Kid Stuff
by Tom Sheehan

Chuck Throng couldn't believe that there had been seven deaths by a back=shooter in less than 10 days, and there appeared no tight connections between any of the dead men beyond ranchers or ranch workers in the Tim's Hill Territory.

He couldn't figure out any solid reasons; neither card games, or fights over ladies, or any horse trades gone sour. But someone in the little town of Tim's Hill was a murderer, and a sneaky, cowardly killer at his approach from behind, and not a single sign left to start a search from. He was befuddled completely, and none of those few men he found little favor in because of their ways, even came into his thinking. One of them showed any of those characteristics. Murder be damned when it came this way, the worst of the lot; two men squaring off, deliberately called out and answered in the dusty main street, was legal as far as he could make it, under the current law, current belief, but not ever from behind; that was gallows work at the end, a sure rope on a sure neck, and not a tear in the lot.

What really set the murders apart were the non-connections between the dead, none of them more than a mere nod at meeting, like strangers anew on each meeting day, into or going out of town, every day having travelers on the long trail from the river ports and the big ranches in the valley.

Chuck's son, Chuckie Two as he was dubbed from day one, was now 12 years old and given to wandering the local rocks and hills, scouting, seeking things to save like souvenirs, rabbits on the run, an occasional deer or fox, were enough to drag him out every day.

"You keep your eyes open out there, Chuckie," he said, "for sure. Strange things are happening, as I've told you since they started. Not one lead yet has been found, not a single scratch, hole, or footstep. I want to know when and where you go every time out, and that has to be a promise from your end. Got it?"

He tousled his son's head the same way his father had tousled him, as warm as an expression one could imagine, especially between a man and his growing son. Both of them amid some kind of horror from the unseen, and all Tim's Hill on the table, all the way, like the meal was set.

So, two more mounted men fell dead on the trail, both shot in the back, and no idea as to where the shots had come from; not an inch or a yard as reminder.

And as incident or accident happens to many of us, and to kids for sure from unseen angles, young Chuckie found a hole in a cluster of rocks at the foot of Lady Jane's Mountain. He had to crawl turtle-like to gain entrance, soon found the expansive inside, like a kid's dream come to life, a place nobody else knew about. He could have hugged the rugged rock walls as if they were his own, each touch like a touch of the mountain itself, rich with dreams, rich with darkness, rich with mystery because under torch he found proof that someone else had been down there inside the mountain.

And then he stepped on a spent 44-40 shell from a most likely Winchester, a local favorite, and probably in the hands of dozens of the local ranchers.

But he knew he was onto something that would help his father, still locked into a quandary about the back-shooter, Chuckie Two knowing he had found the secret of secrets. The lockdown for his father.

He searched the whole cave, every nook and cranny, finding on natural shelves several stocks of ammunition as though there was enough to knock off all of Tim's Hill sometime in the future. He was lit up with excitement, absorbed every bit of the future as it might develop.

And then he heard the sound of footwear, boots, spurs still intact and in place giving off a rhythm, song-like, melodious, as though the booted man did not know he now shared his cave of caves.

Chuckie Two hid himself in a natural corner. mute, still, breathless, fear crawling up his back until he remembered his father rubbing his head. All of it came home to him and he knew that somehow, he had to tell his father what he had found. He closed his eyes, closed his mouth, almost lost his breath, dared not move, until a body passed within a few feet of him, the smell of the liquor from the man's breath coming as strong as dung, the cave alive with odd life, slow movements like he was checking for visitors, and finding nothing, as yet.

The unknown stranger, the obvious shooter from nowhere, moved further down the tunneled cave, away from Chuckie, who let slow moments go by before he followed the stranger, the shooter, saw him settle himself in front of a narrow aperture, a narrow slice of light, where his rifle, barrel leveled, was probably pointed at a target.

The rifle echoed the whole length of the cave. Chuckie could feel it rush past him, then die as quickly as the target beyond must have died, unseen, unknown, without apparent reason, another death for Tim's Hill, another problem for his father.

He let the shooter pass him, smelled the liquor again, the odor of burnt gunpowder, rifle-killing shot in the air, death at the end, a woman without her husband, kids without their father, Tim's Hill less one more good man.

He had to stop counting because they built up his father's obligations, duties, body count, him and the shooter at odds. He had to even it up, somehow.

He waited. He held up, keeping himself steady, true, hurting all over with bodily demands, time the back-shooter to leave.

Hours came and went, passing slowly, like a good night's sleep, a slow dream of pleasure, a gifted surprise from nowhere. He knew had slept standing up, nut did not know how long, and he heard, in the heart of the rocks around him, the sound of hooves in the darkness.

When he handed the fired shells to his father, told him what he had done, where he had been, where he could take him on the morrow, to wait out the killer, the sheriff rubbed his head again, the last word of thanks, father to son.

Train to Nowhere
by Brady Aebersold

I hate the trains, and just about everyone on them. By 1875, I had ridden on ten total trains, each set to plunge into lands ripe for settling. Each ride killed a bit of my soul, and faith in us. I wasn't its only victim; the land and animals carried the brunt of the trains. They infected wherever it crossed, seeping its tendrils into the unclaimed soil. Rides were consumed like dirty food and water, carrying a unique brand of dysentery that slowly poisoned the west: Civilization.

Manifest Destiny had already done its damage, so I sit here on this train, and wait for retribution.

As I look across aisles of the first-class car, to the front and back of my seat, I see the grossly ornate carvings with that uncanny curvy look to it. Red velvet hangings drape the walls and dangle around my head, I feel like a prize ready to be opened by a snickering baron's sniveling kid. And we are the prize, the rich man's prize. Those who come from the trains get buttered and coddled, to have this taste of wealth before they start their western endeavors. Before they achieve the dream, psychologically, they trick them into thinking they've already succeeded. I hold no such delusions. The West has thoroughly coddled me, and I was sent bearing a message. One, two, three . . . about seven in the car excluding me and the staff, giftwrapped in fine linens and gemstones.

A newsboy walks through the car for the second time, nose and cheeks powdered in dust. A walking billboard for the phrase, getting your hands dirty, that characterized the western working man.

"Extra, extra, health benefits of smoking! Extra, extra, read all abou—"

The newsboy bumps into my left elbow, dropping a small slip of paper. I promptly pick it up, read it, and stash it in my right pocket.

"Hey! Watch it, mister!"

I tuck my elbow away and let the boy pass.

"Extra, extra! Clyde Bonneview's gang terrorizes the Central Pacific railroad! Extra, extra . . . "

"I'll take one!" A man says in the booth behind me, after the exchange of six cents for the paper, the newsboy continues his path.

"I for one am grateful Mrs. Potts," piped up an older lady in the booth in front of me, "That this land is becoming less . . . savage."

"My dear, I couldn't agree with you more. We shall be in good graces in the future, my daddy would be pleased to see we're rehabilitating the natives." The lady next to Mrs. Potts said.

Behind me, a little voice asks the burly-sounding man about the paper he had just bought.

"But that means an innocent who can't receive communion can't go to heaven, is that fair, Father?"

"Well Joy, there's a difference between an innocent and an outlaw and even those savages out there."

"I never thought of it that way." Said Joy.

"Because you've never been to the West, dear."

As soon as they get a taste, it's as if they've lived with it their entire lives. I have. I was baptized in dust, kicked up by these Easterners and their lust for deforestation and poor farming. My mother paid for it, my father too, and little Belle . . . who inhaled less air than dirt in her short time, succumbing to consumption. If I told that to the preacher, would he think she died of overeating? Do our words even have the same definitions anymore?

I transfer my ears from the back to the front and catch a damning sentence from Mrs. Brill. "They're happier now, aren't they? They were living like animals."

Can anyone not live like an animal? Do we not eat, sleep, drink, piss, and shit like them? Because our excrement drops into a bucket, does that make us civilized? We are certainly the most cunning animals. Easily the most ruthless. And the only animal to call each other "animals." That's what this train brings, the human hubris. With enough of us in one place, it's easy to think we are dominant or holier than thou, yet we move like these bison outside my booth window. Moving where the spring rains bring green grass. Yet the West barely rains, and the grass is blown over by the dust which dries my throat.

"Father, look! Bison!" squealed Joy, squishing her face against the window to get a better look. Her face reflects over to my window, her genuine wonderment beaming at each bison. I knew the smile wouldn't last long, yet it was enough. To see someone else enjoyed the sparse wonders that appear every hundred miles or so.

"Duck your head Joy," The Preacher said, cracking open the window and leveling his six-shooter out of it, "Time for sport."

