The Henry Rifle
by Brian Phillips

Mud covered Hamilton's face. He'd lain in the tall grass for almost a day. It was the only reason he was still alive. In the distance, the outlaws celebrated this morning's victory. A captured wagon stood alone, surrounded by the bodies of his doomed cowboy friends. The Journey from Missoula Mills to the mining camps near Silver Bow Creek should have taken a week. For his trail mates, it would be their last journey.

The wagon would never reach its destination.

Ham brushed stray hair from his face.

They had been looking for a way to cut through the Bitter Root Mountain range when they came along the trail. They could see down onto a sunken meadow, tall grass covering the lower area for a hundred feet. Just past the grass lay a gently flowing river. Ham and his friend Jeffrey couldn't wait to put their sore feet into the cool water.

When the first shot rang out, Ham didn't understand what was happening. When the bullet went through Jeffrey's skull, all Ham could do was stare. It felt like forever as he watched Jeffrey fall onto the ground. Another shot sounded and he heard the whizzing sound of a bullet passing by.

His instinct to survive kicked in. He dove from his horse into the tall grass, crawling as fast as he could to move out of the area. The sounds of terrified horses broke through the afternoon. His horse screamed in panic and bolted. A few seconds later another shot rang out. The screams of a dying horse filled the afternoon.

A pang of sorrow drifted through his heart. He would miss that horse. He kept moving, crawling as quickly as he could. Three more shots rang out before the gunfire stopped. Ham didn't wait. His adrenaline kept him moving toward the creek. The water might be his only salvation. If he could get into the water, maybe he could keep the sunken edge of the creek between him and the shooter and escape unseen.

Ham paused and listened for the creek, trying to get its direction. The idea of going back to the horse came into his mind. His saddlebags held some food left over from last night, a rain slicker, and most importantly, the Henry Rifle his brother gave him for Christmas.

He remembered the crackling of the fire, laughter of his family, the slow burn of whiskey, and the golden shine of the new Henry Rifle as he unwrapped it. It had been a stunning gift, so expensive, so rare.

"It isn't that rich," his brother had said, coughing to clear his throat, "now that the war is over, there are plenty of these around."

Those were golden times. Now three years later, his parents had moved on to be with the Lord, and his brother had been taken by the consumption. It turned out that the rifle was still expensive and rare, but his brother knew he had limited time left on this earth. He had sold almost everything he owned.

His brother knew he was near the end.

Now it looked like Ham was too.

Laying in the field, he looked up at the sun shining down. The rays of light were mostly blocked by the surrounding stalks, but one annoying spot shone directly into his eye. He moved his head to avoid it, slowly, trying not to give his position away. The gunmen were still out there. He knew they would shoot him as soon as they saw him. Witnesses were troublesome things, even this far in the wilderness.

It would be another three or four hours before the sun would set. It wouldn't take much to crawl to the creek then escape using the strong current and the darkness. He could get to the little mining town in Philipsburg to let the locals know about these bandits. Word would get around the Bitterroot valley, and there would be no safe haven for these murdering bastards.

There was only one problem. He would have to leave his Henry Rifle behind. The trip to Philipsburg would be hard but not impossible even without the food in his saddlebags, or any ability to hunt new food, if he stumbled across any bears, or maybe some unfriendly members of the Blackfoot tribe, it might be impossible.

Suddenly loud voices rang out from near the wagon. The bandits were calling out, their voices full of excitement.

"What do you have there?"

"Looks like you brought us a treat! I sure am hungry!"

More screams rang out, this time in fear. It sounded high pitched, like a woman.

Ham froze. He wanted to take a chance and look at what was going on. Maybe the bandits would be distracted. Of course, his next thought reminded him, maybe they would spot him and just put a bullet between his eyes. That wasn't going to help anyone, especially him.

A woman's scream rang out again. The chorus of insects and birds went silent. Just a few moments later the scream ended abruptly. Birds lifted from the surrounding branches.

Ham swore quietly to himself. Now he had to know what was going on. Before Ham could ask himself why he was such a dim-witted fool, he rose to his knees to get a look.

Three of the bandits stood near the wagon as another group approached. It didn't take too much imagination to figure out what was going on. Two men dressed in trail-worn cowboy clothing and army overs rode on either side of a young woman. The taller bandit, the one with a beat-up union calvary hat and a face that hadn't seen a shave since Fort Sumpter, rode with a revolver leveled at her gut.

