stabbed the spoon back into the can and firmly sat the can down on the ground in front of her. "Feed yourself then, you damned fool!" Again she glared in defiance but, after a moment of sullen silence, she reached down with her tied hands and began drinking the beans from the can. Frost managed a spatter of drunken laughter.

"Why do you waste your kindness on this little tramp?" he challenged.

"My mother didn't raise no misanthrope," Johnny grunted.

"Misanthrope? Big word for a country bumpkin!"

"Nor did she raise no halfwit."

"Where were you raised anyway?" he gulped down another swallow of whiskey.

"South, down near Cherokee country."

"Ah, carousing with the savages, eh?"

"What I'm doing now," Johnny muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said go to sleep!" Johnny turned to the girl. "You too," a splash of beans to the face cut him off. A swift kick in the head followed. The blow stunned and toppled him, but he kept enough of his wits to enjoy the sight of Daphne kicking a burning log at Frost before running off. The pampered fop shrieked in pain but slapped away the wood to rush after her. Johnny was on his feet in seconds and lit out after them. Even without their boot-steps trampling through the trees Johnny could hear Frost plain as a cavalry bugle. All manner of insults and obscenities burst from his mouth after the girl. Johnny had figured rich folk would have a more delicate vernacular.

As the chase went on, Johnny was impressed with Frost. He must not have been that drunk. The rich boy strode through trees and bushes with ease. Most likely got plenty of practice running from bigger bullies with richer parents. The thought of it amused Johnny until Frost tackled Daphne to the ground and proceeded to roll her over and slap her repeatedly.

"Leave off her!" Johnny cried as he closed in. With the next blow Frost gripped her shirt and tore it open, prompting a horrified cry from his victim. Johnny didn't slow down, but plowed into the lieutenant like a mad bull. The two of them rolled in the dirt. Frost squirmed free and brought up his fists, Johnny stood and took the same stance. About time someone blew some air up that stuffed shirt of his!

"I caught her this time, boy!" he sneered. "She's mine!"

"NO!" Johnny growled. Frost slammed a punch home in his face. Johnny shook his head with surprise at how hard the little man's fists were. He caught the next punch and pulled the lieutenant in close for a firm jab to the stomach. Frost bent over with a painful howl and turned away with a hand up in submission.

"You've been drinking, Lieutenant!" Johnny sighed. "Let's just get her back to camp and we'll forget it," he offered, taking a step closer. That step saved his life. Because an instant later, Frost spun around with a drawn revolver and fired. Johnny dropped to his hands and knees just in time to avoid the bullet. Then sprang with the fury of a wildcat upon the drunken fool and pinned him to the ground. Summoning all his might and rage, he slammed his fist into Frost's temple with full force. The drunkard slumped down into oblivion.

With a growled curse, Johnny righted himself. Picked up the lieutenant's gun and turned to check on Daphne. Still whimpering on the ground. The tear in her shirt left her indecently exposed. Johnny averted his eyes.

"Make yourself decent, and come back to camp with me!" he growled. Daphne looked up and snatched her jacket closed around her chest. "You'll never make it out here alone. There's wolves, bears, coyotes, rattlers! Even if another Confederate band doesn't pick you up. You'd best come with me," he paused to thumb back the hammer of the pistol. "Now, grab one of his arms and let's get back to camp.

The next day passed in unparalleled sullenness. Johnny had tied Daphne's feet as well upon returning to camp. She rode a spare pony, tied to Johnny's saddle, in a lady-like sideways position. Frost insisted he had no memory of the night's struggle but somehow Johnny knew he was lying. And despite hours of pleading, begging, cursing, and threatening, the sergeant refused to return his lieutenant's revolver. They reached the fork in the road about midday, Johnny led them to the left road without a word. As the day dragged on, Frost switched up his tactics. Insisted he understood the situation. "I am your superior, but we are on a leave of absence. Which means we are not on duty and neither of us has any immediate obligation to the other. We are just two men traveling together to market. Please, good sir, upon my word you can trust me again."

"Never trusted you to begin with," Johnny huffed. In an instant Frost's head could have been an apple.

"We are off duty but I am still a superior officer!" he hissed.

"No, merely a higher-ranking one," Johnny grinned. A barrage of vulgarity and obscenity loosed from Frost's mouth so deafening Johnny swore Presidents Lincoln and Davis could hear it from their front porches. He wished they could, maybe they'd both be more reasonable from then on. Through it all Daphne remained silent. No longer glaring, but brooding in despair. Johnny wanted to reassure her but knew she wouldn't listen. And Frost would only get even angrier. All he could do was hope the man's anger didn't win over his fear.

Camp that night was equally sullen and awkward. Again dinner was a can of beans for each of them. Daphne numbly consented to being fed this time. Frost seemed to be taking smaller sips of his flask than before. His expression was more coy than indignant and grew more devilish with each sip.

"If you're so afraid of me, you'd better not sleep," Frost giggled darkly.

"I ain't afraid of you. Never was," Johnny said. "And I'm a light sleeper," he winked. Frost only stared and sipped his flask. A menacing, carnivorous grin blazing from the other side of the campfire.

It happened, Johnny wasn't so light a sleeper. In fact it took a heavy kick to the gut to wake him up. Instinctively he felt for his revolver, gone! Frost's chuckling shadow loomed over him.

"Looking for this, are we?" the lieutenant dangled his Colt Navy above him. "I warned you not to go to sleep. I actually ran out of whiskey the night before last. Figured you'd think I was drunk again," he paused to laugh.

"Well played, you cheeky varmint!" Johnny growled while bracing for the kick he knew was coming. Again the boot hit, bracing did little to ease the pain.

"Like that insufferable abolitionist Ben Franklin once said, 'early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' wiser than you, bumpkin. And I advise you not to follow us. There will be plenty of friends of The Cause in town. Who is to say that the lone rider coming up the road isn't a Yankee?" he laughed as he mounted his horse, grabbed the reins of Daphne's pony and rode off towards the town. The tied girl looked back momentarily then numbly turned towards her fate.

"Yankee, is it?" Johnny laughed as he stumbled to his feet and scrambled to his horse, his Henry Repeater laid smashed in half against a boulder. He calmly flipped up his saddle to find his spare Colt Dragoon tucked in the saddle blanket. Moments later he was on the road in pursuit. He knew not to catch up too quickly. Frost would be wary. The town was about a two hour ride away when they made camp. They'd made good time on the trip but he saw no sense in arriving after dark.

Johnny kept the pair barely in sight as they went. But two hours later he began to close in, especially as the town came into view. Kicked his mount up into a gallop as he saw Frost jerk them both to a halt. He seemed mesmerized at the proud flag flapping in the breeze on a tall pole. Or maybe it was the cavalrymen emerging from the town, the color of their uniforms not to his liking. Or, more likely, it was the large sign post he had stopped in front of. The one that read "Welcome to Freeland Borough!"

Frost turned to the sound of Johnny's oncoming stallion and drew the stolen Colt Navy. "YOU TRAITOR!" he roared. Johnny, already aiming his Colt Dragoon, fired first. Frost dropped dead in the dirt. The sight and the shot prompted the Union cavalrymen to come along quicker. Johnny reined to a halt and held his Colt high by the barrel.

"HOLD FIRE, FRIENDS!" he cried. "Just saw this here varmint accosting the little miss here," he explained with a nod to Daphne as they closed in. The poor girl's eyes turned on him, nearly bursting from her skull.

"This man your master?" asked the Yankee captain, with a nod down at Frost. Daphne looked from the captain to Johnny and back again before nervously nodding.