Subsequently, other passengers came towards the right side of the train, sidling into booths and lowering windows. The first gunshot startled little Joy, as she let out a whelp before more shots began. I stayed still, hand hovering over my own colt. I count six men armed, four who couldn't handle iron, and two who could. Three repeaters, and the rest with small caliber handguns. They unloaded bullets into the bison, quickly mowing down the lined-up mammals, and leaving a trail of death behind them. They laughed while they did it, giving each other high fives and the occasional, "nice shot." I didn't have to see the little girl to know she was covering her ears, whimpering as firearm smoke mingled in the car. A minute later the smoke left, and evidence of the massacre floated out behind the train. It kept chugging along, moving further away from the scene of the crime. The passengers settled and went back to their mingling. Apparently, forgiveness doesn't cure guilt, but only a couple of miles will.

The shooters put their firearms to rest, repeaters resting against the side booth seat, revolvers sliding into leather lined holsters. I listen carefully, blocking out the dribble from my fellow train farer. Singling out the clinking of iron, the clicking of a six-shot cylinder, cartridges sliding into slots, it was silent. They weren't expecting more sport the rest of the ride, a terrible judgment.

I slowly begin to filter back in the normal hubbub of the train when a scrawny dude slides into the opposite seat of my booth. He removes his satin top hat and covers his mouth with a clenched hand as he clears his throat.

"A horrible sight, isn't it?

I elect to say nothing, these slick types tend to drone on about nothing while saying a bunch, I don't have time for that. But the view isn't bad, empty, yes, but vastly open.

"If you say so." I said, trying my hardest to look as if my head is void of meaningful thoughts.

"No, not that, though London is far better," said the man. "I meant what happened earlier."

"I've heard London is shit."

"If you call character shit, then I finally understand what happened before."

"Are you sappy, English?"

"Dead bison don't sadden me, sir, we do"

There's an outline on the Englishman's right breast pocket. It looks small caliber, likely a holstered vest. Left-handed then? Blisters show slightly on the middle phalange of his pointer finger and hammer thumb.

"What's got you so troubled with us, dude?" I said. The landmark I was looking out for passed by, a group of sticks stuck into the ground, some with white cloth tied to the ends.

"Those men, shooting, their faces were horrible. So sure of themselves they were. Sure it wasn't them grazing grass, they were sure they were in the safety of a moving train. You could see it in their faces. Making sure their aim was true, trying their hardest to hit their target," the man shifts in his seat, "It's done because they can, not because they should." He lets the mood settle until he says, "And I've seen stonings for god's sake, good on us for revolutionizing stonings, right? Now we can do them hundreds of feet away!"

I understand now. He's using me, consuming me as a part of his worldview. No doubt he will present me as an example when talking to his colleagues or wealthy friends in the saloon. A performative anecdote to demonstrate his high and mighty ethics. I have ethics of my own, an impetus to why I'm here.

I will rob this train, like many others. And I won't just take their cash or jewelry, I will take their smiles, their beliefs, morals they hold and manners they act. I might even put a bullet in one of them. Skin them and drape their hide around my shoulders like a rich cashmere. I will reinforce their superstitions of wild men driven purely by the Id. I'm here for the money too, don't get it twisted.

I thumb my left coat pocket, feeling the tip of the hammer on my fingernail. An elderly gentleman in conducting attire came by asking for tickets, the Englishman and I flashed ours. "This part at the Bodie train stop?" I said.

"We should pass there in about two minutes." Said the ticket taker.

"Thanks." I said, the ticket taker moved along

"Bodie, eh?" Said the Englishman.

"The train stop." I said

"Don't mean to ruin your mood, sir, but you're on the wrong train," he said, "I'm afraid the train doesn't stop at Bodie."

I look at him, then peer out the window to see the train stop coming.

"This train will stop at Bodie." I stand and use my right hand to pull down the whistle. A bell rings out from the top of the car as the brakes squeal and the horn blows.

The train halts in front of Bodie station, and a rising level of confusion circles the car.

I straighten my Stetson hat and whip out the colt from my left pocket.

I quickly strike the Englishman in the jaw with the butt of the gun, taking him by surprise as I kneel on his stomach. I reach into his coat pocket and remove his small .22 caliber. I stick it in my belt and shove the bag into the Englishman's arms, still recovering from the blow. My hand moves and rests the end of the barrel between his eyes.

"Walk the aisle, and put any jewelry, cash, or valuables in the bag, quickly."

The Englishman scrambles to do as I ask, choosing to obey the barrel between his eyes. People begin to hand them their things, slowly. That was until three gunshots rang out from the car behind us. Good, they were taking this seriously.

"I have a gun too, you know." I say, as I level the .22 at Mrs. Brill.

Things seemed to go much quicker. More of my guys started moving to the front car to explore the luggage stashes of the first class. As I stepped off the wretched thing, drinking in the clean air, two of my riders brought out the little newsboy.

"Here he is, boss."

The boy steps off and walks up to me, boldly holding out his hand expectantly. I fish out a wad of cash and counted out a hundred dollars.

"You've got the horse and everything right?" The kid said.

"Behind the outhouse." I said.

The newsboy skips off with his score, exceedingly jolly after helping the robbery of the incoming polite society.

The rest of my men come down from the conductor's car, the engine and gears clicking into place as the train starts up. Then, like a heaven-sent present just for me, the Preacher leaps off the steps, landing firmly. He started to raise his hand; gun leveled. My men sprang into action, unloading their might into God's bastion, fanning their hammers to the melody of their own heartbeat. The Preacher fell, and the little girl, Joy, came to him. One of my guys walks towards her. I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to kill her, because he could. I wouldn't let him.

After I slotted a hole firmly between his eyes, and dumped a couple more into him, I turned toward Joy. She was trying her darndest not to cry, blinking in rapid succession. I come towards her, holding my gun limp to show no harm. She kneels next to the Preacher and takes out a pocket bible from his coat. As she flipped the pages, she mumbled indistinctly, trying to produce something. She couldn't, so she kept flipping till the pages were found. Joy slowly turned the book towards me, tapping with a bloodied finger to the right passage.

"It says to l-love us," she cried, "To love your enemies."

I knelt to her level, "Am I your enemy?" Her eyes met mine, and for a minute, I was looking at Belle. I couldn't take notice of her fancy dress, polished shoes, or silver ring, only her eyes. They held no hate for me, or contempt. Reflected in them was my own, I knew it, yet it was unrecognizable. I was a haze of red, like a bloodied dust djinn about to consume. There was no one to stop me. I can do whatever the hell I want . . . 

When you go to war with society, there's this great illusion of immortality, of death in blazes of glory. You go out loud or be forgotten. Then, when you've barked and bitten as loud as you could . . . silence. No one tells you the truth about these things. I didn't hear it when it happened. She was two steps away . . . and I didn't hear a thing. And then it came, a trickling sound like a dripping pail, blood ran warm red streaks down the bridge of my nose. The gun smoke coming from the barrel of her gun siphoned up my nose as I took a final, sharp inhale.

The train begins to roll backwards, not forwards. Back towards the bison, towards hundreds of miles of nothingness. They looked so happy out on the plains, within the moving train. I only gave them a contemporary welcome. Something tells me the wildernesses won't be so warm, and a lot less compassionate. They've left me back in the dust.

Take My Gun, Sheriff
by Ralph S. Souders

It was a slow afternoon in the Mountaineer Saloon, one of several saloons in Millington, a small town in the northwest corner of the Colorado Territory. Millington was a stable community with a slowly growing population. Many people believed that it was nearing its optimal size. The surrounding area contained many farms and ranches, both large and small, and there were few unused tracts of land available anywhere. Several silver and phosphate mines operated in the higher elevations. Production at these was steady and there were no current plans to sink any additional shafts. In the town itself, commerce was good, and all stores and businesses were busy. The consensus among business owners was that there were already enough businesses to support the town, and additional entrepreneurs were not necessary. None of these businessmen wanted a reduced market share should additional competitors move into town.

Sheriff Roy Lancaster was working in his office across the street from the saloon. It had been quiet in town for the past few weeks. The sheriff was planning to visit some of the outlying farms and ranches in the coming weeks to more or less "show the badge." His idea was to remind the people in those areas that professional law enforcement was available to them in town whenever they might need it. He would encourage them to contact the sheriff's office if trouble occurred rather than relying on vigilante justice or personal retribution in solving their problems. In the past, this message had been well received by these citizens. He was confident that these new visits would reinforce this acceptance.

The sheriff was studying an area map that was spread across his desk when the office door opened, and a young man entered the room. Roy raised his eyes and recognized the visitor. He was Norm Webber, the bartender from the Mountaineer.

"Afternoon, Sheriff," said Norm as he approached the desk. "I need your help. There's a cowboy in the Mountaineer wearing a six-gun. I told him that it's against the law in Millington. I asked him to stow it outside in his saddlebag or bring it over here for you to hold. He declined, said that he'll only be in town for a short spell."

Sheriff Lancaster shook his head in frustration. "This new ordinance is quickly becoming a pain in my ass," he griped. "The town council makes these new rules, and it becomes my problem to enforce them."