Ham lowered his head back into the long grass. It looked like they were going to be distracted for the rest of the night. While unfortunate, it would make his escape even easier. He supposed he should be grateful to the young raven-haired woman. To Ham's eyes, she had looked well kept, not the kind of woman married to a sodbuster out here in the wilderness. It was more likely they had found some cattleman's family ranch and did a little raiding.

Just as Ham had started to turn towards the creek to begin his escape, the woman screamed. It wasn't an angry scream, it wasn't a scream of defiance, it was a scream born from the hell of pure terror. Ham didn't have time to evaluate his next move, to judge what plan was best, he simply knew what needed to be done.

Turning away from the creek and trying with all his willpower to stop a torrent of curse words from escaping his lips, Ham headed back toward where his horse's trail. He kept moving low, but didn't move slow. The woman's cries filled the evening, pushing him forward, his hands searching the grass as he went.

There was no time. Men laughed as they began their twisted little games, playing with their new toy. It sounded like they would be at it all night, but Ham knew better. Men like these always broke their toys. He needed to move. Part of his brain wanted to evaluate what was going on, to come up with some kind of tactic or plan. Time fought against him though. Each second that passed brought that woman closer to doom. There was one thing Ham was sure of. It would be easier getting shot than living with that woman's death in his memory.

He didn't even hesitate. His movements through the grass became quicker, more daring. If he didn't find that rifle in the next few minutes, his escape wouldn't matter.

Green stalks rubbed against his face. His hands rapidly grasped forward, searching, almost pleading for the touch of the smooth wooden stock. Whispers escaped his mouth that combined the notes of the Lord's Prayer with the vocabulary of a Yankee sailor.

And somehow, the Lord heard him. He found his horse's body. There was still enough light to see the light brown saddle. A brown rifle scabbard remained fastened to its side.

The screams began again.

Ham grabbed at the thick leather laces and began to untie them. It only took a few seconds before the rifle was free.

There was no time. He couldn't find a good position. He couldn't ambush them. The best he could do was strike quick enough to give that woman a chance.

Ham forced back the worries, the fears, and maybe the impending end of his somewhat brief time on this world. At least if he was going to the bone orchard, he was going like a hero. At least some of these bandits would certainly be joining him.

Clack! The sound that the rifle made when he pushed the lever seemed like a thunderclap to his ears. The wagon sat at least fifty yards away. He needed a clean shot.

The woman's screams transformed into cries of pain. In a single motion, Ham stood up and moved forward, his boots climbing on the body of his dead mount. Fear gave way to anger. He needed to help that woman, and by the angels above, those bastards would pay for killing his horse.

The scene became clear as he took a second to steady himself. The loyal horse performed one last duty. It gave him another two feet of elevation. He brought up the Henry Rifle to his shoulder. Gazing down its long barrel, he could clearly see the small gang grabbing their prey, tearing her clothes, pushing her down. He saw blood on her face. Someone had struck the woman, opening a cut along her cheek. Now the blood coated her dark hair.

Just like the army had taught him, he lined up the front blade of the aim site on the farthest bandit. Shooting the bandit nearest to the woman might hit her by mistake if he missed. That would end the whole rescue before it had begun. Ham guided the rear notch to ensure the bullet would fly true to its target, not too high, not too low. Most men would hesitate before pulling the trigger and ending a man's life. There were too many bodies lying dead in the fields of Virginia and Pennsylvania, and a fair share had been put there by Ham. There was no regret.

Bam!

The rifle kicked. A cloud of gray smoke shot out. The bandit he was aiming at jerked violently as the round punctured his old threadbare coat and drove into his lung, The wounded bandit didn't even get a chance to scream as he dropped. Almost as one, the remaining bandits stopped their assault on the screaming woman and spun to see where the bullet's report had come from. Their gaze stopped on their wounded comrade.

Ham ducked back into the grass and started moving. He could hear the bandits shouting at each other as they spread out, searching for him. He moved slowly, trying to hide his movements in with the tall stalks. The shouts seemed to be getting closer every second.

The creek emerged from the parting grass. Its current might be his best escape option.

But he didn't come here to escape.

He cycled the lever of Henry Rifle, pulling a cartridge from the magazine and depositing it to the firing chamber. Too late to hesitate, he thought. Quick as he could, he stood up enough to see what was going on. He was right about the bandits. The bandits were approaching fast. Spread out into a picket line, they were trying to corner him like they were quail hunting.

They weren't hunting though.

Bam!

The Henry Rifle barked again. Ham didn't get a chance to see if he had hit or missed as he ducked down again, sliding into the creek and out of the bandit's sight. He kept low as the water pushed him along, it's current unconcerned with the outcome of this fight. The creek bank was made of mud. It formed a nearly vertical wall of mud a little more than a foot high.