"Shoot!" Johnny chuckled at his impression of Carver. "Must have thought this was the road to them rebel heathens in Stephensville! Road sign's been down for over a year now!" The Yanks enjoyed a hearty laugh before cutting Daphne's bindings and leading her pony towards town. She looked back to see Johnny Grey give a smile and nod before turning his mount to ride back the way he came.

The Anderson Gang
by Dana L. Green

The Missing Gold Dust Killing of Rollie Mathers (Silver Star, Montana, 1869)

"Houston, sit yourself down for some eggs and home fried potatoes," said Aunt Bessie.

"Mike Wagner, the bounty hunter, said that you and Angus were in charge of this county," said Uncle Walter.

"Yup. Nearly six months now." I said.

"How's it drawn up between you two?" asked Uncle Walter.

"Angus is known in the territory as U.S. Marshal Brady," I said.

"Are you both U.S. Marshals?"

"That we are. Angus has all the paperwork. He's the boss and catches all the cow pies."

Bessie brought a couple of oversized plates of her breakfast fixings to the table while Walter brought the coffee.

"You two men eat up. I got rolls in the oven."

"Aunt Bessie, hot flapjacks, fatback, onion hash browns and coffee. I missed you're cookin'."

"Me, too, Houston. She feeds you and your brother better than she ever fed me."

"Not true old man," Aunt Bessie grin.

"We heard you and your brother had a run-in with Club Foot Henry," said Aunt Bessie.

"We sure did. But another problem took place first. It was a busy night."

Bessie brought a second plate of steaming flapjacks and warm maple syrup to the table.

"This was around the first of May?" asked Aunt Bessie.

"That's right. The first Saturday in May. Angus and I arrived on the 4:30 train in Sunrise Springs."

"Why were you in Sunrise?"

"Sheriff Penny had a prisoner that needed to be transferred to Alden Gulch to stand trial for murder."

"Was that Ben Johnson?"

"That's right. Ben Johnson Junior. He killed a miner over a stolen saddle."

"Stolen saddle? asked Aunt Bessie.

"Kinda. The saddle was full of gold dust and some small nuggets."

"I'll be a wet hen," said Aunt Bessie.

"A wet what, Aunt Bessie?"

Aunt Bessie smiled.

"Bessie, let the man explain things. Houston, did the saddle belong to Ben?" asked Uncle Walter.

"Nope."

"Whom did it belong to?"

"The assays official of Alden Gulch."

"The saddle had gold dust in it?" asked Aunt Bessie.

"Sure did. That's how he sometimes transported a new strike when a miner was afraid of gettin' robbed."

"Houston, this is mighty confusin'."

"Let me explain. Ben Johnson Junior struck gold on the Sunrise Red Ridge and the assay official was onsite completing some property claims. The assay man offered to transport Ben's gold dust to Alden Gulch and make the gold dust assessment and then make bank deposits into Ben's family business account."

"What happened?" asked Aunt Bessie.

"The assay official's horse was seen in Sunrise by Sheriff Penny. The Sheriff had escorted the assay man out to the mines and knew something weren't quite right when he could not find the missing official."

"Did the Sheriff find out out who had stolen the horse?"

"Yeah. Rollie Mathers."

"The bounty hunter?"

"One and the same," I said.

"How did the Sheriff find out?"

"Rollie tried to trade the gold dust at the Outback Bar with Quint Reynolds for cash. For about a quarter of its value. Quint told Sheriff Penny. Sheriff Penny and his deputy locked Rollie up. When word reached Ben out at his mine that his gold dust had been stolen he rode into town. Ben got the full story from the deputy."

"Was the Sheriff there?"

"No. He was home with his family."

"Did Ben kill the bounty hunter?" asked Uncle Walter.

"Yeah. The deputy told Ben that they couldn't find any gold dust or nuggets on the assay man's horse. He also told Ben they found the assay man's body outside of town."

"That's terrible," said Aunt Bessie.

"Ben inspected the saddle. No gold. He went back behind the jail and shot Rollie through the jail cell window."

"Did Ben admit to the killing?" asked Aunt Bessie.

"No. He says he didn't do it."

"Hmm. Any witnesses?" asked Uncle Walter.

"None."

"Weapon?"

"No. Ben's gun was not the murder weapon. The bullet that killed Rollie was from a Winchester rifle."

"That's makes it difficult to prove. To me it means somebody else knew about the gold," said Uncle Walter.

"That's my thinking," I said.

The Club Foot Henry Problem

"Houston, we got distracted from the Club Foot story?" said Aunt Bessie

"That's darn tootin'. I plumb forgot you asked about it," I said.

"Can you tell us about Angus's run-in with Club Foot Henry?" asked Aunt Bessie.

"We heard Club Foot caused a big ruckus," said Uncle Walter.

"He sure the hell did."

"When did it take place?" asked Aunt Bessie.

"The very next night after the Rollie Mather's killing."

"Did you see the killing of Sheriff Penny?" asked Uncle Walter.

"No. Angus and I were enjoying our dinner on the front porch of The Lady Slipper."

"Is that the new saloon?"

"Yeah. It is on the boardwalk by the train station. Ma Bell's boys built it."

"Were you close enough to see?" interrupted Aunt Bessie.

"Nope."

"How did you find out?" asked Uncle Walter.

"You mean about Sheriff Penny?"

"Sadly, yes."

"His deputy came and got Angus and me mid meal. He told us what happened."

The deputy had told Angus and I that at the far end of town outside of The Dead Horse Livery Stable Club Foot had shot Sheriff Penny's horse right-out from under him. A thousand pounds of horse flesh crushed the Sheriff. Sheriff Penny and his horse died on the spot.

Uncle Walter and I were now indulging in Aunt Bessie's homemade cinnamon buns. We both had frosting covering our mustaches. I figured I best return to the Club Foot Henry problem.

"Club Foot has had a weakness for the drink," I said.

"He has a bad reputation," Aunt Bessie said.

"The Sunrise Gazette newspaper account that Bessie read to me stated that after several hours of afternoon liberation Club Foot had been separated from a bag of gold at the Red Rooster roulette and faro tables."

"His behavior once he got liquored-up was well known," said Aunt Bessie.

"He had been locked up by Sheriff Penny. Maybe a half dozen times for being drunk and disorderly," I said.

"Charlie Rigg's told us old Club Foot was as angry as a horse with an itchy nose," said Bessie.

"I didn't see Charlie that evening," I said.

"Charlie told us he was in Ginny's eating supper when he saw Club Foot come out of the Baa Humbug Saloon."

"What was Charlie doing with Ginny?" I asked.

Bessie said, "Spinster Ginny is trying get her claws in Charlie."

"Why would she be after that old sod?"

"He struck gold two months go. He is rich," said Walter.

"Charlie said Club Foot got on his horse, he began shooting at anything that moved," said Walter.

"Sheriff and his bay horse, Spike, were in the wrong place," I said.

"And at the wrong time," frowned Bessie.

I lowered my glass to the kitchen table. "Shitty break for Sheriff Penny."

"Sure was. His widow's got two boys to raise now."

After the shooting, Club Foot has been seen wearing Sheriff Penny's silver chained pocket watch.

"The nerve of that man," said Bessie.

"Houston, are you and Angus goin' to bring him in?" asked Uncle Walter.

"I'll tell ya what happened. Four days passed without a sighting of him in town." After finishing Bessie's breakfast, I checked my pants.

"Bessie's cookin' can make your pants shrink," Walter grinned.

As Walter pushed his plate toward Bessie's direction he said, "Damn great breakfast, Bessie."

