Rage
by Tony Masero

On Monday's, Tim Hewitt swept out then swamped down the boards in the Bull Dog Saloon. It was a pretty unsavory task after the weekend when the local cowboys came in for their entertainment. They tended to spit tobacco juice and track muddy cow shit across the hardwood floor, then throw up and generally relieve themselves in odd corners around the place.

Thursday, Tim rode shotgun for the stage on its forty-mile trip across the county line to the swing station at Hellogah Corner. There he handed over to the relief guard and stayed the night with the two brothers running the station and next day rode the returning mail coach back home.

On Saturday, Tim sat with the Widow Mayers' children when she went to see the Reverend Julian for spiritual counseling. Going by the groans and moans of remorse coming from the vestry it was plain to hear that the widow had many deep concerns troubling her. Sometimes it got so loud that Tim would take the two kids by the hand and walk them out around town for a while. Townsfolk there would look at him with the children and often wonder who it was that was the child amongst them.

Sunday he would ring the chapel bell to call the faithful to church and act as sideman during the service. If there was a wedding or christening he would clean up after that as well.

That left him with Tuesday and Wednesday more or less to his own devices.

Tim lived in a single room shack out back of Mister Level's Hardware Store and old man Level would call on Tim if he were short handed or needed a clerking hand with his inventory. So that occasionally took care of another of Tim's days.

He was an amenable fellow, not particularly notable in looks, the kind of man who would fade into the background without being given a second glance. Strong looking in that gentle giant kind of way with a beard he never trimmed and worn out clothes that saw wash-water maybe twice or three times a year and never much altered in appearance. He was as bland and as much a part of Lowell's Crossing as the galvanized tin water trough standing in the street outside the Bull Dog Saloon, useful to have around but an unremarkable addition to town life.

Lowell's Crossing was a sweet little town, not much ever happened there and the folks generally treated the place and each other with respect. Sleepy the whole time except for the Saturday nights when the cowhands came to town but the townsfolk could live with that as long as there were no killings or acts of riot and normally there were none.

Tim arrived in Lowell's Cross in the year of 1867 and for the next ten years became the general odd job man around town, pleasing everybody with his easy going and kindly manner that some often took as somewhat retarded in demeanor. Nobody knew where he came from or ever bothered to ask, he just drifted in one day and became a regular part of the town's furniture.

So it continued until Lucas McCallister arrived in town.

Lucas was scouting for the South Western Railroad Company surveying team, seeking out the quickest ways south six months in advance of the track laying. There were two possible routes, neither of them through Lowell's Crossing, one would swing west and cut through Hellogah Corner and effectively finish the stagecoach traffic through there. The other was to the east past the foothills of the low-lying Conestoga Ridge, a range of craggy hills none of which rose higher than a thousand feet.

Although the most obvious track line was through the level ground to the west, Lucas was more interested in the ridgeline, mainly because during his prospective scouting he had come across an old Comanche Indian who wore a large nugget on a rope threaded around his neck. The Indian swore he had discovered it amongst the hills and Lucas paid the fellow five dollars for him to guide him there. With alacrity the Comanche swiftly took the five dollars and duly guided Lucas to the cleft in the ridge where he had found the "yellow stone."

Lucas liked the look of the raw ore and thought there was a killing to be made here. More than one as it happened, as Lucas promptly shot the old Indian in the back of the head, took his nugget and then rode on into Lowell's Crossing intending to telegraph his two brothers.

The telegraph line had only been introduced a year ago and Mister Porter, the clerk who ran the post office was mighty particular about his new position at the key and would only open it from eleven o'clock in the morning after he had dealt with the general post.

Lucas McAllister, who was a large blustering fellow, broad shouldered and mean of temperament, believed he would not suffer fools gladly and he told Mister Porter so.

"Damn it, sir," he grated. "I am a representative of the South Western Railroad and I have an urgent message it's imperative I send."

"I'm sorry," replied Mister Porter, who could be a mite pompous at times in the best civil service tradition. "Not possible until after eleven in the a.m. I have only one pair of hands."

Lucas glared at the clock on the wall over the desk; it stood at nine-fifteen.

"Does that mean I got to sit on my thumb for nigh on two hours until you get your act together?"

"Eleven o'clock," was all Porter said, busily sorting through seed catalogues and other highly important missives.

"Why you miserable—" Lucas started to rant and then was interrupted as the bell over the office door jangled.

"Morning, Police Officer Garnett," said Porter pointedly, giving Lucas an arched eyebrow.

"Good day, Mister Porter. How are you this morning?"

The sheriff was a woefully small and gawky man full of troubles, who seemed almighty slender for his clothes that sat on his bony frame as if a few sizes too big for him. Even the tin star on his lapel appeared to weigh him down.

Sheriff Garnett gave Lucas a polite nod of greeting and Lucas glared impotently back at him.

Porter sniffed, "Worked off my feet in here as usual," he said, shuffling envelopes.

"Just need to see if there's any mail for me," said Garnett. "But please, attend to this gentleman first."

"That's alright; this fellow wants a telegraph sent. Come on back around eleven," Porter added with a faintly malicious smile.

Lucas spun on his heel and strode angrily out of the post office, slamming the door behind him.

Garnett watched him go, "Seems a mite tetchy," he observed.

"Takes all sorts," sighed Porter.

Lucas dithered on the deserted sidewalk a moment and then noted activity down the street at the saloon and guessed he might get a breakfast there. With this in mind he walked down the empty sidewalk and pushed open the glass-paneled door of the "Bull Dog."

Tim was busily clearing out spittoons into a bucket and Chin, the bleary eyed owner, was behind the bar thinking dreamily about what he should add to his next supplies list.

"Get something to eat and a cup of coffee?" called Lucas, rattling the glass in the door as he shut it behind him.

Chin looked up and yawned with his mouth wide open, "Take a seat," he managed. "It'll be along soon as I get the stove lit." Then he leisurely wandered off into the back kitchen to get things started on the hob.

Lucas glanced at Tim on his knees in front of the bar, then swept back his duster and took off his hat. He seated himself heavily at one of the round card tables and dropped the hat on the green felt raising a cloud of trail dust as he did so.

"You got one goddamned hick town here," he directed in Tim's general direction.

Tim nodded vaguely and continued with his labors.

"Lord! Fellow in that post office got one almighty burr up his ass."

"Mmm," Tim mumbled.

Lucas sniffed and stared around the empty barroom, "Hey, you!" he called. "Whilst you're down there, give my boots a shine, will you?"

Tim looked up, "Can't do that," he said.

Lucas frowned, "Why the hell not, you're the handyman around here, ain't you?"

"Sure, but I clean the bar, not boots."

"Shoot!" snuffed Lucas, a crooked grin splitting his face as he used the incentive he knew best. "I'll give you two cents you do my boots, how about that?"

Tim shook his head, "No, sir."

"What is it with this place?" snorted Lucas. "Nobody can do nothing for you. You folks are almighty precious around here."

"Chin will be along with your breakfast directly," said Tim, getting to his feet and hauling the slop bucket over towards the back door.

Lucas looked away shaking his head, "Punk-ass town."

Thursday and in his role as shotgun guard, Tim spent the night at the swing station as usual. The two Candeiros brothers were Portuguese immigrants, both hollow-looking, bow-legged little fellows who barely ever shaved and could only speak broken English. Evenings spent with them were comparatively silent affairs with the lack of language and that suited Tim just fine, as he liked it quiet. The brothers were hardy men, short in stature but tough and good with the horse teams. As the place was rarely occupied with passengers, it only being a post for a fifteen-minute change of horses, not much was done about the comfort or niceties, so little sweeping or washing went on. The skunk-like odor around the cabin with its unmade beds and strange taste in comestibles left Tim unmoved and he accepted the general demeanor of the place as he accepted everything else in his life with his own particular brand of stoicism.

Friday morning the stage swept in fast, bearing only two passengers.

The driver of the mail coach was a huge big-bosomed Negro woman called Jessica Dowel. She wore a floppy plantation hat with the brim pinned up and a great bearskin overcoat over her bulky form. She was so wide in the beam that nobody could sit next to her on the driver's seat and anybody riding shotgun had to sit on the baggage rack behind her or inside with the passengers.

Tim chose the latter; he had already tried the luggage rack and barely survived the journey, as Jessica was a hardheaded woman who drove like the devil himself. In fact some said she was probably a close relative.

With a sharp whistle and sharp crack of her long whip, Jessica let loose the team and headed them out fast as if a full gang of outlaws and war hungry Indians were coming on their tail.

The two other passengers were both grim faced men, one so tall he held himself at a continual stoop under the low ceiling of the mud wagon. The other, smaller and wiry, seemed to be riding a wire of electric current, he was so nervy and energetic. They said little at first but only stared glumly at Tim, never breaking away to look out of the windows as the stage set off.

Dust clouds billowed past as Jessica whipped her four-horse team into a racetrack stride, sending the stagecoach rocking and bouncing over the rough track.

"That bitch allus drive like this?" growled the smaller man.

"I guess," muttered Tim.

"We're the McAllister brothers," went on the small man. "I'm Gabriel and this here is String," he said, indicating his lugubrious companion. "You supposed to be shotgun guard?"

Tim lifted his double barrel in answer.

"How about this town, Lowell's Crossing, you know it?"

"I do," answered Tim.

"What's it like?"

"Oh, it's quiet."

"Suits us, don't it, String?"

The tall man harrumphed an affirmative.

"Meeting our brother there, you know him, Lucas McAllister?"

"I believe I met him once."

"You did? How was he?"

"Waiting on his breakfast, as I recall."

"Hah!" said the little fellow. "Hear that String? Lucas always was one for his eats. What's your name, fellow?"

"Tim Hewitt."

"You don't say? Tim Hewitt, shotgun guard. You ever get any road agents on this run, 'cos you sure ain't going to be much use riding inside 'stead of up top. Why is that, you like your comfort, is that it?"

They hit a resounding rut in the road and the stagecoach seemed to take flight for a second and all three men bounced a few inches up off their seats.

"Holy Moley!" cried Gabriel. "Steady on, you black monster, String here nigh on went through the roof."

Tim justified the driving after they had settled again, "Well, Miss Jessica is a large bodied soul and they never made the driving seat wide enough for two of us so I tend to ride inside."