He could call it quits now, and the current would carry him away unseen.

But it wouldn't carry the woman away. Treetops began to emerge as he looked into the darkening sky, A tall pine marked the edge of the meadow and the beginning of a steep hill leading to the wagon train. It wasn't cover, but it would do.

He thought he was far enough to be out of danger. Ham grabbed a fist full of roots and pulled himself up onto the bank, leaving the safety of the creek behind. He kept low, crawling on hands and knees, looking for a good place to take a shot from.

Then he saw the tracks.

"You've got to be kidding", he whispered as he recognized the Mountain Lion's track pressed into the mud. The indentation was definitely from a cat, but it was the same width as his own hand. It had to be a male, and a big one at that. He didn't have time to worry about the predator stalking through the tall grass, nearly invisible. Ham hoped the sound of gunfire would keep the big cat away.

No time to worry. He had shot two of the bandits. There were three left. He had a rifle. He could still win this.

Grasping the stock tightly, he scrambled toward the hillside. A thick pine tree stood sentry over the meadow. It's trunk offering thin cover. He wished it was something a little stronger, like a thick oak, or hell, even a piece of cheese for all the good it would probably do him.

He moved to the opposite side of the pine, glancing at the meadow. The bandits were still moving through the grass carefully, searching for him.

He brought the rifle up to his shoulders, aiming as his hands shook.

Bam!

The rifle kicked and the shot went wide. All three of the bandits turned his way. He saw one of them aiming their Sharps carbine, carefully taking his measure. He pushed down on the lever, cycling the next bullet. A puff of smoke and a pop came from the Sharps, then a spray of wood erupted from the tree in front of him.

Taking a second to aim, Ham could see the bandit readying his own weapon. But the bandit wasn't faster than the Henry.

Bam! The bandit staggered as the round went into his shoulder. By the time Ham cycled the lever again, the bandit had fallen into the grass. Probably not dead, at least not yet. The bandit had plenty more bleeding to do.

Two more bandits to go, and they had pistols. He had a rifle and range. The tide had turned. It looks like the bandits were thinking the same thing as they turned from him, running back to the wagon.

He took another shot. Bam! Another bandit sank beneath the grassy surface. One bandit remained, speeding back toward the wagon and the young woman, glancing back toward Ham as he ran.

"Got you", he said to himself as he raised the rifle to his shoulder. Before he could sight the bastard, a piercing roar erupted from behind him as the mountain lion struck. Its weight knocked Ham to the earth as fangs bit into his shoulder. He screamed in pain. The lion began shaking its head back and forth, rending his flesh with the fangs sunk into him. The Henry Rifle dropped from his grasp as he tried, and failed, to push the lion's head away. It screamed again. Something primal in Ham wanted to freeze in fear, but it didn't happen. In a last ditch of desperation, he grabbed for his belt knife. One hand.

The lion's fangs opened, releasing his shoulder. It shot forward like lighting, the fangs seeking Ham's neck, his life's blood.

There was nowhere to go. Ham wrapped the lion in a hug, pulling it out of position and literally saving his neck. With just a second of opportunity, Ham jabbed the knife into the lion's belly. It screamed in rage and pain. He held on and jabbed again.

He felt pain as the lion's fangs sunk into his chest, ripping his chest and part of his skin away.

The knife struck again, then again, then again. The giant cat slowed, then came to a stop.

Then the sound of a pistol shot rang out.

Ham tried to stand up, but he couldn't move the lion. Blood poured from his shoulder. He tried to reach the rifle, but it was just a few feet too far away.

Tears of grief and anger erupted from his eyes. He had been so close. One more bandit, and the woman would have lived. One more shot from the Henry rifle.

He heard footsteps approaching. The bandit was coming back. Stretching toward the rifle, pain tore through his shoulder, then through his entire body. He couldn't reach it. He heard the grass part, then saw the pistol barrel come through the tall grass.

"You don't look so good. What can I do to help?"

The voice behind the pistol wasn't a man's voice. It was light, sweet like morning dew. He turned his head, trying to focus as his vision swam. He saw long black hair, sharp brown eyes, and a bruised woman's face with a cut along her cheek. Her clothing was ripped and stained with blood as she held the Colt Army pistol steadily in her hand.

Ham exhaled in relief. Somehow, she had managed to overcome the last bandit herself.

He tried to grin through the pain and failed.

"I don't suppose I could get a ride to town?"