" . . . After the four days passed, Angus and I were in Virginia City. We crossed paths with Club Foot. He was tying his bay to the hitch at the Bickford House."

"What happened?" asked an anxious Uncle Walter.

"Angus had been laying in wait. He sent me across the street to the roof of the Blue Moon Hotel."

"Bessie, some more coffee, dear. This gettin' mighty interesting."

"Don't interrupt him, Walter."

"That's okay. Angus was a good thirty paces from Club Foot. He took aim and fired twice."

Angus's first shot stopped the stolen Sheriff Penny pocket watch at 7:02 and a second shot stopped Club Foot's heart two seconds later. Club Foot was dead before his face hit the dirt. Those that witnessed Doc's precision that evening will always boast of their attendance at the two-shot funeral of Club Foot Henry.

Walter said, "Glad to hear that no-good-for-nothing is resting face down on cemetery hill."

I said, "Bessie, your home cookin' has been great. Seein' you both again is the best part of homecoming."

"Bessie and I never imagined you boys becomin' lawmen."

"Governor Meagher gave Angus and me a reason to take him up on his offer."

"Well, son, tell your brother you two can stay here with us instead of sleeping in that jail house stable."

"Angus and I appreciate that."

"Your old spare room still got bunk beds."

"Just like old times," I said.

"Mamma enjoys feeding you boys."

Bessie smiled. As kids she and Walter would feed us for cutting and splitting firewood, milkin' old Mabel, picking apples and vegetables. She and Walter never had children. Angus and I were their family.

Born and Raised in Silver Country

I have fond memories of our childhood. Angus and mine. We were blessed with small town ways. We grew up in Silver Star, which is on the Jefferson River, at the foot of the Tobacco Root Mountains. In the 1840's, Silver Star was a town of open range cattle ranchers, family farmers and silver miners and prospectors. Lots of folks working and seeking an instant fortune from the gold and silver rich veins of the Root Mountains.

Dad was the town doctor of Silver Star and momma was the backbone of the Brady family homestead, cattle and horse ranching operations. Momma raised Angus and me with our younger brother, Bradley, and his twin sister, Barbara. The plan always was for us four to take over the family business and land holdings.

Things got sidetracked. We had our share of family tragedy. Our youngest brother, Bradley, died in the winter of '53. He was just nine years old. Pneumonia took him in three days. Heart breaking. Nothing dad could do to turn the cards in Bradley's favor. Three years later, grief stuck our home for a second time. Our sister, Barbara, was killed on her birthday after she fell off her chestnut pony. She was only twelve. Angus mourned her passing for two full years. He was a ghost of himself. Momma and Dad never got over the loss of their two children. The premature death of Bradley and Barbara changed them from being kindred parents to wounded souls.

Angus was always Barbara's big brother. He taught Barbara how to read, fish for trout, snare a rabbit, dance the jig and to ride and rope. Her accident in 1856 left Angus and me as the lone siblings of Doctor Thomas and Maryanne Brady of Silver Star, Montana.

Full of Bull

I was eating my plate of gravy covered chipped beef and mashed potatoes and telling some of my favorite Angus quick draw tales. Listening attentively was the newspaper man for the Virginia City The Montana Post.

"Mr. Dimsdale, you're getting this all written down?" I asked.

"Trying to piece together Angus and your escapades is like trying to hold on to a mud-covered hog."

"What else you need to connect the dots?"

"I need to know how you and Angus became Montana Territorial Lawman."

"Anything else?"

"And some big stories on capturing killers. Some gun fights. Something you never told anyone."

"Give me a moment. I need to use the facilities to relieve myself and get something hot and wet to drink," I said.

Returning from my outhouse duties, I stared into my dark roasted coffee cup while asking Dimsdale, "Just how much of our story do you plan to tell?"

"Houston, if your story is as big as you say it is, it won't be just in The Montana Post."

"But you said that you're the publisher of Virginia City's The Montana Post?"

"Well, The Montana Post is the newspaper that I'm trying to establish in Virginia City. But I have bigger plans for your story. You and Angus have made a real name for yourselves in the territory."

Dimsdale had a couple of cups of black coffee and got out some more writing paper and pencils and proceeded to press on with his interview.

"Houston, based on your and Angus's exploits, I am going write a series of dime store novels."

"What's going to be your angle?"

"I am going use your interviews for a series of newspaper articles about how the Montana's judicial and the Governor fought to rein in the road agents and outlaws."

"What about the gold miners and prospectors? That damn stampede to Alder Gulch? What about the 'Vigilantes' of Virginia City? You know this is more about vast sums of money than the lack of law and order," I said.

"Of course, my good man. This story would not be complete without exposing Sheriff Henry Plummer and his band of renegades."

"Good to hear", I replied.

"Marshal, yours and Angus's investigations into the nearly one-hundred murders and robberies of innocent citizens at the hands of the 'road agents' will be the centerpiece of my novels."

"Indeed, Dimsdale. The 'Vigilantes' rid us of Plummer's outlaw band of road agents."

I continued, "Dimsdale, five brave men from Virginia City and four merchants in Bannack pledged to render justice against the marauders and murders traversing the fourteen miles connecting their two communities.

"Plummer's eventual demise and the capture of his men was a cornerstone in vigilante justice."

"Houston this is good . . . "

"Dimsdale, how do you tell such a story without it appearing to be a story full of cow pies?"

"Houston, did you hear about the mountain lion who felt so damn good after eating an entire deer and some bull?" asked Dimsdale.

"No," I said. "Where are you headed with this?"

"Well, a hunter came along and shot him and fed his family of four a meal of lion and deer and bull meat?"

"And?"

"The moral of the story, Marshal, is: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut."

Never Worship Gold

"Back to the task at hand, Houston. In marked contrast to the peaceful life of back East, miners' pursuits of wealth result in dangerous swaggers. They're armed to the teeth. They worship only one thing—Gold," said Dimsdale.

"When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty," I confirmed.

"Large amounts of gold dust in the hands of evil criminals have directly impacted our family. Horrific crimes. To uncle and our dad at the hands of these outlaws."

"Houston, are you willing to share the story?"

"Mr. Dimsdale, the Brady family story and the stampede to Alder's Gulch in 1863, and the discovery of gold attracted a dangerous class of predators. The 'worst of the worst' was the infamous Anderson Gang."

"Tell me about the Anderson Gang?"

"It's approaching 4 o'clock, I never drink this early in the afternoon unless I'm lonely or with somebody in a dress. How about we go to the 'saloon' and continue this conversation."

"Never ask a barber if he thinks you need a haircut, I'm right behind ya."

Peacemaker

"Hey, Sam, two beers for me and Editor Dimsdale."

"And keep 'em comin'," said Dimsdale

I paused for a moment and said, "Maybe we should start back at the beginning. You know when you get older and think back..."

Just as I was about to begin, Angus came in through the swinging saloon doors with bounty hunter Wichita Linneman. He eyed me and Dimsdale in the far corner table. We were about to tip up a couple of beers. Wichita strode behind Angus for a couple of steps. Then he cleared a space for himself to Angus's right. Wichita is a site to behold. He stands better than six foot-two in his low-heeled boots, in black pants, matching double breasted shirt layered with a dark vest. His long, brown hair tussled out from under his wide brim and high crown Stetson.

A gold watch chain traveled from his lower vest button to a side vest-pocket. Within that pocket was nestled his grandfather's 1830-time piece, his pride and joy. The 'watch' held a picture of his mom and dad. The first time Angus and I witnessed the 'time piece' we marveled at the beauty of its inlaid jewels.