"I'm really sorry, Roy," said Norm. "I'm only doing what I've been told to do. This is a pain in my ass, too."

"You're doing the right thing," replied the sheriff apologetically. "Keep doing it. It's not a problem. I took an oath to enforce all the laws in this town whether I agree with them or not. That's why I'm here and it's what I intend to do."

Roy Lancaster grabbed his tan Stetson from the hatrack as he stood from his chair. He would use this interruption as an opportunity to stretch his legs. He could use a short break anyway.

"Come on," he said to Norm as he headed toward the office door. "Let's go."

The bartender followed Roy outside. The two men walked across the street together and entered the Mountaineer through the wooden, swinging doors on the front of the building. Once inside, Norm walked to the long bar located against the back wall. He moved behind the bar and immediately began to refill some empty shot glasses with rye whiskey.

Roy stopped just inside the swinging doors where he carefully surveyed the room. A group of five men were playing stud poker at a round table located on the left. Several men were standing against the bar, most with their backs to the front door. The sheriff immediately spotted a cowboy with a handgun hanging from his hip in full view. The man was standing at the end of the bar facing it. As Roy began walking toward him, the cowboy seemed to sense that someone was approaching. He turned and faced the sheriff. Roy stopped walking upon reaching the bar where he assumed a standing position beside the cowboy.

"Afternoon, stranger," said Sheriff Lancaster to the cowboy. "What brings you to Millington?"

"Just passin' through," replied the cowboy. "Just wanna have a couple drinks, maybe somethin' to eat, then I'll be gettin' on my way."

"Who are you?

"Timothy Delaine. I come from Kansas, down Topeka way."

"Where you headed?"

"Grand Forks."

"Grand Forks!" exclaimed the sheriff. "That's quite a ride from here."

"Yeah, I know it is," agreed Timothy. "My kin own a spread near there. Raise wheat and cattle. They're gonna put me to work."

Roy nodded his head in understanding. The cowboy seemed like a likeable fellow.

"Seems like we have a bit of a problem in the meantime," declared Roy. "We have laws in this town. One law prohibits the wearing of a firearm within the town limits. There are signs clearly posted as you enter the town." Roy pointed at the man's handgun hanging in a holster. "Obviously, you're not in compliance. Certainly, you must have seen one of the signs."

"Yeah, I'm sure I probably did," said Timothy, "but I if I did, I don't know what it said. I ain't had much schoolin', sheriff. My daddy didn't see no purpose in it. I never learnt about readin' and writin' and such. I'm real sorry. I don't mean no disrespect."

Sheriff Lancaster felt compassion for the man, Nevertheless, the law had been broken. Roy felt compelled to pursue the matter further.

"Okay, I can understand your confusion," said Roy, "but the barkeep here informed you of the law. He asked you to take your gun outside to your saddlebag or across the street to my office where I would hold it for you. You refused to do either. You're in willful violation."

Timothy nodded. "Yeah, I suppose I am," he agreed, "but again, sheriff, I didn't mean no disrespect."

"If it's not disrespect, what would you call it? You were informed of the law, and you chose to ignore it. That's willful violation."

"Look sheriff," replied Timothy, "I just want somethin' to eat, that's all, and then I'll be on my way. I can't give up my gun. I need it for protection. I'm a dead man without it."

A skeptical expression encompassed Roy Lancaster's face. "You best explain to me," he said. "I need to understand."

Timothy Delaine informed the sheriff that he had encountered bandits on the road earlier in the day. The incident had occurred about a four-hour ride south of Millington. Two masked riders had blocked him on the road and demanded his money.

"I carry my money in a front, pants pocket. I couldn't give it to 'em cause I need it to get me to Grand Forks. If the thieves took my money, I'd have to scavenge the rest of the way there. Either that or scavenge my way back to Kansas. I ain't sure I'd survive doin' either."

Timothy's demeanor indicated that the incident had rattled him. He continued his story.

"I resisted 'em by pulling my gun and firing it. The shot hit one of the bandits in the arm causing him to drop his gun. His partner fired his gun at me but missed. He quickly turned his main attention to his partner, not knowing how bad he was hurt. I used this chance to prod my horse and gallop away, sitting as low in my saddle as I could. The bandit fired some more shots but missed 'em all. I kept ridin' hard and got away.

"For the next four hours, I rode at a medium speed, stoppin' now and then to look back. I could see dust in the air a mile or so behind indicating that they were following me. The injured bandit must be okay, maybe just a flesh wound. A couple hours ago, I met a farmer on the road and described to him what had happened. He said that the bandits might be the Wilcox brothers, known troublemakers in that area. The farmer warned me to keep ridin'. Said they'll kill me on sight if they catch me. I believe he's right."

Sheriff Lancaster nodded his head. "I think so, too. I had a situation with them a few years ago. They're bad guys. I kicked them out of Millington and told them not to come back. So far, they've stayed away. It looks like that might be about to change."

The sheriff stood in deep thought for several minutes, trying to determine what to do. Finally, he concocted a plan. It was a simple plan, but it would be very effective if implemented properly.

"Okay, I think I have an idea," Roy began explaining to Timothy. "I'll place you under arrest for carrying a handgun in town. This offense carries a ten dollar fine. Instead of the fine, I'll place you in the town jail overnight. You'll be protected there. When the Wilcox brothers arrive in town, they'll be in violation of my order to stay away. They'll probably also be carrying their handguns. They'll be arrested on both counts and placed in jail. I'll keep them there for several days. Meanwhile, due to overcrowding in the jail, I'll reduce your sentence to time served and release you for good behavior. You'll be free to leave. By the time I release the two criminals, you'll be safely in Grand Forks. Your trail will be getting cold. They won't try tracking you that far just to settle a grudge. I know them. I'm sure of this."

Timothy smiled upon hearing the plan. He unfastened his gun belt. "This sounds like a good plan, sheriff. Take my gun. I guess I'm going to jail."

Sheriff Lancaster took possession of the handgun. He and Timothy left the Mountaineer and walked across the street together to the town jail located inside the sheriff's office. The jail consisted of two cells, both currently empty. Timothy entered one of the cells and Roy closed and locked the door behind him. Timothy had never previously been in jail, and he now felt as though he was locked inside a cage. He was. He sat down on the side of the narrow bed as he began to serve his punishment. He was promised something to eat soon. He anticipated being released in the next few hours. Timothy was satisfied with the sheriff's plan, and he trusted it. He believed that the lawman was a competent, honest man.

The sheriff was confident that the Wilcox brothers would be coming to town. Not knowing how much time he had, he immediately began preparing for their arrival. In less than an hour, these preparations were complete, and Roy was satisfied that the town was ready. Perhaps the recent weeks of quietness in Millington were coming to an end.

In early evening, Sheriff Lancaster observed from his office window as two horses sauntered into town at a slow gait. The two riders were in their late twenties, wearing dark clothes. One man wore a black Stetson, the other man's hat was grey. Each man had a six-gun hanging in a holster on his gun belt. Each man also had a rifle in a scabbard attached to his horse. Roy was certain that they were the Wilcox brothers. Although he had not seen them in several years, he recognized them without difficulty.

As part of his plan, Roy had left Timothy's horse tied to the hitching rail outside the Mountaineer. A bedroll, saddlebags and a rifle in a scabbard were attached to the horse behind the saddle. Several other horses were also tied to the hitching rail, but they obviously belonged to local riders in that none of these contained a bedroll or a rifle. The Wilcox brothers had no trouble in quickly spotting a traveler's horse. They recognized it immediately as belonging to the cowboy who had tussled with them that afternoon. Roy watched as the brothers dismounted in front of the saloon and tied their horses to an adjacent hitching rail. They briefly stood and spoke together, allowing their legs to recover from sitting in their saddles for the past several hours. Once their legs felt loose and strong, they climbed onto the boardwalk and walked into the Mountaineer through the swinging, wooden doors. They were still wearing their guns.

As soon as the Wilcox brothers entered the saloon, Sheriff Lancaster put on his tan Stetson and headed toward the front door. Timothy noticed the activity and stood from the bed where he had been sitting.

"I'll be locking the door while I'm away," Roy said to the prisoner. "The brothers have arrived and they're inside the Mountaineer. It's time for me to pay them a visit."

Timothy nodded his head in understanding. "Good luck, sheriff," he said. "You be careful."

"Thanks," replied Roy. "I'll be back in a little while."

Timothy watched as Roy exited the building. He heard the door shut and the sound of the key turning the lock. He could feel the adrenalin rushing into his bloodstream knowing that the anticipated confrontation was about to begin. He wished that he could go across the street to witness it, but he understood why this could not be possible. He was content in believing that this matter would soon be settled, and he could again be on his way.