October 26, 1881
by Dylan Henderson

Catarina, meowing softly, jumped onto the stove. She had smelled the stew outside in the alley, its warm, beefy odor mingling with the familiar scent of horses, hay, manure, and tobacco, and as soon as the Woman opened the window, she had climbed through it, hoping for a chance to investigate.

"You might as well dish it out now," the Man said, sitting down at the table. "I might not . . . I might not have time to eat it afterwards."

The Woman picked up Catarina and, swatting her softly on the flank, dropped her onto the floor.

"It's not ready," she said, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. "The potatoes are still hard."

"That doesn't matter. I told my brothers I'd meet 'em outside in ten minutes." The Man looked at the clock hanging beside the back door. "They're waking the dentist now."

Catarina, rubbing herself against the Woman's ankles, meowed again, but the Woman ignored her.

"It's not ready," she said. "The potatoes still need to cook."

The Man slammed his palm against the edge of the table, which rocked from the blow. Startled, Catarina darted up the stairs. Then, at the landing, she paused and, eyeing the Man carefully through the banister, began to lick her paw.

The Man sighed. "Just serve it," he said softly. "I've got to go."

"I don't see why," the Woman said, her voice loud and nervous. She sat down at the table and, taking the Man's hands in hers, looked into his face. "It's not worth it."

Catarina watched the two without interest.

"What's he done?" the Woman asked. "Stolen some Mexican cattle? Let him have them. They killed my father's brother in the war. Now my husband's going to get himself killed for their cattle?"

"I'm not doing this for the Mexicans."

"Who are you doing it for, Virgil? You're not doing it for me. You're not doing it for your son."

Outside, a wagon rumbled down the street, its wooden axles creaking gently. Catarina lifted her head, her left ear twitching. Through the glass windows in the parlor, she could hear the driver singing to himself, his high-pitched voice rising above the steady clop of his horse's hooves.

"You want the Cowboys to run this town? You want them giving the orders around here?"

"Maybe I do. Would that be so bad?" The Woman sounded upset, and Catarina, turning her head, watched her from the stairs. "They spend money here, don't they? They don't cause any more trouble than anyone else. You and your brothers, you're the only ones who hate them."

The Man looked at the clock, but he said nothing.

"Ike's drunk. Let him go. You can reason with him when he's sober."

The Man shifted his weight in the chair.

"I don't want any trouble," he said.

Upstairs, a door opened-very softly. Catarina could smell the Boy, who had bathed last night and still smelled faintly of soap. He smiled at Catarina. Then, holding his finger to his lips, he crept down the stairs to the landing.

When the Woman spoke, her voice sounded hard, bitter. She had let go of the Man's hands.

"If that . . . gambler . . . is with you, there'll be trouble. Don't you know that?"

"If there is trouble, we could use him. He's got fast hands."

The Woman stood up, the legs of her chair scraping against the wood floor. "Sure, he's got fast hands. He can take care of himself. But what about you? Maybe you-or one of your brothers-kill Ike. Maybe you kill the McLaurys. What then? Do you think it'll end there? His friends will find you some day, some day when your brothers aren't by your side."

Catarina, purring softly, rubbed her head against the boy's leg. She thought that he might want to play, but he just scratched her between the ears and listened.

"When you're dead, Virgil, and your brothers are dead and your friends are all dead, what's going to happen to us? What's going to happen to me-and your son?"

The Woman, when she said this, pointed toward the stairs and saw the Boy perched there.

The clock by the door began to chime.

The Man and the Woman looked at each other.

"That clock's fast," the Man said, his voice thick. "I'll take care of him."

"Just go," the Woman said. "You're going to leave us with nothing. Why pretend to be a good father now?"

The Man rose and, crossing the room, picked up the Boy, who was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He carried him up to his room, Catarina following behind them.

"You're supposed to be taking a nap," the Man said, laying the boy down on his bed and covering him with a blanket. "You can't grow if you don't sleep."

Catarina jumped onto the bed. Her place was there, between the Boy's legs.

"I heard what Momma said. You're really going to face him, Papa? You're going to face Ike Clanton and his gang?"

The bedframe creaked, and Catarina could feel the mattress sinking under the Man's weight.

"We're just gonna ask 'em to hand over their guns. That's all."

Catarina lay down next to the Boy. She wanted to sleep, but she could sense his excitement. She could sense something else, too, a sort of tension in the air.

"You know what I'd do, Papa? I wouldn't even ask him for his guns. As soon as I saw him, I'd start shooting. I'd shoot him six times before he hit the ground."

The Man stroked the boy's blond hair.

"You got to give him a chance."