Wichita is a bounty hunter, make no mistake about it. He has a pair of pearl-handled six-shooters, one resting on each hip. He has a bowie knife in each of his boots and he is known to carry a concealed derringer or two. He's part Mexican and Texan. He is one tough hombre. He has never been hit by a bullet or a cut by a knife. He is invisible in a fight. He's the kind of cowboy you want on your side when a fight breaks out.

Angus and Wichita pulled up two chairs while I signaled Sam for two more drafts. Wichita hadn't been in Silver Star for a couple of months or so. The last time he was here he collected 300 dollars for the apprehension of Sam Norris of Norris Gulch. Norris had held up the stage and robbed the passengers of pocket money and personal belongings. He bloodied the stagecoach driver with a shotgun barrel blow to the face. Broke the driver's nose and caused him to swallow several teeth. No other serious injuries were reported during the robbery.

It just so happened that the Territorial Judge, J.C. Cranmore, and his granddaughter were on that stage. Judge Cranmore posted a reward for Norris's capture and return to Silver Star. Wichita being down and out in walkin' around money tracked down Norris and brought him in for the reward.

I had to ask, "What brings you to Silver Star, Wichita? Do you have another bounty to cash in?"

"No, pardner. I am here to let you and your brother know about The Anderson Gang."

More of the same

"Houston, are you stuffing Mr. Dimsdale full of your cock 'em bull stories?" asked Angus.

"Darn it Angus, you sure are surly late in the afternoon. Best you have a drink," I said.

"Mr. Dimsdale, most of what people worry about never happens. Don't you agree?" said Angus.

"Yes, Marshall, I believe that to be true," replied Dimsdale.

"Mr. Dimsdale, I reckon that most of what my brother has told you is far-fetched dime store stories."

"Hmm. It might be just what I'm lookin' for."

"Mr. Dimsdale, I am Wichita. I think it is best that you don't judge people by their relatives."

"Pardon me Mr. Dimsdale, this here is Wichita Linneman. Part time bounty hunter, part time lawman and full time philosopher of the Montana territories," said Angus.

"Mr. Dimsdale is the editor and wordsmith of Virginia City's The Montana Post," I said.

"Honored to make your acquaintance," said Mr. Dimsdale.

"Likewise, my good man."

Wichita took a hard look at Angus. Angus gave me that wink eyed look that something needed my attention. Angus always says, 'a wink is as good as a nod to a blind mule.' I rose from my chair and gestured to Angus and Wichita. I informed Dimsdale that Angus, Wichita, and I needed to return to the jail for discussion purposes. I sensed that trouble was afoot. I told Dimsdale we could return to our discussion tomorrow morning while partaking in breakfast. We made plans to meet at 8 a.m. at the Golden Hotel. I also told him to visit with some of the local merchants to get their opinions on Angus's and my decisions as territorial Marshals.

The Anderson Gang

When we got back to the jail, the sun was just beginning to set behind Root Mountain. For supper I had three pieces of bone-in, over-cooked deer steak, some brown beans, biscuits and coffee. Angus and I tended to eat our meals at the Golden Hotel. We liked the food, and we liked the company of its cook and hotel's owner, Big Sal.

While I was struggling with my steak, Wichita started in telling us the reason for his arrival tonight.

"Angus, you and Houston got some serious trouble coming your way. The Andersons are planning to be here tomorrow morning. Their plan is to break into the Silver Star General Store and confiscate rifles, pistols, and ammo. Then they travel north and hold up the Overland Stage."

"How do you know this?" Angus asked.

"G.T, Shorty, Travis and Shane Campbell were in Twin Bridges, three days ago."

"What for?" I asked.

"They attempted a raid at M.T. Savings and Loan."

Wichita told the Marshalls about how the Andersons tried to take a farmer's wife hostage during their escape. But it turns out the farmer was good with a gun. He shot Travis Anderson inside the bank during the robbery and freed his wife, as the remaining Anderson brothers fled town with nearly thirty-eight hundred dollars.

"Why are they planning on coming to Silver Star?" I asked. "Seems they should be moving on."

Wichita nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders. "The Andersons are tough to figure."

Cow Pies for Brains

Angus and I sat there waiting for Wichita to finish.

Angus waited for a few seconds, then said, "Something else on your mind Wichita?"

"Yes. Travis Anderson shared some useful information while under some distressful medical care."

"What do you mean?" Angus asked.

"While removing the bullet from his shoulder, the doctor applied a little extra stress on the pellet. Travis offered some information in return for a lesser degree of medical services."

"That's understandable," said Angus grinning.

"What series of facts transpired during Travis's metal removal process," I asked.

"It seems the Andersons were going to make off with the M.T. Savings and Loan cash and try to get across the river into Wyoming. They had plans to meet up with the Boyer Gang. Well known cattle rustlers. The Anderson brothers were all set to make a purchase of 100 head of steers."

"I don't vision those boys making good cow punchers?" I said.

"Those Andersons are a curious lot," said Angus.

"They are," said Wichita.

"Genius has its limits. The Andersons' stupidity knows no bounds," said Angus.

Be Sure and Chew Your Food

Angus and I sat waiting for Wichita to finish lighting his cigar. He took a long draw, and the end burned a bright orange. He pulled out two similar looking smokes from his vest pocket and offered one to each of us. We lit 'em up. Smoke swirling about us. Angus settled back in his chair and reached for his coffee. His cup was empty. I refilled all our tin cups to the brim.

"Wichita, what makes you so sure the Andersons are now on their merry way to Silver Star?" I asked.

"Travis was in a cell with another prisoner, and he shared a few words."

"What led him to do such a thing?" I asked.

"Did they get him drunk?"

"Not at first. Travis can't seem to hold his tongue," said Wichita.

"They did hand two bottles of whiskey to Travis through the port hole bars. He had no idea he was being set up. He would let loose and brag about the bank hold-up."

"Who was in the next cell to him?" Angus asked.

"The other inmate was a deputy. Travis had no idea he was spilling the beans."

"How much did he tell the deputy?" asked Angus.

"Part way into the second bottle, he spilled the particulars regarding Silver Star," said Wichita. "The sheriff and I overheard him telling his cell mate that his kin would come and get him the next night. He also said that they needed to re-supply their weapons before completing their trip across the border. The purchase agreement that they had in Wyoming for the cattle, included the delivery of Henry rifles and shotguns, pistols, knives and ammo.

A liquored-up Travis shared the following, "My brothers, Shane and Shorty, know the layout of the general store in Silver Star. We are goin' to the storekeeper's home and hold his pretty wife hostage. He'll supply us with our guns and then we'll cross the border to the Wyoming grasslands."

"That's it?" I asked.

"That's it," replied Wichita with a puff of smoke.

"Did he say where in Wyoming they planned to get the cash and weapons for cattle?" I asked.

"No, he didn't," said Wichita.

"So where is Travis now?" Angus asked.

"Oh, he expired," said Wichita. "He died of natural causes."

"You don't say?" said Angus.

"Can you believe it. After drinking all that whiskey, he choked to death on a piece of fat-back in his beans."

"Our daddy always said, "The easiest way to eat salted pork and beans is while they are still warm. The colder they get, the harder they are to swaller," I said.

They're Here

Wichita cocked his head sideways and looked out the barred jail house window. "Angus, you got company. A young fellow just rode up on a half size, bare-back bay and he appears to be sweating and rattled."

Ten-year-old Luke, all four-foot two and half of him came through the jail house door rabbit hopping. He stopped short and took a second to suck in some wind and then let out a wailing cry and said something that sounded like someone took his ma and that Walter and Bessie was in the privy when he got away. Kind of confusing to say the least.

