Trouble at Murder Creek
by Wm. Epps

The lowing of the cattle was deafening to Rock Miller's ears. All his hard work was going up in smoke right before his eyes. Hundreds of cows he had brought in and carefully nourished were dying right in front of him. And all because James Gould didn't like him homesteading on the best water around. So, what had Gould done? He had fenced off the water hole. Now, only Gould's cattle to the south could get to the precious water. And in this country, water was worth more than gold.

Well, he'd be damned if he was gonna sit here and take it, Miller thought. He started to the nearest fence and shook out his rope. As he made a cast towards the nearest fence post, a rifle cracked from the south. Miller instinctively threw himself from his mount and tried to see where the shot had come from.

The Sandhills of the Loup River Valley had few spots to hide from a rifleman, Miller thought wryly.

"Don't even think about tearing down that fence, nester!" a hard voice carried to him.

Miller scanned the area where the voice seemed to have come from. He instantly saw a slight hill to his left that would hide a man or two. Rock Miller had fought and survived in the Union Army all through the Civil War, and knew a thing or two about war and tactics. Well, if they wanted war, they could damn well have it, he thought to himself grimly.

Rock rolled over to his left and levered three quick shots at the hill hiding the unknown shooter. He was instantly on his feet, running for his horse in a low crouch. He leapt into the saddle and stuck his spurs to the big stallion, sending him down a long hill back to the north, where his ranch house was.

He put his horse into a ground-eating lope, keeping his eyes on his back trail to be sure he wasn't followed. On the trip home, he turned over the events of the past few months in his mind.

James Gould was the largest rancher in the area with 10,000 head of cattle and a bankroll that would choke a horse. The only problem was, Gould had never filed on any of his land. He had just started ranching like most old-timers did and held it with guts and guns. Lately, he had started pushing the smaller ranchers out. Those that didn't take him up on his pitiful offers to sell found themselves frightened off. With no proof or witnesses, Gould's holdings had grown tremendously. If it wasn't for the heavy-handedness of that, Miller had a grudging respect for the man. He knew what it took to come into a raw and wild land and build a ranch. But, damnit, there was room for all, Rock thought angrily.

Rock, rode into the yard and, as he always did, felt a glow within him. He had seen this place several years ago and had fallen in love with it. From the wind-swept sandhills, to the beautiful yellow and purple wild flowers that dotted the landscape, it was a cattleman's paradise. All it needed was water. And that was the problem. Gould had fenced him out of the best water around. Murder Creek was cold, clear and always full, even in the driest of times. Rock had often thought it must be fed from underground somewhere. He knew that the water beneath the sandy soil wasn't too far down. The well he had sunk on the home place, was only about fifteen feet down or so.

Miller had seen that the land was going to attract more and more ranchers, so he had done what many had not. He had filed a homestead proper-like at the state courthouse back in the capital of Lincoln. A lot of good that would do him if he ended up dead in the near-by sandhills, he thought.

Rock, hummed quietly as he walked his horse into the barn. He stripped the saddle and bridle off the big sorrel. He grabbed an old grain sack, and rubbed the stallion down vigorously. The horse stood spraddle-legged and leaned into the cowboy, obviously enjoying the attention.

"Hey, take it easy ya big galoot." Rock laughed as he pushed the horse. "Yore way bigger than me, darnit." With that, he turned him into the stall and poured a healthy bit of grain into his feed trough.

"See ya tomorrow old son." Rock said as he swung the barn door shut to keep out any coyotes. Although, if one wanted to get in, he probably could, but he would regret it if he did. The big stallion was a fighter and would kick to pieces any sort of threat to him.

Rock opened the door to his small, but tidy ranch house. He had brought in wood to build, instead of the typical sod house. It had cost quite a bit more, but he had saved his money in the past, taking herds over the trail, from Texas to New Mexico and Colorado. At the time he had worked for Charles Goodnight. Later he had taken two herds to Dodge City, Kansas and one to Ogallala, Nebraska, ramrodding for Milton Kurten and his HK brand out of the Brazos, Texas area.

He threw his sweat stained Stetson onto the sturdy, hand-made table. Sighing tiredly, he plopped down in the chair and stretched out his legs to work the kinks out of them after being in the saddle most the day.

Damn, Gould anyhow, he thought darkly. The man already had as much range as he could handle. Well, the thing to do, Rock thought, was to get to town tomorrow and lay in a bunch of supplies and be prepared for a war.

Rock guided the big stallion silently through the sand hills. His plan was to slip into the tiny town of Dunning and load up on supplies. He was also going to have to sell off some of his herd it looked like as well. He was going to need money and soon. The Chicago-Burlington line had extended this far west in the last year or so, making it easier to ship his cows back east. It rankled, because he hadn't planned on selling many this year yet. He was still trying to grow his herd, and selling off stock, wasn't going to help.

The dusty street was fairly quiet, with only a couple wagons being loaded at the mercantile. He guided his horse to the hitching post in front of the store. He swung down, and wrapped the reins with a slip knot on the post. He patted the horse on the neck, and climbed the two steps up to the door.

He swung open the door and stood there for a moment, letting his eyes get accustomed to the dimness. He strode to the back counter, where the clerk, Robert Branson, was helping a pretty young woman with some bolts of cloth. Branson nodded at him.

Rock walked around the store, making a list of the supplies he would need. He figured he'd order it now and come back in a day or so with his wagon and load it up to take back to the ranch. Flour, bacon, beans, coffee. He also, figured he'd better lay in a goodly amount of .44 ammo. He scratched it all down on a piece of paper he had torn from his tally book.

He walked back to the rear counter, just as the girl turned with three or four rolls of calico and other material in her arms. Rock immediately reached for them, taking the burden from her. "Here ma'am, let me help you with that." He said to the pretty blonde.

She peered at him from beneath her bonnet. "Thank you, kind sir." He followed her to her wagon, and helped her stow them in the back. "Do I know you?" she asked.

Rock shook his head. "No ma'am, I don't think so. I don't get to town much." He tipped his hat. "My name is Rock Miller."

The young woman climbed into the wagon and unwound the reins from the brake handle. Just as she started to speak, two men on horseback rode up beside her. The older of the two, gave Rock a funny look, before speaking to the woman. "You ready to go, ma'am? The boss will be looking for us soon."

"Yes, Luke, I'm ready. He'll just have to wait, won't he," she replied pertly as the man looked uncomfortable.

She looked down at Rock who was turning back towards the store. "Thank you again, Mister Miller, for the help."

Miller took off his hat. "Yes, ma'am. That's just how I was raised ma'am."

"You don't have to call me ma'am. My name is Margaret. Margaret Gould."

With a snap of the reins, Margaret Gould left Rock Miller standing there with his mouth open and dust settling all around him.

Rock watched until the buckboard rounded the corner out of sight. Damn, what a thoroughbred, he thought. Obviously, that was Gould's daughter or some kind of kin. She was much too young to be his wife. He shook his head as he walked back into the store.

He waited for Branson to get done with the customer he was with. Finally, the portly store clerk walked down to where Rock was standing, patiently waiting.

The clerk looked around the store nervously. "Um . . . what can I do for you, Miller?" he asked.

Rock handed him the slip he had been writing on. "Go ahead and fill this please and I'll be back tomorrow with my wagon to pick it up."

Branson nervously ran a grimy finger under his collar. "Sorry, Miller, I can't sell you any of this."

Rock was incredulous. "What the hell do ya mean, ya can't sell me this?"

The clerk bobbed his head. "I shore would iffen I could." He looked around as he lowered his voice. But, Mister Gould has put a hold order on anything you or any other nester buys."

Rock's explosive temper flared. "Who owns this store? You or Gould?"

"Ya gotta understand, Rock." Branson said voice quavering. "Gould can bury me iffen he decides to stop buying from me. He makes up a major part of my sales."

Rock scowled. "Well, I sure hope you can sleep at nights. Looks like you know where yore bread is buttered and that's more important than doing what's right, I reckon."

The trembling clerk, swallowed hard. "That ain't fair. A man's gotta live."

"Yore shore right about that, but it seems ya ain't particular in seeing another man die, as long as it ain't you."

The clerk opened his mouth to answer but Rock Miller had already spun on his heel and was striding out of the store.

Outside the store, Rock leapt into the saddle. He stuck spurs to the big stallion, who reared in surprise at the sudden pain. The horse took off like his tail was on fire. He was unused to his owner treating him like that. After a half mile or so, Rock reined the stallion down. As the horse slowed to a canter, the cowboy bent over his mounts neck and rubbed it. "I'm sorry old son, didn't mean to startle ya none." Rock reined him down to a walk. "Well, I reckon, I'll have to see about selling some of my cows." He said to the horse. "Let's ride over to the station and see if they can get me some rail cars here to ship some back east."

Rock, guided his horse with his knees as he rolled a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. He lit it and took a big draught of it, blowing out a blue stream while he thought.

This was shaping up to be a war. Rock did a quick mental tally of his herd. He hoped he could sell off some of his older cows who hadn't been producing of late. He sure didn't want to sell any young stuff if it could be avoided. If he could sell a hundred head, that ought to keep him afloat for a while longer. Anything past that, and he was going to have to sell some young stuff and that would cut. But that still didn't address the actual problem with Gould. What could he, one man, do against the group of gun slicks that Gould was sure to bring in? He knew of a couple gunmen in the area he could hire, but he didn't want to go that route when the law would inevitably be called in. No, he thought, I'm on the right side of the law here, and I will stay there. Gould obviously didn't know that I settled on my land legally. No, the thing to do, was scrape some money together to weather the storm, until he could get a federal marshal here to look at his papers and deeds. It was a cinch that the local sheriff, Jeremy Cason, was in Gould's hip pocket.

With that, Rock pinched out his cigarette, and headed towards the rail depot to see about shipping some cattle.

Rock swung down at the rail head. He tied off his mount to the worn hitching rail. Patting the big horse on the neck, he walked to the ticket window.

His good friend, Jason Shubert, was scratching his pencil on a paper pad on the scarred counter when he looked up at Rock.

"Howdy, Rock." The young man threw a crooked grin at the dusty cowboy. He stuck his hand out, and Miller grabbed it and shook it with pleasure.

"I'm all right, I reckon." Rock answered. "Wanting to see iffen ya got any cars that I can schedule to ship some old biddies back east."

Shubert's normally ruddy face, blanched. "Umm, I wish I could Rock. But it come down from the bosses in Omaha."

Miller took a deep breath, knowing the answer even before he asked the question. "What come down?"

"They said we ain't supposed to ship any stock for you. Or for three or four other of the smaller cattlemen around, as far as that goes."

"What the hell, Jason?" Rock queried. "I need money. Gould is trying to clip me hard. If I don't get some money to tide me over, he'll take everything I worked for."

Shubert nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I reckon that's what's behind this. Gould can and will send much bigger shipments, so he's got the railroad on his side. It don't hardly make sense for them to send a half dozen cars way out here, for your small lot, when Gould will need thirty or better."

Rock Miller had rarely been at a loss or unsure of what he needed to do, but right now, he was stumped. Well, he'd be damned if he'd roll over without a fight. "If Gould wants a war, By-God he's about to get it. Let's see if he can take the heat from a man who won't buckle under." With that, Miller, turned on his heel and strode back to his horse. He had plans to make.

Jason Shubert watched his friend mount his horse and ride off in a cloud of dust. He was deep in thought when he suddenly snapped his fingers and smiled to himself. He looked out to make sure he didn't have any other customers waiting. He pulled the CLOSED shade down over the window and hurried to the telegraph office. Little did he know what action those two telegraphs would start.

Margaret Gould walked into the cool ranch house, slapping her gloves into the palm of her hand. She was perturbed. Her father had always seemed larger than life to her. Her mother had died when she was a small child, and she had never really known her. Her father knew nothing about how to raise a young girl. But, he had doted on her and raised her the best way he knew. Even if he was clumsy in his approach at times, he had done the best he could and Margaret loved him for it.

But, right now, she was upset with him and wanted to talk to him. She had met Rock Miller, and had come away impressed. She had taken her father's word that the smaller ranchers he was pushing out were thieves and malcontents who stood in the way of progress. Whose progress, she now wondered. The man she had met was nothing like the picture her father had painted of the smaller ranchers.

"Dad!" she yelled as she walked through the spacious ranch house. "Where are you?"

"I'm in here, honey." A deep voice rumbled from the office that stood off of the great room.

Margaret strode in, threw her hat and gloves onto the horsehair sofa. She stood behind her father with her arms crossed, waiting for him to look up from the paperwork he was intent on and acknowledge her presence.

As she waited, it hit her how much her father had aged in the last few years. He had always been a giant to her. Big, strong, and indomitable. But, suddenly she realized he was getting older.

"Dad, do you have a minute?"

"Sure, Little Britches." He father said looking up, using the term of affection he had called her since she was a small child.

"Dad, I just met Rock Miller."

Gould's brow furrowed as he tried putting the name to a face. When it came to him, he stood up from his chair. "Where did you meet that no-good saddle tramp at? What did he say to you? By God, he didn't insult you, did he?"

"No dad, he didn't insult me. He was actually quite the gentleman." Margaret answered. "I want to know what you have against him."

"He's a nester honey. Nesters poach on our land, steal our cattle and get in the way of what we're trying to build."

"Have you ever talked to him? Asked him what his plans are?"

"I don't need to ask him. I've seen his kind come and go. They sit on the best water around. They end up stealing my cattle and they take up land that is better suited to the larger ranchers."

Margaret shook her head. "Do you listen to yourself, dad? You used to be a little rancher too."

"That's right. When I came out here, there was nobody else. I was the one who fought Indians, drought, blizzards, and the bad times to make this a paying proposition," Gould said, his face getting redder as he went. "Who is Miller, or any of these Johnny-come-latelies, to try and take that away from me?"

"Maybe if you just spoke with some of these men, you could come to an understanding."

"The only thing they need to understand is to get out. I civilized this country! I'll be damned if I let some wet behind-the-ears nester take what's mine. Hell, Little Britches, it was because of me and what we did here that there's even a town."

The girl stamped her foot angrily. "Well, Dad, if you didn't want people around you, you shouldn't have built your darn town!" With that, she spun on her heel and stomped out of the room.

Gould watched as she marched out of the room and slammed the door behind her. He sighed in exasperation. If only her mother was still alive, to help him understand his daughter better.

Rock Miller had been busy the last couple of weeks. He had moved his cattle to a stream north of his property to try to salvage his herd. It didn't have the constant flow of Murder Creek, but it was better than nothing. Fortunately, it had been a wet spring, so they were all right for now.

Ironically, the last week or so, he had also had several run-ins with Margaret Gould. Whether by accident or design, he wasn't sure. The first time, he had been moving his cattle and as he crested a small hill, there she sat on her horse. He had to admit, she looked mighty fetching sitting there on her paint pony. They had talked a little and then gone their separate ways.

Then, just a day later, she rode into his ranch yard. He offered her some coffee, she accepted, and they had talked for several hours. She had ridden away, looking back over her shoulder until she was out of sight.

Rock shook his head in confusion. Here was a girl that he definitely wanted to get to know better, but her father was his enemy. Suddenly, he laughed at himself. What would a young woman with definite breeding want with a man like him. She lived on a ranch that would make a dozen of his. He'd better get this crazy idea out his head, especially if this trouble with her father led to gun play.

Besides, he needed to keep his mind on his problems, and not moon around like some love-sick younker.