"I wouldn't. I'd shoot him. You know what I'd do, Papa? I'd shoot his ear off. Then I'd shoot him-bang!-right in his eye."

The Man smiled.

"If you talk like that, you'll never be a man. You'll be a boy forever."

The Boy pulled the blanket up to his chin.

"I don't wanna be a man," he said, "if it means gettin' shot."

The Man rose. When he spoke, his voice sounded different, and Catarina watched him carefully.

"Go to sleep," he said.

Catarina curled into a ball, hoping that the Boy would scratch her belly, but he didn't. She heard the slow, heavy tramp of the Man's footsteps on the stairs. The Woman was saying something to him, was whispering so softly that not even Catarina could hear her.

"I wouldn't let them kill me," the Boy said, rolling over. "I wouldn't give 'em the chance."

The Woman was crying now, and Catarina, curious, rose and, jumping down from the bed, crossed the room. The door was open a crack, and she squeezed through it and crept down the stairs, her ears alert for the smallest sound.

The front door shut with a bang, making the glass in the transom rattle, and through the parlor window, Catarina saw the Man standing in the street, his black hat in his hand.

In the kitchen, the Woman was standing motionless in front of the stove. Every now and then, she stirred the stew a little with her spoon.

"Fifty dollars," she murmured, wiping the tears from her eyes with the hem of her apron. "Pay the butcher. Pay the grocer. That leaves forty-seven dollars."

Catarina climbed onto the window and jumped down, her paws landing in the dusty soil outside the house. The alley was empty, but she could hear the sound of a piano, accompanied by shouts of laughter, coming from a distant dance hall. A gray moth, fluttering sluggishly on the still wind, caught her eye, and she chased it down the street, batting at it now and then with her paw.

The moth, rising on the wind, disappeared, and Catarina, bored now and hungry, sat down and pawed at her ear, which itched terribly.

In the narrow street behind the corral, five men were standing around nervously, some of them fingering the pistols in their belts. Catarina, sniffing the air, could smell the oil on the guns, and she approached the men, but one of them threw a bottle at her, which shattered on the hard soil, and she hissed and ran off.

She wandered for a while, looking for something to eat, and not far away, in the street in front of the hotel, she saw the Man, who was talking to a girl. Her perfume smelled familiar, and Catarina watched her from beneath the adjacent porch.

"I had to see you," she was saying, her hands on the Man's shoulders, "before you left. You don't have to go over there."

The Man stood up a little straighter, and he put on his hat and smiled.

"Yes, I do. It's my job."

"Virgil . . . I don't want you to go. Promise me, you'll stay away from there. Those men, they're hoping for a fight."

The Man bent down, and his lips touched the girl's cheek, but she pulled away and gestured vaguely toward the hotel.

"Don't," she said sullenly. "I'm with a client."

An uneasiness hung in the air, and Catarina, licking the dust from her paw, watched them from the darkness beneath the porch, her green eyes glittering.

"He's waiting for me. I need to go back."

The Man was holding her by the arm. Twice, he started to say something.

"I have to go," the girl whined. "I need to get back."

"Then why come out here?" the Man asked, looking up at the hotel. "Why didn't you just stay in there-with him?"

In the tree behind the hotel, the last of the cicadas began to buzz feebly, but Catarina ignored it.

The girl, looking at the ground, turned away, and Catarina tensed. She kept her body small, low to the ground. Her left ear twitched.

"You owe me twenty dollars," the girl said softly.

The Man's voice, when he spoke, contained no emotion.

"And if I go out there," he said, letting go of her arm, "you won't be able to collect it from my wife."

The girl nodded, and Catarina heard the silver dollars clink as they changed hands. The girl, hurrying now, rushed back to the hotel. When she opened the door, the sound of men and women laughing and shouting emptied into the street, filling it with noise. Then the door closed; the girl disappeared; and the street fell silent. In the tree behind the building, the song of the cicada grew weaker and weaker until it died away completely.

The Man stood there, his eyes scanning the front of the hotel, his hat once more in his hands. Then he turned and began walking, very slowly, up the street.

Catarina, emerging from beneath the porch, started to follow him. All of a sudden, she wanted to rub her head against the soft leather of his boots, to feel his rough hands scratch her behind the ears, but as she crossed the dusty street, the moth reappeared, fluttering down from somewhere up above, and she chased it, striking at it again and again until, with a swipe of her paw, she brought it down, and it lay, broken, but twitching feebly, in the dirt, and so fascinated by this was Catarina, who now and then touched its wings gently with the tip of her paw, that she never even heard the shots.