Angus grabbed Luke by the shoulders and looked him in the eye and told him to slow down and tell us what he was talkin' about. Luke went on the explain that several men on horseback, maybe four or five or more, came to the farm asking to water their horses. Walter told them they could help themselves to the well water, but they could not come in the house because of sickness with the 'pox'.

"At first, my ma and me and Bessie stayed inside. Then Bessie went into the outhouse with the shotgun and my ma. I was hiding by the woodpile. I saw two of the cowboys rush up on the porch. One grabbed Walter and struck him with the butt of his gun and bloodied his nose somethin' bad. Then they went into the house and started shoutin."

"What happened to Bessie? How did you get away?" I asked.

"Bessie told me to run to the barn and get my pony, Bolt, and I made our way here."

"Houston, you take young Luke over to Ma Riley's place for some supper and tell her to keep him there until we return. Wichita, you go saddle the horses while I prepare our traveling weapons."

Life in Reverse

We rode south out of Silver Star toward Twin Bridges for nearly a mile. I was on Angus's right and Wichita was comfortably on his left. I preferred to be on Angus's good ear. His hearing in his left ear hasn't been the same since he had pneumonia this past winter. He would never acknowledge it, but he was always wringing his ear at the start of each day, as if he was trying to clear a chamber of an unfired round.

Right on cue the clouds parted. With a full moon positioned at ten o'clock in the night sky, I could see the running waters of Jefferson Stream up ahead. Angus pulled up on the reins of his steady horse, Lookout, and we dismounted. We were at the break in the trail that would bring us to Uncle Walter's and Aunt Bessie's homestead. It was a road we had walked since we were kids. Pleasantville Road.

"How about we water the horses and discuss my thoughts on how we should proceed?" said Angus.

"Sounds good with me," Wichita nodded.

I positioned myself on Angus right, "Angus, how are we goin' to go about this?" I asked.

"I suspect the Andersons to all be inside the main house. Based on what Luke said, they could be resting after a meal of Bessie's cooking. Uncle Walter and Laura, Luke's ma, are probably restrained in some manner."

"Houston, when we arrive, I want you to get their horses out of the corral and get 'em long gone. Make sure that no one is outside playing lookout and guarding the horses. You got five minutes to free their horses from the corral. Then go around back. Keep your shotgun positioned on the rear door for any exiting Andersons."

"Angus, what do you prefer as my location?" asked Wichita.

"Wichita, their place consists of three main structures. A one-story, timber framed, main house with a barn and corral. The only other building is a double-seated outhouse in the rear. Houston will make sure the seats are clear. While Houston is taking care of the Anderson's transportation, you get up on the loft of the barn and get yourself a clear view of the front of the house and the corral. Prepare your Henry for any escape attempts."

"Wichita, how many rounds does old Henry hold?" I asked.

"Thirteen shots," answered Wichita.

"Use as many as need be," replied Angus.

What We Do Best

As we approached the dimly lighted homestead, Angus said, "Let's find out how many Anderson brothers are interested in going to jail and how many ain't."

Angus tied up my Fleeter and his Lookout and then made sure his pistols had that extra sixth-round loaded in the first chamber. Wichita took off his overcoat and placed it over his saddle. He got his Henry out of its scabbard and double-checked it for ammo. It was loaded. He had two pistols and two knives as backups. He had that look of 'this is what I do best'. Wichita's Henry was carrying rounds of .44's. If any of the Anderson brothers made it outside in the moonlight, they would be in his sights for 100 yards. God rest their merry souls.

My double-barreled, eight-gauge shotgun was locked and loaded. I had a dozen rounds on my belt. My pistol was tucked in my holster. I took my second Navy pistol and loaded it with five rounds and positioned it behind my back, under my cartridge belt.

Angus looked at Wichita and me and said, "You both ready?"

I winked at Angus. Wichita nodded his head in affirmative.

"Let's do this," Angus said.

Midnight Moon

We approached the house from behind the barn and corral. No signs of an Anderson gunman serving as watchman in the corral or the barn. Not a soul to be seen. The porches were pitch dark.

Angus instructed Houston that they gotta get all of them out alive. He reminded Houston to keep a keen eye out for Luke's ma, Walter and Bessie. Angus felt that somebody should be moving about. He was concerned that Uncle Walter would be someplace within the kitchen or living room. His past experiences made it seem possible that Uncle Walter was tied up in a kitchen chair. He told Wichita to do what he did best. Happy hunting.

Once Angus got close enough, he saw that those candles and the fireplace lit up the downstairs. The spare bedroom was aglow. Angus signaled for me to get to the corral and release the Andersons' means of traveling. Wichita slipped into the barn and made his way to the loft while Angus moved into position on the front porch.

Angus got up on the porch and got a view of inside the kitchen. He was able to see Walter tied up. He was bound to a chair as he had predicted. Uncle Walter was blindfolded and appeared to be alive. Luke's ma, Laura, was not in the kitchen. Bessie was seated at the kitchen table and had her head on Walter's shoulder.

Three of the Anderson brothers were moving about the kitchen. Angus recognized Shorty, G.T and Shane. G.T. waved at Shorty and sent him to the spare bedroom. When the door opened, a big strapping fellow came out with Luke's ma. Laura's dress was torn off the shoulder and she had a look of panic. She wiped away her tears. Angus sensed that things were much worse than he had expected.

Angus raised his right hand and waved in my direction. I locked on to him. He nodded to me. I nodded back. He held up three fingers and then four fingers and waved his clenched fist. This meant he had seen three but that I should be prepared for more and a big fight was in our immediate future.

Outlaws

Angus got a big break when the Andersons went into the back bedroom. With the kitchen clear, Angus was able to eye Aunt Bessie and Laura and gesture for them to get under the table. Aunt Bessie and Laura were able to slide Walter off his chair and onto the floor and Bessie cradled his bleeding scalp in her hands.

Angus moved to the front door and lifted the latch, freeing the lock. He went in the doorway low with his eyes on the bedroom door. The bedroom door swung open and gun fire erupted. Angus returned fire and lunged toward Laura and Aunt Bessie. He heard the bedroom door slam close. Then it was quiet. Aunt Bessie and Laura felt the thump-thump of their heartbeats. Uncle Walter laid motionless, and his breathing was shallow.

Angus whispered, "You need to go out the back door, Houston is in the outhouse, he will get you away. I will take care of Uncle Walter."

Hell is Too Good for Them

Angus could hear the bedroom window being opened by the rattle of the bedroom door. They were planning their getaway. Angus pushed open the front porch door and signed Wichita that they were trying to escape toward the side corral. Houston got Laura and Aunt Bessie into the two-seater, and he entered the thickets and started moving towards the corral.

Wichita climbed up the barn ladder to the upper loft doorway and took a laid down position with his Henry. He cocked the hammer and checked his sight for distance and visibility. With the pitch-black skyline of pale clouds and a slight moon glow, he had enough light to see the corral's far corners. Angus took up his position at the end of the porch in case they came back towards the front of the house. He had both his pistols cocked and ready.

The corral was empty. Andersons' horses had been scattered. Shorty directed G.T and Shane towards the front of the house and indicated they needed to get to the barn. Shorty figured their horses are tied up somewhere. Or in the barn. He told his brothers when they saw anyone moving about to kill 'em all.

No Trials, No Remorse

Angus was unaware that the Anderson brothers had Weston MacDonald with them. MacDonald was a former double-barrel bounty hunter who took no prisoners. He was known to have killed women and children to get his prey. MacDonald had been outside all night guarding the house from the knoll overlooking the outhouse and rear porch. He watched as Houston hid the women in the outhouse and moved into the woods by the corral. MacDonald saw his chance to move down and behind the outhouse. He opens the door and butted Bessie in the face and took Laura by the arm and told her, "If you make a sound, I will kill you both and the old man."