Three dusty men slowly walked their horses up the dark street of Dunning. Fatigue was etched on all of their faces, yet it didn't make them any less aware of their surroundings. The rider in the middle, wearing a flat crowned, black hat pointed at the light spilling into the street through the batwing doors of the 'Kansas' saloon.

The man to his left, a short, stocky cowboy, laughed humorlessly. "Don't these birds know this is Nebraska, not Kansas?"

"Well, either way, let's stop in here and see what we can find out." His companion said.

The three turned their horses as if one and reined up in front of the hitching post. As they dismounted and tied their horses, the short stocky red head pointed at several horses wearing J-G brands. "Ya reckon these are some of the folks making trouble for Rock?"

"That's the brand that Jason warned us about in his telegraph, but guess we'll find out soon enough, Shorty." His companion said, as he ducked under the rail.

The three men strode through the bat-wing doors. The clamor of voices, along with an out of tune piano, were like a slap in the face after the quiet of the Nebraska night.

As they stopped just inside the doors, the saloon fell silent as the crowd turned as one to look at the three men.

What they saw were three, dust covered, hard looking men, who looked as if they had been riding for some time.

Shorty gave a derisive snort that could have been taken as anything and led his companions to the bar. The crowd, after a quick glance at the three men, turned back to their drinks, poker games, and talk.

The crude plank bar was packed with cowhands, dressed in chaps, spurs, and guns at their hips.

The tallest of the three strangers, waited patiently for the harried bartender to notice them. The red-haired Shorty, who was much more impetuous and wasn't in the mood for waiting, pushed his way through the throng and slapped his hand on the bar, getting the attention of the man at the end of the bar. He held up his hand, "A bottle of your best whiskey and three glasses."

A cowhand wearing a striped vest at a table in the corner laughed out loud. "Lookee here boys, we got us a regular Andrew Carnegie on our hands."

The red-headed Shorty turned and leaned on the bar with his elbows. "Well, it's better than being a braying jackass, I always say."

The cowhand in the corner stood up to face the three newcomers.

"What's that about a jackass? Are ya calling me one?" he asked, red-faced.

Shorty took a swallow of the drink that had been set in front of him and smiled innocently. "Well, I reckon ya can take it anyway ya want."

"We don't take to strangers here abouts, you sawed off little runt."

Shorty raised his eyebrows and looked sideways at his friends. "Ya think he was making fun of my height?"

The tall companion at his elbow nodded his head slowly. "I reckon he was Shorty. But, that's no need to get riled. You've always been short."

The pugnacious cowboy, shrugged. "Yeah, I reckon so. But you know something Pete?"

"What's that"? the tall cowboy asked trying to hide a smile. He knew his friend and he knew what was coming. Shorty was going to throw down the gauntlet to see how things sat between their friend Rock and the town. And by God he was going to do it right now. And he wouldn't care where the chips flew when he did it.

"I may be short. The good Lord knows there ain't nuthin I can do about it. But you'd think, being a braying jackass, a man would go out an get hisself an education. That a way he isn't so . . . what's the word I'm looking for, Joe?" Shorty asked his stocky companion to his left.

Joe Bailey, never one to talk much, also knew where Shorty was going. "I reckon you mean ignorant." He drawled.

The red-headed cowboy snapped his fingers loudly. "Yeah, that's it. Some folks are just plain ignorant." He took another sip of his drink. "I reckon they jest can't help being an ignoraymoose, huh Pete?"

The tall man shook his head. "That's shore a fact, Shorty." He said sadly.

Several people in the saloon snickered out loud. The cowhand wearing the striped vest, now red of face, shoved his way through the now quiet crowd. A crowd that felt the tension and had eyes for nothing else than the scene in front of them. A couple wiser cowhands, stepped into the background, in case bullets started flying.

He walked up to Shorty and stuck his finger in the shorter man's chest. "Listen here runt—" that was as far as he got, as he suddenly found himself on his knees in pain. Shorty had grabbed the offending digit and bent it over backwards almost to the breaking point.

Shorty bent down to whisper loudly in the loud mouths ear. "No, you listen, amigo. We came in here minding our own business. Then you brayed at us like a jack ass." He looked around at the crowd. "We just come up here from Texas, to visit our good friend Rock Miller. Do y'all know Rock?"

Shorty peered around the smoky saloon. "Speak up, fellars. Rock is a good friend of ours. Heard some of you around here been giving him a hard time."

A tall lanky puncher with buck teeth stood from his seat at a near-by poker table. He walked towards Shorty. "Yeah, what of it? Yore pal ain't nuthin but a low-down nester, stealing cattle and land from the boss."

Shorty grinned as he put a little more pressure on the finger of the man in front of him, bringing a low moan of pain from him. "I'll tell you what, friend, Rock Miller has never been and isn't now a cattle thief." His gaze swept the room with black eyes that looked daggers into the now silent crowd. "And anyone who says he is is a damned liar."

"Well I say he is, whatcha gonna do about it, runt?" the man said as he swung a fist at Shorty's chin. The punch never landed, as suddenly, Pete standing next to Shorty, came around with the butt of his Winchester. The resounding smack sounded like an axe hitting wood. The malcontent's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell like a log.

Pete cooly looked around. "Anybody else want a piece of this?"

Apparently, nobody did. The crowd sat in their seats, watching to see what would happen next.

Shorty looked over the group of men. He took another sip from his glass and sighed. "Now, why would y'all think so poorly of our friend Rock?" he asked.

The tall cowboy who had been knocked out, tried to shakily rise to his feet. Joe Bailey, reached down to help him up. The cowboy slapped away the offered hand and pushed himself to a semi-upright position. Blood ran down his face from the deep wound in his forehead caused by the rifle butt. He stood in front of the three strangers, hatred burning bright in his eyes.

"I'll tell you why yore friend, Miller, is having problems." Spoke up a blonde puncher from the back.

"Why doncha come up here and let us buy you a drink, friend?" Shorty asked.

Most of the crowd looked angrily at the slim cowhand as he strode to the bar. Shorty nodded at the bartender to give the cowboy whatever he wanted. A glass filled with whiskey was slid their way. The blonde man picked it up, and downed it in a single gulp. He set the glass on the bar top and stuck out his hand to Shorty. "Name's Creighton Nelson. But, everybody just calls me Nels."

"Well, Nels, nice to meet ya. Why do ya think Rock is having problems here?" Shorty asked as he slowly built up a cigarette, while keeping an eye on the crowd. A crowd that was now listening intensely to Creighton Nelson.

"Easy. Cuz he settled on the best water around, and James Gould—"

"You'd better watch what you say, Nelson!" a voice carried from the back. "Mister Gould won't take kindly to you running yore mouth."

Nelson didn't appear to worry about the threat as he continued. "As I was saying, Gould has been ranching this area for years and used the grass and water as he saw fit. Then when the smaller ranchers came in and proved up on it, he got sore."

Shorty nodded slowly. "I can shore understand that, but has anyone talked to this popinjay, Gould, about it?"

Nelson shrugged. "Don't know. I rode for Gould for a while, last year. He's a decent boss. Takes care of his men. And don't discount what he's done for the town either. Folks generally like him and what he's done here. They just figger his business is his business, so they stay out of it. Problem is, he's had things his own way for a long time. I reckon if the two sides sat down, they might come to some kind of agreement."

"Hmm, interesting." Shorty said as he downed his drink and slammed the glass on the bar top. He looked at his two companions. "I reckon we need to look up Ol' Rock."

"Yep, let's start there." Joe Bailey said.

The three dusty men turned to leave, when Shorty turned back towards the crowd. "We're here to help our friend, Rock Miller. Make shore none of ya get in our way, sabe?"

As the doors swung closed behind them, the crowd started buzzing with talk.

"Those guys are as good as dead, once Mister Gould and his men hear about this." One puncher was heard to utter.

An old dusty cowpoke snorted. "You got it wrong friend. I wouldn't want to be in Goulds shoes for all of his cows when them boys show up and want answers. They don't appear to be playing no games."

James Gould frowned into the whiskey glass he held in his big right hand. He had heard the rumors of Rock Miller's friends coming to town. His foreman, Craig Cope, had told the story about the three strangers wanting answers in The Kansas, a couple nights ago. On top of that, his daughter had hardly spoken a dozen civil words to him in the last week or so. He turned up the whiskey glass and took a long swallow draining the contents. He started to pour another one when Margaret strode in with an angry look etched upon her face.

"So, dad, I see you're still fencing Rock's cattle off from Murder Creek. Doesn't it bother you that those cows may die or it will ruin him?"

Now it's Rock? Gould thought sourly. Where did I go wrong with my only daughter? "If it makes you feel any better, Little Britches, I plan on offering him a fair price for his cattle and all his holdings."

"Don't you Little Britches me, dad!" the girl stamped her foot. "What you're doing is wrong and you know it."

"Margaret, you don't understand. I need that water for my . . . for our cattle."

"At Rock's expense, though. Did you know he filed on that piece legally?"

Gould's head snapped up and his eyes blazed. "Where did you hear that from?" he demanded.

"Mister Shubert at the telegraph office. He saw the telegram from Rock to the state attorney, back east."

"I didn't know that. But, no matter. I held that land first and no Johnny-come-lately is going to take it from me." Gould replied angrily. Why couldn't Margaret just stay out of this business? Of course, he had raised her to be independent and to know the inner workings of the ranch that would someday be hers.

He suddenly chuckled, catching his daughter off guard.

"What's so funny?" Margaret asked suspiciously.

"Oh, I was just thinking how much you look like your mother, yet you are just as hard-headed as I am."

A slight smile came to the girl's face. "Dad, can you at least meet Rock and the others and listen to them?"

"Well, I won't promise anything, but I'll think about it." The older man said as he strode over and took his daughter in a warm embrace.

"That's all I ask for dad. I just know you'll learn to like Rock, if you just give him a chance."

"Hmm, maybe I should be asking you more about how you and this fella got on such good speaking terms."

Margaret smiled again. "Hmm yourself. He reminds me of . . . you."

"Well, this I do have to see then." Gould grunted. "Alright Little Britches, I'll meet with these nesters sometime in the next week or so, how's that?"

The girl squeezed her father back affectionately and simply nodded her head.

Rock Miller and his three companions rode into Dunning. Rock was going to bring this to a showdown with Gould. With his three old trail partners, he knew he had the all the support he needed. He had served in the Union Army with Shorty, Pete, and Joe. They had then all been on several Texas trail drives together. Hell, it seemed like they all saved each other's lives on more than one occasion. Three tougher and better men, he had never known.

"What's first on the list, Rock?" Pete asked.

"Well, I reckon, we'll head to The Kansas, and see if any of his hands know where we can look up Gould. And then lay it out, that we're not backing down."

The hot-tempered Shorty, who was always ready to scrap, rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Now, yore talking, Rock. Those busters need to realize they ain't God All-mighty."

Rock looked a little askance at his partners. "I would like to do this without bloodshed. I'm legal and in the right, but, well . . . " his voice trailed off.

Joe Bailey, the quietest of the four was also the most prescient of the group. He had felt Rock's reluctance to press the issue the last few days. He figured they were about to find out why.

"Well, it probably won't be up to you." Pete drawled. "Gould's boys will probably have a say, I reckon."

Rock nodded his head. "Yeah, I know. It's just . . . " he hesitated. "I been kinda meeting his daughter, Margaret. I like her, and want to get to know her better."

"And you reckon she might not like you as well iffen you kill her pa?" Shorty laughed.

Miller grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, there is that."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Pete replied.

"Hell, maybe you can just marry the gal, and Gould will give you yore place as a wedding present." Shorty guffawed.

"Maybe." Rock shook his head. "Let's get over to the saloon and see what we can find out."

The four men were tying their mounts to the hitching post in front of The Kansas saloon. Looking up, they saw Creighton Nelson leaning against the porch pillar.

"How you doing, Nels?" Rock called to him.

"I'm doing good. But thought I'd let you know there are about a dozen Gould riders inside, and the old man hisself is on his way."

Shorty clapped his hands together. "Good, time to wind this up anyway." He said as he started to the steps up on the saloon porch.

"Them boys said they was going to run you outta town, Rock. And yore friends." Nelson drawled. "But that don't sit well with me. Iffen you need me, I'm here."

Rock smiled. "Thanks, Nels. Let's go in and give them their chance."

With that, the five men, walked through the door of the Kansas saloon.

At that moment outside, James Gould, his foreman Craig Cope, and three other hands, rode up to the Kansas and reined in their mounts.

As the big man swung down, the sound of running horses came pounding down the main street.

The four men turned to see Margaret Gould driving her buckboard around the corner and skidding to a halt in front of the saloon.

The old rancher stood there as dust from the wagon settled over them. As he stood waiting for his daughter to walk over to them, there was a loud crash as a body came flying through the door.

He looked down in surprise as one of his punchers tumbled into the dirt at his feet. The man stood up shakily, then balked in surprise to see his boss standing over him.

"What in hell happened to you?" Gould asked, as the bloodied cowboy got to his feet. "Anderson, you been fighting again!"

The skinny cowhand spat a glob of blood out into the dirt. "Shucks, boss, not much of a fight. I swung once and missed. He swung back and didn't."

"Who did it?" the rancher asked.

"It was that Rock Miller, boss. Him and his pals came in and said they wasn't moving off Murder Creek, and did anybody have a problem with it."

"And you did, did you?" Gould asked.

The puncher thought for a moment. "No sir, not no more I don't. That boy can hit."

The big rancher squared his shoulders. "We'll just see about that," he said. As he started for the saloon steps, Margaret, who had been standing aside taking in the conversation by the two men, now grabbed her father's arm.

"Dad, you can't be serious? You are way too old to be getting in saloon brawls. And remember when you said you'd listen to Rock and the others?"

"I know I did Little Britches, but damnit, he can't go around slugging our men." He replied angrily. "See, this is what I was talking about, when these nesters get a toe hold. They take a mile."

"Dad, if you get in a fight with Rock, I'll never talk to you again. I . . . I . . . I think I'm in love with him." She said the last softly.

Gould's head snapped up and his eyes turned slate gray. "By God, then maybe I do need to give him a whipping. Dallying with a young girl's affections that way." He shook his daughter's hand from his sleeve and started towards the door. "Miller." He bellowed. "Get out here and face your medicine."

The batwing doors swung open as Rock Miller stepped through them. "Howdy, Gould. What was ya yelling about?"

"I'm gonna give you the whipping you deserve, then you're gonna get the hell out of the Murder Creek pasture."

Rock looked down at the big rancher, turning over in his mind what he wanted to say. He hoped he didn't have to fight the man. Gould might be a good twenty-five years older, but he was still built like he was carved from stone. And he hadn't survived out here for the last twenty years by being soft. And, of course, there was the issue with Margaret. No, Rock was going to have go about this using his head.

"Whatcha sore about Gould? That land, along with the creek is mine all legal-like. You ought to check the records."

"That's neither here nor there. What you done to my daughter is what I'm mad about. Poisoning her against me and then trifling with a young girl's affections. She just told me she is in love with you. So, you been messing around behind my . . . her father's back and taking advantage of a young girl. You should be horse whipped."

Rock felt his heart soar as he looked over Gould's head and stared straight at Margaret. Their eyes met, and he smiled as he said. "Ya know something, Gould, I believe I agree with your daughter. I think I'm in love with her too."

That made the old man take a step back.

"And another thing," Rock said as he took a step down towards the older man. "You're so worked up about that land and getting us nesters off, ya haven't once thought to just talk to us like men. Did you know that Matt Huffman, the man you're trying to push out who lives twenty miles from you, was a constable back in Iowa? These men aren't criminals, they're just like you were twenty years ago. We simply want to build something of our own and be left alone."