"Fat old bag must be on a schedule," Gabriel huffed a laugh as they rattled on by leaps and bounds. "We going to get there alive?"

"Miss Jessica likes to drive fast."

"She surely does."

"But she is a most able Reins-man, so have no fear."

"I ain't a-feared, mister. I already ridden through hell and back, this little roller coaster ain't gonna shake me up none."

Once again they hit a divide and Gabriel sailed up in the air, his hat falling from his head.

"Slow down, goddamn you!" he hollered, proving that he was in fact more fearful than he let on. "You don't slow it, I'll come up there and do it for you."

The only answer from Jessica was a long trailing crack of the whip and a loud "Yeehaw!" bursting from her lips. "Get yo' skinny ass up here, white boy, then we'll see what you're made of."

"Hellfire!" chuckled Gabriel. "Pity she's so darned fat and ugly I think I might like to take that old gal for a ride myself."

Voluminous choking mists of alkali dust continued to fly past the window making any view of the countryside outside impossible and a fair portion of it worked its way into the interior as well. Gabriel hawked and spat out of the window and String hung there silently, looking about as lethargic as washing on the line when the wind has died.

"You boys staying long in town?" Tim ventured to ask.

Gabriel shrugged; it was fast becoming apparent that he did all the talking for the pair of them, "Depends."

"What's that, 'depends' on what?" asked Tim curiously.

"What we find."

"There's very little of interest in Lowell's Crossing, I must tell you that."

"You never know," replied Gabriel archly.

"To be seen, to be seen," chanted String, speaking for the first time and rocking in his seat backwards and forwards. "Yes, indeed, to be seen."

Tim scratched his head and looked the tall man up and down, "Must be mighty uncomfortable for you, sir."

"What you mean by that?" frowned Gabriel darkly.

"Just saying, being so high and all, got to be hard on a body."

"String gets by, don't you, brother?"

"Get by, just fine." His voice was solemnly hollow as if it came down a long length of tunnel. "String do indeed, gets by just fine."

Gabriel blew his nose into his bandana to clear some of the dust from his nostrils, "This what you do, is it?" he asked Tim. "Ride shotgun all day."

"No, sir."

"Then what else to pass the time?"

"Oh, I help out generally."

"They got some mountains around here, so I hear?" asked Gabriel, leaning forward confidentially. Their noses almost touching as the bounding coach rocketed over the ruts in the road.

"That's so," Tim agreed. "The Conestoga Ridge over yonder."

"Interesting, is it?" asked Gabriel slyly.

"Not so you'd notice, pretty run-of-the-mill kinda hills."

"I see, no ore or mining going on over there then?"

"I ain't heard of any, why, you interested in that sort of thing?"

"What sort of thing?"

"Prospecting and such."

"No, no," Gabriel waved him away. "Just curious is all."

"Bulwark Bend ahead," bellowed Jessica in warning.

"Best grab ahold of something," advised Tim.

"Why . . . " Gabriel started to ask and then the wagon began to tilt. As they took the bend Jessica could be heard screaming with laughter as the stagecoach rolled over from the vertical, leaning on two wheels as it cornered sharply.

The three inside shifted over as the stagecoach defied gravity and slewed around, the team pulling mightily and with Jessica hollering as her gauntleted hands played the reins.

"Holy crow!" howled Gabriel, grabbing hold of his brother's coat to stop himself sliding out of the window. Even String moaned mournfully as they appeared to be about to crash sidelong into the racing ground outside.

Tim patiently held onto the window joist as his feet lifted from the floor and his body was carried upwards at an angle, "Don't concern yourselves," he said calmly. "It's the only bend in the road."

Sure enough, after seeming endless seconds at a forty-five degree angle, the stagecoach jolted back onto the level and its leather springs bounced and rocked the coach onto four wheels again.

"Is that danged woman insane?" pleaded Gabriel, his eyes wide and brow slick with sweat. "How in tarnation do you bear with it?"

"One does," supplied Tim. "It's just how Miss Jessica is."

"Shoot! I sure as hell don't want her driving me out of here."

"Maybe you'll get the reserve driver," said Tim encouragingly.

"Damn me, I'd rather walk."

They slewed to a halt outside the post office in Lowell's Crossing, the team snorting and panting restlessly in their traces. Shakily the passengers descended unsteadily from the coach. There was an air of relief about the two passengers as if they had just escaped some apocalyptic near-death experience.

A jolly Miss Jessica heaved her huge body and wheezed awkwardly down from her seat and slapped her gauntlets over the front of her fur coat sending off a cloud of pale dust.

"Fine ride?" she asked, a broad grin splitting her coal black face.

"My God, woman!" managed a trembling Gabriel. "I think I left my heart back there at that swing station."

"I like your sass, how about a drink, little fellow," said Jessica, slapping him heartily on the back.

"I sure need one," croaked Gabriel.

The stooped String unwound himself from the wagon and stared about vaguely, "Are we here?" he asked dimly in almost childlike fashion.

"Yes, sir," said Tim. "You've arrived at the finishing post."

"Praise the Lord," groaned String. "Yes, thank you Heavenly Father, I thank you, thank you."

Just then Lucas strode up brushing Tim aside, "Howdy, brothers," he said. "Sure took your time getting here. That black gal walk them ponies all the way over?"

Gabriel and String both stared at him in bemused fashion wondering what planet he was on.

"You're lucky we got here at all," murmured Gabriel, watching the bustling figure of Jessica rolling down the sidewalk and heading for the saloon. "That woman sure has a mighty ass on her." Whether it was an accolade of a physical nature or merely praise of her nerve, Tim could not determine.

"Come on, boys," said Lucas, leading them off. "We got things to discuss."

Tim watched them go with a slight smile playing on his lips, then he cracked open the shotgun and retrieved the two unused shells from inside the barrels.

Saturday night, the whoop-'em-up started as the cowboys from the Double-D and Lazy Jane ranches rode into town. Mostly they were a friendly group with only a mild contention of rivalry existing between them. Greetings over, they rolled into the saloon and breasted the bar in a noisy crowd.

"Set 'em up, Chin," came the shout and the erstwhile dreamy Chin, for once livened into activity, set to pouring long strings of shot glasses full of liquor.

The only other customers were the McAllister brothers and Jessica Dowel who shared a table and where Jessica was proving as able as the others to hold her liquor.

Tim had been called in to haul beer barrels up from the cellar and wash out the empty glasses and he carried out his tasks in mild distraction to the rowdy cowboys laughing and joking around him as they drank themselves into extinction and blew their wages.

Card games started up and Lucas McAllister was encouraged to take part in one of them, Gabriel was steadily working himself in closer to Jessica and String sat as patiently as a Buddha and stared into his own lost horizon.

Lucas was getting drunker and becoming louder as the evening went on, he cursed any loss at the cards and was overly jubilant at a win. At the next table and behind him an arm wrestling competition was taking place between two of the opposing ranch hands. A struggle, that was more a good humored than serious contest, with cheering and teasing onlookers standing around the two.

The most fragile looking of the two cowboys won his pitch with a swift downward thrust that sent his opponent's hand to the table top and sent him staggering on his seat. The losing cowboy inadvertently swung back in the chair and knocked into one of the onlookers who happened to be holding a full schooner of beer. The beer splashed out in a gush and the man next to him leapt back to avoid the flying booze. The chain of dismay ended as the cowboy fell across Lucas' back, knocking him face down onto the table with his hand of cards sent flying.

From there things went rapidly downhill.

The apologetic cowboy tried to help Lucas back up but Lucas turned on him, his face red with rage. Despite the cowhand pleading innocence Lucas caught him around the throat and slammed him back down on the card table. He proceeded to throttle the poor man, spitting and cursing as he did so.

The cowhand's buddies attempted to intercede and caught hold of Lucas in an attempt to pull him off their partner. Somebody fired an ill-advised shot in the air in an attempt to quiet the wrestling crowd gathered around the card table.

Gabriel, who had been busy attempting to turn a bored Jessica's head with his winning words, looked up at the gunshot. Without a word he left his seat and walked across to the struggle, in one motion he pulled his six-shooter and placed it against the nearest man's chest. Gabriel pulled the trigger and blasted the man from point blank range.

Mayhem erupted, shots were fired and flailing bodies fell. Gabriel was laughing hysterically and firing his pistol wildly in every direction.

At last String, who had been sitting numbly, woke up and took a part, rising from his seat he reached out long arms and grabbed the nearest two cowboys slamming their heads together. Not once but twice and three times he banged both heads until the unfortunates slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.

Wailing like a banshee, String began an awkward flailing stride across the room. His uncoordinated limbs flew out as he whirled both long arms in windmill fashion, slapping out and hitting whoever came in reach. In any other situation it would have been hilarious, this great tall man howling and flying through the crowd like a hay bailer.

Lucas had finished strangling the cowhand and now turned his attention on those about him. He broke bottles over heads and rammed glasses into faces with incensed lunacy.

Tim watched it all from behind the bar in stupefaction; he stood with a wet glass in one hand and a drying cloth in the other as the saloon interior was turned into a violent battleground. Something twitched in Tim's chest, something in the dark recesses of his mind, something he had long ago cast aside. His eyelids flickered and his lips parted as unspoken words came to him.

His dazed glance slid along the bar to Chin who was watching it all with the same kind of amazement. Chin opened his mouth to speak and then Gabriel picked him out and placed a .45 slug neatly between saloon owner's eyebrows. Without completing his sentence, Chin rocked sideways and then slid, quite elegantly, to sit down behind the bar.

Tim's eyes rolled around to focus on Gabriel who was still laughing wildly, his eyes alive with a crazy light as he reloaded.

Sheriff Garnett swung open the glass-paneled front door and stepped inside the saloon. He stood frozen for a moment at the unexpected madness going on around him.

"What's going on in here?" he cried rather ineffectually.

He caught Gabriel's eye and the reloaded Colt was turned in the sheriff's direction. Gabriel's bullet sent the sheriff spinning around until he collided with the door head on and splintered the panels of glass in a sparkling shower.

That did it.

Something snapped behind Tim's eyes and a wave of anger rose in him. Untouched and untapped for years, it welled up with a sudden volcanic force.