The Actress
by Sharon Frame Gay

Growing up without roots, you never fully bloom. You may find the sun, rain, or wind on your face, but it only burns, wets, and batters. Nothing takes hold, burrows into a community, or blossoms out of purpose.

That's how I came to be here. I'm no more than a dandelion seed, standing in the middle of the road in a small town in South Dakota, ready to blow away on the next breeze.

It doesn't matter. Not a bit. One town looks the same as another after a while. There's always the sheriff's office, a saloon, a boarding house, and mercantile. The roads are rutted and muddy. It's what's behind the walls, the swinging doors, and the metal bars that make the difference.

I was born in the back of a painted wagon. My parents were actors in a traveling show. They placed me backstage in a wooden box with a sugar teat to suck on, the noise of the crowds my lullaby. After the show, they left me to sleep in their dressing room or wagon while they visited restaurants and saloons, rubbing up against the locals, pitching the next play.

Father was classically trained, a vagabond from London who came to America on a whim, or so he said. I think a constable invited him to leave England, and the next ship was sailing to New York.

My mother came from a good family in Philadelphia. Mother went to college, and along the way fell in with the actors and artists who filled the hallways of higher learning with lofty ideals. She met Father when he performed in a play in New York, and the rest, as they say, was history. Mother was beautiful. People said I looked just like her. We shared the same bright red hair and deep green eyes.

It was exciting when our wagon rolled into town. People were eager for laughter and drama. They paid to sit on wooden benches in makeshift theaters or saloons. The shows were colorful and filled with music. I joined Mother and Father on the stage from the time I was very young. The crowds loved the little red-headed girl who sang and danced.

I can't describe what it felt like to lose both my parents to the Russian Flu that swept through America in 1890. I survived with nothing more than a raspy throat, only eighteen years old and orphaned. After I buried them, there was not a penny left over. All that remained was the show wagon and a sorrel horse named Clyde. In the wagon were trunks of costumes, a few pots and pans, and boxes of sheet music.

There was nothing to do but keep moving, so I did. In each town, I looked for a saloon or small theater to perform my one-woman show. I played the piano, sang tunes, danced a little, and hoped to earn enough money to feed myself and Clyde. Acting was easy. Becoming real was not. One day stepped on the heels of the next until eight years had gone by. No longer was I the frightened girl kneeling by two ragged crosses in a potter's field on a hill in Kansas. Things had changed.

I stood outside the doors of the Sleeping Lady Saloon in Webster, South Dakota. It was early yet, not quite noon. All was quiet in the bar, but the doors swung open, so I stepped inside with a smile on my face. It was important to make a good first impression. Convince the bartender or owner that putting on a show in his saloon for a night or two was a good idea. I tossed my head, squared my shoulders, and strolled across the floor in my finest green wool coat.

In the light of day, the saloon looked weary. Shafts of sunlight poured over the swinging doors and stirred up dust motes that swirled in the air. A long wooden bar was chipped and notched, rubbed smooth from the elbows of many strangers.

An old man was sweeping the scuffed floor in lazy circles with a broom. I asked him to point out the boss, and he jutted his chin towards a table where a dark-haired man sat.

The bartender raised his head, rose from a table scattered with paperwork, and smiled. When he took my hand in his and felt my soft palm draped in a delicate lace glove, I knew I had his attention. I dimpled and introduced myself as Molly Blake. We spoke of a one-woman show. His dark eyes followed me as I wandered around the saloon, then pointed towards an old upright piano.

"I can perform right there in the corner by the piano. I won't charge the saloon, not even one cent for my services, sir. The customers will pay for the entertainment."

I explained. "After the show, I pass a hat and ask for contributions. What goes into the hat is mine. Everything you make at the bar is yours."

I gestured around the empty room. "People love entertainment. They buy more drinks, stay later, and if I may say so, they are generous in their donations."

He seemed interested, so I touched his arm, stepped in closer. His skin smelled of fresh soap, his collar clean but frayed. He had not shaved, and dark stubble bristled on his jaw. Dark eyes stared deep into mine. Encouraged, I placed my hand back on his arm, let it linger, and gazed up at him.

"My show lasts an hour or two. I have a few playbills we can post outside to draw in the customers."

The bartender bobbed his head up and down like my old horse Clyde when flies pester him. He held my hand a little longer than was necessary and caressed my palm.

"You've got the job, Miss Blake," he said. "The saloon is open for customers after six o'clock, but I would suggest you start a little later."

"Yes. Maybe around seven or eight? I'll set a few things up now, then return this evening. I won't be any bother. It'll just take me a few minutes."