"That makes no never mind. You gonna stand there and tell me that none of you nesters has ever stolen a beef from me? Or used up ground that I needed?"

Rock took another step down closer to Gould. "I can promise you I have never stolen anything from you or anyone else in my life. As far as Murder Creek and that around it, yeah you used it, but I filed on it legally. And as far as that goes, I don't ever plan on running more than three to five hundred head at any one time. There's plenty of water and range for both of us."

Miller could see Gould soften a bit. He could also feel men crowding behind him on the saloon porch.

Miller took one more step down into the street so he was a mere ten feet from the older rancher. "Give us a chance, Gould. We'll make good neighbors."

Suddenly, there was a sound behind him, and he heard the crowd gasp, and somebody yelled, "Look out!" Miller spun on his heel, just in time to see a lanky cowboy throw a huge roundhouse at his head. Rock blocked it with his left arm, and chopped a short right hand into the man's jaw. The crack was audible. The assailant crumpled on the spot and went down in a heap at Miller's feet.

Miller, swung back around to face Gould. "You can call your dogs off and leave us smaller ranchers alone, or there's gonna be hell to pay. You may have more men, but you're gonna feel it in your bottom line when they're all too busy fighting instead of taking care of your cattle.

Gould looked at the younger man. Then he stuck out his hand. "All right. You get your smaller ranchers together and we'll talk." The two men shook hands as Margaret came up and gave her father a quick hug, and whispered, "Thank you, dad." She then turned to Rock Miller and embraced him.

Rock looked over her shoulder at the older man. "Also, when this all settles down, I will come calling on your daughter and talk with you about taking her hand in marriage."

Gould started to open his mouth, but he saw the rapture in Margaret's eyes as she gazed upon the young rancher. Why the hell not. I could have a lot worse son-in-law. He's all man, that one. he thought.

He stuck his hand out one more time. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Coming Home
by Tom Hale

I wore my uniform home, not because I was so proud but because I didn't have anything else to wear. I'd been away with Walker's Greyhounds since July of 1862, so near on three whole years, ever since we formed up Camp Nelson. That's in Arkansas. Whole unit of Texans, under General John Walker, well we figured we'd whip the Yanks on our own.

Not that it made a difference to me, though. I mainly joined up because everyone else was, and I didn't have much holding me home in McAllen. That's where I'm from, and where I come home to after we got released from Hempstead. Never did surrender, but that don't mean much, I guess, once Lee surrendered it was all just about over for the rest of us.

But like I said, I never really was excited by the prospect of a Confederate States of America, and no one in McAllen was rich enough to have slaves anyway, so if Lincoln wanted to free them I didn't see how that affected me or anyone I knew. But I didn't have much else to do, and it seemed at least I'd get steady money and meals with the Army. They put me and Marcus, he's also from McAllen, into something called Commissary Store House.

The Commissary Store House was where all the food was kept and passed out to the different units and such. We'd travel with the men, but I can count on one hand the number of times I saw anything more exciting than a cow running loose from our herd.

Oh, there'd be Union artillery that would sometimes land closer than we woulda liked, but that was probably the most danger I'd faced, personally.

I remember Pa driving me to the enlistment post in town, me and him in the little one-horse wagon. He'd fought in the Mexican War but didn't talk about it much. "It's sort of exciting, isn't it?" he asked me. I told him it was sort of scary but also exciting, like I was going off on an adventure. He used to read me stories about knights and dragons and King Arthur, when I was little, and I felt like this would be my chance for an adventure of my own. That's about all we said on that ride, but it was a good ride, all the same.

Ma and my little brother Carl stayed back home, I reckon she didn't want to see me go and being with all those military men might have made her awful sad, so she stayed back. That suited me, too. I didn't want to see her sad, and I was glad Carl was with her to keep her spirits up.

But looking back, there wasn't anything for her to be worried about at all. I never even got close to the front, like I said, and sure those artillery shells sounded loud but they never got close enough to hurt me. They put the fear in me, though, I'll admit that freely.

A couple times stick out more than others, as far as them Yank cannons went. I always wanted to act tough, look brave in front of the other guys, even though they were as far from the real danger as I was and none of us were what you'd call hard men. But I wanted to be brave, and I read once some soldier, an Indian fighter I think or in the Mexican War, said you never hear the one that gets you.

Well that makes sense, I thought to myself, even though I had no reason to think it made any more sense than anything else. But I carried it around with me in my head, and I tell you what, the first time I heard them big cannons go off, everyone ducked for cover but me. No, sir, I stood straight up like it was nothing more than a light rain. Then my Sergeant yelled at me, "Woodson, get down!" and next thing I heard was a BOOM that rocked the camp and I'm not ashamed to say I hit the ground right along with the rest of my company. Something about horses crying always got to me, after that. Can't get it out of my ears.

There were more shellings, of course. I had to jump out of a wagon and hunker down in a ditch once, luckily the mules didn't run off from us. One time I was even sitting in the outhouse for my morning constitutional—I've always been fairly regular—when the BOOMS started going off and I had to skedaddle, ain't no way I was gonna die sitting on the throne like that.

But that's as exciting as it got. Met some interesting folks and got around to different parts of the country I probably would have never gotten to. Not that they were all that nice but at least I could say I'd gotten out of McAllen for a spell.

I was happy to come home, looked forward to it the whole time I was gone. And I had Marcus to keep me company on the way back, and a few of the other McAllen boys. Before they turned us out they gave us our train passes, so I got to ride the train home. We got plenty of stares along the way from other passengers on the train and at the stations we'd stop at. Not all of them were friendly, I think maybe they thought we didn't do enough to whip the Yanks and blamed us for losing. They were right, of course, in a way. We didn't do much to whip the Yanks, we just passed out supplies and tended to the horses, nothing exciting like charging across the field or shooting off the big cannons. So it didn't bother me.

What bothered me was when people were excited to see us. I know that don't make sense but it's just how it is. Sometimes they'd want to buy us a meal, or a shot of whiskey. They'd call us heroes, even though we'd lost. They thought just because we were in uniforms back from the war we must have been in some of the big battles like the other soldiers. They'd clap us on the back and say, You did your best or It's a shame what them Yanks done. I didn't know how to tell them I never done anything worth a clap on the back, nevermind worth dinner or a shot of whiskey. I wasn't a hero, and I didn't like pretending I was.

Once we were grabbing breakfast at the train station along the way home. This was the last meal on the trip, I remember, we would get home that evening.

Anyway, we're eating the fried cornbread balls and sausage, washing it down with bulltermilk. We paid first, before we set down on a bench to eat, but this fat old man in a bowler hat carrying a carpetbag come over and bends down to talk to us, right in our faces, and says he wants to thank us "for our service," is what he says. Fine, that's bad enough but we're used to that and start to nod our welcome for his thanks, when he says, "I was gonna pay for your meal but didn't get a chance to." Well what good is that? I could tell anybody I was gonna pay for their meal. I didn't know what to say so I just said something like "thanks" or "that was nice of you." I hope he walked away feeling good for himself. People are strange.

Pa, Ma, and Carl must have been keen on the railroad schedule because they were at the McAllen station waiting for me when we pulled in. Reverend Wheeler was there too. Marcus's father was there too. Me and Marcus just about ran over any old ladies or young children in our way as we were getting off the train, we were so excited to be back home. I introduced Marcus to my family, and I met his father, then we split off.

I was glad to be home but I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't have a job waiting for me so I helped Pa on the farm, we grew wheat and corn and had a few cows that we'd milk but that was just for us, we didn't sell any of it and we didn't take any cows to market. But I had trouble filling my time, you see. Wake up, chores, breakfast, chores, lunch, chores, dinner, was how I spent my days. Sundays we'd go to church. I'd read when there was light, but then I'd sit up all night in the dark, sometimes until dawn. I had a chair in my room I'd sit in to put on my socks and shoes. Sometimes I'd be taking them off to get ready for bed and I'd sort of doze off for awhile. I wouldn't fall asleep, but I'd just go black for a bit, then snap back to real life. I'd be thinking of people I knew when I was away, and wondering what they were doing. Sometimes I'd think about that shelling.

Ma and Pa, and I suppose Carl, they knew that I wasn't in none of them big battles that were famous. Gettysburg or Manassas or Antietam. Never met any of the great generals neither, Lee or Jackson or Jeb Stuart. But the neighbors must not have known, because they all had questions about these things they'd heard of, and wanted to know what someone who had been in the War thought of it. I told them the truth, that I hadn't met any of the famous fighting men, but I couldn't bring myself to letting them down when it came to the battles. I didn't want to lie, though, that'd be worse, letting them think I was some hero. So I just said, "I don't like to talk about the battles."

Was that a lie? No. I didn't like to talk about the battles, mainly because I wasn't in them. But I did let them believe what they wanted, which was that what I'd seen was so bad I couldn't talk about it. Lie of omission, maybe. But Pa and Ma and Carl knew the truth, and that was all I needed.

Massacre at Murder Branch
by Roger Keith

William Spaws, a fifteen-year-old boy, was checking his beaver traps one morning along Beaver Creek. Little did he know that he would witness one of Kentucky's most tragic, vile events—the Massacre at Murder Branch.

William removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped gingerly into the cold mountain water. He could feel the smooth sand and scattered pebbles underfoot. Since the creek was only knee-deep, he stood for a while, enjoying the rushing water as it brushed past his legs. It was then that he heard the crying. Someone was moving along the trail on the north side of the creek. William moved to the far bank without hesitation and hid in the tall cane. If his father had taught him anything about the forest, it was always to be cautious—no matter what. He had instilled in him "never rush into anything" and always take the time to assess the situation fully. With that in mind, William waited and watched from his hiding spot.

Within a few minutes, it was evident to William that whoever was coming down the path was in a hurry, with some on horseback while others were afoot. By the sound of their approach, they were not trying to conceal their movements. In fact, there was a great deal of noise. The clamor included the heavy thud of unshod ponies, the clanging of pots and pans, the shuffling of feet, and the crying of children. This William knew was an Indian raiding party returning from the settlements.

William, now squatting, remained silent and checked Old Bess to ensure she would be ready if needed. He had difficulty seeing the entire group. But, out front was a Shawnee warrior on a large grey mare. The Indian looked just like William's Pa said Indians would look. He was tall and muscular. His skin was golden brown, and he had raven black hair that reached his shoulders. A lone eagle feather protruded from a knot of hair on the back of his head, pointing downward toward his right shoulder. He wore a breechcloth, leggings, and moccasins. He was bare-chested except for a doe-skin leather vest decorated with porcupine quills and red and blue beadwork. In all, he was a very fine-looking Indian, noble yet dangerous. The other Indians were similarly dressed, although most had shaved heads with just a small hair knot and feather. None of the Indians William saw had on war paint.

Behind the fifteen or so warriors were thirty or more stolen horses in five groups of five or six. Each group was tethered along a long plaited leather strap, controlled by a single Indian, also on horseback. They kicked up a thick cloud of yellow dust as they passed. The captives came behind the horses, coughing from the choking dust and crying loudly. All were women and children of varying ages. Stripped of most of their clothing, they struggled along in their underclothes. Each had their hands tied with strips of leather. They were herded along like so many cattle by two large Indians, who poked at them with sharpened sticks. The barefoot children stayed as close as possible to their mothers. All appeared exhausted as they moved doggedly along the trail.

At the end of the long line of captives was one lone child. He wailed loudly every ten seconds or so. It was clear that he was in great pain from his raw and bleeding feet. Just as he reached where William had left the trail to cross the creek, he stopped and began to cry loudly. A large burley Indian came back to see what was wrong. William did not hear what he said to the boy. But, what he saw reminded him of just how dangerous this situation was. The warrior, unable to quiet the boy, raised his tomahawk and struck the child squarely on the top of his head. He then wheeled his horse around and rode off to join the rest of the party. The boy, seven or eight years old, sank to his knees, blood streaming down his face and onto his bare chest. He sat there upright momentarily as though he had just paused to rest. Then he toppled over to one side—dead.

William wasted no time getting himself in order. He quickly put on his shoes and socks and rolled his pants legs down. Once fully dressed, he moved out of the cane and started down the creek on the opposite shore. He intended to get back home in case the Indians decided to head that way, but he decided to follow at a close enough distance to see their intentions. He reasoned that they would probably follow Beaver Creek to the Licking River, then northeast on their way back to the Ohio River. Chances are that they crossed Ohio somewhere east of the town of Limestone.

The south shore of Beaver Creek had only a narrow, faint game trail, nothing like the wide trail on the northern shore. Nonetheless, he hurried along as best he could, trying not to make too much noise. Up ahead, he could hear the crying and wailing of the captives. The noise was so loud that it was unlikely that the Indians would hear him moving along in the brush. Still, there was no reason to think he was out of danger. It was well known that the Shawnee kept a warrior as a rear guard, just in case they were being followed.

At the point where Cold Cave Creek enters Beaver Creek, the Indians turned due north. It was just as William had thought. They were headed for the Licking. That meant there was no immediate danger to his family on Dan Ridge. At that moment, he made a decision only a fifteen-year-old boy would make. He decided to follow the Indians and their captives to the Licking. He knew it was unlikely that he could do anything to help them.

Here, where the two creeks joined, he steadily climbed up the side of a steep hill. He knew that a wide animal trail crossed its western face. This way, he could parallel the group and watch them from above. This game trail provided an excellent vantage point since it was covered with low brush, meaning he could not be observed. He crept along the path for an hour until he arrived at a precipice overlooking a small clearing below. Here, another creek joined from the hills to the east. The Indians dismounted and watered their horses in the clear waters of Beaver Creek. The captives were also allowed to drink, albeit under heavy guard. William could see that the captives were utterly exhausted. The Indians had pushed their captives too hard. It was clear that they needed to rest.

The captives were placed together under a large willow tree near the creek bank. They huddled together as best as they could, still crying and trying to console one another. The Indians squatted to one side, talking. Some of them began to argue and after only a few minutes, all were engaged. Several of the Indians gestured toward the captives. Although most of the warriors were Shawnee, a few were from another tribe, as indicated by their dress and manners. These might have been Delaware or Mingos, but it wasn't easy to tell from William's vantage point. Tomahawks were drawn, threats were made, and some of the group had to be restrained. The leader, who William had seen at the head of the war party, interceded. He pointed to the captives and to the horses. Without hesitation, two of the disgruntled warriors rushed over to the captives and cut loose two women. The other disgruntled warriors retrieved eight of the stolen horses. Within just a few minutes, the selected captives had been placed behind two of the mounted Indians. The eight horses were tied together on a long line and led by another warrior. Once everything was in place, the entire group thundered north along the creek trail. The remaining Indians hooted and howled at them as they rode away—apparently in disgust.

A council was convened among the remaining Indians. They talked for several minutes. One warrior pointed back down the trail and gestured wildly—apparently, he was worried that they were being followed by the local militia, which had been called out by now. He ran over to the captives and continued his gesturing. Even William understood what he was saying. The captives were slowing them down. It was the horses they were after, and the captives were becoming a burden. It was easy to see that most of the group agreed. They had tried to move them too fast. Most would never reach the Ohio River, much less the Ohio villages.

