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."