Wichita saw movement in the rear of the house. It appeared as if the women were moving towards the corral. MacDonald, with Laura in hand, made his way to Shorty and his brothers. Shorty decided to use Laura to trade for horses and escape from the lawmen. Shorty fired two shots skyward and waited for a response. Nothing.

"Lawman, we got the women, and we will kill them if you don't do as we say."

Angus replied, "Shorty, show your hand."

Shorty pushed Laura into the moonlit path towards the right of the front porch. She was 30 feet from Angus. Behind her was Shorty and MacDonald. MacDonald had his shotgun aimed in Angus's direction.

"Put your pistols on the porch and plant your face on the floor", said Shorty, "no second chances, no more discussion".

Wichita had both Shorty and Laura visible from his position. But patience was now needed. Next to appear was both G.T. and Shane Anderson with Aunt Bessie in tow. Bessie was bleeding from the mouth and sobbing. Everyone was now in the front of the homestead porch as Angus laid on his belly watching out of the corner of his eye. He had not yet made himself available to the game ahead.

The Anderson brothers made their way to the barn and untied the lawmen's horses and mounted up as MacDonald kept the women at his feet and his shotgun pointed at Angus who was still lying face down on the porch. Angus had been able to get his boot knife into his right hand and out of the view of MacDonald.

Shane Anderson came out of the barn with a horse for MacDonald. Shorty said to Angus, "Not sure, lawman, why you chose to die alone here tonight. These old folks ain't worth the price of a can of beans."

"You'll all burn in hell tonight," said Angus.

"MacDonald, kill 'em all, including the old man in the kitchen and meet us at the end of Pine Box canyon", said Shorty. "Now let's ride".

Just as Shorty turned his stead a Henry rifle shot took him off his horse. Angus planted his knife in MacDonald's chest, and I fired two shotgun blasts. One each into G.T and Shane. And within those 10 seconds the Anderson Gang was down and dead.

Tip of My Hat

"If I took everyone for their word, I would have been dead long ago", I said to Dimsdale. Dimsdale was drinking black coffee spiked with brandy, and I was resting in a warm tub bath water.

"Houston, after your bath we need to resume our conversation about the Virginia City Vigilantes and Sheriff Henry Plummer and his band of renegades."

"Dimsdale, you should get caught up on the end of the 'worst of the worst'. The notorious Anderson Gang."

"I want to do a feature story to go along with my photo of the Andersons in their pine boxes."

A Closing Surprise

Dimsdale sat down and offered the three lawmen some fine cigars. Wichita poured four glasses of Kentucky whiskey to get things started. What followed was a colorful rendering by Angus on the Anderson Gang shootout and demise. Dimsdale was dumbfounded. Wichita kept the drinks coming and Houston chipped in his opinions while taking his annual bath. By the shitty grin on Dimsdale's face you knew he had a dime store novel best seller.

"Dimsdale, I need to find a new pointer. My bird dog nose seems to be lacking in scent. I am having trouble trying to locate Amy," I said.

"What does she look like?"

"She's a woman that any man would stop and tip his hat to. Amy fills out a dress with the best of 'em. Her Irish red hair grazes her shoulders. Her frame is slender with a small waist. She can cast a spell on a man. You better never look into her dark green eyes. She'll haunt you. That is who Amy Weston MacDonald is."

"Houston has taken his first bath in a year," Angus chided, "for a young and pretty Irish lass."

"Her dress will have a high collar with a dark feather boa that encircles her long neck," I said.

"And she will toss him into the horse trough first chance she gets."

"Why, dare I ask?" said Dimsdale.

"When she finds out we killed her father, bounty hunter  . . .  Weston MacDonald," said Angus.

Five Viceful Men In Mississippi
by Rhys Hickmott

Edmund Redfield is a man who spends his Sunday evenings fighting wild dogs to the death in the woods. After kissing his wife to sleep he will take a piece of cooked beef out to the woods, place it on the floor, lay in wait within a bush, then once a hound comes Redfield tackles it off its four feet.

His first action is to break at least one leg, ensuring the dog does not flee the combat. One beast dies that night, it doesn't matter to Redfield who it is. Once the dog is crippled his favourite tactics are to pry open the dog's jaw and either amputate the tongue or rip off the jaw. However, his main method is to simply just beat the dog in the head or chest, it depends on how adventurous he is feeling and whether or not Monday is a busy day. Removing the lower jaw takes more physical effort, forcing bone and muscle away from bone and muscle is no small feat for even the strongest men, especially whilst having teeth dig into your calloused hands. However, amputating the tongue with bare hands whilst resulting in a quicker and bloody death for the mutt, requires a similarly bloody quick reflex. He only killed two hounds with the tongue rip method and the second time cost him his middle finger. "Accident sawing wood in the shed darling." He told his wife.

"Why would my Eddy do this?" His wife would proclaim if she ever found out that this is what her husband liked to do as a weekly ritual. "The truth is." He would tell her. "It is the only way I can feel anything."

Wrapping himself in his red woollen waistcoat for work everyday, having home cooked eggs crawl down his throat, letting his wife kiss him whilst caressing his thick black hair. None of these mundane pleasures do anything for Edmund, and they never have.

"Numbness has been my cross to bear ever since I saw my daddy swing. When he went my momma went to the dog and never looked at me again, she saw him in me. The only time I wouldn't feel numb is when I looked into that stupid dopey face and thought of plunging a knife into it. I obviously never did it, if I did I'd lose my ma as well as my pa." His wife would look at him as if she were about to puke, this would not stop him from talking.

"There was a night six months ago after work where I put a revolver against my head in the shed. Bryce had been yapping at the mill all day and it made me realise that I valued so little in my life that the only thing in my brain was his bullshit. I couldn't think of you, I couldn't think of this house, I could only think of him and how much he looked like that fucking dog my momma loved more than me."

Edmund would pause to bite his fingernails at this bit, trying to distract himself from how embarrassing he must seem to the woman that swore to God that she would stand by him to the death. "I was ready to kill myself in that moment, but I came to an even grander realisation about the things in my head. If I were to die in that moment, the last thoughts I'd have would be of Bryce Fucking Milligan. I didn't have many standards for a last thought, but Bryce did not meet them. I put the gun down on the table and headed out into the woods."

"As I walked, I started stripping down until I was shirtless. My mind was blank in the woods, I was back to numbness rather than despair. That was until I saw a big black coyote sitting in the bushes. I ran at it with the same suicidal intent I had a few minutes ago in the shed. I was ready for him to maul me with his big bastard claws but that wasn't how things went. I clasped a rock in my hands and bashed it in the face, there was a big crater in it like what the revolver would have done to me. I probably spent an hour hammering away at that corpse, getting its fur and blood intermixed with the slashes it had given me. Once my frenzy was over and I was sitting there drenched in dog guts I had a feeling I never had when I was standing at the altar, building our homestead, or receiving my first paycheck, bliss."

If this conversation had happened Edmund wouldn't have known how his wife would have reacted. Would she have divorced him on the spot, slashed her wrists, had him hung? Or would she have been kinder to the broken man. Held him in her arms and tried to make him feel some level of security in the embrace of a woman he didn't really love.

Edmund Redfield will never know how his wife would have felt about his nighttime hobby. For as much as Edmund Redfield is a man who spends his Sunday evenings fighting wild dogs to the death in the woods, He is as much a dismembered corpse on a Mississippi riverside laying next to the slain body of a wolf he had spent his last moments pummeling.