Once again, the Indians squatted to listen to what their leader had to say. Then it was decided. The remaining stolen horses were gathered and tied together as before. In this way, one followed the other. A single-mounted warrior could move four or more along the path by himself. All but four of the Indians mounted their horses and began moving down the path. The four who stayed behind, including the leader, moved toward the frightened captives. One by one, they were all tomahawked to death—women and children alike. William looked away as the massacre began. How could they do that to another human being? he thought to himself. When he looked back, he was astonished at what he saw. The Indians were scalping the dead. They moved methodically from one body to the next, using their knives to first cut a ring around the upper part of the skull. Then, with a firm tug of the hair, the round, bloody scalp popped neatly off. The Indians tucked one edge of the scalp in their waistband, with the women's long hair hanging down like a gruesome grass skirt. Having finished, they returned to their horses and rode north down Beaver Creek.Far below lay the bodies of eighteen women and children. Their blood stained the waters of the small creek that would forever be known as Murder Branch.

William waited several moments before rising. Although he wanted desperately to go down to the massacre site to see if anyone had survived, he reasoned that it was not a wise thing to do. Just because these Indians had gone, it didn't mean that there were no others. In fact, this might even be the start of a general uprising. Cautiously, William moved back along the game trail, wiping tears from his eyes with this shirt sleeve. He now realized that everything his father had told him about Indians was true. They were savages and fit only to be killed—before they killed you. On this day, William saw his first real live Indians—they were not to be his last.

William began moving back along the trail that had led him to the overlook. By now, he had forgotten about the traps along Beaver Creek and wanted only to return to his family. He traced his way back to where Beaver and Cold Cave intersected from the south. Here, he turned up a steep ravine, going home the same way he had come that morning. After a few minutes, he paused to clear his mind and to once again check Old Bess. He had lost his pack somewhere along the line, probably at the creek crossing. He hadn't even noticed it was missing—too much had happened. There was too much risk even to consider retrieving it. He was glad he had his rifle, powder horn, and leather pouch.

After a short rest to catch his breath, he continued the climb up the steep ravine. Although only a few hours had passed, it seemed like an eternity since he had passed this way. At last, he reached the top of the ravine. Now, all he had to do was follow the ridgeline trail, and he would be safely home. After hurrying along the trail for a mile, he pulled up to a dead stop. For a moment, he stood silently and listened intently. He was sure he heard voices but could not pinpoint exactly where they came from. Just to be safe, he moved off the side of the trail and waited. High up in the sky, he could see four large buzzards circling. He thought about those who had been killed and wondered if the buzzards had already detected them. A cold wind stirred the dust, blowing it down the trail away from him. He waited patiently, unmoving, just like his Pa had taught him. "Don't try to outsmart an Injun," he'd said. "You'll lose ever time."

Satisfied that he had heard only the wind, he continued onward. At a place where the trail makes a sharp turn to the right, he caught a glimpse of movement just off to the side. His first instinct was that he had perhaps glimpsed a deer, but instinctively, he knew it wasn't a deer—it was an Indian. What he saw next frightened him into action. The Indian, about twenty yards away in mixed woods, had his bow drawn with an arrow pointed directly at him. Instantly, he snapped Old Bess to his shoulder and pulled back the hammer. Both men fired simultaneously. The Indian's arrow went wide, but the ball from Old Bess caught the Indian just below his chin, tearing through his neck and severing his spinal cord. William did not wait to see if his shot was true. The instant he fired, he turned and ran back up the trail as fast as possible. His mind raced as he wondered if he had hit his target. William ran with no concern for how much noise he might be making. After a mile or so, mostly uphill, he paused to get his breath. He knew that he couldn't wait long; if there were other Indians, they would soon be in hot pursuit. He figured he had an even chance if they were on foot. At fifteen, William was strong and fast. He made up for what he lacked in numbers in strength and agility. After all, this was his neighborhood. He knew every nook and cranny of it for ten miles around.

He didn't have to wait long. He could hear his pursuers coming along the trail, shouting war hoops. By now, they most likely had determined from his tracks that he was alone—probably just a young boy. Nonetheless, there was little doubt that they were bent on revenge. The removal of young William's scalp would be a fine prize, even if it had been at the expense of their comrade.

At the sound of the warriors getting closer, William began a fast jog up the trail. His pursuers were still at a distance, and he knew he could outrun them if he kept up a steady pace. The important thing was to remain calm. He knew that the Indians would also have to stop to rest; no one could run flat out for any time. Running wouldn't be as important as where he would take them on the trail.

Arriving where he had left the ravine, William turned right instead of left. This would eventually take him over the cliffs toward Blackwater Creek. If his pursuers wanted a challenge, he was about to give them one. Following a very faint game trail, William began moving again downhill toward the cliffs. Last fall, he had tracked a wounded bear along this very game trail and had killed it just short of the cliff line. It was during that trip, he had found a way down the eighty-foot cliff to a small branch that eventually led out to Blackwater Creek. It was an alternate route home, although dangerous and not for the faint of heart.

The two young Delaware had no trouble following the trail of this boy who had killed their brother, Cakasca. Although the three had been hunting in Kentucky for the last six suns, they had little to show for their efforts. Since the Kentucky settlers had arrived, the hunting had dwindled to nearly nothing. They were only one of a dozen hunting parties south of the Great River. Now, they would have to return home empty-handed, carrying with them the body of their young brother. They must have the scalp of this young man. Only that would appease the tribe, but—even that would not comfort their mother.

William knew that he had youth on his side. At fifteen, he was in excellent health with the strength and stamina of a young buck. But these men who were following him had lived outdoors all their lives. They, too, were strong and full of resolve. After all, he had killed their companion. It was a foregone conclusion that if they caught him, they would kill him without hesitation.

He made his way along the base of the towering cliffs for over an hour. He knew that his pursuers would not give up until they had him dead at their feet, his scalp tucked neatly into their belts. He knew well that he was truly engaged in a life-and-death struggle, and for him to survive, he would have to rely on all of his senses and judgment. As he hurried along, he stayed as close to the cliff wall as possible, often backtracking, just like his father had taught him. He needed every slight advantage he could get. But, it seemed that the pursuing Indians grew closer every minute. Finally, he stopped behind a large boulder to catch his breath. To his amazement, he could hear his pursuers talking somewhere just below him. William listened intently, even though he could not understand what was being said.

William's pursuers had also stopped to catch their breath. They realized that it was senseless to continue at this pace. They'd had a glimpse of William at the beginning of the chase and realized he was a young man in his physical prime. They also realized they could unlikely catch this human jackrabbit before sundown.

"My brother, this one is a young boy, swift and cunning. Soon, darkness will be upon us, and we must see to Cakasca. We cannot abandon him to the forest animals," said Mateo

"No! We must go on while we still have light. We must track this white devil child down and gain revenge for our young brother. I will not rest until this white boy is dead by my knife," replied an angry Topika.

"I understand what you are saying, but we must take care of our brother, who lies dead along the forest trail."

"If you have no heart for this hunt—then you go! Go back and tend to Cakasca!"

"No heart! I want this revenge as much as you, my brother, but it grows late, and this young one knows these cliffs and streams. He will likely slip away during the night."

"It will not be so! I will find him in his hiding place and lift his scalp. I will hang it high on our lodge pole where all can see. I will point to it and say, 'There is the one who killed my brother Cakasca. I have taken his scalp in revenge!'"

"Brother, I hear what you say. I, too, grieve for Cakasca, but this is foolish. You will not catch this young one. He has vanished like the morning mist. "

"I will not give up! I will track him down! You return to our fallen brother. I will meet you at the great river-crossing place. Wait for me there for no more than two suns; if I do not return, cross the great river and take Cakasca to our village. I will return when I can."

"I will do these things, my brother. Here, take my knife. When you find the white devil, use it to take his life. Do this for me."

Although William could not understand what the Indians below were saying, he was sure it was about him. He could tell by the tone of their voices that they were arguing. He could only guess as to why. Perhaps they were arguing about who would kill him first.

Night was rapidly falling, and William knew he had to find a secure hiding place. A few miles further on, he arrived at Spaws, a creek named by his father. Since he had not heard from his pursuers for the last thirty minutes, he thought perhaps they had given up the search. Fortunately, he was familiar with this particular watershed and believed he knew where he could hide—someplace no one could find him.

He approached a high horseshoe-shaped cliff with a small waterfall a mile upstream. Just last year, while hunting along this same creek, he found a narrow passage in the rocks that allowed him to climb up the cliff face. It wasn't easy to climb in the failing light, but William made it without incident. At the top, several yards upstream, he found what he was looking for—a small double rockshelter, one atop the other. He had spent the night in the lower shelter twice, but the upper shelter was nearly impossible to get to—at least from the sandstone streambed.

Over time, the stream had cut through the soft sandstone to a depth of nearly twenty feet, forming something of a rock canyon. If William could get into the upper rockshelter, no one would be able to see him. Moving around in the streambed to get a better look, he noticed a branch from a towering hemlock hanging down over the rockshelter face. If he could climb up that tree, he could swing into the shelter. Slowly, he began the climb up the steep rock face. And, although it was difficult to see the hand and footholds in the near total darkness, somehow he made it to the top. Scampering over to the massive tree, he reached out and grabbed the limb. Sure enough, with his added weight, the limb lowered him onto the rockshelter ledge below just in time. In the gathering gloom, William could make out the form of an Indian standing at the top of the falls. He, too, had found the narrow passage up the waterfalls.

William moved far to the back of the upper shelter. Behind a long slab of rock that had fallen from the roof, he made his bed for the night. With his pack gone, he had no food or water. To keep him company, he had only Old Bess, who was always fully charged and ready for use if needed. He had learned long ago from his father that no matter what else you lose in the woods, you must never lose your gun. His father was fond of saying, "Even if ye run plum out of powder 'n shot, yer rifle still makes a right fine club."

That night, William would not sleep. Lying silently in the darkness, he doubted that he had actually seen the Indian at the top of the falls. Moving out from behind the rock, he relieved himself quietly on the rockshelter wall. It was then that he thought he smelled smoke. Could it be that the Indian was now in the lower rockshelter and had built a small fire to ward off the night chill? thought William. And although a wave of panic rushed through William, he composed himself. "No need to worry," he said to himself softly, "Old Bess will protect me."

That night would be the longest night of William's young life. He lay on his back, listening intently to all the night sounds. Over and over, he heard his mother say, "William, you snore louder than your father!" William knew it would not do for him to go to sleep only to wake up and find that he had given himself away by snoring. He passed the hours reviewing the events of the day.

Long before daylight, the morning birds began to sing. Their songs filled the sandstone canyon and drifted out over the trickling falls. The stream below gurgled softly as it found its way through the scattered rocks. Somewhere below, someone coughed loudly. I hope you catch your death, thought William. Save me a lot of trouble.

At daybreak, the Indian in the rockshelter below began to stir. First, he drank from the stream and washed his hands and face. After a few moments, he gathered up his belongings, including a long rifle, not much different than Old Bess, and headed upstream. William knew that he would not be gone long. Once he found no sign to follow he would return to the rockshelter, where William would be waiting.

As anticipated, the Indian soon returned. He traced his way back to the edge of the falls and then returned to the rockshelter. After a few moments of silence, William heard the sound of leather against sandstone. Immediately, he knew that his pursuer was climbing up the sandstone wall. Apparently, he had noticed the upper rockshelter and was determined to get a look for himself. William waited patiently, checking Old Bess one last time to ensure she would be ready when the critical moment came. Amazingly, William was not frightened—after all, there was only one way to get into the rockshelter. He moved slowly to the far end of the large rock slab, where he would have the line of sight he needed. He listened intently, trying to distinguish the morning sounds from those of the Indian moving along the top of the cliff. With a great whoosh, the intruder swept into the rockshelter. At that same instant, a flame leaped from the barrel of Old Bess. The ball tore through the Indian's chest, carrying him over the shelter's lip. With a great thud, he landed in the streambed below. William wiped his eyes from the acrid smoke and quickly reloaded—just in case. Once that was done, he crept to the edge and looked over. Far below, he could see the Indian lying lifelessly at the edge of the stream. A long string of blood seeped from his body and began to stain the water red. William Spaws had killed his second human being in as many days.

Cautiously, William moved along the top of the cliff until he found a place where he could safely climb down to the creek below. Moving back to where the Indian lay, he approached the body. The Christian thing to do, he reasoned, was to bury the body, but the wise thing to do was to leave it where it lay and continue on his way home. There was no way to be sure his companions were not making their way to his location after hearing the shot. With that thought in mind, he turned from home. He'd had enough adventure for a fifteen-year-old boy to last him a lifetime.

The Petticoat Posse of Shade Gap
by Gary Clifton

Kate heard the kid coming on the dead run screaming her name a full minute before he nearly ripped off the city hall screen door. "Miz Jackson, Miz Jackson, you gotta come quick. Three men jes' robbed the train station . . . murdered Mr. Miller. Yer husband done been shot, too!"

Katherine Jackson, mayor of Shade Gap, Texas had been elected in the Fall elections on the same day, her husband, Rufus, had been elected county constable. She crashed out the door into the beautiful April morning and ran headlong the city block from city hall to the San Francisco elevated rail station at the far end of town.

Several bystanders had gathered. Doc Ferguson, kneeling over her husband looked up. Fiftyish with thinning gray hair, he said, "Flesh wound, Kate. Through and through round in his left calf. Hurts like hell, but I'll get him over to my office and property clean the wound. He'll be dancin' the polka by Saturday night."

Kate knelt by her slender husband. "Rufus Jackson, I tried to tell you, you were a better preacher than a lawman." She dissolved in tears. "Who . . . why . . . ?"

"Three men, Kate, robbed Mr. Miller and shot him dead. And they grabbed Mr. Miller's little boy. I got one of 'um." He pointed to a dead man lying on his back in a widening pool of blood on a far corner of the platform. Doc Ferguson drafted several men to help carry Rufus to a waiting wagon. Kate walked over to where a crowd had gathered over the man.

"Why rob the rail station? Would they have any cash?" she asked.

The town banker said, "Between cash to make change for tickets and to operate the telegraph office, they might have had a hundred dollars. No theft is too small for some thieves."

The deceased was mid-twenties, slender, with sandy hair which blended into a thin, sandy beard. His half-closed blue eyes were fixed in the distant stare of eternity far above.

"Anybody know him?" Kate raised her voice. A round of muffled "no's" circulated. She did learn that of the two who had fled, one was a husky man of forty with black hair, riding a black gelding His companion was a youth of less than twenty with sandy hair and no hat. Witnesses insisted the hatless youth had taken no part in the crime. She figured the younger man was related to the dead man lying at her feet. "Well, the constable is down. We need men for a posse."

Receiving not a single volunteer for posse duty, she said, "Well by God, I'll go myself." As she started the walk back to city hall where her brindle mare was stabled, her sister, Rosemary Smith pulled up in a spring wagon. Kate mounted the wagon and pointed to city hall.

Rose was ten years younger than Kate. Tall and attractive, she supported herself by keeping books of several businesses in the community. Rose's husband had run off with a saloon woman from Dallas several months earlier. In the distorted customs of the nineteenth century, numerous town people had insisted Rose was somehow at fault. The whole issue had bizarrely sullied Rose's reputation in the area.

Kate ran the morning disaster past Rose, then asked, "Sis, when your dearly beloved husband skipped town, he didn't happen to leave any firearm behind?"

"About the only thing he didn't steal . . . big old .12 gauge. Sorta rusty. You thinkin' these killers might come back?"

"Rose, we're going after these animals. We start by a quick stop at my house. I'll ride Sandy, my brindle mare. We have that black mare, Coalyard, you can ride. Remember, she's gentle and easy to handle."