Roy Lancaster was apprehensive yet confident as he walked across the street to the saloon. As he reached the two swinging, wooden doors on the front of the building, he hesitated briefly and took a couple of deep breaths. He then pushed through the door and resumed standing just inside the barroom. He carefully scanned the room, and he located the Wilcox brothers exactly where he had expected them to be. They were standing at the bar speaking with Norm Webber. Their backs were to the front door, and they had not heard the sheriff enter. Roy took several steps forward and halted again as he reached the center of the room.

"Malcolm and Frank Wilcox," called out the sheriff in a loud voice.

The brothers slowly turned around and faced Sheriff Lancaster. They did not appear to be surprised to see him, although they probably had not expected a confrontation so soon upon their arrival in town. Through the years, they had experienced altercations with law enforcement many times in many different places. They did not seem to be intimidated by the sheriff's presence.

"What brings you to Millington?" asked Roy, although he already knew the answer to his question.

"We have a business matter to settle," replied Frank Wilcox. "We don't expect to be here too long."

"What kind of business?"

"A private matter," replied Frank. "It's none of your business."

"No, I disagree," said Roy. "It is my business. I let you guys out of jail six years ago with the understanding that you'd never come back here. Now you're here. Unless you can convince me otherwise, my inclination is to put you back in jail. You still owe me thirteen days on a fifteen-day sentence."

"Come on!" replied Frank angrily. "That was six years ago. Certainly, there must be some sort of statute of limitations. You can't bar us from town forever."

"Oh, yes I can," retorted Roy, "unless you want to serve the remaining thirteen days of your sentence."

The Wilcox brothers stared at the sheriff, wondering where this conversation was leading. They no longer had smart aleck expressions on their faces. They were now becoming worried.

"There's one other matter," continued the sheriff. "Both of you are wearing handguns in violation of a town ordinance. The law is visibly posted on signs at all entrances into town." Roy pointed at both of their gun belts. "You're both in willful violation."

"We didn't see the signs," protested Malcom.

"That's no excuse," replied Roy. "The signs are visibly posted. It's your responsibility to read them. In my opinion, you've read at least one and you've chosen to ignore it. Like I said, a willful violation."

The Wilcox brothers were now silent, each contemplating the situation and perhaps trying to determine a course of action. They were in a difficult spot.

"Unfasten your gun belts and place them on the bar," instructed the sheriff. "You're both under arrest. The circuit court judge will be in town next week. He can decide then if you'll have served enough time or if you should be held for a longer duration."

The brothers hesitated and did not respond to the sheriff's order. They were reluctant to comply. They looked around the room and were relieved to see that nobody else appeared to be carrying a sidearm. Besides them, the only other armed man in the room was apparently Sheriff Lancaster.

"No, I don't think we will," said Frank Wilcox defiantly. "There's two of us and only one of you. I don't believe you'll want to try your hand. Me and Malcolm are both pretty good with a gun. If you reach for yours, I like our chances. My advice is that you best leave us alone."

Roy looked in the direction of Malcom. "The arm of your brother's shirt is singed and it's obvious that he's been bleeding. It appears to me that he's got himself a flesh wound. He's been lucky once today." The sheriff now spoke directly to Malcom. "What do you say, Malcolm? Are you still feeling lucky?"

"I think we'll just leave," declared Frank. "No need for trouble. We'll show ourselves out and be on our way." The brothers both took a couple of steps toward the swinging doors.

"Hold it!" said Roy in a loud voice with an authoritative tone. "You're not going anywhere. I told you to put your gun belts on the bar. Do it now!"

Simultaneously, Norm Webber lifted a 12-gauge shotgun from behind the bar and pointed it at Frank Wilcox. Bud Phillips, the Deputy Sheriff, lifted another 12-gauge from below a poker table where he was sitting and pointed it at Malcom. The brothers halted in their tracks.

"You two are seriously outgunned," stated the sheriff. "There are two other loaded shotguns strategically placed in this room. Do yourselves a favor. Be smart for the first time in your lives. Unbuckle your gun belts and put them on the bar. Then raise your hands and keep them there. Don't give us a reason to start shooting. Believe me, you won't enjoy the outcome."

The Wilcox brothers slowly looked around the room. They could not determine the locations of the additional shotguns, if they really existed. It did not matter. They were already outgunned by the locals and not at all confident that they could survive a gunfight. Reluctantly, they surrendered their gun belts and raised their hands. They were immediately arrested and taken into custody. With a 12-gauge shotgun poking each of them in the back, Sheriff Lancaster led the prisoners across the street and into the vacant jail cell in his office. Once inside, the cell door was clanged shut behind them and locked. The sheriff put the key to the jail cell in his desk drawer, well out of the prisoners' reach.

As the Wilcox brothers began to settle in their jail cell, they immediately noticed through the iron bars that a prisoner was sitting in the adjoining cell. They recognized him as the cowboy whom they had been following all afternoon. Their faces flushed in anger, and they erupted with expletives and dire threats directed at this other man. Timothy looked back at them but did not respond. The sheriff used this opportunity to intervene. He took the jail cell keys from his desk drawer, stood and walked to Timothy's cell where he unlocked the heavy door and opened it wide.

"You're free to go, cowboy," said the sheriff. "The jail here's getting too crowded. Consider your punishment served in full. Try to stay out of trouble."

"Hey, you can't do that!" complained Frank Wilcox. "That ain't fair! It ain't right!"

"Sure, I can do it," replied Roy. "I just did. This man was in jail on a misdemeanor charge. You two idiots came in here and threatened him with bodily harm. He won't be subjected to that kind of intimidation while incarcerated in my jail. I won't stand for it. He's been quiet and cooperative. I'm utilizing my prerogative to release him for his good behavior."

"Besides," continued Roy, "I don't care if you like it or not. I gave you and your brother an early release six years ago. You've both been in and out of trouble ever since. I won't make that mistake again. This time I'll wait for the judge to decide your punishment. I'm not letting you out till then."

As the Wilcox brothers griped and complained, Roy walked outside of the building with Timothy. He handed the man back his gun belt, then directed his attention to the livery stable just up the street.

"You're welcome to hunker down at the livery if you'd like," offered Roy. "It's owned by Jim Keller and he's usually there. Just tell him that the sheriff sent you. He'll let you stay the night. It's no problem. We've done this for other riders before."

"Thank, sheriff," replied Timothy. "I'm much obliged. I reckon I'll take you up on that. I've got a long ride ahead of me tomorrow. I could use some good shut eye."

Timothy shook hands with the sheriff.

"You're welcome, cowboy," said Sheriff Lancaster. "Good travels tomorrow. Be safe"

Timothy walked across the street where he proceeded to untie his horse from the hitching rail, before turning away and leading it up the street to the livery stable. The sheriff watched for a few seconds before turning around and going back inside his office. Deputy Phillips would be relieving him in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, Roy would have to deal with the prisoners. He disliked them both and he expected that his next two hours were going to be very unpleasant. Just part of my job, he thought to himself while slowly shaking his head. Just part of the job.

A Cedar Point Reminiscence
by James Lee Proctor

At times, quiet comforted Sam, and at other times it suffocated him. He was happy to be long past the proximity of cannon fire that most likely led to his hearing loss, something Margaret accused him of using selectively. But the thunder of guns might soon again be upon them and there wasn't a damn thing he, or anyone else it seemed, could do about it. Lord knew how he'd tried. He'd survived the Mexicans, the Comanches, the Rangers, even politics. It wasn't the battle he missed but its consequential aftermath and his piece of that legacy that carved a straight path out of tyranny. Now, the fools in charge had let notions of power and threats of war deafen their ears to any talk of compromise, and it had not escaped Sam's notice that old men and politicians suffered similar afflictions; stubbornness and trouble hearing.

He'd gotten used to the incessant ringing in his ears when everything around him was still and sometimes found it like listening to the cicadas singing praise to the summer's heat. He'd turned that harbinger of old age and approaching death into something cheery—even optimistic. After all, he was still a man who had something to do. But, when quiet washed over him like an inrush of flood waters, when it was the result of a shushing, when negotiations had broken down, or when Margaret was angry, it could feel like he was drowning in an ocean of silence.

Sam dragged his cane chair further out on the porch that morning after the sun steepened over the canopy and the breeze picked up over the bay. It was the perfect time of year, almost May, when the north winds wave a surrender flag until the Fall, and the southerlies hadn't yet picked up steam. It didn't matter much to him. He was used to it all. But the weather this trip had, so far, been grand, remarkable even. Just enough rain to keep the dust down and the sand out of the cabin.

Margaret was tending her garden and busying herself with remedies for the bandit jackrabbits that invaded nightly. The bitter brew she liked to call coffee had gone cold in his tin cup on the table beside him, resting atop a three-day old obsessively-read newspaper. His carving knife and the chunk of wood he'd been working kept the folded pages from blowing away.