Scott Freeman had been going by the name Scar recently. It was apt. Sitting on his handsome and angular face is a large whip scar that ate away half his nose and painted a diagonal line from his top left eyelid to the bottom of his right cheek.

The name was particularly frightening to Carlton Young Jr, the man who had his lips locked around the barrel of Scar's shotgun with the word "patriot" inscribed on it. "Why are you doing this?" He tearfully mumbled. "We freed you."

Scar's eyes widen and a scowl forms on his face. "You never freed us. Just cause you ain't allowed to beat us to the point we piss ourselves does not mean you ever released your clutches from around our necks. You replaced slavery with indentured servitude, that's all you did. Changed the name. The only man that freed me, was me."

Scar looks around at the anarchy he had spread that night. Corpses of white men mangled and massacred by men who had only been considered free and equal by a piece of paper. These tyrants were now having their bodies roasted in burning fields of product that they had sacrificed their moral decency and the lives of thousands to farm.

Scar stood as a spectre in this scene of fire. His grey jacket and black shirt gave him a menacing and broad figure. That paired with his severe disfigurement and background of orange destruction made it so that Carlton fervently believed he was at the mercy of a demon rather than a man.

As he had this pathetic white boy whose lineage was built on incest and old money on his knees, Scar felt the blood of previous revolutionaries flow through his veins. Spartacus, Nat Turner, Toussaint Louverture. These were the kinds of men who stood up to the bastions of power of their time such as the Romans and Napoleon Bonaparte. It filled Scar with great joy that for just a second, he could consider his name fitting alongside those ones.

He looked into Carlton's eyes and saw the tears that he and his kin once shed. It almost makes him lower the shotgun, he doesn't really need to add another body to the pile. But then he remembers the other features of Carlton Young Jr. Not just the aspects of his face, but the aspects of his character that allowed for him to personally whip Scar's brother to the point he was broken and buried. If the roles were reversed, Scar would have been dead 10 minutes ago.

There is also another factor that decreases his mercy. Thundering hooves, bright lights, shouting from Southern tongues. The local law had come to liberate the town's darling. "For a second I considered freeing you Carl, doing something you weren't able to. But you hear them horsemen down there, they just signed our death warrant."

Realising death was incoming Carlton tried running, but no man could outpace a shotgun blast to the head. The noise rang out into the woods and commanded the birds to soar and the men to head faster to the plantation.

When the five arrive, they see a blood-smeared Scar approaching them with his shotgun in hand. They respond to Scar's threat in turn, raising their repeaters and blasting him to kingdom come.

The sheriff, who wore a brown unkempt moustache and chin patch, went to inspect Scar's body. Despite numerous holes and severe bleeding, Scar was still lucid with wide eyes and a grin. "Now I'll be free . . . in the kingdom of heaven . . . the arms of the Lord."

"Whatever you say, friend." The sheriff proceeds to put a bullet in Scar's teeth, his revolution ending as quickly as it started.

Sending scum like Rolph Redfield to swing under the hot sun was the highlight of Sheriff Mick Marlow's days. Rolph was his first but far from his last. If it were allowed, he would not house a man in a cell for a single second. No. He would have them roped up, on the gallows, and in the pits 10 minutes after entering town.

That is the way Mick would have it if he had real dominion over his town. However, he does not have dominion, nothing close to it. His town was run by a fat plantation owner turned oil baron, Carlton Young. Although he had "Young" as his family name his features were far more belonging to the name "Carlton." Blubber, beer-stains, bruises from fights over drunken poker games. Those were the defining features of the town's leader

If Mick had his way Carlton would be dead and buried but there are many factors standing in his way. For one, Carlton was a wealthy man. He had gone from selling cotton to selling oil, trading the cooking of one of America's favourite foods for another. Hanging a man of such stature would be an impossible task even for a powerful puritan such as Mick.

There were also the matters of Carlton's physical magnitude and magnanimous wife Margaret. Carlton weighed at minimum 300 pounds, he would more likely die from blood loss via cracking his legs open on the floor after breaking the rope rather than the rope having any real say in his death. And then there was Margaret, the only decent person with the name Young since she inherited it rather than being born into it. When condemning people Mick made it a policy not to look into the eyes of the people who knew the subject of the execution. It was generally easy with people such as the Redfields, a scum horde that would cause him endless troubles. But with someone like Margaret, someone innocent, he would not be able to bear it. By killing Carlton he would be condemning Margaret, a woman with no wealth in her maiden name, to death also.

Indulging in the impossible fantasy of putting Young to death was the way Mick occupied his mind when not hanging scoundrels. It maintained a high that would get him through long days of gruesome paperwork, ear-bleeding discussion from his deputies, and the whining of the two women that would await him at home and a motel room respectively. Putting to death the scourges of the Earth gave him a sense of hope for a just world. One where sins are punished in proportion to their severity. The glutton would die of a heart attack, the wrathful would die in a pool of blood, and the adulterous would die in shame.

Unfortunately for Mick, his desire to have one man killed blinded him to the hundreds of men he had actually put to death.

Whilst sitting out absorbing the joyous sun, feeling light reflected from the golden badge resting nicely on his orange jacket, he saw a suspicious figure wandering down the street. Just as he was preparing to light his cigar, he saw a revolver barrel emerge from the stranger's black jacket sleeve. "This is for Paddy!"

Two pellets ripped into Mick's abdomen. He collapsed to the floor clenching the bloody holes in his white shirt that were now staining the rest of his garments. He went for his own sidearm, but the assassin was already pinned down by his deputies, Bell and Collins. Despite their vastly different architecture, Mick and his deputies had the same foundations.

The last thing Mick would unfortunately see would be the crying face of Carlton Young. For all the disdain Mick had put on Young, the old man viewed Mick as a great favourite. He had performed an act of vengeance on Carlton's behalf, an act Mick had forgotten entirely despite being the only time he had ever put down a man with the gun rather than the gallows.

The last thought that would flow through Mick's mind was a prayer, a prayer for justice. He hoped that his killer would not have an easy death. That the rope would pull back on his neck so hard that the execution would be more guillotine than gallows. He also hoped that if Carlton did not die soon that his death would spark a desire for redemption in the oligarch.

Deep down Mick Marlow knew neither of these things would happen, but he had hope. And when a man no longer has anything to his name, hope is a mere arms-length away.

Luck was the source of Ilya Springer's pride. And for Springer pride gushed from him like a waterfall.

He was always one for daring yarns he would spin in the Black Adder Bar. He in his finely fitted blue shirt and neatly trimmed ginger sideburns would spend hours telling stories of the Springer Brothers' escapades for anyone willing to listen. They would range from mundane bar fights to wild train robberies that they pulled off by the skin of their teeth and made them thousands.

Whenever someone would call out Ilya on his lies, he would bring in an expert witness, his fat grey wearing younger brother Matthew. Despite his whimpery voice Matthew was somehow a more vivid storyteller than his brother. Whenever Ilya would make a bold claim, Matthew would back it up with double the verbal prose.

Together they would tell enough tales to fill a library of dime novels. On one particular night though, Ilya decided to recite a tale he had only kept within the Springer family.

"Ladies and gentlemen would you listen please." He stood upon a table with a Guiness in one hand and a cigar in the other. "Tonight I want to tell a tale not of me, but of my oldest brother, Abe."