Kate began expressing reasons why she was not capable of chasing killers, but Kate ignored her.

From Kate's house, they gathered a water bag and a well-maintained L.C. Smith .12 gauge double barreled shotgun with four shells. From a bedroom drawer, Kate produced a Colt .31 caliber pocket revolver, loaded with five rounds with six or eight spare cartridges. Rufus had bought it for her as protection at city hall

In full defense mode, Rose was mortified when Kate found two pairs of men's bibbed overalls. "Pull 'um on, Rose, we can't ride in these long skirts."

"Kate, my reputation is bad enough in town. Wearing men's pants isn't gonna help." At Kate's insistence, she slid into the men's garments. Kate tossed a partial loaf of fresh baked bread in a tote bag which she tied on Sandy's saddle horn.

They rode over to Rose's small bungalow where they found a rusty, but apparently functional, Colt double barrel .12 gauge shotgun loaded with two shells. A quick search disclosed no additional ammunition.

Rose remarked sarcastically, "A little rust kept him from keeping it along with everything else I owned."

"Rose, I don't know enough about guns to know if my two spares will fit that gun. Guess you're limited to only puttin' one round each in these bastards."

"Kate, language."

Within a half hour since the boy had run screaming to city hall, the strange procession rode northwest. Inadequately armed, unfamiliar with guns, and although neither had ever remotely considered that one day they would take up arms against another human, they rode with determination. They bypassed the county seat town of Paris, Texas, to intersect the well-traveled road that paralleled the Frisco Railway tracks north across the Red River into the Choctaw Nation—widely called Oklahoma.

In a half hour, they reached the river which was low for the time of year. The rail bridge was carrying a heavy load of travelers on foot that morning, but burdened with horses, Kate and Rose had to ford. Kate plunged Sandy into the slow-moving current. Rose followed on Coalyard. The water was shallow enough that both horses managed to walk most of the way across.

Kate began asking southbound travelers if they'd seen two men carrying a small boy. Witnesses confirmed they were on the right trail.

"Rose, this bunch don't sound like they're from the Nations. Odds are good they'll veer off to the northeast into Arkansas to join up with some of that riff raff that clusters along those bottoms south of De Queen." Without saying anything to Rose, she began watching the weed choked roadside for blood or other signs that a man had ridden off trail to slit little Johnny's throat.

In fifteen minutes, they came to an east west trail crossing the northbound route. Kate reined in several times to ask travelers coming west on the narrow right of way if they'd seen the men and boy. Several described the group. Kate and Rose were not far behind.

"Rose, we were right. We're going to Arkansas." They stopped by a small bubbling creek, watered the horses, downed a few bites of bread, then pushed on. The trail was crude and barely wide enough to accommodate a wagon. Rutted with gulleys and streams, the corners of most cuts in the ground were roughly rounded off by passing traffic. Travel was still difficult.

For an hour, they pushed east, several times squeezing into the brush to yield to a wagon or a larger glut of travelers. Most people, in the custom of the day, declined to comment regarding who they'd seen, but enough identified the burly man holding a child in front of his saddle and his youthful sidekick to tell they were still behind the party—by Kate's calculation, less than a half hour.

A quiet peal of thunder drifted in from the east, although the sun remained bright. Two men on large horses rounded a bend a quarter of a mile ahead. Both stopped, watching warily.

Alarmed, Rose asked, "Do they look like a burly man, black beard and a kid, no hat?" She fished in her overalls bib to have access to the little pistol.

"No, both men around thirty, dirty white Stetsons and covered with brown trail dust."

Kate nudged Sandy forward. Rose followed.

When they met, Kate reined in and held up a hand. "Afternoon, gents, we're following a pair of men who stole my team of horses and kidnapped my baby boy. We know they can't be far ahead. Did they still have my team . . . and my God, my baby?"

The taller man said slowly, "Who the hell are y'all and why you wearin' men's britches?"

Rose blurted, "Cuz they took our day clothes. Only with God's will do we have these awful overalls. Does he have the team or little Johnny with him?"

The man said, "The boy, yes, the horses, no."

Kate said, "Time is of essence."

"Well," said the second man. "That feller with the black beard you're slow trailin' is Hank Holiday. You catch up to him and he'll kill the bof' of y'all outta hand."

Kate said, "We'll hafta be the judge of that, sir. You saying this Holiday man lives nearby?"

The second man said, "Listen, ladies, around the next bend and you're directly behind his place. To get to it proper, y'all gotta circle back a couple miles then find the front drive to the Holiday spread on the road a mile north. Y'all go pushing through the weeds back on this side and them Holiday's will commence shooting' pronto."

Kate asked, "You gonna tell them we were following them?"

The second man laughed. "Hell no, lady, we ain't about to talk to none of them Holidays a'tall."

At that, both men spurred their horses and fled to the west.

"Kate, we need to double back to De Queen and find some of them laws to help us."

"Maybe so, but first I'm gonna have a look around. We waste time lookin' for help and this bunch are most likely to murder little Johnny." She spurred Sandy on westward.

Shortly, the sky darkened, and large drops of rain began falling. They dismounted and Kate pulled a square of oilcloth from her saddle roll. She cut the square into two halves with a Barlow knife, made a slit at the center of each piece and quickly manufactured a makeshift rain poncho. "My hair's still gonna get wet," Rose said as she slipped her head through the center opening.

"Just wear it so you can get that old shotgun outta the scabbard," Kate said. She pointed to a damaged spot in the thick roadside weeds. "Men on horses pushed through here. We'll follow a short distance and try to see what's going on."

"Kate, I don't wanna get shot here."

"Me neither, but we gotta look. We encounter anyone, we just say your pack mule broke loose and ran in here."

Several yards into the brush, at Kate's direction, they tied the horses to a sapling. Kate whispered, "Fresh horse droppings, broken weeds, and tracks of two horses. At least two men on horseback came through here not long ago. Walk quietly. Remember, to fire your shotgun, you gotta pull the hammers back until they catch. You only have two shots. Walk behind me and do not shoot me in the butt."

As Rose nodded, the rainfall increased, and the bark of a small dog drifted through the thicket.

"Kate, no way I can shoot a dog."

"If it saves Johnny, allow me." Kate pushed through the brush. Rose followed fearfully. Ahead of them, a small black and white spotted dog appeared, giving a soft yip or two, then disappearing.

"Rose, you wouldn't have any of that bread in your overalls, by chance?"

Rose found a fist sized chunk. Kate tore it into fours and clicked her tongue. The dog reappeared, watching warily. Kate coaxed for several minutes before it came closer and took a piece from her hand.

"Rose, I think we have a new friend." Rose moved forward. The dog trotted ahead.

In a hundred feet, the outline of a lean-to structure appeared in the rain. Closed on two sides, it was used as a horse stable. A poorly maintained fence ran from each side of the shabby structure to the ends of a small shack, forming a fenced in corral. The dog circled to one side, popped through a missing board, then scrambled back out.

"Rose, hang back. I'm gonna squeeze through that opening. Somebody's been home long enough to build a fire in that shack. Smell it?"

When she rounded the stable, she saw the inside of the building facing the corral and shack was open, allowing anyone who happened to look out of the cabin window to see anyone or anything in the building. In the limited light inside the stable, she counted four horses, including a black gelding and a white mare. The mare hovered thirstily over a small horse tank. Slipping through the loose board where the dog had entered, she climbed inside and strained to see any activity across the corral at the cabin.

Then, she realized with paralyzing horror, that not six feet away, a very large man was brushing the black gelding. She tried to swing her shotgun around, but he was quicker. He bear hugged her to the floor. "Well, by damn, looky whut God sent me. You one fine lookin' little heifer. Whutchou doing in my horse barn?" He smelled like a sick animal.

Double her weight, he fell atop her, ripping at her clothing.

"Rose," she grunted.

He managed to rip loose one of the galluses off her overalls. The small pistol fell against her hand in the mud. She managed to get a grip on it. It was single action, requiring the hammer to be pulled back and cocked to fire it. She was surprised and elated that she managed to cock the pistol with one hand. The little pop of the gun, muffled by the large man's bulk and the sound of rain pounding the flat roof made little sound. Her chance aim had found a sweet spot. The man collapsed, his full weight crushing her.

Kate quickly began to suffocate. Increased struggling only exhausted her further. From beneath her load, she heard the hollow sound as if a stick had struck a dead tree.

Rose raised her shotgun for a second blow. "He's dead, Rose," Kate gasped. "Help me roll him off me."

As the dead weight rolled off, the small dog approached and barked furiously and fiercely at the man's body. "Somebody's been mean to the pup, Rose. I guess that's Hank Holiday. Whoever, he's one stinking dude."

Rose gave Kate an up and down, appraising her thorough coating of mud and horse droppings from the floor.

"My God, Kate, we killed him."

"I killed him, Rose. If they happen to look over here across the corral, they can see us. Try to stand behind a horse as best you can."

Rose slid behind the white mare. "Now what?"

"I'm considering walking across that corral and knocking on the door. Tell 'um we're lost."

"Kate, we just killed one of them. They're gonna be angry."

"Rose, they have four horses. I'd wager three have regular riders, and the fourth is a spare. I'd say that minus the one dead in the stable, there are two more men in the shack. One would be the kid who rode the white mare up here from Shade Gap."

The door of the shack burst open and a hatless, fair-haired young man stepped out. "Uncle Hank," he called out. "I got bacon started. Come eat." He waited, then repeated his call. Then he trotted across the corral toward the stable.

As he stepped under the roof out of the rain, Kate stepped out from her horse shelter and pointed her shotgun at his mid-section. "Walk on in here, young fella and stay out of the light. Make a move or call to your partner in the cabin and I'll cut you in half. Move now, damn you."

He hesitantly stepped into the shadow of the barn. "Don't shoot, lady. Wh . . . who are you?" A handsome young man, his eyes were deep blue—and terrified.

"Head of the posse from Shade Gap. We got twenty more laws coming through the brush behind us."

"Whut is Shade Gap?"

"Town where you murdered the Frisco Railroad clerk and shot our constable this morning."

"Lady, I ain't did that. I rode all night from Dallas with my uncle and brother. Uncle Hank tol' us to stop and he went in and robbed that train station. Didn't see him shoot nobody, but they was plenty of gunfire. My brother dismounted to see what was goin' on. A man wearin' a badge run up, killed my only brother, then Uncle Hank done for him. Hank insisted on kidnapping some little kid for protection against anybody pursuing us, and we rode all day to get here. How'd you women find us?"

"God's will," Kate replied.

"Where's Uncle Hank?"

Kate looked about. Hank Holliday's body was nearly impossible to see in a corner of the barn. "He lit out. He's runnin' through that brush south of this falling down barn. Looks like he abandoned y'all."

"He wouldn't a . . . "

"Is the boy inside . . . little Johnny, that Holiday kidnapped?"

"Yeah, waitin' for some bacon."

"Who else is in the cabin?"

"Uh, my uncle Frederick. And we ain't hurt that kid."

Kate waved her shotgun. "We're walking up there. You knock and tell Uncle Frederick that Hank is sick down at the barn. Soon as you knock, step clear of the door. Put your hands at your side and march, boy."

"Uncle Hank?" the youth called out, voice quavering.

Kate waved the shotgun again. "He's out of ear shot by now, kid. What's your name?"

"Uh, Mason Francis Holiday . . . ma'am. Please don't shoot me."

"You shoot the Railroad man . . . or the constable?"

"Dunno if the docs can tell, but both them men was shot by Uncle with a handgun . . . a .45. Only weapon I had was a little single shot .22 rifle. I ain't shot nobody lady, hand to God."

"How old are you?"

"Un, fourteen, ma'am. Be fifteen next month." He looked uneasily at her shotgun and started toward the shack.

Kate turned back to Rose. "Don't believe he's our shooter."

Rose nodded.

As they stepped onto the rickety porch stoop of the cabin, the dog hopped up and began barking at the door.

"She's a stray," Mason whispered. "Uncle Hank's gonna shoot her this afternoon."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Kate said softly. "Knock, then move."

Mason knocked on the door. Uncle Frederick, irritated at the dog, yanked the door open, brandishing a double-barreled shotgun. He saw Rose first and whirled the gun toward her. Kate let fly with both barrels, the force blowing the man to the floor at room center.

Mason started to run. Rose leveled her weapon. "Run, young man, and I will shoot." Kate dug her pistol out of her pocket.

"Mason, you run and there's somebody else in here, I won't miss at this distance."

Mason turned back. "Only the baby, ma'am."

Kate crossed the room and retrieved little Johnny. "Rose, bring Mason in here."

"Rose, I figure we have about an hour's daylight left. We eat that bacon cookin' over there and get going, we should find our horses and make the main trail by dark. The rain has stopped."

"What about uncle . . . ?" Mason asked.

"We'll send someone back," Kate replied.

"Whut about me?" Mason asked.

Kate said, "Back to Shade Gap where I'm of a mind they'll hang you straight away."

Mason said he didn't want any supper.

After eating, they saddled Mason's white mare and with him leading the animal and carrying Johnny, they began the trek through the brush. The little dog ran frequently ahead and easily found their horses still tethered to a sapling.

They broke onto the main trail well past sunset. Kat reined up and pulled Rose aside. "Rose, we haul this kid back to Shade Gap and they'll hang him for sure . . . like you just said."

Rose looked at her questioningly.

"If he rode away, surely life has a better use for him than a rope."

"Kate . . . what are you thinking?"

"I have a plan and it doesn't include hanging a fourteen year old kid who I think committed no crime." She called out to Mason." Give me Johnny, Mason, and ride away. You have any family at all."

"My mama's sister has a place up thirty miles north of De Queen."

She eyed him sternly. "Look, we're gonna send back a pack of laws. They catch you at or on Uncle Hank's place, you'll hang. No way you can sneak back, understand? Come anywhere close to Shade Gap, they hang you sure as Sunday."

"This mean you ain't gonna hang me?"

"We're not, but them laws will, so stay gone from here."

She dug in her pockets and handed him the small pistol and a silver dollar. "Young man alone might need these. Now git."

Mason quickly disappeared in the gathering darkness.

Rose asked, "What are we gonna tell folks in Shade Gap?"

"Some of that bunch should have joined our posse. When we get home, I'll do the talking. Keep it shut."

Slowed by muddy terrain and darkness, it was mid-morning when the procession arrived back in Shade Gap. A crowd quickly gathered in front of city hall. Injured constable Rufus Jackson hobbled out on a crutch. Kate whispered again, "Quiet, Rose." Then, "Good people of Shade Gap, by none of you joining the pursuit, you'll share our burden of never knowing the identity of the killers. By God's will, we found little Johnny sitting on the side of the road yesterday at sundown. Here he is, alive, well, and full of spirit."

Hans Waggoner, the town undertaker, jeered, "Lady lawmen, how we gonna know you didn't steal the cash from the rail station robbery?"

"Well, Waggoner, if you'd gotten off your cowardly backside and helped chase the bandits, you wouldn't have to ask stupid questions."

Waggoner tried to speak again, but was interrupted by a tall, husky young man in a business suit who pushed through the crowd. Kate recognized him: Wilson Busch, an attorney who had joined a local law firm a month earlier. He spoke in a deep voice. "Any more of that talk and I'll see that these two brave ladies file a lawsuit for slander big enough nobody can handle it. That includes you, too, sir." He glared at the undertaker.

The crowd quickly thinned. Several people approached and congratulated Rose and Kate on their intrepid pursuit.