He reached down behind the bar for the loaded shotgun that Chin kept there, alongside a wooden baseball bat, in case of unruly customers.

String was still continuing his demented cartwheel and crying out, "I have it, oh, I have it," as he plowed by in front of Tim.

Tim cocked the hammers and with his lips set in a grim line fired both barrels into the tall man. String jumped straight up the air as the shot struck him and succeeded in almost tearing him in half. He fell squirming and lay on the floor, his limbs flapping limply in all directions like a withered butterfly.

Without hesitation, Tim dropped the shotgun and picked up the baseball bat. He strode out from behind the bar making a beeline for the giggling Gabriel who was lifting his pistol for another shot at the sheriff, now hanging with both arms through the broken glass panels.

With a sweeping blow, Tim brought down the bat across Gabriel's arm, there was a snapping crack and Gabriel howled in pain. He turned his attention to the dour face of Tim, "What are you doing, you dummy? You gone broke my arm."

Savagely, Tim brought down the bat again, this time on Gabriel's head splitting a bloody opening on his forehead. Dazedly, Gabriel's eyes rolled in his head then Tim swung down the bat again. This time the wooden bat broke and Gabriel's legs went from under him and he collapsed as if a puppet without strings.

Moving like a steam train on the tracks, Tim buffeted struggling cowboys aside as he made for Lucas. With hardly a glance Tim lifted a pistol from one of the cowhand's gun belts as he strode by.

Cocking the pistol he raised it to shoulder level straight in front of him and a sneering Lucas, broken bottle in hand, turned suddenly to stare down the black hole of the barrel.

"You!" shouted Lucas. "You damned piss-pot cleaner, I'll have you in a pine box."

Tim heard a soft voice in his ear, "Allow me."

He squinted out of the corner of his eye to see the voluminous figure of Jessica Dowel beside him. She held her long coach whip in a gloved hand and smiled at him, her teeth white and her round black cheeks dimpled. Tim raised an eyebrow and gave a questioning look at Lucas and then back at Jessica. He shook his head negatively and sent two bullets straight into Lucas' chest. The McAllister staggered back, looked down at his bleeding chest in bewilderment and then topped over, dragging the card table with him.

"He's all yours," growled Tim, tossing the revolver aside.

Texas Ranger James R. Coonan stood in the daylight coming through the broken saloon door and stared around him at the remnants of the last night's violence.

"What in the devil's name?" he murmured, taking in the smashed furniture, pools of blood and broken glass.

Jessica Dowel who had been sitting quietly amongst the mess, helping herself to a free bottle of whiskey, stirred at sight of the lawman.

"Have a drink, mister?" she said.

Coonan glanced at her and then back to the three bodies of the McAllister's laid out in a neat row. Most of the dead cowboys had been carried off and taken' along with Chin' over to the mortuary. The wounded and sorely beaten men remaining had limped away back to their various ranches.

Coonan sniffed in distain, "Who did this? I heard tell of some massacre taking place as I was waiting at the swing station for the stage."

"No return stage today," said Jessica, pushing a chair forward with her boot.

"How d'you know that?"

"'Cos I'm the driver."

"You see what went on here?"

"Every minute."

Coonan took the offered chair and sat down, "Well, tell me then."

"There was a fella, lived here for years. An odd job kind of fella, quiet and meek, he never said nothin' to nobody. Well, last night, he turned into something else."

"Two of them boys lying there are wanted men," said Coonan. "Gabriel and String McAllister, the other one I don't know."

"That will be Lucas McAllister. He kicked it all off last night."

"You don't say."

"I do, God's truth."

"No, I believe you, tell me more."

"Well, them McAllister's was slaying people left, right and center. Raising one hell of a ruckus. They shot down Chin the barman here and then killed Sheriff Garnett over by that door."

"A mean bunch then?"

"You could say," agreed Jessica. "But then they met one old boy a darned sight meaner."

"And who might that be?"

"That will be Mister Tim Hewitt."

The Ranger started forward in surprise, "Tim Hewitt, did you say, Timmy Hewitt?"

"I did, why, you know him?"

Coonan snorted a laugh, "I sure do. You never heard of Hewitt of Halo Road? Earned himself a medal at the fight at Halo Road back in the war. Don't you read the papers, girl?"

Jessica shrugged, "I don't read so good, never learned how."

"Man, he was a cold-blooded killer all right. They say he used to sneak out behind enemy lines at night just so he could cut some throats. Brought in that Confederate general one time, shot down his aides then had the general come in with his hands over his head." Coonan chuckled excitedly, "I'd sure like to have seen that. They do say he took a Reb battle flag as well and you know how them soldiers value that. Trouble was the officers took hold and hung it up in their mess tent so he didn't get credited for that one. But people talk and word got out anyway."

Jessica nodded politely, "You sure you got the same fellow, because it don't sound like the Tim Hewitt I know."

"Hewitt's a name all over the southwest; he was an Indian fighter for a while after the war. Then took up as town marshal down in Remuda later on. Brought down the Canyon Raiders on his lonesome, he sure helped a parcel of folks that time. Why, that boy was a regular hero."

"Really," frowned Jessica. "He never struck me as such."

"Hellfire! You telling me Hewitt was here. Where is he? Damn it, I want to shake his hand."

"He's gone, took that rascal Lucas McAllister's horse and lit out just when it was all done in here."

"Where'd he go?"

"Danged if I know, he just said 'I ain't going back' and then he upped and left."

The Ranger clicked his teeth, "That's too bad, I'm sorry I missed him."

"Just have a drink, that would be best," said Jessica, pushing the bottle across the table towards him.

"Believe I will, ma'am," he said lifting the bottle to his lips. "I'll take it in toast. Here's to you, Tim Hewitt, wherever you are."

The Only Law West of the Pecos
by Shaun Jex

I rode into Langtry after an extended stay in the town of Del Rio. I had to leave in a hurry after a dime novel I'd written was published. It seems that folks in town recognized themselves in the story, and didn't particularly care for the way they were portrayed. I tried to assure them that the things they read were merely creations of my overactive imagination, but they couldn't be persuaded. One gentleman, and I use the term loosely, argued that I should pay for my supposed libel in blood.

I was just able to make a getaway, stealing a horse and riding like hell out of town. I spent the trip cursing my profession. Some folks might think the life of a lawman or a mine worker is dangerous, but they've clearly never tried their hand at fiction before.

Words have been getting me in trouble for most of my life. As a boy, my Pa used to whip me for telling lies at the dinner table. Ma said that my mouth would be the death of me. I've been in more than a few bar fights on account of some fool thing or another that I've said. I suppose I should be more careful, but then again, whoever accomplished a blamed thing by being cautious? Ned Buntline didn't make his name because he was careful with his words. He just let 'em all spill out.

It was time to move on from Del Rio anyway. I needed to research my next story, so I was heading toward Mexico. My plan was to write about Ignacio Parra, the noted Mexican bandit. I didn't much care to meet the man, but I wanted to get a feel for the country before I tried to depict it. I figured that the little town of Langtry would serve as a nice waypoint before I slipped across the Rio Grande.

I arrived in the late afternoon. A group of men lounged on the porch of a ramshackle building labeled the Jersey Lilly. At the center sat a rugged-looking fella with a bone-white beard. Two or three folks were standing by a cart on the roadside. A body was stretched out on the cart stone dead.

"We found him like this just outside of town," a man said. "He ain't got no identification on him, but he did have a pistol and forty dollars in his pocket. What should we do, Judge Bean?"

"A pistol?" the man they called Bean said. "Well, I do believe he was carrying it illegally into our town. How much money did you say was in his pocket?"

"Forty dollars," the man replied.

"By a curious coincidence, that is the exact fine required for illegal possession of a firearm in Langtry. I declare him guilty as charged, now hand over the money and take him out of town, and bury him."

The men passed a wad of cash to the old man and then set off with the cart, presumably to dispose of their grim cargo. It was only then that the judge took notice of me.

"Welcome to the Jersey Lilly," he said. "My name is Judge Roy Bean. And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Name's Dean Carter," I said.

"And what brings you to our fair city?" Bean asked.

"Just passin' through," I replied.

The old man nodded and looked me up and down.

"Where you comin' from?" he said.

"Del Rio," I said.

"You'll excuse me for sayin', but your accent sounds like you're from somewheres back East," Bean said. "Can't say we get many of your kind 'round these parts."

"You've got a good ear," I said. "I'm not quite from the East Coast, but I did grow up on the other side of the Mississippi. I've been out west for a few years now chasin' stories. I'm a writer by trade."

"Like a newspaperman?" Bean said.

"Oh, no sir," I replied. "At least, not anymore. I worked for a newspaper for a time, but it was stifling work. These days I write cheap yarns about outlaws, heroes, and women of questionable character. Stuff to keep folks entertained. It's not as respectable, but it puts coins in my pocket and keeps me moving."

"Always fancied that maybe one day I'd be the hero in a dime novel," Bean said. "Hell, you could write a whole series of books about all the things I've done. I'm not, as you might have noticed, just the bartender here. I'm also the judge and jury in this town. No doubt you've heard all about ol' Judge Roy Bean, the only law west of the Pecos."

Now, between you and me, I had never heard the name before, but I suspected right off that it would be imprudent to say so.

"I doubt there's a man west of the Mississippi who hasn't heard of Judge Bean," I said. "No doubt folks on the other side will be learning your name soon enough."

I don't know if the old man believed me, but he seemed pleased by the flattery. A smile creased his leathery face. I figured I'd pour it on a little more.

"Pretty soon you'll be just as famous as Judge Parker from Arkansas," I continued.

The smile disappeared. He was scowling and there was color in his cheeks.

"Judge Parker be damned," he said. "He ain't half the judge that I am. They call him the 'Hanging Judge' but he ain't worth a hoot. You look at my town here and you'll see what a real judge can do. We don't have problems with bandits and outlaws because they know not to fool with Roy Bean. Hell, they know it for miles around. Crooks and thieves wouldn't dare commit a crime within a hundred miles of this place for fear of me."

Now, normally in a situation like this, I would buy the man a drink by way of an apology. Liquor, it seems, covers a multitude of sins. Free shots of whiskey have saved me from many a fellow who only moments before was set on knocking the teeth from my mouth. It's a little harder when the man you've angered owns the bar.