He'd been outside in the breezeway since before sunup, whittling on a piece of pine, composing letters Margaret would later scribe, calculating the odds of this and that, working a mind that often kept him from a full night's sleep. He'd whittled on the wood chunk until the bones in both hands seemed to freeze up and turn to stone. He dropped the knife and wood atop the newspaper open to the article about the attack on Sumpter when he sensed he was no longer alone.

He turned toward the other side of the dogtrot from where he and Margaret slept and noticed the innocence and playfulness of a child's blue eye peering at him through a cracked opening of the cabin door. Their eyes stared at each other for a time longer than is comfortable for most. This was their game, and it was played almost every day since they'd arrived at the Point. The stakes were extremely high. Blinking, Sam had led Nettie to believe, was a damnable sin; cowardice that led to peoples' deaths. Even so, he would let her win sometimes. Sam was due a smile and gave one to her with a wave to come to him.

Nettie swung the door wide open and scampered toward the man most assumed was her grandpa. Her towheaded curls bounced in the sunshine as she took a running start to launch into his lap, something that happened often enough that Sam braced himself for the impact. Four thumps across the porch planks in her bare feet and she was effortlessly perched atop his creaky knees.

"How is Miss Nettie this fine morning," he said to her softly, the once great orator's throat dry and crackly from underuse.

"Doing just fine, Pawpaw. And it is a fine morning at that. How about yourself?"

Sam's heart soared at the way Nettie took to the ways proper folk spoke to each other. It was all Margaret's doing of course, since Sam's pursuits didn't typically put him in the orbit of home very often, and he was proud of her around acquaintances and strangers alike. She had become a likeable companion.

"Fit as a fiddle, now that you're here," Sam said to her, his smile broad as the distant horizon.

She pecked his whiskered cheeks and giggled. "Your sideburns tickle, Pawpaw."

"Then you best stop kissing my face, little girl, or you're likely to giggle yourself all the way to the asylum." And with that he poked a rib, and then another until she squirmed. Nettie slid down off Sam's lap and began pacing the porch, stopping to draw swirls with her big toe in the sand.

"What you got in mind for today, Pawpaw?"

"Well, young lady, I have letters to commence writing," he glanced at the folded newspaper flapping in the breeze from off the bay, "and I suspect I should get to them before too long." The subject was important, the recipients weeks away, and time was draining through the glass.

"Well, seein' as Mama usually does your scribing, and she's tied up in the garden, suppose we could visit the shoreline a while?" It hadn't been that long ago when Sam first laid eyes on Nettie, a useless speck of pink, wrinkly skin and spiky hair, as needy as a beggar with a fierce set of lungs. She'd grown to be quite a negotiator, and this trip to the Point he noticed her abilities to reason and persuade, with him anyway. Tantrums, she'd recently told him, were for babies.

"What on Earth is at the shore, Nettie? Water's a might chilly for a swim."

"There was a storm last night," she said looking at him with as much intensity as she could muster and still stay in character. She knew he responded to intensity. "Who knows what treasures could have blown out of the sea. Did you hear it?"

"Yes, I heard it," he said, though he hadn't.

"It didn't last long, but the wind blew hard for a little while. Maybe a ship washed up on the beach. Can we go have a look, Pawpaw?"

"I suppose. Go tell your Mama where we're goin' and I'll hook up the buggy."

Nettie held the reins under Sam's watchful eye down the trail to the beach. He told her she needed to practice her driving skills but, truth be told, his hands still ached, and it was extra effort making the knots in the rigging. Sam wasn't one to expose frailties to anyone, especially family, to whom his legend could be especially frail. The trip wasn't more than three miles or so but was slow going; sometimes because of the softened sand beneath the wheels, and sometimes because Nettie spotted something she hadn't before seen. A kit fox and its mother huddled in a hollow under a mesquite, shielded from the elements, or a cluster of teals in the marsh feeding on widgeon grass. The complex spider web of interconnected existence along the coastal prairie fascinated her, so much so their progress to the shore ceased while questions came in a deluge. Sam didn't mind. Taking time with Nettie seemed as natural as the environment she was so curious about.

Sam brought along his spyglass and taught Nettie the proper techniques to steady its heft and sharpen the focus. Unable to capture a discernible image, she grew impatient with the contraption, settling for her own young eyes.

"I trust my own eyes, Pawpaw." She collapsed the glass and handed the brass cylinder back to him.

"As you should," he said.

Once they reached the beach where treasure chests full of shells would be found, Nettie climbed down from the buggy, kicked off her moccasins and scampered off to where the water met the land. Sam watched her run sure-footed and free diagonally across the wide stretch of sand from where it was white under the sun to where it turned brown as mud, and the hem of her dress became dark and heavy with seawater. It was presently low tide. A constant, cooling breeze blew off the water providing some relief to the sun's ever presence. A bluster of wind caught the brim of Sam's straw hat and took it sailing toward the dunes. He retrieved it after some effort slogging through the sand and with the help of spindly yaupon serving as backstop. He was aware how foolish a man chasing a hat could seem to onlookers and hoped Nettie had been too preoccupied with her mission to notice. Sam led the mule over to a driftwood log and secured it.

"Bring my sack, Pawpaw," the girl cried across the open beach. Sam could not entirely understand her words, but could guess what she wanted. He reached behind the tailboard and lifted her burlap sack high over his head, the one she always used for such expeditions, and Nettie nodded approvingly. He made his way down the gentle slope to the water's edge. The previous evening's storm had deposited a trove of oyster, clam and snail shells some pulverized into brittle shards, a few whole, with colors glimmering just under the clear water awash in sunshine.

Nettie took the sack and laced her fingers into Sam's roughened hand to guide him where she wanted him to go. "We're looking for cocos today," she said bending and plucking an imperfect sample from the sand and holding it up for Sam to see. She laid it in the palm of his hand. It was pure white with speckles of brown and copper across the ridges. "Of course, we're looking for complete specimens, so you can throw that one back, if you please," she said, poking a likely candidate wedged in the sand with the tip of her toe.

"What do you plan to do with these, Nettie?"

"I'm going to make a necklace. I've saved a length of twine that will be perfect to string them together."

Sam recalled how wide Nettie's eyes became when they once stopped in town to chat with an old brown woman vending home remedies and whose necklace sparkled in the sunlight. The woman leaned over to dish some spices for Sam while Nettie, probably five years old then, reached out to touch the dangling shells. From that point on she'd been obsessed with seashells and what they could be transformed into.

"Like the old Indian woman's?"

She nodded.

"I guess we'll need plenty, then. Reckon your sack's big enough for this job?" he teased.

Nettie dropped his hand and gave him a look. Not disrespectful; she knew better—something sweeter and more playful, and wandered deeper into the gentle surf where she knew he would not follow.

Sam scoured the high ground while Nettie perused the verge of the sea going the same direction. She was quiet now, concentrating wholly on the chore of finding the rare and beautiful. It hurt Sam's eyes studying the white sand in search of white shells and he quickly distracted himself with glances back toward the dunes. A few feet further, he blinked at the sight in front of him—a bleached-white sand dollar, wholly intact, the star-shaped design in perfect symmetry. He carefully scooped it up letting the sand slide through his fingers until it was resting alone in his palm. He was about to call out to Nettie, knowing she would be thrilled at his find, but decided to pocket the treasure in his waistcoat, a surprise for later.

The hot, late morning became a boiling early afternoon and Sam coaxed Nettie into the shade of a mesquite to share sips of water and some biscuits and jam Margaret packed in a basket with some cured ham. She spoke incessantly about her finds with a story behind each shell she pulled from the sack, only one of them a coco. It was clear Nettie had veered off of her original design concept about what the necklace might look like. She was a good eater and devoured two entire biscuits and a nice chunk of the meat. Soon thereafter, her eyes were sleepy, her forehead and cheeks red as sugar beets and she was soon dozing on the blanket Sam put out for their picnic. A tiny snort meant she was out for at least the next little while.

Sam stepped from the shadows, lit his pipe and strolled down to the water's edge to smoke it. He looked across the bay toward the Gulf, gateway to the seas and the rest of the world. He thought about how all life at one point emerged from mother ocean and would eventually retreat within her. North, up the beach, battle lines were being drawn, and he knew the war would be long and hideous. South were the remains of his clashes. The husks of empty cannon, the bones of soldiers drying in the sun, seemed somehow less valiant now in his memory. In the prelude to a new, altogether different conflict, what would it all mean?

'You're always walking onto someone's battlefield,' he thought to himself, an image he'd tried shaking off but couldn't. The diversion of Nettie, a flower in the sunshine, a hermit crab stalking the beach, kept the demons at bay for a while, but they always knew the way home.

After supper, Sam stepped out to the breezeway for a pipeful and a look at the first stars. He'd just tucked his matches in his pocket and felt the edge of the sand dollar when Nettie called from the kitchen, 'goodnight.'

"Come out here, young thing. I've something for you."