Rose, still not fully agreeable to deceiving townspeople, said, "Kate, we've deceived our friends."

"Deceived? Friends? The nasty gossips who've spoken ill of your husband abandoning you? The monster who planned the attack, then shot Mr. Miller, then kidnapped little Johnny, then committed God knows what other atrocities, is dead. We could have hauled him back tied on a horse's back and maybe these "Friends" would have hung his body, I suppose."

Rose nodded.

Kate continued, "Young Mason lost his brother, and we've agreed he had no part. That Uncle Frederick tried and failed to murder the both of us is certainly no stain upon us for defending ourselves. Months will pass before anyone musters the courage to go poking around Hank Holiday's spread. Do you think anyone is going to care about what they find? We left the three horses we didn't use, untethered. They'll wander off and surely find a better home than that falling down lean to."

"Well, Kate, I don't think Mason will show up again."

Kate smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. "And I betcha we don't find hide nor hair of him either, sister."

Rose stepped away to visit with a friend. Lawyer Busch approached Kate. She said, "Well, Mr. Busch, thanks for the support."

"Needed doing. I'm new here, but I already know Waggoner as a damned fool . . . pardon my language."

"No problem, sir. Just thanks again."

He said, visibly uncomfortable. "Madam Mayor, a sensitive question if I may?"

"Speak . . . please."

"Your sister is a very comely and vivacious lady. To be blunt, I wonder if she might be interested in having dinner with me at the Parisian Room in the Hotel Texas one evening soon?"

"You're aware she's gotten some nasty comments because her useless husband left town with a city woman not long ago?"

"Yes, and was reluctant to speak to her."

"Well, Mr. Busch, you need to ask her, not me. She's standing twenty feet away there." She gestured. "She's been up all-night chasing murderers, and is soaking wet, but I bet she'll visit with you."

Rose and Busch were married four months later, any fructus from her husband's behavior quickly disappearing. Kate never saw or heard from Mason Holiday again.

Hill of Beans
by Jack Hill

Many who prayed for relief from the worst drought gripping the Oklahoma Territory in recent memory were sorely disappointed when October 1, 1889, arrived without a break in the weather. The relentless sunshine baked the land hard, and after months without rainfall, water was at a premium when it could be found.

Homer White was more fortunate than most. The small spread on a plot of land he purchased two years ago from Ralph Murphy, a rancher, bordered Whistle Creek on the west and Canyon Creek on the north. Homer was a thirty-one-year-old man with a receding line of curly black hair. Behind his back, some townsfolk described him as a greenhorn-easterner who "didn't know nothin' 'bout farmin'." His bank-clerk attire, wire-rimmed spectacles, and tall-drink-of-water physique did little to dispel this impression. But he was determined to create a small farm, regardless of what people thought of him.

Homer organized the construction of a farmhouse, a bunkhouse, a barn, a corral, and a couple of outbuildings, planted two acres of crops, and intended to raise some cattle. His goal was to build a home so his fiancée, Mary Donahue, could join him the following spring. When a bull, six cows, and two horses arrived, Homer finally felt like a farmer despite the opinions of the townsfolk. With the help of Theo Robbins, a short and stocky hired hand, they set about cultivating what Homer called his "little patch of Heaven."

October 10 broke as hot and dry as they come. The brilliant sun beat down on Homer's farm with nary a cloud in the sky for protection. The cornfield he and Theo had sowed near the creeks had long withered and died; its leaves turned as brown as the dirt it was planted in. Yet, the farmyard was very much alive with activity. The horses frolicked in the corral, the bull eyed a heifer coming into season, and a small flock of chickens scratched and fed on a cache of seeds.

Out of nowhere, an old hound dog ran across the barnyard, chasing the lone rooster. Homer was hot on its tail, brandishing a willow switch. "Leave that rooster alone, you worthless hound!"

The hound ducked out of reach of Homer's switch, ran, and hid. Theo stepped out of the barn just in time to watch the fracas. "Get 'im, Homer," he said with a chuckle.

"One of these days, I'm gonna get a proper dog, not a flea-bitten mongrel, the likes of him." Homer breathed deeply from his over-exertion in the heat.

"Keeps varmints in check, Homer. You otta give 'im a break."

Homer tossed the switch aside and wiped his brow. "Gets my dander up, chasing after chickens like he does. We'll never get any eggs at this rate."

"You got 'im all wrong, Homer. He only chases that old rooster."

"But he scares the hens out of laying."

"If that old rooster was flogging 'im, he got what he deserved."

"You're probably right," Homer said. "Don't know which of the two is the worse."

Theo turned back into the barn, and Homer went into the farmhouse.

The farmhouse had a great room and kitchen with modest furnishings. A round table and four chairs were arranged with two place settings and two glasses. At noontime, Theo entered and went to a washbasin. "Smells good, Homer. Outdid yourself."

"Just something simple I threw together."

Theo pulled out a chair and sat. Homer served a helping for each of them. "If you ever give up farmin', you could open a restaurant in Silver Rock with your good cookin'."

"Eat up." Homer ignored him, took a seat, and poured a glass of milk for each of them. "What's the water situation?"

"Both creeks are down to a trickle."

"Hope they last."

"They will . . . " Theo nodded. "They'd better."

"Says who?"

"They wouldn't dare dry up."

"Playing the Almighty's hand?" Homer asked.

"Ain't that bold, Homer." Theo shook his head. "Just hopin' and prayin' more than anythin', that's all."

Without further conversation, both men ate their meals.

Sheriff William Duggan, a late-30s, stout, balding man, closed up the Silver Rock City Jail and started his afternoon rounds. He met up with Sam Peterson, a twenty-nine-year-old, gangly man with bushy red hair and freckles.

"Hot enough for ya, Sheriff?"

"You ask me that same question every day, Sam. Don't you ever think of anything else?"

"How can I? This is the longest run of heat I can recollect, ever."

"Well . . . I see your point, Sam, but askin' me every day gets old."

Sam shrugged. "Where we goin' first?"

"Down Main to the end of town. Like we always do. Why you askin'?"

"Can we walk on the shaded side? Ya know, I'm kinda sensitive today."

"How's that, Sam?"

"Well . . . I done got sunburned, and even my freckles hurt a might bit."

"All right." Duggan suppressed a chuckle. "We'll keep to the shade, just for you."

The sun beat down on Silver Rock's dusty, nearly empty streets while Duggan and Sam kept to the shade as much as possible. When they reached the end of town, they stopped near the windmill. Its rotor click-clacked in the wind, and its pump dry-scraped up and down. Its trough was bone dry.

Duggan shielded his eyes and looked southward.

Sam watched the windmill's futile attempt to pump water from the dry well. "If we don't get rain soon—"

"Sam! Aren't those clouds on the horizon?"

"Where?" Sam pivoted his head, scanning the horizon.

"There!" Duggan pointed. "South."

Sam shielded his eyes and took a hard, long look in that direction. "Well, I'll be danged if they ain't."

All day long, dark clouds and rain advanced toward Silver Rock City. When the first band of showers came, the townsfolk danced in the muddy streets, and beer was free for the asking. There was plenty of hooting and hollering, but when a second, more intense wave of rain fell by the bucketfuls, all except the foolhardy ran for cover. By evening, the downpour was torrential.

The wee hours brought the severest downpours yet. At first light, Theo awoke to the sound of rushing water, cows mooing, and horses whinnying. He rushed to the bunkhouse door to see the creeks' waters spilling into the barnyard. He ran to the farmhouse and banged on the door.

"Homer! Homer, get up. We're floodin' somethin' fierce."

Homer, in his nightshirt, stood on the porch and watched in horror while the bull and cows were swept away. He felt some relief when the horses escaped to higher ground, but he was so stunned at the sight of the destruction he couldn't move.

The floodwaters kept rising around the farmhouse. Then, when water lapped over the porch, Theo grabbed Homer by his shoulders a shook him.

"Get hold of yerself, Homer, or the water will drown us, too. Climb!"

Homer and Theo scurried to the farmhouse's roof. They sat on its shingles throughout the day while the rain kept falling—hour after hour.

Two days later, Sheriff Duggan was at the Lavender Rose saloon, enjoying a beer and talking with Sally Higgins, a shapely woman in her late 30s, its owner. John "Shorty" Perry was tending bar—he was anything but short, standing six-foot-one, and was a force to reckon with if you caused any trouble. Rusty Thorsten, a thin, mousy man, plunked out a tune on the piano. A couple of customers hung at the bar, two men were playing Black Jack, and Ralph, the rancher, sat at a table in the corner.

"Quiet for a Friday," Sally said.

"For a change," Duggan said.

"Can't keep the lamps burning at this rate."

"You do all right for yourself, Sally. Once the cowpokes get the herds under control, your place will be bursting.

Rusty quit playing and approached Sally. "Sorry ta interrupt, Miss Sally, but there ain't much use ta keep playin' ta nobody. So, if you don't mind, I'd sure like ta check on my cabin."

"All right, Rusty. Help yourself to a beer on your way out."

Rusty nodded and stopped by the bar.

"You were saying?"

Duggan looked around and waved his arm right then left. "This place is a gold mine."

"And just as hard to work: long hours, can't remember when I took a vacation. I need a strong man to help out."

"Have someone in mind?"

Sally slid her hand toward Duggan's. "Got my eye on a man, but he's not ready to settle down yet."

"Well . . . Uh . . . Sally . . .  . . . When he does, be sure to let me know who the lucky fella is."

"You'll be the first to know, Bill."

Homer White pushed open the swinging doors and stepped inside the Rose. Looking around, he caught sight of Ralph and stomped over to his table. He stood looking down on him.

Ralph knocked back a whiskey and looked Homer in the eye. "Homer. Homer White. Fancy seeing you. Have a seat . . . And a drink."

Homer yanked a chair backward and dropped into the seat. He leaned forward. "You swindled me!"

"What?"

"Flash flood took my house, barn . . . everything I had . . . All my livestock's gone too."

"Heard you flooded, but it ain't my fault you greenhorn sodbusters don't know nothin' 'bout land and water."

Homer pointed his finger in Ralph's face. "See here, Ralph."

"Should've built on the higher ground, but you didn't. Reckon you wanted to hear the creek bubblin' past your window while you slept."

Homer dropped his hand to the table.

"Well, la-di-da. Now you're payin' for your ignorance." Ralph pointed his finger in Homer's face. "Besides, our deal was a fair one."

Homer coiled his hand into a tight fist and slammed the table. "You knew that land would flood when you sold it. I want my money back."

"There weren't no swindlin' in the deal! You got the land. I got the money. Fair and square." Ralph rocked his chair back on two legs. He had a smug smile on his face. "Ain't my fault this once-in-a-lifetime rain came and wiped you out. I ain't responsible for the weather no more than you are."

"But—"

Ralph slammed his chair forward hard. "Give it up, Homer. The courts will back me."

"This ain't over."

"Yes, it is, Homer. Drink up. It's on me."

"Take your drink and drown in it for all I care. But mark my words, this . . . Ain't . . . Over." Homer shoved his chair aside, tipping it over. Then, he stormed out into the rain.

Duggan gulped the last of his beer and slid his chair back. "Later, Sally."

Sally chuckled. "Don't drown."

"Right . . . Not if I can help it." Duggan stood and went to the bar.

"Hi, Sheriff. Beer?"

"No thanks . . . What was that between Ralph and Homer?"

"Seems the land Ralph sold Homer flooded, and Homer wants his money back, thinks he was cheated. But Ralph won't budge."

"And not likely to." Duggan shrugged. "I never expected Ralph to sell any of his lands, especially there."

"Story is Homer paid top dollar for it, and you know Ralph, he'd never pass up a chance to squirrel away another dollar."

They chuckled.

"Ever hear of it flooding before?" Duggan asked.

"Most places never flooded before now. Figure Ralph will relent?"

"Doubt it." Duggan shook his head. "Ralph's as hardnose and crotchety as ever, but I never heard of Homer raising his voice to no one."

"He could pass for a bank teller or a school teacher or even a preacher man before a farmer."

"Heard he's trying, though, and making a go of it," Duggan said. "Then the floods . . . They set back a lot of folks.

"Since Homer can't change the weather, maybe he can change Ralph."

"Knowing Ralph the way I do," Duggan said, "Homer will do better with the weather."

Later that evening, Sam ran up to Sheriff Duggan just as he left the Rose's dining room. "Sheriff, you'd better come quick. Homer White and Ralph Murphy are fixin' to have a gunfight at the Nugget."

"What happened?"

"Ralph wasn't armed, so Homer told a cowpoke to put his gun on the bar."

"What happened then?"

"Don't know. I come to get ya."

When Sam and Duggan stepped through the swinging saloon doors, the atmosphere of the saloon was tense yet quiet, too quiet. Three cowpokes stood frozen at one end of the bar while the barkeep stood rigid behind the other end. Men sat quietly at tables. All eyes were fixed on Ralph standing in the middle of the bar and Homer pointing his rifle at Ralph. A six-gun was on top of the bar nearby.

Homer waved his rifle toward the six-gun. "Pick it up."

Ralph shook his head. "No, I won't."

"You're yellow-bellied and a cheat."

Ralph extended an open hand to Homer. "Not gonna gunfight over a piece of land I sold fair and square." Ralph took hold of a crucifix that hung around his neck. "I swear by this. I'm no cheat."

Homer shouldered his rifle and aimed at Ralph. "I said pick it up, you yella-bellied land-cheater, or I'll drop you where you stand, with or without no gun."

Duggan stepped to one side and drew his weapon. "Put the rifle down, Homer."

Homer turned his head toward Duggan's voice. "How's that?"

"You heard me, Homer. Lower your rifle, or I'll end this my way."

Homer slowly lowered his rifle and pleaded. "Can't the law do something about my land, Sheriff?"

"Listen to me, Homer. Did you shake hands on it and get a signed deed?"

Homer nodded.

Duggan eased off on his weapon but kept it ready. "Can't you see Ralph had no part in the weather being this bad?"

"But, Sheriff—"

"The Law's on his side, Homer."

Homer left his rifle hanging on his arm. "Nothing left for me here."

Duggan holstered his gun and approached Homer. "There's good folk around these parts that'll help you rebuild."

Homer shook his head. "Had my fill . . . Back east is where I belong."

"You sure, Homer."

In tears, Homer shuffled out into the rain.

Ralph took off his hat and wiped his brow. "Thanks, Sheriff. I didn't think that sodbuster would back down so easy."

Duggan watched Homer leave. "Maybe, too easy."

"How's that, Sheriff?"

Duggan turned to face Ralph. "Oh, never mind."

"Drink's on me, Sheriff."

Duggan shook his head. "No, thanks, Ralph. Maybe some other time."

"Suit yourself . . . Barkeep. Make mine a whiskey. A double whiskey."

Throughout the night, rain fell with a vengeance. But the following morning, the downpour turned to a drizzle, so Ralph mounted his horse for the long ride back to his ranch. When he reached Stoney Creek, it was now a small river and rising. Ralph cautiously crossed the surging waters.

Ralph rode up the bank on the other side. He then felt the sharp pain in his shoulder just as the sound of a rifle shot reached his ears. The impact knocked him off his horse, and he fell, hitting his head.

When Ralph came to, Homer stood over him with a rifle pointing in his face. Ralph's arms and legs were tied to stakes sunk in the ground at the water's edge.

"No use struggling."

"What you doin', Homer?"

"I'm no more responsible for the weather than you are."

"Listen here, Homer. We can work this out."

Homer's face contorted. He shook his head. "No! We'll let the Court of the Almighty decide this."