"You know, I've always felt about the same," I said. "I can't imagine why some folks make such a big deal outta the old fool. It's good to meet a man with some common sense for once."

Somehow, my attempt to mollify the judge seemed to exacerbate the problem. He narrowed his eyes and his brow furrowed. He raised his fist and pointed a finger in my face.

"An old fool is he?" Bean said. "That's no way to talk about a lawman. I won't stand for it. We respect the law around these parts."

"But you just said—" I protested.

"I'm a judge myself," Bean snapped. "I can call Carter any name I please, but I won't stand for a civilian sullying the name of the law. If I hear another word against him I'll see you behind bars. Do you understand me, son?"

Frankly, I did not understand the man at all. However, it seemed that every word I spoke made the situation worse, so I merely gave a somber nod. A grin slowly cracked through the judge's stony visage and a moment later he was laughing. This only served to spur my confusion, which must have been evident because Bean laughed even harder.

"Calm down boy," Bean said. "I ain't serious. I wouldn't take a piss on Carter if he was on fire, and I'll drink with any man who would say the same. Let's go inside."

He stood up and sauntered in the front door of the saloon. I followed and was shocked to find that, upon entering, I was almost exiting the building again. The small backdoor seemed a mere arm's length away. It was larger than an outhouse I suppose, but not by much. The air was filled with the sour smell of spilled liquor and old tobacco smoke. A lone table with a few chairs sat in the middle of the room. The raggedy-looking bar was off to one side. A few bottles were lined up against the wall, and a portrait hung just above them.

Bean stepped behind the bar and grabbed a bottle and a pair of tin cups. He pulled out a rag and wiped absently at them. Given the age and color of the rag, I could only assume that the cups were now dirtier than when he began. Fortunately, good hard liquor kills most anything, so I kept the observation to myself.

I am not typically a drinking man. That is not something one admits out west, or as a writer for that matter, but it is the truth. I have only been drunk on a few occasions, and in all instances, I am afraid to say that I vomited until I was sure that my innards must have poured out on the ground. Despite this rather delicate temperament, I felt it would be imprudent to decline the drink set before me. I swept up the cup and tried to down the elixir in a single go. It felt as though I were swallowing fire. My eyes watered as I coughed and spluttered, hoping I wouldn't accidentally spit alcohol into the judge's face.

"This stuff could tickle the toes of a hanged man," Bean said with a chuckle. "Not surprised a city boy can't hold it down."

"It's . . . mighty strong," I said, attempting to regain my composure and at least a measure of dignity.

Before I could object, Bean refilled my cup and pushed it back across the bar. A wiser man might have walked out the door, hopped back on his horse, and made for the edge of town. Were my head not swimming from the effects of the liquor, I might have done just that. Instead, I tried to bravely down a second helping of the foul beverage which I was fairly certain could strip the paint off a building.

This process repeated itself a third time, and by then I had lost all capacity for reason or tact. Bean and I were swapping stories. I told him about my various misadventures trying to write the great novel of the American West and he waxed poetic about his career enforcing the law. Though I don't recall exactly how the subject was breached, we began talking about women. As we spoke, my eyes found the portrait behind the bar again. It depicted a lady with dark curls and skin as fine as porcelain. She wore an ornately decorated dress and what appeared to be some sort of Bacchanalian crown. Her eyes were cast demurely down.

"What brothel did you find that lovely hussy in?" I said with a drunken laugh.

They say that a rattler can strike faster than the human eye can follow, injecting its deadly venom into your body and retreating to admire its handiwork before you even know you've been doomed. That's how it seemed with Bean. No sooner had the words left my mouth than I found myself staring down the barrel of his Colt.

"You dare disparage the name of the great Lily Langtry in my bar?" he thundered. "The finest actress of this, or any generation? You, sir, are not fit to kiss the ground beneath her feet, and yet you'd call her a whore to my face? Why, I should drop you where you stand and let the buzzards eat your pathetic remains."

I struggled to follow what he was saying but found it hard to focus on anything but the barrel of his gun. My vision blurred until it seemed I was staring at two pistols. Darkness crept in along the edges of my eyes and I felt myself begin to topple backward. I briefly wondered if the man had gone ahead and shot me, and then everything slipped into darkness.

I can't say how long I was unconscious, but when I woke it felt as though a railroad spike had been driven through my head and wads of cotton stuffed in my mouth. I opened my eyes, to find myself on the floor inside a jail cell. Bean stood outside the cell glowering at me.

"Now that you are awake, we can have your trial," he said.

"Trial?" I mumbled.

"You didn't think we'd recognize a cattle rustler when we saw one?" Bean said. "That's a hanging offense, and I intend to see justice done and done swiftly. Now, how do you plead?"

My mind, which moments before had been mired down with the lingering effects of liquor, was suddenly crystal clear and racing. I felt a rising sense of panic that threatened to make me vomit on the floor of my cell.

"I am not guilty!" I said. "I'm just a writer. This is some kind of horrible mistake."

"Are you suggesting that I am a liar Mr. Carter?" Bean said. "Is it your intention to insult this court?"

"But . . . but . . . this isn't a court," I said. "There's no jury and more importantly I've committed no crime. Now, let me go goddamn it!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me!" Bean roared. "I am the law in this town and I'll be treated with the respect I deserve. You listen to me, you lousy son of a bitch. The court is wherever I say it is and justice is whatever the hell I declare it to be."

A trio of men entered the room and stood behind Bean. I recognized them as the men I'd seen speaking with the judge on the porch of his saloon. They seemed to be his deputies, though of a rather questionable sort. All three men were armed, and there was an unmistakable hunger in their eyes for violence. One went so far as to place his hand on the butt of his pistol, as though waiting for word from Bean to fire.

"Are we taking this Yankee bastard to the gallows?" a man with a thick mustache and dark brown eyes said. "Or should we just take him out and shoot him?"

"I say we watch him hang," declared another of the men.

"Gentleman, let me remind you that this is a court of law," Bean snapped. "There has been no verdict declared, so we can hardly discuss sentencing."

The men looked crestfallen, their bloodlust forced to go unsated for at least a few more moments. I flailed about mentally, trying to come up with any plausible way to circumvent my demise. I recalled the judge appropriating the money from the dead man and wondered if I might appeal to his greed. If not, perhaps my place as a teller of tales could somehow play to his vanity and thus spare me from swinging at the end of a rope.

"I have some money . . . " I stammered.

"It is a crime to attempt to bribe the court," Bean said coldly.

"Of course," I said. "It would be the height of impropriety, but certainly a donation from a grateful citizen to fund the good work undertaken by this court would not be objectionable?"

"A sweet offer, boy, but we'll be emptying your pockets soon enough," he declared. "For the crime of cattle rustling, I sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead. The money in your pockets will be used to compensate this court for the trouble."

I feared I might faint yet again, so I reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the jail cell bars to hold myself up. I'd narrowly escaped Del Rio with my life, and now I was going to hang in this god-forsaken little speck of a town. The good Lord must not care much for dime novelists.

The men opened the jail cell and grabbed hold of me. I struggled a bit, but I'm a small man, and I knew my efforts were for naught. They quickly dragged me out of the jail and into the dusty street. My mind raced to come up with a solution.

"Judge, I could make you the star of my next novel," I said. "Just imagine that! Your name and likeness on the cover of a book that folks all over the country will read."

"You know, I've read many a dime novel in my time," Bean said. "I've even read a few of your books, Mr. Carter. Ended up using them as kindling. I think I'll just save my good name for a writer of higher quality."

Despite the fact that I was staring my own mortality in the face, his comment stung. I may not be Shakespeare or Homer, but I've always felt a sense of pride in my literary accomplishments. I made a note that if I managed to survive this encounter, I'd be sure my depiction of Bean would be less than flattering. Perhaps I'd suggest an inability to consummate his relationships or frequent bouts of incontinence. Anything to prick the old bastard's ego. They were stupid thoughts, but the mind does funny things when death is looming.

Bean's men herded me down the street toward the edge of town. I looked from side to side, searching for a gallows but none appeared, so that my fear was soon matched by confusion. How exactly did they intend to hang me? Was there a tree of some sort? The land in the area was barren except for small shrubs and the few trees I'd seen were not large enough to hold the weight of a hanging.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked.

"If I were you, I'd be more worried about where we're sending you," Bean said. "I hope you're a praying man, Mr. Carter, because you'll be meeting your maker soon."

It was hot as hell, and sweat dripped down my forehead and back and I'm sure I had the stink of fear all over me. I only hoped my bladder would hold out. Soiling myself before dying would be an even greater indignity. If that happened, I'd pray to come back to town as a ghost and haunt the damned place until the end of time.

We walked until we reached the edge of town and then one of the men gave me a hard shove in the back, knocking me down onto my knees. I fell forward when I hit the ground, my face colliding with the dry earth.

"Empty your pockets," one of the men said.

"W-why?" I stuttered.

"We're taking any valuables you might have as payment for our troubles," Bean said. "And I prefer not to dig through another man's pockets unless I absolutely must."

I pulled out several wrinkled bills I'd been carrying, along with a few coins and held them out. Bean snatched them from my hand then looked back at my pocket.

"I don't reckon you'll be needing that watch anymore," he said.

It was not a fancy timepiece. Just a simple silver pocket watch with a chain. I'd bought it with the money earned from my first book and had it engraved with my initials. I hated to part with it, but I supposed it wouldn't do me much good in a shallow grave. I begrudgingly handed it over.

"Now that we've settled fines and fees, I suggest you start walking again," Bean said. "Walk as far as your legs will carry you and don't look back unless you want to catch a bullet between the eyes."

"You aren't hanging me?" I said.

"If we ever see your ugly face around these parts again we just might," Bean said. "But for now, it must be your lucky day. It's hot as hell outside and digging a grave ain't easy work. Now get your worthless bones out of my town."

I felt like I was drunk again, my thoughts swimming and disjointed. Was I really going to make it out of this alive? If so, why go through the charade of a trial? What in the blue hell had happened to me over the last 24 hours?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of a pistol. One of the men had fired a shot near my feet.

"I said get," Bean said. "Start walking or the next shot lays you low."