He sat down in his cane chair puffing on his pipe waiting for Nettie to come to him. He waited a stretch he felt was too long and wheedled her again. "Come on now girl. It won't keep all night."

The door flung open and the light from the kitchen silhouetted the four-foot-tall figure making a beeline for him. "I'm here, Pawpaw," she cried, launching herself onto his lap just as he was retrieving the matches from his waistcoat pocket. Her hip met his pocketed hand, and he could have sworn he heard the delicate sand dollar crumbling in to fine bits within his pocket, that perfectly shaped lone star disintegrating into sand.

"Whatcha have for me, Pawpaw?"

He kissed the top of her curls and said, "All of my love, Nettie. I wish it could be more."

The Strategy of the Game
by Dawn DeBraal

Sam Hill was a fair man. He gave most folks a chance to prove themselves before passing judgment, but this time, Cal Prentiss, his neighbor, had gone too far. The cut fence said it all. After telling Cal no, he still moved his cattle through Sam's property. Compounding Sam's frustration was finding that a good number of his stock had followed the Prentiss herd through the damaged fence.

His first order of business was repairs to prevent further loss by fashioning a temporary gate, and the second, was to go after and retrieve his property. Judging by the freshness of the trampled ground, Prentiss hadn't been gone too long. Enlisting the help of two hands, Brick and Andy Talbert, brothers and trusted men, along with a few days of supplies, they went to reclaim Sam's property.

Brick Talbert was strong and sturdy, while his brother, Andy, was still wet behind the ears at seventeen. Under Brick's tutelage, Andy would make a fine cowboy someday.

The three men followed the cattle trail across Sam's property through the temporary gate. Brick thought Cal might have a few hours lead on them, but driving a large herd of cattle would slow them down while three men on horseback would gain on them quickly.

Sam listened to the brothers, who picked on one another endlessly. It was all good-natured, and every so often, Sam guffawed at a tall tale. They were decent company; the brother's quibbles took his mind off resentment directed at his neighbor. This recent incident was not the first time Cal had overstepped himself, but Sam decided it would be the last.

They camped that night near a fallen tree. Brick reasoned they would catch up with the herd tomorrow. Sam, grateful the man knew a lot about tracking was hopeful of Brick's prediction.

In his mind, the rancher practiced what he would say to his former friend. Then Sam thought about the work it would take to cut his cattle from Prentiss' herd and got angry all over.

Sam would never do to a man, what Cal had done to him. They'd grown up friends and neighbors, but when it was time to take over their respective father's ranches, Cal tried to move the fence line to include a portion of a stream that rightfully ran through Sam's property.

A surveyor and a day in court admonished Cal, who was forced to move the fence back to where it belonged and pay Sam damages. That was the beginning of the downfall of their friendship. Sam would have shared the water if Cal had only asked him after his finger of the stream dried up when the rains didn't come. There was plenty of water for both ranches, but instead of asking, Cal took.

After a restless night, Sam stood, feeling the result of sleeping on the wet, hard ground in his movements when pulling himself upright. The rancher had softened sleeping in his bed every night, served home-cooked meals by his pampering housekeeper, Wanita. Finding himself less than enchanted at being thrust into the wild cowboy life, Sam decided Prentiss should pay for that, too.

The brothers and their employer followed the trail of broken ground. Andy scouted ahead, coming back to report cloud dust ahead, indicating the cattle were not far in front of them. Sam bristled at the thought of seeing his neighbor and spurred his horse on. Hopefully, they would find themselves back at Lone Pine, his ranch, eating Wanita's cooking tomorrow.

By midmorning, they'd caught up with Prentiss and his men moving the cattle to market. Sam ran ahead of the Talbert boys, approaching Cal Prentiss, who looked at his former friend warily before placing a hand on his revolver.

"Don't even think about it," Sam shouted. "You cut my fence. I've come to claim my property again." Prentiss huffed.

"If you have property here, take them. I am not a cattle thief."

"Oh, but you are, Cal; you cut my fence and crossed my property, letting my cattle follow yours."

"That was not my intention." Cal's nonchalant answer infuriated Sam. How many more times did he have to butt heads with his former friend?

"Brick, Andy, cull the herd." Sam watched his men search each head, looking for the L/\P brand and cutting those cattle from the group. The brothers moved off with several heads, with Andy keeping them contained as Brick returned, continuing the search.

"You make sure you aren't taking any of my property," Prentiss warned.

"I should press charges." Sam retorted. He wanted to wipe the smirk off his neighbor's face.

"Sam, don't make this such a big deal. I'm warning you," Prentiss said defensively.

"Warning me about what? When you get back, you'll be answering to the Sheriff."

"Look, Sam, let's be reasonable. How about you trust me to sort all of this out at the market? My man, James, here, will count your property when we get to the cattle yard, and I will pay you the going rate for them."

"I am supposed to trust you? A little late for that, Cal."

"This is a waste of time. How will you single out every head that has your brand out of hundreds?" Sam had to admit that Prentiss had a point. Hill heads were intermingled with the Prentiss cattle, and short of passing them through a gate, there was no finding all his strays in this can of worms.

Sam looked at James Kramer in the eye. The man nodded his assurance he would count fairly. Since Brick and Andy were cousins to James, Sam was forced to trust the cowboy.

"If I hadn't tracked you down, would you have been honest with me?" Sam returned his gaze to Cal.

"Of course, Sam. We go back a long way. I've learned my lesson over the water war. I will be honest in my dealings with you and your property." Sam sighed. He wanted to vent his anger and frustration at Cal but was tired and didn't want to fight anymore.

"I am holding you to your word, Prentiss." He watched Brick cut a few more cattle from the herd, calling out to his hand, "That's enough, Brick; let's bring them home."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Hill." Brick moved the last of the gleaned strays toward Andy, who kept them apart from the herd. Sam had no idea how many more of his beef had been lured by Prentiss' drive. Frustrated, he forced himself to ride away because he was mad enough to do irreparable harm, and it took a lot to get Sam to that state. Today, Sam would make a decisive move and walk away from this confrontation before regretting it. The most important rule in the game of chess is the least active piece strategy. That was to take the least active piece and elevate its position. As a man who loved the game, Sam was already formulating a plan.

With its small herd, the Lone Pine crew headed for home, with the rancher still brooding in silence. The brothers kept busy moving the strays while Sam trailed behind, lost in thought. He missed the brother's ribbing, but his mind had turned to the best way to handle the situation. You hit a man hardest when you hit him at home.

A particular young lady, Miss Penelope Prentiss, lived with her brother. She had recently come of age, and as he remembered, she was quite fetching. Sam decided he should visit her while her brother was rustling his cattle. He would make sure his neighbor was fair in his dealings. When Prentiss returned, Sam would have Miss Penelope convinced he was the man she should marry. That was his move, Cal's sister, in exchange for Prentiss' honesty.

The day after Sam returned to Lone Pine, he cleaned up and rode to the Prentiss spread. Knocking on the door, he stood with his hat in hand and waited for the lady of the house to answer.

"Sam?" She was drop-dead gorgeous, and his eyebrows raised in surprise upon seeing the once lanky girl had filled out in all the right places.

"Penelope, er, excuse me, Miss Prentiss." Feeling awkward, Sam foolishly bowed. He was uncomfortable with her maturity as the rancher was nearly ten years her senior.

"Sam, please come in. There's no need to be so proper; we are old friends." Penelope stood back, opening the door wider and inviting him in. She called her housekeeper.

"Mrs. Hatch, will you make Mr. Hill and me a pot of coffee? And please, warm some of those biscuits I made this morning?" The woman nodded and hurried off to the kitchen.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Penelope looked at her neighbor with rapt attention. The plan of misleading Cal's sister died right there. Miss Penelope was much too nice of a person to use as a pawn to control her brother.

Sam melted in her smile. They drank coffee and ate biscuits. Cal's sibling was everything her brother wasn't. Miss Penelope didn't deserve to be treated in any other way but with the most profound respect. After telling the beguiling woman what Cal had done to him, the enchantress assured Sam she would personally see that the Prentiss Ranch made good on Sam's lost cattle.

Weeks later, Penelope rode up to the Lone Pine in a buggy driven by James Kramer, the man Sam recognized from the cattle drive.

"I am here to give you your fair share of the money," Penelope said as he helped her from the buggy. Sam called Wanita, asking her to take Miss Penelope inside, where they would do business after granting James Kramer's request to speak privately.

"What is it, James?"

"Sir, I don't want to work for a man the likes of Cal Prentiss. He is dishonest, and it is only a matter of time before he gets me arrested or, worse, killed for doing things I shouldn't. I am asking you for a job. I personally counted ninety-five head of Hill cattle intermixed with the Prentiss' group at the stockyards. I told Miss Penelope, and she insisted on coming here to pay you in full despite her brother's protests."

"I will seriously consider giving you employment, James," they shook hands. "If you will excuse me, I have business with Miss Prentiss to attend to."