"Homer, listen to me . . . You seem reasonable. We . . . We can talk and . . . And come to an agreement of some kind. Can't we?"

Homer looked skyward. Rain fell in buckets, beating on his face. "Saw my prize bull struggling. Then he went under. My whole herd got swept away. Didn't have a chance."

"I . . . I'll give you a bigger herd and two prize bulls. So just turn me loose, Homer, and we'll talk this through."

Homer ignored him. "My Mary was coming next spring. Now I got nothing . . . Nothing to offer her. Your greed swindled me out of everything I had."

Ralph trashed about to free his hands, but his struggling only tightened his constraints that much more. "No, Homer. No, I didn't."

"You did, plain and simple."

"Believe me. I had no idea that land would flood. It never did before."

Homer pointed the tip of the rifle between Ralph's eyes. "Liar!"

"Oh, my God, I didn't know. I didn't, Homer. Swear to God."

Homer turned away. "Try to convince God when you see him face to face." He mounted up and led Ralph's horse through the torrential rain to higher ground.

Ralph squirmed and struggled. "Don't leave me this way! I'll give the money back . . . I'll buy the land back . . . Double the price you paid . . . Homer . . . ! Homer!"

Homer disappeared over the crest of the hill.

The downpour continued for most of the day and evening. Stoney Creek rose three and a half feet by the following morning. In time, the surging current loosened the stakes and swept away Ralph's body until it snagged on tree roots downstream.

After two more days of rain, the clouds finally gave way to sunshine and drier air. Flooded creeks and rivers began to recede, and folks surveyed the damage left by the floods and tried to resume their everyday activities.

The Rose was as busy as ever. Cowpokes crowded the bar drinking, swapping flood stories, and laughing it up. Tables were packed with men playing cards and cussing each other. Rusty plunked out the dozen or so tunes he knew on the upright piano.

Duggan and Sally sat at her private table, enjoying each other's company and a beer.

"I told you your place would be hopping once the herds were under control."

Sally sighed. "I did enjoy the quiet, though."

"There ain't no satisfying you, is there?"

Sam rushed up to them. "Better come quick, Sheriff."

"What's up, Sam?"

"Theo Robbins just rode into town—"

"Nothing unusual about that, Sam."

"I'm trying to tell ya that he's got Homer White's body strapped to a horse."

Duggan jumped up, knocking his chair over. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I-I tried."

"Never mind, Sam. Where's Theo?"

"Doc's"

Duggan hurried toward the door with Sam on his heels.

Doc Wilbur Cook was a fifty-seven-year-old grandfather-like figure that everyone loved and respected, considering he had doctored or delivered just about every soul within a four-day ride of Silver Rock City. He took a quick peek at the body draped over the saddle while Theo held the reins of the horse.

"Help me get Homer into my office, Theo."

Doc and Theo slid Homer off the saddle, carried him inside, and put him on the examining table. Doc opened the curtains to let as much light as possible in.

Duggan and Sam entered the examining room. Doc looked up. "Sheriff. Sam."

"Doc. Theo. What happened to Homer?"

"Just started my examination, but I reckon he—"

"I found him." Theo took a deep breath. "Found him swinging from a tree. Near . . . Near the farmhouse."

"As I was sayin'," Doc said, "He has several strands of baling twine around his neck."

"Suicide?" Duggan asked.

Doc checked Homer's neck, face, head, hands, and clothes. "No signs he struggled or was jumped."

Duggan scratched his head. "Homer was downtrodden, but this don't figure."

Doc cut through the baling twine with scissors and removed it from Homer's neck.

"Lemme have that, Doc," Duggan said. He examined the twine and then handed it to Theo. "Use this on the farm?"

Theo nodded. "Had two coils. Reckon one's still in the barn. Found the other under the tree where Homer—"

"You suppose losing the farm would drive him to this?" Doc asked.

"That's all Homer had." Theo nodded. "His hopes and dreams were on that farm, but he never struck me as a man who'd do this. Not over a piece of land."

"He and Ralph have been going tooth and nail of late," Duggan said. "Seen any of his hands snooping around the farm? Tracks?"

Theo shook his head. "Ain't seen nobody or any tracks."

"For now, the evidence points to suicide, Theo."

"Thanks, Sheriff. Suppose I can bury Homer on his land?" Theo asked.

Duggan nodded.

Two days later, Duggan stuck his head in the Rose. "Shorty!"

"What ya want, Sheriff?"

"Has Ralph Murphy been in here lately?"

"No. He frequents the Nugget. Maybe they've seen him."

"Nobody's seen him going on a week. You up for a search party?"

"Sure, Sheriff. Just say where and when."

Duggan organized a search party to locate Ralph. At noon a group of twelve gathered at the trail to Ralph's ranch, crossing Stony Creek. Half the group went upstream while the others went downstream, searching both banks. Stoney Creek's waters were still very high, making the search a slow and dangerous process. But at 5:15 PM, the sun was about to set, and the search was called off. They agreed to meet at noon the following day.

Overnight, the waters of Stoney Creek had finally receded, and the search for Ralph was making better progress. Then, about three-quarters of a mile downstream, a townsperson shouted, "A body. Somebody, get Sheriff Duggan. I found a body over here."

The waters of Stoney Creek had entangled Ralph Murphy's body in a tree's roots. His legs were dangling and flopping in the current.

"It's already decaying, so it must be nearly a week old," another townsperson said.

The search party crowded in for a closer look.

Sheriff Duggan and Sam arrived on the grim scene. "Where's the body?" Duggan asked.

"Over here," Henry Barnes, the wainwright, said.

"Stand back, everyone. Give us some room."

"Ya reckon that's Ralph?" Sam asked. "His face is messed up, mighty bad."

"Yeah, it is. The crucifix. Ralph had one like it."

"Didn't do him much good," Sam said.

"And someone bound his hands and feet with baling twine," Henry said.

"Lemme see," Duggan said. "Well, if that don't beat all."

"'Tain't that the same twine Homer White hung'd hisself with?" Sam asked.

Duggan nodded. "Yep, it is."

"Reckon Homer ended his dispute with Ralph the only way he knowed how."

Duggan removed his hat and scratched his head. "Sometimes, I don't understand what drives a man. Ralph valued money and land above everything else . . . But, in the end, look at what they brung him."

"Reckon the least we can do is bury Ralph on his land," Sam said.

Duggan put on his hat and got up to leave. "Two lives wasted over a piece of land that's not worth a hill of beans to neither of them now." Duggan turned and walked away.

Anger Of An Honest Man
by R. K. Olson

Smoke Dawson, dressed in a tailored black broadcloth suit, carried a new Colt Peacemaker in a black leather holster on his hip. He wore a flat-top "gambler's" hat, and a shirt starched so white it glowed in the evening's gloom.

With a practiced hand, he built a cigarette mechanically in the dark. He struck a match on his Mexican silver belt buckle, sparking a flame that flared for an instant, revealing dark, steady eyes, a straight nose and a thin, trimmed mustache.

Mottled moonlight illuminated the small ranch spread out before him in the thick, settled darkness. Smoke had studied the ranch earlier in the daylight from a distance, noting its low-slung ranch house and barn with a corral were well sited.

He made a mental note of the layout for when he built his horse ranch in Mexico.

Only blooded horses on my ranch and I'll charge top dollar.

He flicked his cigarette butt away. The ember traced an arc in the night air.

Smoke reckoned having reached the backside of thirty years of age, now would be a good time to get land in Mexico and build something. He removed his hat and ran a hand along the hatband to wipe off the sweat.

Time to get to work.

He untied three pitch pine torches from his silver-studded saddle and walked his black gelding toward the dark ranch house. A dog barked.

It's a shame to burn this ranch down.

He fished another match out of his vest pocket and ignited it by snapping the head on his belt buckle. The match flared with a stench of sulfur.

Touching the match to the torches made them sputter and hiss. Smoke let the torches catch and then lofted the torches one after another, scribing vast flaming arcs in the night sky. The torches landed like falling stars on the ranch house's roof. After a moment's pause, the roof blazed and crackled with flames.

Smoke slid out of his saddle and glanced back at the handful of Flying B Ranch hands Barnes sent with him to help rid the area of "nesters." The nesters—small farmers—had built their farms on well-watered range land and needed to be removed. Barnes wanted the water and grass to expand his cattle business.

The ranch house door flew open and a man in his nightshirt holding a double-barrel shotgun stumbled outside and looked open-mouthed with horror at the burning roof. A woman in a long nightgown scooted out behind him with three children.

The hungry, raging flames splashed shadows across Smoke's face, highlighting its cheekbones and giving his face a ghoulish appearance with eyes like two holes in a sheet.

It's always the same.

"What the hell?" yelled the man as he slew the shotgun toward Smoke. "Get off my property!"

Smoke palmed his Colt in a blur and cocked the pistol in one smooth motion.

The woman shouted "No!" and ran to her husband, pushing the shotgun down and shielding him from Smoke.

The acrid smell of burning timber and charred wood scorched Smoke's nostrils. Flames created a lurid light and an oven-like heat, sending bits of ash and embers up to the heavens. Smoke half-turned and saw the Flying B Ranch hands huddled together, their eyes like saucers reflecting the flames.

"Burn the barn and roundup the livestock," ordered Smoke. His voice, flat and hard. He holstered his Colt.

"You are the Devil! Satan!" screamed the woman, pointing at Smoke. "Shame on all of you!"

The flames sizzled and popped, engulfing the ranch house and silhouetting Smoke against the hellish light. Waves of heat seared the night air.

He stepped into the saddle of his black gelding and heard one of the ranch hands say, "He's gunned down twenty-two men. I don't want to be number twenty-three. Let's get doing something."

Smoke tilted his head back and looked at the stars. He pulled out a pocket watch from his vest and angled the watch to see it better by the light of the burning ranch.

Half-past one in the morning.

They were ahead of schedule.

Smoke Dawson ground his third cigarette into the ashtray resting on the graceful mahogany side table. It annoyed Smoke to wait for Barnes, the cattleman. Barnes' sprawling home exuded a smell of furniture polish and soap and had a large staff of Chinese servants in starched white jackets and cloth slippers scurrying about.

Smoke sank five inches into the cushion of the overstuffed upholstered chair. The chair's red and gold striped fabric matched the curtains on the windows in the hallway outside Barnes' study. He'd get his money for running the nesters off the range and then put Barnes and his cattle ranch behind him.

Smoke rose to his feet, stretched his back and wandered down the hall, his polished black boots noiseless on the oriental rug. He stopped at a gilded gold leaf mirror decorated with stylized flowers.

Time and care had deepened the hollows and hardened the edges of the freshly shaved face that looked back at him from the mirror. Lines like chickens' feet sprouted from the corners of each eye. His close cropped coal black hair showed a few gray strands poking up. He blew out cigarette smoke toward his image in the mirror, hoping to alter it or remove it somehow.

He picked lint off his black broadcloth suit jacket, straightened his vest and adjusted the silver medallion on his bolo tie. Muffled laughter escaped from Barnes' study as the door swung open and a ranch hand poked his head out, smiling as if from a private joke.

"Come on in, Mr. Dawson."

Barnes sat behind an enormous carved walnut desk opposite the door, displaying a big grin that didn't reach his eyes. Barnes was younger than Smoke with sandy colored hair, a long face and the tanned, leathery skin of someone who spends time in the saddle.

"Smoke Dawson! How about a drink to celebrate a job well done?" Barnes nodded to one of the five ranch hands in the room. The ranch hand sauntered over to a sidebar and popped the cork on a champagne bottle. The cork produced a loud "pop", bounced off the ceiling and rolled under the desk.

It irritated Smoke to be forced to drink with the cattlemen. He wanted his fee, and he wanted to leave.

Smoke touched the champagne glass to his lips and put in down on the desk.

"The job's done."

Barnes hesitated a moment and then relaxed his shoulders. Smoke took a small half step backwards so no one could slide behind him.

Barnes opened the top right-hand drawer of the desk and pulled out a thick envelope.

"It's all there," said Barnes. He dropped it on his desk and leaned back in his chair and added, "My boys tell me the nesters ran away after they heard I hired you, except Jonas Johnson. You dealt with him last night, I was told."

Smoke reached over the desk and picked up the envelope with his left hand. He kept his right near his holstered Colt.

He counted out the money in the envelope of ten and twenty-dollar bills. Smoke slid the envelope into his inside coat pocket.

"I had ten dollars in expenses."

Without a word, Barnes reached into the same drawer, pulled out a ten-dollar greenback, and handed it to Smoke.

"Where to next?" said Barnes, standing up quickly, his eyes flitting to the door. Barnes was the same height as Smoke, at an inch under six feet. Both men had hard, compact frames topped with wide shoulders.

"I'll be riding out."

Smoke desired two things tonight as the stars winked alive in the darkening sky: a soft bed and to be left alone.

Smoke Dawson liked to be alone. He discovered early in life that one of the best places to be alone was a saloon. He lost himself in the crowd and tobacco smoke. One could be physically in the place, but not part of it.

He tucked himself and his gelding into a shadow in an alley across the street from a saloon overflowing with people, bustling with laughter, and the sounds of hard, sharp piano notes and clinking glasses.

Light spilled from the colored glass of its front window, seeming to birth sparkling jewels on the dusty street. He wasn't hungry and didn't drink or gamble, so he headed for the hotel in this trail town and the quiet of a room.

He flicked a cigarette butt away and built another. In the growing darkness, the lit end of the cigarette glowed like a disembodied eye. They'd been so many hotels over the years and so many miles that everything blended into a vast sea of faces, towns, saloons, hotels, flames, and dead men.

A lantern down the street sparked to life like a beacon, cutting through the thick, black night. He walked his horse toward the light, past the shops and businesses, all with false fronts, trying to appear bigger than they were, as they jockeyed for space along Main Street.

The hotel clerk's eyes scanned Smoke, resting for a moment on the pistol on his hip.

"Put up my horse in the stable."

"Very good, sir," said the clerk as he slid a key across the counter.

Smoke nodded to the clerk and trudged up the carpeted stairs to his room, carrying a leather warbag.

The warbag hit the floor, and Smoke checked the loads in his Colts. Then he stretched out on the bed and rolled himself a cigarette. Soon, a smokey haze illuminated by the room's lantern eddied over the iron bed, nightstand and wardrobe. Leaning back on the bed, he crossed his feet and called up images of his as yet to be built horse ranch. He mentally reviewed the ranch house design, where the corrals would be located, the layout of the barn and, as always, the beautiful horses.

He'd live a quiet life on his ranch. No more gunfights. No more working for fools like Barnes.

Later, Smoke folded down the corner of a page to mark his place in a dime novel. He turned down the lantern and rolled over on his side, drew his knees up, and closed his eyes.

Before the sun rimmed the horizon, he'd traveled four hours, guided by the stars. The air kept its nighttime coolness and carried a faint earthy scent. The distant Guadalupe Mountains turned from purple to gray against a dark sky.

Smoke swung down from his sleek black gelding with three white stockings. The gelding boasted a racehorse pedigree with lots of bottom. Smoke named the horse Bucephalus after Alexander the Great's warhorse.

Bucephalus was favoring his left foreleg for the last mile. Smoke squatted and gently ran his hands around the fetlock. It was warm and swollen. The gelding quivered at his touch.

Half-a-day from nowhere.

"You need rest and doctoring."

He searched inside his saddlebags for a blue liniment bottle. It was Smoke's own concoction, combining whiskey with various herbs and flowers to create a cooling solution to reduce swelling and dull pain. He rubbed liniment into the horse's sore leg while it rolled its big, dark, wet eyes.