Which is how I found myself walking through the desert without a penny to my name or a drop to quench my thirst. I slowly made my way to the Rio Grande, where I drank until my stomach cramped up. Then I sat there on the bank thinking about what to do next. If I could find a way across the river, maybe I'd make my way to Acuña, Mexico, though it'd be a hell of a walk with no water. Maybe I'd be better off making my way back east and giving up this fool life of a writer.

I reckon you'd like to know just what I decided, but that's a tale for another time. Wide open spaces are calling my name, and I'm ready for my pen to get me in more trouble.

Salt River Incident
by M.D. Smith

U.S. Marshall Jesse Williams breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled his horse up at the hitching post in front of the Salt River Saloon in Arizona Territory on a sweltering late afternoon in July 1880. His mouth was mighty dry, with only a smidgeon of water left in his canteen that he'd been rationing. His clothes— still damp with sweat and white stains on his shirt under his arms. It'd been a long ride. The dusty street, with no breeze at all, amplified the pungent aroma of the horse cakes that littered the packed dirt and clay.

After tying his horse, he flicked off the rawhide loop over the hammer of his sixgun, never knowing what he might encounter inside. With the cut-down leather holster he used, the loop kept it tight when riding. He lifted his revolver from the holster, opened the loading gate, pulled the hammer partially back, rotated to the vacant cylinder, and loaded a cartridge from his belt. Usually, he liked to keep the firing pin off a live round, so loading only five shots was his general practice. Today, he might need all six.

Upon entering the double doors, the spacious saloon resembled those in larger towns, with cowboys at tables and the bar, working girls either in fancy dresses scattered around or like the two in white underwear hanging on the handrail going to the second-floor bedrooms. Rinky-dink music from a beat-up old piano, with a man pounding the keys who didn't look much better, mixed in with the loud conversations. The talk quieted as several turned to stare at the newcomer with his gun hung low and strapped tight to his mid-thigh. At six foot five, with a tan hat, he could have been an outlaw or hired killer for all the townsfolk knew. His vest hid the badge on his shirt.

As Jesse walked toward the bar, a cowboy near the door scampered out. The bartender in a white shirt and apron smiled at the stranger and put the glass he'd finished cleaning on the bar, ready to take an order. "What'll ya' have, cowboy? You look mighty dry."

"Whisky— your best, not that Redeye stuff you sell cheap." Jesse put one elbow on the wood and turned partially around to survey those around him.

"Here ya go, pard, our best bourbon."

Jesse turned and put the glass to his lips and sipped. He wanted to enjoy and not slug it down.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

"Nope."

"Well, where 'bouts are you from?"

"East of here."

The bartender got the message, turned, and moved to the side of the bar to get some dirty glasses.

A woman entered wearing a plain dress and apron from a door on the side of the bar. Her face scarred terribly— it looked like a herd of cattle might have tromped all over it. As she looked around, her head did a double-take when she spied Jesse. He locked eyes with her but showed no recognition except a faint nod. She glanced away and began clearing empty tables.

Moments later, the bar doors slammed open against the wall, and three pairs of boots stomped inside. In the lead was a heavy-set man with a thick mustache and at least a week's beard growth on the rest. He wore the Sheriff's badge, flanking him two poorly dressed, full-bearded deputies. One deputy carried a double-barreled scattergun, and the other a Winchester rifle. The Sheriff wore his sixgun low, and the palm of his right hand rested on the grip.

"Didn't you see the sign, cowboy? No guns in this town." There was a distance of ten feet between them and Jesse. The crowd hushed, waiting to see what would happen next.

"So, stranger, I'll be taking your sixgun unless you want to do it the hard way."

Jesse eased his drink on the bar and slowly turned to face the three men. He raised his left hand toward his vest, and the deputies tensed. The one with the rifle worked the action to put a live round in the chamber, lowered the hammer to safety, but kept his thumb on it.

"Easy boys," the Sheriff said. "He looks like he's gonna cooperate." He glared directly into Jesse's eyes. "Ain't that right, stranger?"

Jesse now gripped the edge of his vest and pulled it aside to reveal the big, shiny Marshall badge on his chest. "I'm U.S. Marshall Jesse Williams. I have an arrest warrant signed by the governor, and I'm here on business."

There was a collective sigh from the crowd. The deputies lowered their guns toward the floor. "That's different," the Sheriff said. "So it's one lawman to another. I'm Bart Haddock. Who you looking for, Marshall?"

"I'll know the murderer when I find him," Jesse said.

"Ain't he got a name?"

"He probably has several he's used over the years, but if I tell you some of them now, word could get out, and he might skedaddle out of town. Be happy to tell you over at your office if'n you want."

"Yeah. Let's do just that. Follow me."

The Sheriff moved toward the doors while the deputies stood on either side for Jesse to pass between them. Jesse took a quick look at the woman with the scarred face and tipped his head ever so slightly in her direction. Her wrinkled brow soothed as her answer. Jesse followed the Sheriff out, and the two deputies followed him.

It was getting dark on the short walk to the office and jail. Sheriff Haddock, now walking aside Jesse, said, "Ya' know, I been Sheriff near six years, and there ain't been no murder I kin remember. Did the man you're looking for commit it somewhere's else?"

"Nope."

"Was it recent?"

"In the last year."

"Well, you got me. Cain't remember anything but a few self-defense gunfights before we tightened up on our 'No guns in town' law. I keep it pretty orderly here, and people know it. We've had a shootin' or two at the poker tables, where gamblers carry a small gun hidden and get into an argument, accuse the other of cheatin', and some shootin' starts."

"That right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, here we are," the Sheriff said. He walked up the two wooden steps across the sidewalk planks and opened the door. "Let's all go in and rest our feet."

Four sets of boots thumping on wood and Jesse's spurs jingling entered the office with two jail cells on the back wall. Haddock took his chair behind his desk and motioned for Jesse to sit in the chair on the other side, while one deputy sat at the end of the desk after putting his rifle in the rack. The other man eased into a chair against the front wall and propped his shotgun against the wood siding. The sheriff bit off the end of a stogie, spit the tip on the floor, took a stick match from his vest pocket, struck it under his desk, lit the big cigar, and puffed on it several times, then leaned back to hear the story.

"Before we get into my business here, Sheriff Haddock, I'd like—"

"Call me Bart," the Sheriff interrupted. He blew a couple of smoke rings.

"Sure, Bart. As I was saying, I noticed that woman in the saloon with the face that . . . "

"Oh, that old whore, Nelly. Yeah, she used to be the top-paid girl 'cause of the pretty face and big tits, but she made a drunk cowboy mad one night, and he worked her over pretty good with a broken whisky bottle. She 'bout near died, but the old doc pulled her through. The saloon owner felt sorry for her and let her clean up the place, sometimes tend bar, and if'n a cowboy's real short of money, they kin get her real cheap."

"What happened to the cowboy who did that to her?"

"I put him in jail overnight till he was sober enough to tell me his story, and then I let him go." He punctuated his statement with a billowing smoke cloud from his cigar.

"Let him go?"

"She cussed at him— made him mad. He slapped her hard. She kicked him square in the nuts, and then he smashed the bottle aside her head, nearly knocked her out, then used the broken piece in his hand to work on her face. I mean, she's just a whore. Tough luck."

"Okay. I understand." Jesse balled up his fists in his lap and quietly gritted his teeth. Years earlier, he and Nell were sweet on each other back in Austin, Texas, but she was reluctant to leave her high-paying job to become a lawman's wife, so they drifted apart. When she wrote him with the news, she never mentioned the attack on her face.

"So, what brings you to my little town of Salt River, Jesse?" He leaned forward to put his cigar on the edge of the ashtray.

"Well, let me tell you a little story that happened about nine months ago." Jesse's wooden chair back squeaked when he leaned against it. "The man hadn't been here long and was stayin' at the hotel. So, this one evening, he got into a card game with some other gamblers and he was winning big. One of the other gamblers accused him of cheating. He shouted he wasn't, rolling up his sleeves and holding his hands out upright. That's when the other guy pulled his pistol and shot him."

"I remember that incident, but you got your facts wrong. That young fella was the one accused by the other man of cheating and went for his gun, a derringer, tucked in his waistband. The other guy drew his gun first and fired. The young man toppled dead on the floor, and the little gun fell out of his hand. It was a pure case of self-defense, and I oughta know. I was there."

Jesse pointed to the bars of the cell, then rose and walked over to them. "Did you even lock the shooter up pending more facts coming in?" When he reached the cell door, he turned, facing the Sheriff and the two deputies.

"I told you. There weren't no need. Both my deputies was there with me when it happened." He put his cigar in his mouth again, puffing as if agitated.

Letting out a sigh, Jesse patted his vest. "Maybe it's time I read you the names I got on this arrest warrant because we got written testimony that after the man was shot, one of your deputies placed the derringer on the floor by his hand. My brother wouldn't come near a ladies' pea-shooter gun, as he called it. It was you who shot my brother and killed him in cold blood. You and your deputies are gonna cool behind these steel bars until a prison wagon takes all of you to Tucson to stand trial for murder— and Nell Garnder is the chief witness against you because she saw it all and wrote it down in quick handwriting. Something she learned in Atlanta before moving to Texas."

Jesse was prepared for what happened next. That was why he deliberately lured the trio out of the bar to a safe, quiet place. The Sheriff's hand went for his gun as he sprang to his feet. He'd barely cleared leather when the Marshall's Colt roared twice from the two fingers he fanned on the polished smooth hammer, holding light pressure on the trigger. The Sheriff toppled backward, splintering the spoke-backed chair as he fell to the floor, hitting an overflowing tin trash can behind him.

One deputy had grabbed the shotgun, cocking while raising it to fire, when a slug caught him in the center of his chest. Jesse turned the gun to the other deputy who'd drawn his revolver and cocked it with his thumb, and dropped him with another chunk of 45 lead to the chest.

Jesse straightened from his crouched position and kept his Colt cocked with two more rounds in the cylinder if needed, but there was no movement from the three men lying on the floor with blood pouring out of their wounds.

Jesse stood still, with smoke rising from the business end of his gun, then slowly uncocked the peacemaker and returned it to his holster. People were gathering outside the jail office. Then he noticed flames coming out of the bent metal trash can that the cigar had set on fire. He opened the door and yelled for a couple of buckets of water to put out the fire. Next, he'd send someone for the undertaker and then send a telegram to the governor to update him on serving the warrant. He'd be spending some time in Salt River in any event, serving as the law until a new qualified officer could be found that wanted the job.