Sam walked into his parlor, where Wanita had set out a silver coffee pot on a tray.

"If you'll allow me, Sam, I'll pour," Penelope said amicably. The woman was enchanting. Sam couldn't take his eyes off her. How could Cal have such a beautifully honest sister?

"Please do," Sam pointed to the coffee pot. He ordered his coffee with two sugars. Penelope handed him a cup on a saucer and sat across from him balancing her cup in hand.

"I wanted to apologize for my brother's shortcomings. He was anxious to get his cattle to market in the shortest of ways and should not have crossed your land without permission. I have added additional money for the cost of fence repair to this money envelope with proceeds from the cattle sale. I hope you find this satisfactory." She handed the envelope to Sam.

"Why thank you, Miss Penelope, that's right, fair of you." Sam opened the envelope and saw a sizable amount of cash inside.

"My brother sold seventy-five head, so this money is your profit from that transaction, along with the additional amount for the broken fence repair." Sam looked Miss Penelope in the face, shocked when he realized the woman had deliberately misled him on the amount of the cattle sold. James had already told him there were ninety-five cattle with his brand on them. Miss Penelope wasn't as beautiful as when she arrived after he found she was as bad as her brother. Sam wouldn't get mad, he'd get even.

"Why thank you, Miss Penelope, for getting involved and arranging the transaction." Without counting the money, Sam slipped the envelope into the front pocket of his jacket.

"Aren't you going to count it?" Miss Penelope asked, batting her eyelashes. Sam's mind was already moving to the next piece on the chessboard. Given the recent circumstances, Miss Penelope was worthy of being in this game with Cal. Sam picked up his coffee cup and jutted out his pinky finger, sipping loudly.

"Why no, Miss Penelope, I believe you are as honest as the day is long. There is a matter I'd like to discuss with you. James Kramer is interested in working here at Lone Pine, and I am looking for another cowboy. The Talbert brothers are his cousins, and he would like to work with them. Do you think Cal would see to letting him go?"

"I believe my brother could find another hired hand; of course, I will let him know that James has taken a position here on your ranch." Sam nodded.

"Miss Penelope, I have another delicate matter to discuss with you. How would you feel about my approaching your brother to ask him if I might court you?" Penelope blushed, but her giggle said it all.

A slow smile spread over Sam's face. It was so satisfying, this game of chess with Cal Prentice. The rancher had Penelope right where he wanted, or did Miss Penelope have him? He wasn't quite sure yet.

Sam couldn't wipe the smile off his face while sipping his coffee, anticipating the next move, he had already captured James Kramer, Cal Prentiss' bishop, and now, he had elevated the opposition's queen safely in his corner, a decisive advantage.

"Game over," Sam mumbled to himself.

"Did you say something, Sam?" Miss Penelope asked, putting her cup back on its saucer.

"I asked when I might come over?" Sam replied, clearing his throat.

After their visit, Sam escorted Penelope to her waiting buggy, shaking James Kramer's hand to welcome him to the Lone Pine.

James flicked the reins, turning the buggy toward the Prentiss spread. Sam lifted his hat to Miss Penelope as she rode by. She giggled and waved with the broadest smile.

"Check, and mate!" Sam chuckled to himself, watching them disappear over the hill.

The Cornbread Controversy
by R. K. Olson

Nineteen-year-old Joe Hernandez lay as flat as a tortilla behind the dead chestnut gelding. He had one bullet left.

The sun was yellow and flat in the blue New Mexico sky. Sweat cut trails down his face. His blue Union army uniform was dusty and clung to his skin. He squinted down the barrel of his Sharps carbine in the white glare of the blistering noonday sun. The sharp smell of dust was in the air and patches of heat-dried grass dotted the desert floor. He faced south in open terrain except behind him where a bench's steep slope stretched two hundred feet toward the sky.

Ninety feet in front of Hernandez, boulders lay scattered, as if a giant had rolled them like dice. Hidden among the boulders was a man with a rifle keeping Hernandez's head down.

Hernandez took a sip from one of his two canteens, rolled the warm water around inside his mouth, and swallowed. He ran his tongue over his lips.

He was sorry to have to shoot his horse. It snapped a forelock galloping to evade the Confederate soldier that had him pinned down. The dead gelding was the only thing between him and a rebel bullet. At least a shot from his carbine had smashed the Confederate's canteen. It lay dry and empty between the dead horse and the boulders.

Hernandez was stocky and as hard as a knot. Black hair topped a handsome face with dark eyes and a taut square jaw that looked like it smiled a lot. He flexed his leg muscles to ease cramping, and the movement drew a bullet from the Confederate behind the boulders. It hit the dead horse with a "thwack". The crack of the rifle followed a split second behind the bullet. From the sound, Hernandez reckoned his opponent was using a rifled musket.

Hernandez poked his Sharps breech-loading carbine around the back end of the horse. He dismissed the thought of wasting his last .52 caliber paper cartridge by squeezing off a shot through a gap in the boulders, hoping for a ricochet. He'd sneak away in the dark.

The sun was still high in the sky as a cloud floated over the standoff. Hernandez's hands were damp and sweat stung his eyes and rolled down his nose.

"Hey, Billy Yank! You gettin' a mite warm out there?" yelled a voice from the boulders. The voice had a twang to it.

"Not as warm as you sittin' in the middle of all those rocks with no water. It'll be oven hot in there within the hour!" answered Hernandez.

"I got you pinned down. Give up and I'll go easy on you," said the voice from the rocks.

"Pinned down? I have you pinned down! Make one wrong move and I'll ricochet lead in those boulders," replied Hernandez.

The sunlight seemed to shimmer across the desert floor. Hernandez reckoned he was a day's ride from Fort McRae. He needed a horse, or he'd have to walk to deliver the message to Colonel Kit Carson. He'd need more water, too.

"We got ourselves into a mess," said the voice with the twang.

Hernandez didn't reply. It was a mess, he silently agreed. Neither soldier could move without getting shot by the other.

Twenty minutes of silence followed while the soldiers baked in the noontime heat.

"I'm thirsty enough to swallow a river. A nice beefsteak and a piece of cornbread would set me right and stop my stomach from squawking," said the voice from the boulders.

An image of his mother danced in Hernandez's mind. A picture of his family replaced it gathered around the table in the back room of the Hernandez Dry Goods store in Albuquerque eating the mid-day meal.

He didn't know why he responded, but he did.

"Steak and cornbread sounds good. Throw a few beans in. My mother makes the best cornbread around. Great for mopping up your plate."

"Hold on, Billy Yank! I'm from Texas and everything is better in Texas, especially my ma's cornbread. It's like a slice of heaven came down from the sky."

"Johnny Reb, you've never had cornbread until you try my mother's. One bite and you'll give up and enlist to fight in the Union Army."

"Enlist? Hell, I didn't enlist in this army. I was punchin' cows on the ranch when local boys persuaded me to join up."

"You a cow puncher? How'd they persuade you to join?" asked Hernandez. He figured to keep him talking until he slipped away at night.

"They said they'd tell Lainey Martin I didn't sign up because I was chicken. I'm sort of sweet on Lainey," He paused, adding, "How did you join up?"

"I wanted to get away from working in the family general store. So, when the recruiting sergeant came around I signed up. My father was mad as a wet hen. I'm nineteen so there was nothing he could do about it."

"Hey, I just turned nineteen!"

"I wanted the shiny buttons and boots but the more I learn about soldiering the better workin' in the family store looks."

"And workin' in the store you got to eat the second best cornbread around." Hernandez heard the Confederate in the rocks snort with laughter.

"What's your name?" asked Hernandez.

"Johnny Hopkins. My friends call me Hop. Family is from Brown Springs Texas."

" I'm Joe Hernandez. We run a dry goods store in Albuquerque.

Both men stopped talking. The sun had bite to it and Hernandez nodded off. He shook his head to wake himself up. Hernandez gazed across the arroyo laced sun-bleached desert to the east. He started when he caught movement. It was over a mile away and looked like Indians on horseback.

"Hey Hop. I think we have Apaches coming off to your right."

"You're not trying to trick me, are you?" replied Hop.

"Heck no. Something's moving out there. If it is Apaches, we better make ourselves scarce."

"What are we going to do? I have a message for Fort Thorn. If I stand up, are you going to shoot me?"

"I guess we are both messengers. How 'bout a truce?" said Hernandez.

"I only have one horse. Can I trust you not to shoot me and steal it?" asked Hop.

"You have my word. I won't shoot you or take your horse," said Hernandez.

After a pause of a handful of heartbeats, Hop said, "I promise not to shoot too. I'm standing up and coming out."

With a moment of hesitation, a head popped up over a rock and darted back down again. Then a Confederate soldier in a makeshift uniform of gray wool pants and a light brown homespun shirt stood and negotiated his way around scattered rocks and stopped near Hernandez.