Matthew looked at Ilya with great concern but said concern was brushed off by Ilya. "Abe always took pride in keeping us Springer's safe and together. But one day that security was jeopardised. Our youngest brother Paddy had decided to go out robbing his by lonesome, try prove something to us older lads. Unfortunately he got caught and manhandled by the fat old bastard behind the counter. Now my Paddy had his faults, but an inability in fighting was not one of them. He proper killed that fatass, didn't allow himself to get felt up by some greasy yankee. Unfortunately his valour was not rewarded, he was hung in that town not one week later for the simple crime of self defence."

Ilya wipes away a tear. "Abe did not allow for this crime against our family to go unpunished. He sent me and Matthew on a wagon out of town and told us to lay low for a couple weeks and that he'd meet us at a nearby creek. He said he was on a mission and that we'd need to get some things sorted for him. We never saw Abe after that talk, he had gone and killed the bastard sheriff that saw our Paddy hung. We never saw either corpse but we got the story in the paper a week later. "SHERIFF KILLED BY VENGEFUL IRISH" I was never more proud to be a Springer than in that moment."

"That's why we spin these yarns every day to you folks." Matthew perks up for the first time that night. "Paddy and Abe Springer are men that deserve to be immortalised as great rebels, men who put their family above any code society forced upon them. The Springer Brothers are true brothers and we seek to prove that every night we can."

Matthew's speech delivered with familial fervour got the entire bar riled up until the room heard a slow clap from by the entrance. "Very good story gentleman, I must say."

There are two thickly bearded men drenched in rain standing by the entrance, one fat and one slim, Bell and Collins. They hold up their revolvers to the two brothers. "What's this about?" Ilya asks as he sits down.

Bell holds a revolver to Matthew whilst Collins has his shotgun to Ilya. "This is about you being wanted for multiple murders and robberies in 3 states." Collins says smugly.

"And what murders and robberies are we talking about here? Them things so common now that dime novels are written more about fishing now cause it's a more thrilling field."

"I'm talking about the crimes you've been bragging about for a whole year in this pub." Collins' voice breaks when he shouts this. If Ilya didn't have a gun to his head he'd have snickered.

"Actually we've only been here for 10 months." Matthew's little comment earns him a glare from Collins before he goes back to Ilya.

"You and your brother are under arrest for conspiracy to commit the murder of Sheriff Michael Marlow alongside a myriad of other crimes."

"We didn't kill that sherriff, that was Abe. Abe's been punished, and we've had more than a little bit in terms of suffering in the face of his death." Collins snickers trying to figure out Ilya's authenticity.

"I know you Irish love a good yarn, so why don't I give you one of my own. Me and my friend Bell here were at both the hangings of your brothers. Paddy was my first one witnessed and with Abe, I was the one who pulled the lever." The atmosphere of the bar drops. Ilya is disgusted and Matthew is frightened.

"Marlow was always a judgy prick, for a long time I didn't get why. But then I looked into Paddy's eyes, really looked at them, and I saw things clearly. Men like you have a look that damns you. Separates you from any degree of decency or morality." As Collins talks Matthew looks at Ilya and notions at the revolver in his holster. He wants permission to fire.

"You and your brother could be more innocent than Old Man Abe, but either way you have the look. The look that makes it necessary for all your type to be sent to the gallow—" Ilya nods. Matthew rips his revolver from the holster and fires a shot at Collins' head. It misses. Bell however, does not.

Matthew's brains are sent out from the front and into the face of Ilya, the only living Springer. Ilya flails wildly as a shell-shocked Collins restrains him. "YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! YOU FUCKING SAVAGES! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Bell silently approaches Ilya and whacks him in the head with the revolver twice, knocking him out. Bell stares at Collins before bluntly stating "Keep your head in the game before you lose it, quit the theatrics."

Bell holds the door open as Collins carries an unconscious Ilya out of the now fully silent bar. Collins would hang his second Springer brother two weeks later.

Dear Chrissy & Johnny,

My travels are going well. Entered Mississippi the other day seeking out more scientific discovery. And my lord is it a violent state. My alchemical pursuits have been regularly interrupted by me bearing witness to some real cruelty.

For example, I was walking through the woods trying to set up camp a month or so back and I heard an animal cry loudly. I went to check the noise out and what I saw... What I saw was a feller beating the poor beast to death. He was shirtless, covered in scars, and howling to the sky like a mad man. He didn't have no knife, no gun, no nothing. It was a truly upsetting sight. On one hand he was probably defending himself, I saw tears on his face. But on the other he was hollering in a way that was in no way pained. It was like he was proclaiming victory to the rest of the woodland critters. I don't know if he noticed me, but if he did, he didn't care. I found out recently he died in those woods. I guess he died doing what he loved.

Alongside the woodland man I found myself in the company of a sheriff and his deputy. One was a slim man with a sunken face and somehow more sunken personality. And the other was a fat man who had a kind demeanour yet also an air of danger to him. The slim feller had an Irishman on the back of his horse, and he was bawling. He was shouting for me to help him kill the two lawmen. "They killed my brothers." He kept on claiming. Unfortunately for him I don't travel with no firearms and he didn't seem to be in no position to begin an attack on his captors.

The slim feller was particularly nasty to the Irishman. He'd slap him over the head and seemed to take pride in the brother-slaying accusations. The fat one engaged in a fair amount of conversation with me but when I'd reference the Irishman or Slim's conduct he'd stonewall. I had the feeling that if the Irishman was on the fat man's horse, he'd be getting a far worse bollocking than what Slim was capable of. I'd split from the lawmen later that day and saw a paper saying that the Irishman was hanged, the last member of a bandit gang.

Things aren't too hostile though. I've invited two men into my camp. One is a crippled old gunslinger with a cut-out eye. Meanwhile the other is a big mean bear of a man. I'd say he probably eats people if it weren't for his carrying of a King James Bible. But with men nowadays, it's hard to say.

I've had some paranoia about sharing a camp with these men. Riding near outlaws is one thing, as long as you don't bore, insult, or look like a good mark they can be quite personable and help you get across the country with more ease than without them. But sleeping near them is another matter. The moment my eyes close I could have King James' 250 pounds of pure muscle sitting on me and throttling me whilst the cripple raids my pouch for elixirs and manuals they could sell for a pretty penny. Cause that's all some men's life work is to other men, a pretty penny.

I guess I gotta keep in mind that if these men wanted to rob me, they'd have done it earlier in the night. They'd have shot me in the skull, dumped my corpse a few feet away, and slept in my station as if I had never been there, as if it were theirs.

This is how men've got me talking now, kids. All about violence, killing, always looking over your shoulder for some Apache or outlaw. I think this country really brings out the worst in some men. This place is so expansive that for some men they've gone their entire lives without any sense of civilisation. It's like they don't know no better. They treat scalping a feller the same way they'd treat opening a particularly tight can of beans. Luckily, I've never seen a scalping, but I have seen the aftermath, and I met a feller who'd somehow survived it. Went by Alastair Black or something like that. He was quite the prick but I guess a knife scraping against your skull ain't exactly going to improve your moral character.

I guess I gotta have some hope though. I wouldn't be an alchemist if I didn't believe in hope for a better world. Hope for when the power of the philosopher's stone can be harnessed to push humanity just that one step farther. But for now, I and all other men just have to deal with their lot. The scalped man has to deal with never having a nice-looking haircut again, these two outlaws have to deal with sharing a camp with a stinky scientist, and I have to deal with being separated from you kids for at least another 4 months whilst I write out my alchemical findings. I think once published my works are going to bring some good esteem and wealth to our family.

Anyway, sorry for all this yapping. I hope to be in correspondence with you two again soon. And if I'm not, look into the names Jim Dyer and Cillian McCavern, The Cripple and King James respectively.

Lots of love from your dearly beloved father,

Jebediah Selmy.