Meanwhile, it just might be a good time to strike up a fire of his own and catch up with a love from the old days back in Austin. Her face was of no concern. It was what waited in her heart that mattered to Jesse.

The Bison and the Butterflies
by Ben Vanelli

The snow is white, whiter than He is, at this time of year. It's mostly caves and makeshift fires, although the sun is warmer here than in Wyoming and His throat is perpetually dry, the constant feeling of blood without the evidence of a sickness. The odd stable would do nicely. Hay felt like horsehair, if it was once or so a month, a sack of grain like a feathered pillow.

The snow tops the red innards of the earth like a two-inch blanket, every surface covered in a virgin stagnancy, the layers of previous eras exposed in the canyons, beige, red, brown, red, brown again, beige again. Noel huffs and pulls back on Its reins, reins made of rope that are as crumbled as the gloves He wears, those porous gloves. They look over a canyon, He sees a river running some three-thousand feet below. The last of the snow is still falling, tiny specks, down past the faces of Man and Horse and into the canyon. Overcast and still a dry, dry cold. He picks one and follows it as far as His eyes can take, floating like a butterfly down and down and down, eventually reaching the river but there is no one to see it finish its journey, not even Him, not even if He tries. Rivers mean town, usually, but that's one hell of a drop, and there aint no town down there, not from what He could see. Just silt and the last of the snow. He'll have to keep moving, pick a direction, or let Noel pick for Him. He pulls the Horse out, It goes to Their left. Alright.

Noel's feet don't click, they crunch in the snow, it satisfies Him. Whatever a God there is, He feels It in that crunch. He pulls the Horse further inward, away from the canyon cliffs, should He fall off again and slip and slide down and join the snowflakes that haven't stopped yet. His hat is not even a hat anymore, it's a shot-through piece of fur and rodent skins that He wears on His head for there is nowhere else to put it. His coat is new, found in one of those odd stables hanging from a post, singed at the sleeves but otherwise immaculate and comfortable and warm. Blue jeans, boots. Dirty, brown, leather boots. He huffs just to hear a human sound, a grumbling sigh that means nothing. The air in front of His mouth condenses for a moment before joining the open country, a part of the endlessness. As His thoughts seem to slow, so does Noel. It only seems that way but seeming is enough. He heee-yahs the Horse and It picks it up a little bit, not much, not much is fine.

Springtime in Wyoming. Last spring, last April the twelfth, at an inn. It might have been Himself and the innkeeper, they might have been the only people for six miles in each direction of Lakota, Wyoming, the only living things besides Noel and some bison and the butterflies. The innkeeper, a gorgeous woman of twenty-eight, blonde waves and a thin nose that stuck like a tree's trunk if it was white and freckled and plucked from the Garden of Eden and placed on a human woman's face. There was still snow on the ground, in patches, but it was warm and the breeze was right. The grass swayed as he tied Noel to the post outside. He remembered the clouds, the clouds of a big sky, proportionately big clouds. He saw her next, He was shaven then. He hasn't looked in a mirror since. He asked for a room for one night and she gave Him a key and He said thank you and He went upstairs, then He came back down, then He asked her if she wanted to see His Horse outside and she said yes, I do, and she was perfect.

He can't remember the color of her eyes.

He squints into the distance but all there is to see now is the snow on the ground, the snow on the ground and some small bushes and the fall-off of the canyon and the back of the head of Noel. Not a hole in the clouds to reveal evidence of a sky's existence. Not signage for a town, though He thinks He can hear the whistle of a train, unless it's the wind but it doesn't seem strong enough. He could be anywhere, Arizona territory or the north of what they were calling now New Mexico, the south of Utah or Colorado. It wasn't Wyoming, He knew.

It scares Him, having nowhere to be.

There's some dry meat in the pouch around his shoulder, bread found in the last stable, His canteen is full at least and drinking the melted snow has not failed Him yet. He can wait, He decides. It's a train. Fuck, it's a train. That's good.

Forty miles outside of Santa Fe they call it The Stallion, everywhere else they call it Bloody Mary's, though there was no Mary involved with the establishment at any point during its inception.

He ties Noel on the outside of town and takes a bucket off the first wooden porch He sees, fills it with what's in His canteen, enough, and leaves it for the Horse. The snow is less here, lower elevation, maybe that's why, but the crunch of it beneath the weight of His dirty brown boots still satisfies the ears. Not so dirty anymore, cleaned by the snow, the prints He is leaving are stained with mud and red clay but it adds element to what was once untouched, a small portion of it at least. Dirty and stained but natural, and surrounded by an empty canvas. He pinches the brim of His hat, keeps walking into town.

He might have been here before, which isn't to say that every town in the Cession wasn't the same, basically, but He might have been in this one. He just came and went so quickly that it was hard to remember, but surely once He checked the interior of The Stallion, He'd be able to confirm. That's where He did most of His living when not in the caves or on the Horse.

The town is arranged symmetrically on a dirt road, a wide one, enough for two lanes in either direction of horses and carriages and still more to comfortably hold masses of individuals in the street, but there aren't enough people nor horses here for that. It's all wooden, of course, a big bank and the several units around it are shops of the most expensive goods you could find here. Wine from California, and jewelry, practically asking for a heist to happen. Which would keep the sheriff's office right next to the jewelry store very busy and very happy, guns slinging, people dying in the dirty street. Their blood would stain the snow in a more fantastical and abstract manner than His boots have, and there would be no dirt, just the darkness and redness of the blood and the frozen bodies of innocent people because whoever designed this town put a bank and a jewelry store and a sheriff's office right next to each other. And there'd be bills and coins on the ground. And they would run around looking for them after the massacre, like pigs to slop.

The Stallion is hiding in plain sight, big and between a law office and a mortician, each of which have balconies, He figured for the owners of each business, but The Stallion does not have a balcony. Instead it has a third floor, rising higher than its neighbors, no windows up there, just dark oak lining and a small chimney. Smoke is coming out today, the wood surrounding its stone damp, having absorbed the snow, a stain of uneven, brown near-rot across the snowy roofs.

He stomps his boots on the wood porch outside, snow and mud and red silt fall through the cracks in the floor. Side eyes an old man smoking a pipe. The old man turns to face Him directly, unthreatening, about to engage in conversation, but before he can speak He asks him to spare a puff or two.

"'Course."

Old man hands Him the pipe and He inhales with His deepest breath since April the twelfth, savoring the tobacco that fills His chest, every bit of its herb, holds it, holds the pipe back out which is taken from his hand with the confidence of a stallion. He releases the smoke through his nostrils and mouth. Shows His teeth. Under a long white beard the old man is probably smiling too.

He pushes the door open with a glove and finds that yes, He has been here before, a very, very long time ago, a time that was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. There is the piano in the corner and a jar on its top, filled a quarter of the way with coins and one bill. There is the bar, the window in the back, a big window that looks to a well and, beyond that, sparse cattle that suggest a ranch somewhere further than the eye can see. As He takes His first step the floor aches and gives in to His thin figure, He is afraid it will swallow Him but the floor holds just fine. Just being dramatic. There are a dozen people in the bar, four of them play cards at a table, another three eating a late lunch, a man and two ladies, and the rest are at the bar. They all turn to Him, some later to the action than others but all of them eventually do it, and they don't pretend like they didn't all make it obvious. Before He sits down the bartender has already placed a glass of Whiskey where He was going to sit, a lucky guess perhaps, maybe a suggestion, maybe a desperate request. He sits where it was placed. Whispers, but He doesn't bother to check where they are coming from. He picks up the glass and sips, looks at the bartender, such a young face, he has a mexican mother no doubt about it. He knocks on the polished wood and the half-mexican is pouring Him another like it will get him into heaven.

The half-mexican puts the second glass down with a napkin underneath and He puts his left glove over his hand and raises His head, slowly, His eyes hiding beneath His hat until they're high enough to see, and their eyes meet. This boy has eyes greener than any pasture you'd be lucky to find out here. He pours a Whiskey nicely, with intent, with service that's not servile, designed to satisfy a person, not a customer.

"Someone play the piano."

He takes his glove off the half-mexican's hand. The kid hesitates and removes his gaze first. Goes back to where he was standing and wipes some glasses. There is no indication of movement behind Him.

"Someone play the goddamn fuckin piano."

One of the women starts crying, her chair scrapes against the flimsy wood and she sniffles as she shuffles over, her shoes against the wood, and she sits at the piano stool. It creaks, she sobs, she begins playing. Slow music fills the room. It echoes all around the characters who find themselves in The Stallion. It's pretty, the sobs between the chords. The music itself. He thinks of the canyon and the Horse, He thinks of a snowflake changing direction with each new note that plays, still destined for the river.

The man who is still with the other woman at the table begins muttering something to himself. This man is shorter than Him and he has a brownish-red combover, same color as his thicker mustache, done with pomatum. He's in an inexpensive suit and his voice is getting louder. He places His tattered hat on the bar and licks His lips, licks the hair around His lips, finishes off the second glass of Whiskey, adjusts Himself in the stool. The music is still playing but the cries are not there. The man's voice is clearer now, he's saying something about fear mongering and not wanting to be subjected to the status of one Man, how he came here from virginia to get away from exactly that and his voice is now being aimed at Him and He knows it and everybody knows it, but the men playing cards don't stand up. The virginian just keeps talking and growing his voice and He just keeps not listening and staring at the bottles on the wall.

Not quite like fishing, but it's close. The worst men in each town, the most vile, they always weed themselves out.

The virginian finally stands up and the woman at the piano is playing more slowly and she begins to cry again, louder. The woman at the table must be still as a rock in the sand. The virginian approaches Him and He can feel the heat of his being and hear the moans of the floorboards as this short man, this greasy and pointy-nosed man with an incomplete drawl says things like "I am not going to live like this! I am not going to live like this! My Friend," he calls Him his friend, "You are no more than the voices that speak stories about You! You are no more than a, uh, an Apparition! An-an Incompletion, a Page of a poor novel, with holes in it. What threat," He can feel the breath of this man on His neck, "What threat You pose is all myth! It's all myth! When we who can conduct business, who can conduct real and perfectly legal- legal, might I add! -legal business, are disrespected in this free land, the last part of this country that is, indeed, free," He bites the inside of His cheek, "where shall we go then? Hm?" The virginian yells, "Where?"

