"Give it to me," he said.

"I don't have it," I said.

"I'm not going to ask a second time," he said. He pressed his cocked pistol against my belly.

"Did you wash your bullets?" I asked.

"What?"

"I don't want to get an infection."

"You're loco? Mount up, we got a day's ride ahead of us."

After a six-hour dusty ride, we hitched our horses to the well at an empty depot. We found no horses in the stable, no food in the depot pantry only some dead spiders. It appeared as if no one had been near the depot for a couple of weeks. The dust and sand covered the depot main building, outhouses and corral making it spooky and uncomfortable. The depot has been a major transfer stop for feeding passengers and supplying fresh horses for the stagecoaches for nearly a decade. Tom and Betty Harris along with their twin boys, Clint and Benjamin, have been full time operators of the depot for the past six years. They had weathered sandstorms and Indian raids and bandits with the help of the Calvary. They had grit. Nothing could have run them off. Where had they gone?

I was forced to make the trail ride without boots. The stirrups were like pitch forks to the soles of my feet. My feet and hands were battered and bruised. I thanked God that my bloodied wrists were finally free of the spiked shackles. I did not want to make him aware of my pain. Standing up during the ride did relieve my saddle sores. The brim of my stetson was stained with the day's sweat and my shirt's backside felt the same. All I wanted was to get my boots back on and wash the trail dust off my face and water my parched tongue and blistered lips. I was getting itchy and wanted to get the hell out of here as soon as I could. I had developed a belly full of hate for my hateful bounty hunter. This bastard was born to be hanged. No hanging was too good for him.

Jack apparently weathered the day's ride and was drinking spring water from a bucket under the shade tree of Sagebrush Depot. Jack still mounted with dad's saddle. Within the saddle's secret pouch was my secret. If the bounty hunter got his hands on its contents, I was a dead man. The "Map" was safe and would remain so, just as long as dad's saddle was not removed from Jack's blanket and mount. I watched closely. He left my double saddle bags and boots untouched. I had a loaded six shooter in my right bag pouch. I needed to find a way to get Jack close enough to mount and ride. Believe me I would ride Jack with no looking back. Trust me I would get away.

"I need to go to the privy," I said. It was located just off the stagecoach depot kitchen doorway and in plain sight of the bounty hunter.

"Sure, just keep the door ajar."

"No privacy in the privy?"

"I got to keep my eyes on you."

The difference between feeling you're in a clean privy and a dirty one is the depth. This one was a good four-foot drop from the wooden seat to the bottom of its 'catch'. The catch was empty. No use for quite awhile.

What 'the killer' wanted was dad's map of the Sunset Ridge gold mine. I was not giving him what was mine and my mother's inheritance. Dad had worked "The Ridge" for nearly eight years before he found the vein. The strike would cover our ranch purchase once we got to the coast of California. There is nothing worse than a killer bounty hunter. Maybe a greed driven bounty hunter concealing his motives. They're criminals with a dead or alive permit to kill and steal.

Once I got inside the privy, I took a look around. On last month's stage trip, I got Willy to allow me to hide a pocket two shooter in the dirt under a false board. It was there and wrapped in a sock. Clean, loaded and ready.

"We will sleep in the depot tonight."

"What is your plan for tomorrow?" I asked.

"Prisoner, we will ride to Sunset Ridge and pay your mother a visit."

The morning sun was coming up when we mounted up for the two-hour ride to our Sunset Ridge homestead. We encountered no other riders on the trail. I decided to wait to make my play once we reached my home. I would have the help of mom and our hide out. When we got to the homestead, we rode straight into the barn and put the horses in stalls. He told me to "make tracks to the house and keep quiet". I noticed the buckboard and horses were gone. I figured Ma must've gone to town or was at a church function. I hoped she would approach the barn and see my marker in place. I placed the horse pitchfork against the stall door. It would trouble in the house. Get help. Load the barn shotgun and hunker down.

I opened the front door to the kitchen and found the warm coffee and a pan of grits on the stove. A plate of fresh biscuits was on the dinner table. Ma was out of sight. The bounty hunter sat down and started eating. He didn't stop until he finished a belly full of biscuits and grits.

"Ok, where is your Ma?"

"Not sure. I have not been home for nearly two weeks."

"When she shows up, I plan on getting her to give up the map. I want my map."

"Your map?"

"Yes, my damn map."

In less than hour Ma's riderless buckboard came to a stop in front of the barn. The bounty hunter looked outside and said, "Your Ma is a cagey one. You go stand in the doorway. I will have my gun in your backside. Don't try anything foolish."

I knew Ma was outback and she would have the loaded 'Henry' rifle with her. She knew how to use it. What I did not know was that Sheriff Penny was backing her play. Ma had gotten word of the happenings at the Sagebrush Depot from Tom's son, Clint

Clint had come to the depot late last night. He was looking for his folks and his brother, Benjamin. Clint was not aware that the depot had been raided by the Indians and the Calvary had rescued his mom, dad and brother. His family had been staying at Fort Carver for nearly three weeks.

Clint got an earful listening to the greedy bounty hunter as he ran his mouth ranting at me in the main lodge. Clint knew he couldn't help me at the depot. He rode all night so he could get word to Ma and Sheriff Penny and help arrange for my rescue the next day at our homestead in Sunset Ridge.

Sheriff Penny came in view at the right-hand side of the porch. He pointed in the direction of the barn indicating Ma's position. I slipped my hand into my shirt and gripped my palm gun; I saw the bounty hunter turn to shoot the approaching Sheriff at the end of our porch. I curled my hand around my left side and fired a shot into the bounty hunter's chest. He slumped to the floor.

After washing up and getting some of Ma's home cooking down, Sheriff Penny, Clint and I tied the bounty hunter on his horse for a final ride. I asked Sheriff Penny to see to it that the undertaker buried him three feet down. He asked why three feet instead of six. I told him I wanted the snakes to eat his retched dead body. I wanted him in hell by sundown.

Before the Sheriff rode off, he assured Ma and me that dad's gold strike was safely recorded at the Assay Office. The Map was in dad's saddle pouch. Our inheritance was secure. Three months later we arrived in Sacramento and purchased our ranch.