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."