He nodded and stepped back to the table. "Well then, we'll be seeing you tonight." He hesitated, those stormy eyes lingering on my face. "Might I ask where you are staying during your time here in Webster should we need to contact you?"

"Right down the street, sir, at Sarah's Boardinghouse, in room four."

I tacked a mural of a mountain scene on the wall and smoothed out the canvas. Covered the top of the piano with a red velvet runner, along with a large brass candlestick. Then I placed posters by the swinging doors outside, and up and down the main street. After that, I headed toward the boardinghouse, removed my clothes, and crawled under the sheets in my camisole and petticoat to rest until evening.

It wasn't long before I heard steps on the stairs and down the hall. There was a light tap on the door. I rose with the sheet bunched around me and turned the knob. The bartender fell inside with eager hands, smothering my mouth with kisses. I hadn't expected such impatience, and pretended to resist a little, then let him walk me to the bed. He lowered me to the mattress, covered my neck and breasts with kisses. I spread my legs, and he entered with a sigh. I moved with his grunts and arched my back as he poured himself into me. After one last thrust, he rolled off and collapsed on the mattress. My chest was damp with his sweat, a male scent.

I cried, like I always do. Silent little hiccups. He sat up, alarmed. I put my head in my hands and gave in to pitiful sobs. This was the part I liked the most. How I played off of him. How he appeared to believe my act.

He said he felt terrible. Forgive him, he begged, for he'd misread me and my intentions in the saloon earlier. He took advantage of my gentle nature, and mistook my innocent flirtation, he confessed. What could he do to make it right? I sniffled as he tucked a lock of red hair behind my ear, wiped my tears away with his thumb.

I hesitated, then looked up at him as he stood and fumbled with his trousers and pulled on his boots. In a soft voice, I asked if he could lend a few dollars until after the show, then I would pay him back. There were things I needed before the play started tonight, I explained, clutching the sheet against my neck.

He hung his head as though in shame. Reached into his pockets and gave me a fistful of money. Sometimes, the largesse was so good that long before the show was to start that evening, I was already miles down the road, old Clyde pulling the wagon on to the next town.

I counted the money after he left. It wasn't as much as I'd been given in other towns, so I decided to stay in Webster and do the show, pass the hat, and hope to earn a little more.

At sunset that evening, I stowed the cash in my satchel and hid it under the bed. I walked into the Sleeping Lady, dragging a small costume trunk and a valise bulging with sheet music. A few customers had already trickled in. A woman sat at the piano pounding out a tune. The man behind the bar was not the same one I had spoken with this morning. He was older, with a handlebar mustache that moved up and down when he talked.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"Yes, Sir, I'm Molly Blake. I'm performing tonight. Where's a good place to unpack the props and stow my costumes?"

He stopped polishing a glass, set it down, and cocked his head.

"I don't understand, Miss. What play?"

I explained that earlier that day, a young bartender had hired me to put on a show that night. Courtesy of paying guests, not a penny paid by the saloon owner.

"I'm the owner," he said. "Jim Bridgeforth. This is the first I've heard of it. Joseph had no authority to hire you or anyone else."

I stepped back, confused, and set the trunk down hard on the floor. "What? But he said I could perform tonight!"

He looked worried then. "I just hired that young man last week. I never told him he could do anything like this."

"Joseph!" he hollered.

There was no answer.

"What the hell?" He excused himself, walked behind the bar and out through a door into the back room. Then I heard him swear. He came storming back, a shotgun in his hand.

I cowered and ducked my head. The piano player stopped, all eyes turned towards the gun, then at me. The saloon went silent.

Mr. Bridgeforth waved the shotgun in front of him, back and forth, his face red. "That son of a bitch cleaned out my safe! He must have taken off! I can't believe it!"

He glared at me. "When did you speak with Joseph?"

"Sometime before noon. He gave me permission to set up the mural over there." I pointed a shaky finger towards the piano in the corner. He looked shocked, said he hadn't noticed it earlier. He pulled at his ears, bared his teeth in anger. Kicked at a table.

"Shit," he muttered. "Where'd he go?" he looked up at the ceiling as though a voice would tell him.

"What am I supposed to do now?" I asked, wringing my hands. "I need the work, and if I can't perform tonight, I must be off to the next town. I was counting on this."

He pointed at a chair, scowling at me. "Stay right here, Miss Blake. Don't go anywhere. I'm getting the sheriff." He pushed through the swinging doors and out into the night.