There is a pause for a response but of course none comes. The virginian just keeps fucking talking. "What I do is none of your concern, Friend. Carla, are you paid well?" It is unclear which woman is Carla because neither of them are doing what they were any differently. "Carla. Carla, are you paid well? Do I respect you and treat you well and buy you meals like the one in front of you right now?" Another pause and she doesn't speak. "Are you ever afraid? I feel like a madman talking and receiving," he turns back to Him and speaks to both parties, "no answer!"

After the virginian says that word, He turns around and the virginian jumps back onto his heels and begins to fall backward but His draw is faster than advertised and the virginian is shot three times in the chest before he hits the floor. When he does, splinters fly up and the woman playing the piano shrieks. The virginian coughs clouds of red spittle into the air which drop ceremoniously back onto his corpse and he is decorated for death. The men playing cards are staring and Carla, in a blue dress, has fainted in her chair and the woman playing the piano is still sobbing but now snot is coming out and she seems to choke on the air. The proper notes continue to be played.

The old man walks in and creaks that spot on the floor. The old man looks down right at the virginian and back up at Him. The smile, this time, is sure.

"Hot damn." Old man exhales some smoke. "He'd have been my pick, too."

"What's the sheriff like," He says, then looks at the half-mexican.

The half-mexican tries to provide an answer but is graciously saved by the old man. "No worse than this sum'bitch."

He stands up, the stool hits the limp foot of the virginian. "Bad?"

"Not so bad. He'll hang ya though."

The half-mexican nods.

He smiles underneath the black beard. He takes a five piece out of his pocket and lays it

on the bar, flattens it out with both gloved thumbs running from the middle of the note to each of its ends. He adds a coin.

"You think it makes a difference? What You do?" says one of the card players. The others are acting as if they had never seen him before.

He belches and the woman at the piano jumps and sobs again. "Can't make things any fuckin worse."

He passes the old man and pushes the door open and the old man says, "Where You goin next?"

There is no reason to keep talking. He stops at the door, facing the porch and open dirt road and the snow on top of it.

"You think I know?" And He walks out.

The only things alive in Lakota, Wyoming, are the bison and the butterflies.

No One Left to Hear
by Martha Reed

I knew something was bad wrong the minute Lone brought the black mare in from pasture alone. No one weans a day-old colt.

"What else was I gonna do?" Lone tossed back a whiskey shot, grimacing against the burn. He refused to meet my eyes. "If word ever got out my new stud threw a blue-eyed colt, I'd get laughed outta the horse business. Every penny I got's tied up in that horse."

"What about the mare?"

"She's safe enough." He barked a laugh. "I sold her to Reilly. He needs the meat for his dogs."

I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I had to get away. If I stayed with Lone, his disrespect for life would be the slow chokeholding death of me. Lone saw nothing wrong with using death to make a living, but I'd watched my mother shrivel up and die a little each time my stepfather hung a fresh scalp on her clothesline to dry. Watching my mother had taught me this: Love may fade to memory, but grief will hook on your heels like your shadow and walk with you side-by-side until the day you die. I'm not living that way and I told Lone so.

My way or highway is how he answered me.

I packed my carpetbag, still fresh from honeymoon, saddled his best mare and lit out. I made it as far as Three Points before that mare stumbled and came up lame. I should'a known. Every horse Lone owned had something wrong with it. So I turned her loose and started walking in the pouring rain.

Slogging through the mud, my boots plastered thick and heavy, my only dress ruined, I cried out in my despair. Then I remembered the living grave I was leaving behind and I dried my eyes. I may not know much, but I know better'n that.

Kleph Brightwater, black hair dripping with rain, caught up with me outside of town. We slept wrapped together in a dry white wool blanket. The blanket smelled of clean horse and wood smoke and her snowcap Appaloosa will carry two, easy.

I may not know where I'm going, but I do know where I've been.

I told Janey we could go back, that we'd make a place for her in the tribe. She grew grim, and swore, said go to hell, there was nothing there to go back to. She said the bastards had it rigged so that if you tried speaking up for what was right they'd shut you up or shoot you down. I reminded her they behaved the same way toward the freedoms of my people. Janey laughed her great whooping laugh and said: By God, Kleph, you're right. What moron put them in charge, anyway?

We sold the horse and when that money ran out took up whoring for awhile. How can you stand this? Janey'd spit, pouring water into the tin tub and scrubbing her skin pink. Doesn't bother me, I'd shrug, but then I'm a buffalo spirit, it's my nature to give. But you're not a buffalo, you're a bear, and bear spirits can't pretend to liking something they know's not true. Once your bear heart calls it a lie, your bear spirit won't stand for it.

Won't stand it for long, Janey winked. But I'll try to hold on until we get some traveling money put together.

We headed south to Los Muertos that spring. I had more schooling that Janey did, but they wouldn't look at me because of the color of my skin so Janey tested for schoolteacher instead. She even passed their exam until one of the husbands recognized us from Miss Emma's and that was the end of that.

I noticed no one asked him his business being in a whorehouse, Janey grumbled. Then she laughed. They damn sure would've hated hearing my answer!

We worked at the Hotel Majestic that whole blazing hot summer, frying chicken dinners for the guests coming off the train. Mr. Ramsey, the fat proprietor, called us his pair of Magdalenes. He even went up against the town, saying it was his Christian duty to help us. He spent his days sipping lemon squash under the fan and yelling to us back in the kitchen, where we plucked and fried, slicked with sweat and stuck all over with pin feathers. When we were done, Janey and I raced each other down to the Brazos River and jumped on in, clothes and all, swimming and resting on the shady riverbank until our clothes were dry again. Mrs. Ramsey, his wife, said there was nothing decent about the pair of us, but we didn't care. We had a nice camp going under the cottonwoods and we were saving money. We even talked of seeing Chicago come fall. Then Mr. Ramsey jumped Janey in the chicken yard, saying bend over you little whore and she gutted him.

I would've saved Janey somehow if I had known, but she never budged. She just stood there in that circle of blood-splattered chickens, waiting on Mrs. Ramsey's natural suspicion. That's how I learned of it. I heard that woman's scream from down on the riverbank.

The men had Janey roped and tied before I got there. They were marching her into the cottonwoods.

I am right about this and you all know it! Janey yelled. And I am through bending over! From now on you can all go fuck yourselves.

Cottonwood's too soft for hanging, one of the men warned. Bitch's gonna bounce. We really should find a live oak.

This ain't right, I begged, plucking the sheriff's sleeve. You're no jury. There is no justice here.

You start running, he snarled, or I'll string a squaw up beside her.

There's no use talking when there's no one left to hear.

The Last Adventure of Daniel Boone
by Perk Perkins

An excerpt from the recently discovered journal of Daniel Boone

November 30th, 1818

I'm not much for scratchin out words on paper and I ain't got a lot of words to choose from, but my family thinks that while my mind is still clear I should record and incident which took place just a short spell ago. I will try to oblige them but I have been feelin my age of late and thoughts and memories are not always available on command like they used to be. I've been around for 8 decades and my sand is pert near sifted through. I don't hunt much no more as I can't see much no more. I can get by I reckon, but long gone is the eagle eye that I have always depended on. It's a bit of hell to have to rely on others these days, but I do. I have no option.

I have been ridin this feather bed more than Blackie, my horse and the thoughts I do have to write down evaporate from my head like spit on a hot griddle. But I reckon that's my reward for livin so long.

I have two of my beautiful granddaughters here to do the writing of my thoughts before they slip away into the great beyond. The only thing to make a man's breast heave with pride more than a loving daughter, is granddaughters like these which dote on me like I was of royal heritage instead of the empty headed wanderer, which is what I have been most my life.

There's been a lot said bout me, true and not, and I think my family wants my own account of my life. Truth told I can't remember details and even the boldest of facts are lost in the head of this ole man. They think this will keep me busy and stop me from pondering my upcoming departure from this earth. Well, it won't. They all think that I'm overcome with the thought of dying and anxious to depart from them. Truth is I don't reckon dying scares me and I still have enough sense to know that eighty is a long run. Mostly though, I just like to rile em up and make em think I'm a little more crazy that what I am.

The main condition to me agreeing to put my thoughts down on paper here on what I call, 'My Grandson's Folly', is that they don't get to see it till I'm gone. I trust my two granddaughters will keep silent and guard the content with their lives as Jenny and Becca are the loyalist Boone's in the family.

One of the things that get the family cranky is my box. I built this beautiful pine coffin bout 3 years ago. Took me a month total, but it is perfect if I do say so. About every other month I have Junebug take it down out of the barn loft and I'll try it on fer size. Even fell asleep in it before . . . sakes that really gets em going.

Of course Junebug knows that I'm greasing them, but he is as close to me as a man has ever been and wouldn't backfire on me like that. He's saved my life a few times as I did his a few. He don't stay with me cuz I got slave papers on him . . . I told him years ago he's free as a sparrow. He stays cuz he's my true friend and been that way forty years, since he was born in Kentuck.

If I am to tell the tale of my 'Grandson's Folly', I reckon I'll start with an incident that took place shortly before. It was but a few weeks ago this here feller came to see me all the way from Kentuck. I been feelin poorly indeed and was saddled to my bed. Mae, Junebug's woman, brung him to me in the bedroom where I laid tired and tuckered. Turns out he was the husband of Suzy Randall, one of our dearest friends from back there. Suzy was a widow and one of the sweetest, tender souls we ever met. Me and Rebecca took her in for a few years after her husband died. Why, I even give her 500 acres to help her out when we left. Now her husband, who she married after we moved on to Missouri and said his name is Chester Reynolds, claims that the courts took that land away from them. Said I plotted it out wrong. I heard that before and in fact that's why I left Kentuck.

After all the land I claimed and what was give to me as payment fer bringing settlers in from back east, they took it all away, a bit at a time. I couldn't even call a single acre my own. Now this Reynolds fool said that I owe him for that land they took. I asked him how Suzy was and all he could say was . . . dead! And the way he said it, all cold and callous like . . . I hated him from the start.