He poured water from a canteen into his hat for Bucephalus to lap up and then stepped into the saddle. High desert spread out and undulated all around him to the horizon. Arroyos laced a landscape studded with small hills and covered in tough grass, mesquite and catclaw.

Smoke gazed at the emptiness and felt like the last man on earth. Distant heat lightning flashed with an eerie glow and snapped Smoke out of his mediation.

Two hours of switching every hour between riding and walking to ease Bucephalus' nagging pain passed quickly. He nudged the gelding forward and topped out on a small hill that fell away to a shallow bowl of land dotted with clumps of bright green vegetation wherever seeps bubbled to the surface. A well-designed ranch house and barn in an "L" shape sat in the middle of the bowl like a lonely lighthouse in a vast sea of grass. A recent grave was near the barn.

Care and skill went into this ranch.

Smoke counted a dozen horses prancing in the corral as he scanned the ranch for any sign of movement.

The front door of the ranch opened and a young girl skipped out and started when she spotted Smoke setting the big black gelding on the hilltop silhouetted against the sky.

The girl raised her hand and waved. Smoke didn't return the wave. He guided his horse down the slope. The girl ran into the barn.

Smoke walked the gelding into the ranch yard as a lanky man walked out of the barn. He wore suspenders and a straw hat. He carried a mucking shovel. His forehead was broad and his face was round, smooth and guileless. A nervous smile played across his features. Smoke observed he wasn't carrying a gun.

"Coffee's on and hot," said the man. Up close, he appeared to be made of rough, durable material intended for rugged use.

"Nice horses." Smoke swung down and gestured to the corral with his chin.

"You have a good eye, Mister . . . ?"

"Smoke Dawson."

"Ben Turner." They shook hands, and Smoke noted the thick calluses on the man's hand. The earthy scent of horses and hay wafted off Turner's clothes.

The little girl stepped out from the barn into the sunlight and Smoke figured her for ten or eleven years of age. She had short hair and was small and looked quick.

"Just you two?" said Smoke.

"When I can afford it, I hire help," Turner swallowed and Smoke watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. "Came out with my wife. She died three months ago. God rest her soul." He flashed a glance at the grave.

"Condolences."

Turner cleared his throat. "And this is my daughter, Jody Lee."

Smoke tipped his cap and relaxed his jaw into a thin, incomplete smile.

The brown-haired girl didn't respond.

"Fine stock. You breed?"

Turner's face erupted into a beaming smile. "Yes sir! Best horseflesh around. Got some nice quarter horses with Morgan and Arabian blood. I'm considering crossing with wild mustangs."

Smoke's eyebrows shot up. "That would be a tough horse." He made a mental note to remember this idea for his own horse ranch.

"You know horses? I'm crossing breeds to develop a smart horse with a good gait, lots of bottom, and that won't get sick too much," said Turner. Then he jabbed a thumb at Bucephalus. "Your horse looks like a thoroughbred." Frowning, he added, "Seems to favor the left leg."

Smoke accepted an invitation to lunch and spent the hour talking about horses with Turner. Turner was a Quaker and had built this small, impressive herd on a shoestring with sharp bargaining and luck. He figured he was a couple hundred dollars away from having all the horses he needed to begin breeding.

Turner agreed that the gelding needed rest and suggested Smoke stay a few days at the ranch and help. The gelding would get care and rest and Turner would get an extra pair of hands.

However, Quakers were against the use of firearms, and Turner requested Smoke stash his pistols in his saddlebags. Smoke also bagged his Winchester rifle and tucked the sack behind the barn door.

The next few days flew by with Jody Lee, carrying her old worn out rag doll, following Smoke around like a shadow. She was a chatterbox and didn't seem to mind that Smoke didn't always respond to her questions on an ever-changing variety of topics.

Horses filled the days and the evenings passed peacefully on the porch filled with conversations about horses. He'd smoke his cigarettes and listen to Turner's training and breeding tips.

One morning, Turner announced he and Jody Lee were going to make the ten-mile trip into the town of New Covenant for supplies. This gave Smoke the chance to spend a quiet, happy day alone caring for the animals, repairing fences and watching the horses frolic in the pasture under a cloudless pale blue sky. Bucephalus healed well under Turner's care and was getting restless to move.

At dinner time, he spied sky lined on the hill Turner and Jody Lee bouncing home on the rattling buckboard. Before the wagon rolled to a stop, Jody Lee leaped off and ran up to Smoke, swinging a small paper sack.

"Candy!" said Jody Lee. "Have some!" Jody Lee extended the brown paper bag to Smoke. He peered in at the jumble of candy and picked a butter scotch flavored hard candy.

"Any problems with the horses?" asked Turner.

"Nope," said Smoke.

Smoke squinted, scanning the wagon's back trail etched into the hillside and added. "This might be trouble."

He crunched the candy in his mouth and inclined his head toward the hill.

Four horsemen were walking tired mounts down toward the ranch, following the wagon ruts.

"Looks like we have company," said Turner. He looked around, surprised Smoke was gone. "Jody Lee, go in the barn and stay out of sight."

The setting sun slanted into Turner's eyes as he watched the four riders spread out and saunter into the ranch yard. Threadbare range clothes hung around them like rags on sticks and stubble sprouted on their gaunt faces, giving them a lethal leanness.

Their scruffy horses plodded forward with heads hanging down. The men had worn their boot heels to the nub, and their saddle leather was cracked and ripped.

Turner put his shoulders back and stretched himself to his full height and braced his legs shoulder width apart.

A smile creased the blonde-haired rider's narrow face as he nudged his horse toward Turner.

"Howdy!" said Turner, holding his straw hat in one hand.

The blonde-haired rider brought his horse close to Turner and looked down at his round, upturned face.

"We came to trade horses," said the man, his greasy hair spilled over his collar. He gazed at the corral with its dozen horses. "You got some to trade."

"Sorry to disappoint, sir, but I'm not trading right now. Still building up my stock."

The blonde-hair man ignored Turner's comment.

"We'll trade our four horses for four of yours. Even up."

The other riders remained mute. With tattered hats pulled low, they looked like eyeless creatures.

Smoke cut Turner's response short, stepping around a corner of the ranch house, placing him at an angle to the blond-haired rider. The metallic click of Smoke's two Colts cocking echoed across the ranch year.

The riders started at the sound. The blonde-haired man's fevered eyes swept over Smoke, and the shiny Peacemaker Colts pointed at his belly.

Smoke stared at the riders without saying a word.

The blonde man pursed his lips.

He's figuring the odds.

Smoke watched as the barrel of his rifle slid out the barn door. Shadow concealed the person holding the rifle.

The riders caught the movement too.

"We can do business next time," said the blonde-haired man with a grim smile on his bony face.

The riders turned and lumbered away on their haggard horses back the way they came.

"Lord have mercy," said Turner. "Please forgive them."

Smoke watched the riders walk away and vanish in a fold of the rolling hills.

Turner swallowed and raised himself to his full height. "Thank you for stepping in, but I'm against the use of guns. Guns are evil."

"Guns have no souls. The trigger pullers are evil."

"This is my ranch, and I forbid the use of guns to threaten or take a human life. Who lives by the sword; dies by the sword."

"They'll be back."

"You can't know that."

"Did you see the shape of their horses and gear? They are running from something and need fresh horses. This is the only ranch around for miles."

Turner's eyes grew wide and then narrowed. "What do you suggest?"

"Do you have a place to hide the stock?"

"No."

"You have horses. They need horses. We take turns on watch tonight. I'm going to protect my horse," said Smoke. "I'll take the first watch,"

Smoke sat on a stool in the barn and loaded his rifle as Jody Lee floated in. She stayed in the outer circle of lantern light, holding her shabby rag doll.

Jody Lee watched Smoke's practiced hands dance over the pistols and rifle. Shadows buried half his face in darkness.

He wiped down his guns and double-checked the loads. Then he paused and reached into his warbag and pulled out an old Remington double derringer he took from a man he'd killed.

"Thanks for backing my play today." He handed her the derringer and showed her how its two barrels swung upwards for loading and gave her two bullets.

"Hide the derringer. Keep it quiet. May come in handy."

She held the derringer in two hands and stared at it with shining eyes. Then inserted the derringer and bullets into a rip in the back of her rag doll and hurried out of the barn into the night where the stars were emerging one by one like scattered pinpricks of light in the darkening sky.

The crisp, moonless night spread its black blanket over the ranch. Smoke fought the urge for a cigarette. Its glow would reveal his position on the barn roof.

He listened, becoming familiar with insects buzzing, the sound of the night breezes and the subtle creaks of the barn. Smoke was sure the riders would be back tonight to steal horses. They had nothing to lose, and Smoke would be damned if he'd lose Bucephalus.

No reasoning with Turner.

He dozed off and on until suddenly his eyes snapped open. It wasn't what he heard, but what he didn't hear that jolted him awake. All was silent. Waiting.

Then he heard boots scuff the ground and caught the whisper of a voice. Smoke gauged the location of the corral gate, raised his Winchester and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle's muzzle flash stabbed the night, followed by a rider's pistol retort. Smoke levered three rounds in a triangle pattern around the pistol flash. He was rewarded with a sharp cry of pain and the sound of horses galloping away.

The door slammed open, and Turner tumbled outside. "What's going on? Stay inside Jody Lee!"

"Oh, dear God," said Turner, staring down at a dark lump on the ground.

Smoke joined him at the gate and turned the body over, revealing a rider from the afternoon. Turner bowed his head and clasped his hands together in silent prayer. Jody Lee stood on the front door's threshold, watching.

"You are a violent man."

"They wanted your horses," said Smoke.

"You killed a man."

Turner walked into the barn. The rising sun ignited the landscape, turning the sky blood red. Smoke reloaded his rifle and watched Turner lead a horse out of the barn and hitch it to the buckboard.

"Help me load him into the wagon," said Turner, without looking at Smoke.

Together, they heaved the body into the buckboard and covered it with a blanket.

"Jody Lee! Get dressed!"

Seconds later, Jody Lee rocketed out of the house so fast her feet didn't seem to touch the ground. She plopped herself down on the buckboard seat next to Turner.

Turner looked at Smoke standing alone in the flat, open ranch yard that appeared to squirm and gyrate in the red light of dawn.

"There's been a killing. I'm reporting it to the sheriff."

Turner slapped the reins onto the horse's rump and started trotting away. Jody Lee turned in her seat and gave a slight wave. Smoke didn't return the wave.

The afternoon sun was sliding toward dusk when Turner pulled the buckboard to a stop at the ranch. Jody Lee jumped down and ran into the house. Reporting the death and answering the sheriff's questions had taken hours. Turner dropped to the ground and stretched.

"Dad! Come here!"

Turner strode to the house, ducking his head through the front door. Jody Lee was standing next to the table, her eyes wide. A coffee pot rested on top of a pile of cash.

"Lord have mercy," whispered Turner. "There must be two hundred dollars in cash!"

Smoke Dawson sat the black gelding at the top of a hill that fell away to a shallow bowl dotted with bright green vegetation wherever water bubbled to the surface. He made a cigarette and smoked it, staring down at the ranch.

A ranch house, two barns, and outbuildings scattered around the yard spread out below him. One grave with a headstone was on the left. Three corrals contained thirty spirited horses romping in the fresh air under a pale blue sky.

Smoke watched men working in the corrals. Thought and care went into the construction of the efficient and tidy ranch. The corrals intersected with each other, allowing for easy movement of the horses. He made a mental note of the layout for use on his horse ranch.

The ranch's front door opened, and a young woman came out. She started when she spied Smoke setting the big black gelding on the hilltop silhouetted against the sky.

She raised her hand and waved. Smoke didn't return the wave. He nudged his horse down the slope toward the ranch.

As Smoke walked the gelding into the ranch yard, a lanky man wearing jeans and a white Stetson joined the young women. She looked about sixteen, was willowy and wore jeans. She had braided her brown hair into a ponytail that hung down her back.

The lanky man looked up with his tanned, round face and broke the silence.

"Hello Smoke."

"Hello Ben." Tipping his black flat crown hat to Jody Lee, he added, "Jody Lee."

"The prodigal son returns, eh?"

"Did the money help with the ranch?"

Turner's jaw went taut. "You tempted me with your blood money and I am weak. Yes, it helped."

Smoke pulled out the makings and sprinkled tobacco into a wrapper before twisting the ends.

"The sheriff told me who and what you are," said Turner.

Smoke blew out a stream of tobacco smoke. "Then you know why I'm here."

"The cattlemen want our land and water, so they hired you," said Turner.

Jody Lee's clear blue eyes shifted from one man to the other.

"You have three days," said Smoke, guiding his horse back the way he came.

Turner and Jody Lee watched Smoke trot away. Turner shuffled over to the grave and bowed his head. Jody Lee ran into the house, slamming the door.

Smoke woke up dressed in the hotel bed. His pocket watch on the nightstand read two am. He swung his feet to the floor and his knees cracked when he stood up to check the loads in his Colts. The cattlemen said the nesters were organizing and to hit them soon, before they coordinated their actions.

He told Turner three days, but he planned to strike hard this morning. Destroying Turner's horse ranch would send a message and scare the smaller ranchers away. Others had already left after they heard that Smoke Dawson was hired.

Five ranch hands, provided by the cattlemen, met Smoke in the hotel lobby and, without discussion, they rode out of town. Each man carried pistols with torches strapped to their saddles.

Dawn was still hours away as they cut through the clotted nighttime air, which had a weight and a blackness all its own. The only sounds were horse's hooves and the creak of saddle leather.

Smoke raised his hand to stop the ragged line of men strung out on horseback behind him. Ahead, a faint fire's glow caressed the edge of an endless oil-black sky.

Turner is up early.

Smoke built himself a cigarette, twisted and wet the ends, then lit it.

"Wait here," said Smoke, without turning around. The black gelding started forward toward the distant glow.

Smoke walked his horse into the ranch yard, stopping ten feet away from a struggling fire next to the grave. He stared at Turner's lined face in the flickering firelight.

"We'll take care of the horses."

"Who'll take care of us?" replied Turner, staring into the fire. "I wanted to burn this place down before you got here. I couldn't do it."

Smoke threw his cigarette away with a sharp movement.

"Will you still build a horse ranch in Mexico?"

The back of Smoke's neck was wet.

Turner dragged a Colt out from under his leg.

"A neighbor gave me this. I considered using it, but it goes against everything I believe in." He placed the gun on the ground. "Live by the sword; die by the sword."

The metallic click of Smoke's revolver exploded like a cannon shot in the night air, echoing off the darkened ranch house and barns. He stepped down from his horse and stood over Turner.

"It's time," said Smoke.

Smoke felt a punch in his back, followed by a pistol's quick, sharp retort. He turned and his knees buckled.

Jody Lee stood a few feet away from Smoke, gripping the derringer in her right hand and the rag doll in the left.

"Nooo!" screamed Turner, unfolding his body and leaping up.

Jody Lee leveled the pistol inches from Smoke. Smoke saw a flash, then felt a kick in the chest, followed by searing heat.

Suddenly, Smoke was on his back, looking up at a red-stained dawn sky.

It's not supposed to happen like this! What about my ranch?

He watched Turner hug his sobbing daughter. Smoke turned his head and saw dancing flames reflected in his horse's large almond-shaped eyes. The Colt slipped from Smoke's lifeless fingers and his sightless eyes stared up at the heavens.