He was tall and lean, with a battered, shapeless brown hat on his head. Blonde hair escaped along the edges of the hat. He wore a half smile on his smooth, angular face. There was no meat on his shoulders or chest, as he'd yet to fill out into manhood.

Hernandez stood and walked forward, holding the carbine with his last bullet in the port arms position. His finger was on the trigger. The rebel soldier's right hand stayed close to the pistol shoved into his belt. His rifle was slung over his right shoulder.

Hernandez stopped six feet away and set his feet apart in a challenging stance.

They stared at each other for a moment, squinting in the harsh sunlight reflecting off the desert floor.

"Howdy," said Hop.

Hernandez tossed the half empty canteen at the Confederate. Hop caught it, tipped the canteen up and guzzled it dry.

"Much obliged," said Hop.

They were in the full froth of youth and made a striking contrast to one another. Hop was a head taller than Hernandez.

"Looks like you got one of them breechloaders," said Hop, nodding toward the Sharps.

"I do. I see you have a Colt pistol you're probably handy with," said Hernandez.

"I do all right." Then Hop's face broke into a wide grin showing a full set of white teeth. The smile was infectious. Hernandez grinned, too.

"Listen, let's worry about getting' away from them 'Paches. The hell with fightin' each other out here in the middle of nowhere."

Hernandez had an instant liking for Hop.

"Deal," said Hernandez. He shook hands with Hop.

"I'm with the Second Texas Cavalry at Fort Thorn," said Hop.

"First Regiment of New Mexico Volunteer Cavalry. Fort McRae."

"I think we should get as high on the bench as we can by nightfall. They'll find our tracks but those 'Paches will make camp instead of trying to follow us at night," said Hop, pointing at the bench with his chin.

He led his dun gelding from the rocks and slid his rifle into the saddle boot. The two soldiers headed away from the Apaches, keeping out of sight among the rocks of the bench, trying not to skyline themselves.

They found a game trail and scrambled to the top with the horse. The bench was level on top. The backside fell away at a steep incline. Both men paused to catch their breaths and take a sip of water from Hernandez's canteen. The sun was setting, but the earth was giving up the heat absorbed during the day, keeping the dry air hot and dusty. Sweat patched their shirts to their backs. Hernandez removed his kepi and wiped the sweat off the hatband with his finger.

They looked for a place to fort up while they talked of their families and hopes and dreams. Hop wanted to own a cattle ranch. Hernandez was less sure of his plans. If he didn't join his father in the dry goods store, what else could he do? He was envious of Hop, who seemed so sure of himself.

Hernandez observed bees heading to the right and followed them to a seep trickling out from the base of a rock. He waved to Hop and soon Hop's horse was noisily sucking down water. A small plot of grass fronted the seep and Hop hobbled the dun he called "Sibs" with a piggin' string. Hernandez could hear the gelding ripping up the grass with its big, square teeth.

Hernandez filled the canteens then sprawled on the ground next to Hop.

"We can't out run them riding two on a horse," said Hop.

Hernandez sat up. "The closet place to get me a horse is the Apaches," said Hernandez. "We could steal one tonight. I rode bareback as a boy."

"Sounds like crazy talk to me. With luck, we could try to both ride Sibs out of here. Take turns riding and walking," said Hop, patting his dun's thick, powerful neck.

"Too slow. Like you said, they'd catch us." replied Hernandez and then he added, "Your horse is named 'Sibs'?"

Hop cracked a smile. "'Sibs' is short for 'General Sibley'. Not sure my commanding officer would be pleased to know I named a horse after him! Figured my horse is just as smart as the general and a damn sight better lookin'!"

They worked their way to the west, across the top of the bench and down the far side. Clumps of short, sparse grass studded with cactus and mesquite waited to reach out and grab them when they reached the desert floor.

Hop was quiet for a long time. His face was tight with apprehension.

"The 'Paches probably found our tracks by now and know we have one horse," said Hop.

The afternoon slid into dusk, and the birds stopped singing. Twilight in the desert is the quietest time as night spread its black blanket over all. The moon was yet to rise, and a coolness slid its way down the collars and up the shirtsleeves of the two men.

They waited, ears straining to hear the smallest sound, until the stars winked in the velvety sky. A half-moon rose and provided an indifferent, somber light. They hunkered down among rocks in a cold camp. Their stomachs growled in unison.

"Do you think sneaking up on 'Paches and stealing a horse is a smart thing to do?" asked Hop. Shadows etched a line on his face, creating dark and light halves.

"It's damn stupid," said Hernandez. "But what else can we do? I want to keep my scalp and I'm down to my last bullet."

"Six bullets, for me. One for my rifle and five in my pistol."

By moonlight, they continued working around to the west and then traveled south for a mile, before swinging to the east.

"I reckon we've gone far enough to circle and get south of them," said Hernandez. "I'm going to take a look. Find their camp."

Like a desert wraith, he moved silently forward from boulder to bush until the darkness swallowed him whole.

Hernandez paused at each piece of cover he reached and strained his ears for a sound. He kept his eyes wide open, searching the ground ahead of him. He lay down and bellied up to three large mesquite trees.

He spied a soft glow across the desert floor among what looked like in the dark a sparse stand of juniper. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Through the mesquite branches he could see the orange smudge of a fire. Dark shapes moved in and out of the firelight. He smelled roasting meat and his stomach rumbled again.

The breeze in his face carried the smell of horses to his nose too. He eased away from the mesquite trees and glided to the right before hunkering down next to a rockslide. He was close enough to hear the horses' heavy breathing. He was about to move back when, out of a shadowy corner hidden by the rockslide, he watched an Apache stand up and stretch before hiding himself again in the shadows.

Hernandez's mouth was dry, and a droplet of sweat traced a path down his spine. Gripping his carbine, he retraced his steps back to Hop and told him what he discovered.

They waited until dawn. To pass the time, they debated cornbread styles again in whispers. They compared New Mexico-style cornbread loaded with green chilies with Hop's favorite cornbread made with buttermilk, but soon fell into a nervous silence, listening to the nighttime insects.

Dawn was on the verge of flexing its muscles, the stars were winking out, and the moon was low in the sky. The night became as black and thick as pitch. The blackness seemed to have a weight all its own.

"How many horses did you see?" asked Hop for the third time.

"Five or six. One guard. I'll grab a horse and we'll stampede the rest through their camp and then ride hell bent for leather."

They retraced Hernandez's route, heading north, stopping twice to slow their breathing. Hernandez's pulse was pounding in his temples. Hop kept his hand over Sib's nose to keep the horse quiet.

They reached the rockslide and observed the guard walking among the horses. Fear clutched at Hernandez's throat. He pursed his lips.

The Apache horse guard turned his back on the two men and urinated. Hernandez locked eyes with Hop and saw a flash of excitement in the young Texan's eyes.

He thrust Sib's reins into Hernandez's hands. Like a panther, Hop sprang toward the Indian and clubbed him in the head with the butt of his revolver. The Indian folded to the ground without a sound. The attack was so fast and quiet; it seemed like a dream. He led Sibs over to Hop. The six Apache horses shuffled their feet and pawed the earth with their hooves. Sib's presence calmed the horses and kept them from bolting.

"I ain't never killed a man before," said Hop, staring at the Apache sprawled face down on the ground.

"You didn't this time either. He's still breathing. Get me piggin' strings and I'll tie him up and stick a gag in his mouth. He won't go anywhere for a while. I used to tie off the grain bags in the store," said Hernandez.

Hop stepped into the saddle.

"Ready?" whispered Hernandez straightening up. He stroked a tough looking brown horse. "Drive the horses through the camp and scatter the Apaches. It's the fastest way to get shy of them and get away from here."

Hernandez took a deep breath. His mouth was dry and his heart threaten to explode out of his chest. He grabbed the horse's mane and slid on to its back, like when he was a boy.

Hop let out a Texas yell and Hernandez's horse plunged and bucked. Everything became a blur of motion and images. It was like the fluttering pictures of a flipbook. At the edge of the camp, he saw a wiry, half-naked Apache fumbling to load his rifle. He heard a gunshot and somebody yelled, then he crashed through juniper branches and smelled wood smoke.

All at once, he and Hop were free of the camp, beyond the junipers heading west. The riderless horses were keeping up with the group. The rising sun was on their backs. After a mile run, they slowed the horses to a trot, skirted the bench, and headed north over a flat desert landscape. An hour later, the two men stopped. The riderless horses were still trailing along behind Sibs.

Hop slowed to a walk. "I head southeast from here, Joe."

"I'm going north."

"You're welcome at Brown Springs anytime."

"My family will welcome you in Albuquerque. You'll get to eat real cornbread."

"How about my ma's cornbread is the best in Texas? Your mother's is the best in New Mexico."

"Agreed! Vaya con Dios, Johnny Reb!"

"Godspeed, Billy Yank!"