I told him he was daft, as I give that land to Suzy as charity. No money or goods exchanged hands. Well he told me he heard I was settlin all my debts, getting ready to die and he wanted payment for the land. I told him he heard right and I done settled all my debts. Well then he got right in my face and spread his coat so I could see his pistol in his belt and he demanded satisfaction and said he would get it one way or another!

I looked him dead in the eyes and growled, "Sir, you've come a long way to suck a bull, and I'm afraid you will go home dry!"

He grabbed me round the neck and commenced to chokin me as best he could with his tiny little fingers that were as weak as a newborn colt's legs. I reached under the blanket and pulled out the clay piss-pot that I just filled up and walloped him a good one over his skull. Why it broke in a hundred pieces and warm yeller rain covered his scrawny face. He hit the floor with a good size gash to prove his foolishness.

Junebug and May come runnin when they heard the commotion and had a good laugh with me. I offered to have Junebug stitch up his head but he was too mad to oblige the offer. This was a wonderful day, ceptin fer finding out bout Suzy. May her sweet, sweet soul she rest in peace.

Well, it weren't but a few days later when I was feelin a might better and out of the sick bed that the 'The Folly' began. My son Nathan has a boy that's 16, by the name of James, after Nathan's brother that was kilt by savages in Kentuck. My son James was the sweetest youngun a father ever had. My grandson James is as worthless as they make em. Can't tell ya why . . . I mean he has Boone blood in him through and through. And my son and daughter-in-law are good folk. But that boy has a seed from the devil in him I reckon cuz he just don't pay no mind to no one, and he ain't got respect fer nuthin.

Seems he took my ole long rifle without askin me and went huntin. That rifle has seen a lot of adventure and has a few notches on the butt to prove it. Them notches are fer the Injuns I kilt and there's quite a mess of em. But I never kilt an Injun what didn't need to be kilt. Why some of em are as close as kin to me. But others will always be enemies on account of friends and family they kilt without cause.

So James, my grandson, was huntin with my rifle when he was surprised by a band of Sioux that has come down from way up north. These savages have robbed and burned out a few of our neighbors in the past few months. They took his horse and my rifle, but let James him go. I'da hoped they done it the other way round. Nathan was in St. Louis getting supplies so after a pow-wow with Junebug we set out with the boy to get my rifle back. I can't stand the thought of a savage killin whites with my rifle!

Junebug didn't want me to go cuz of my age and condition. I finally got him to see it my way so then he didn't want the boy to go with us, as he would surely be in the way. But, James is responsible fer this predicament so I felt strong as an oak that he needed to go. I knew this will be very dangerous and more than likely will put some bark on the boy . . . if he makes it. Either way I didn't care, he needed it.

Out on the trail things went bad right off on account of James. The first night we are camped out bout 3 miles behind the Sioux. Junebug and I counted 6 of them from their tracks, though James said there was closer to 30 that robbed him. I expected exaggerating from the boy as he has a difficult time corralling the truth.

After dark Junebug and I went to sleep, but was woke up by a loud boom from a rifle. James heard some noise in the bushes and thought it was one of the Sioux doublin back. Junebug went into the bushes and brought back the body of Bear, my dear old hound that came along with us.

I loved that dog for 10 years and can't believe he died thataway. That boy was losin stock he never had to begin with. I remember thinking that James better not relieve himself in a bush or I might get scared and squeeze off a round myself. Ignoramus!

We gained ground on them savages over the next couple days and I hoped we would catch up to them soon. It was another learnin day for James. He was supposed to stay put one morning while we hunted up some meat for us, but instead he went huntin on his own. Wanted to prove something to us I reckon. Well, he tried to walk across a pond he thought was frozen. When it cracked and thundered he slipped and fell and hit his head. Then he just cried like an igit, thinking he was goin through the ice any second.

An old Injun came by and said he would get him off the ice safe, but wanted his horse in trade. James made the deal and we came upon em as it was finishing up. It turned out the pond was less than 3 foot deep, so the Injun just stomped out there, breakin the ice and pulled James to his feet. He weren't in no danger at all . . . the lummox.

When they got back to the bank James was a holdin the reins tight and wouldn't make good on the trade, on account of getting tricked. Junebug and I made him give his horse to the ole Injun, by the name of Two Feathers. The boy just don't get it, but a deal is a deal . . . even though it might have some hair on it like that one. A man has to stand by his word on any deal, big or small. Being a fool don't give ya grounds to be a welcher. Never had no use for a welcher myself. And now . . . he was a walker!

Turned out Two-Feathers got robbed by that by the same band of Sioux that we're trackin. He said there were 6 of em, jus like we figured. I gave the ole Injun some jerky and a gun so he can get back to his family with some protection. I asked him bout his name and he told us it comes from when he was born. He was a twin, but his brother died 2 days later and they give him that name to remind him of his departed sibling. Said his twin was his spirit guide and always protected him.

He called me Sheltowee, which is my Injun name given to me long ago in Kentuck. I asked him how he knew that and he said everyone knows of Sheltowee among his people. Two Feathers was a good man and I sent him on with hopes he made it home with his scalp.

Tragedy struck the very next day. We came to a cabin what has been built next to a hillside in a very peaceful valley. But in the cabin was a young man and woman each swinging from the end of a rope. Besides being hung they was both scalped and looks like the savages tried to set fire to em. They was covered with tar from the roof the folks were fixin up. They had a few scorch marks, but reckon they give up on it. I think its cuz their scout saw us coming from a distance and they rode out quick . . . I hoped not.

I hoped not as we want them to slow down so we can catch up quicker. We dug proper graves for em and James emptied his stomach a couple times as we cut em down. Can't blame the boy fer that. Think he mighta grow'd a little after being a witness to something like this. Killin and scalpin a woman has never set well with me. A man is a man and will at least fight ya fer his life. But a woman is God's way of makin new life and ought not to be disgraced. Well, at least now we knew what kind of savages we were dealin with. The worst kind.

The next day we found that we were getting mighty close to the Sioux. Their tracks told us they ain't movin in no hurry so they didn't know we're following. That's what we hoped fer. In the next day or so we thought we could catch up. Me and Junebug decided that these vermin needed killin or they'll just keep on killin. Otherwise we'd sneak into their camp whilst they was sleepin and take my rifle and all their horses. But . . . ain't no doubt bout this, they are woman killers and need to be kilt.

James weren't too fond of the killin part and was about to piss himself with worry. We figured he better hang back and wait fer us. He would surely get us kilt along with himself in his present cowardly condition. It's a toss up to me, what I can't stand worse . . . a coward or a welcher?

After another day and a half of trackin we caught up with the savages. It was quite an ordeal that took place. I'm still shakin my head.

We left James behind a couple miles when we knowed we was close. Bout dark me and Junebug finally caught up with them and found them eaten round a fire. We crept in close without snappin a twig until we were right up on them savages.

I gave the signal and we each shot one dead with our rifles and then rushed em with our pistols and kilt 2 more. The first one I just aimed at the loud, disgusting chewing and hit the mark. Then the next one charged me so I fired my pistol as I was right upon him and gut shot him. I didn't see but I heard Junebug's pistol fire as well and heard the thud into the body. But there was 2 left and I couldn't get my tomahawk up fast enough and one of them struck me down with his.

Junebug was struggling with the other savage, but he flat give up when the other one got the drop on me and threatened to crack my skull wide if he kept on a fightin.

They tied us up and looked over their dead. One at a time they turned them over and let out a loud scream showing their grief. I reckon based on the amount of caterwauling they was related to a couple of them.

The savage what got the drop on me walked slowly over to me and glared down. His eyes were as angry as any savage I ever seen. "This is the great warrior Sheltowee?" he exclaimed in his own language. He laughed and kicked my side, bustin a rib or two. "You are an old man Sheltowee. You should have been dead a long time ago." he snickered. "You should be hunkered in a warm shelter close to the fire with the squaws and the children."

"You are a worthless coward." I told him in the Sioux language.

"Does your squaw have to chew your food for you old man?"the savage asked me.

"Leave him alone!" Junebug hollered.

"Is this your squaw, the black one who looks like a moonless night?" he snickered.

"Your old gray scalp will look good on my lodge pole Sheltowee. It will bring me much honor among my people." he strutted by the fire.

"Do your people honor the hanging and burning of innocent women?" I asked him. "I have met many brave warriors who deserve respect in my time, but you deserve a beatin and a cold hard death, one this old man will gladly give you."

"I did that not for honor Sheltowee. I did that for my own enjoyment. Listening to her scream was like the sweet music of the howling wolf. And I defiled her too, before she swung in the breeze like a lost leaf, I had her many times."

I have never been stoked up and full of hate as I was right then.

"I am not a helpless squaw; untie me and I will show you the fire this old man still has and I will snuff out your evil light once and for all." I told him. "Unless you are afraid as you rightfully should be."

That riled him up as the other savage began laughing loudly at him and mocking him. "I think Sheltowee kills you if you untie him." he scoffed.

That fired his furnace even more and so he pulled his knife and flipped me over to angrily cut my ropes off. His act was interrupted by a loud BOOM and the savage fell dead on top of me. Then out of the dark came a blood curtlin war scream and my grandson James dove on the last Injun with a powerful fury. But he quickly got twisted underneath and the Sioux warrior knocked him unconscious with a mighty blow to the jaw. In fact one of James front teeth landed in my lap as I rolled away from the Injun he had shot dead.

The savage stood up and was just bout to stab James with a knife when there was another boom that scared the unholy tar out of me and Junebug. Truth is I leaked a little water on that one. The Injun fell dead on top of James and out of the bushes come Two Feathers! I ain't never been so happy to have soiled britches in all my days!

He said that his spirit guide, his twin brother, told him that we were gonna need help so after a few miles he turned back to find us. We celebrated with the Sioux's whiskey and venison, which is always the best kind, and headed for home in the morning. I invited Two Feathers to stay the winter with us and he agreed.

After cleaning my ole rifle that the Injuns stole, I gave it to James with much pomp. Then I notched it on account of the savage he kilt, even though it was with a different rifle. He almost teared up but I made sure he knew that wasn't a moment for tearing.

I imagine that truly will be my last adventure, although these days just makin water can be a bit of an adventure for me. But, I reckon that's my reward for livin so long.