I sat down at a table and chewed on the side of my fingernail until the sheriff burst back through the doors with the saloon keeper. Mr. Bridgeforth and the sheriff went behind the bar into the back room, then emerged a short while later. The sheriff had a frown on his face. They both walked over to my table and looked down at me.

I answered their questions, listened to them as they talked about Joseph, the safe, and the money. Then I cried. I needed the work, I said. My words fell like bees buzzing around their heads as they talked about the robbery.

Finally, they seemed to notice me. Mr. Bridgeforth shook his head and walked back over to the table. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Miss Blake. Looks like you were swindled too. I guess you wasted your time here in Webster."

I thought of Joseph between my legs, the bed bouncing up and down on the second floor of that boarding house, and sobbed harder into my handkerchief.

The sheriff left, off to find Joseph. Outside, the sky opened with rain, spattering against the wooden walkway and leaking in under the swinging doors. The piano player struck up a spirited rendition of "Golden Slippers" and the customers resumed their drinking and laughing.

I convinced Mr. Bridgeforth to let me perform that night. I told him the show might bring in more money this evening to offset his losses, and I wouldn't charge him a penny. He agreed, I think, out of pity.

That night, curious townspeople crowded the saloon. Word had gotten around about the robbery and the young actress putting on a show. I recited poetry, played the piano and sang. The customers loved it. They were mostly men, so I remembered to flash my ankles, holding my skirt higher when I danced, my frothy petticoat rising and falling to the songs I sang. When I passed the hat, people filled it to the brim with coin. Mr. Bridgeforth convinced me to stay for two more nights. Each night, I sang different songs and recited new poetry. I tried to make it as special as I could.

"Any luck finding Joseph, Mr. Bridgeforth?" I asked after the last performance. He helped me take the mural off the wall and pack it away with the candelabra and velvet runner.

He shook his head and pulled at his mustache. "That bastard was gone for hours before I checked the safe. The sheriff's still out lookin' for him, but he probably got away clean. There wasn't much money in the safe because I had gone to the bank two days before. A day earlier and he would have run off with a lot more." He slammed his fist down on the bar, rattled a bottle of whiskey. "If I ever find him, I'll kill him, that's for sure."

I nodded and thanked him for the opportunity to put on my show. As I turned to leave, Mr. Bridgeforth called out.

"Wait, Miss Blake."

I stopped and turned around. He took my hand in his, opened my palm, and placed several dollars in it.

"The Sleeping Lady did well the past couple of nights, thanks to you. Almost makes up for the money I lost. You deserve a bonus." He steered me to the door, swung it aside with a flourish, and I stepped out into the night.

"Thank you, Mr. Bridgeforth. I'll never forget your kindness. I'll come back this way again, if you'll have me."

He bowed, walked back into the saloon and shut it down for the evening.

When I left the next morning, my satchel was bulging with money. I hid it in the false bottom of a trunk filled with petticoats and corsets. Then I slipped a Derringer into my pocket for protection against highwaymen.

A few of the ladies in town packed a basket of cold chicken with fresh bread and cheese. They said it was the least they could do since I was gracious enough to continue with my show, despite the robbery and upheaval in Webster. They said my act was the best they had seen in years, and asked me to return someday. I thanked them from the bottom of my heart, climbed up in the wagon, and gnawed on a drumstick as Clyde made his way out of town.

A month later, I stepped into a bar in Bismarck, North Dakota. It took me a while to find just the right saloon, but this was the place for me. The gentleman behind the bar lifted his head, took off his glasses, and peered at me.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

I walked over, hips swaying, and told him I was looking for work, and it wouldn't cost the saloon a penny. I stepped closer, twisted a lock of red hair around my finger and patted his arm. When I finished the pitch, he hired me on the spot. Told me to show up after seven that evening.

"If I might ask, Miss Blake, where are you staying should we need to contact you?"

"The boarding house right next door, Sir. Room 10."

Joseph gazed at me with his dark eyes, winked and smiled, the sweetest smile he had given me in years. He kissed my hand, bobbing his head up and down, just like old Clyde.

Treasure Chest
by David Albano

Folks don't stumble into Hangman's Gulch by accident. Stagecoaches rarely roll into town—there aren't any roads—and the railroad barons refused to run tracks anywhere near the lawless desert outpost. If a cowboy asks the good people of Austin for directions, he'll receive a suspicious glare in response, followed by raised eyebrows, a shrug, and finally, a finger pointed west. "Two hundred miles that way." Two hundred miles of dry, desolate wasteland—that was all that separated the civilized world of the ranchers and shopkeepers from the marauding desperados of Hangman's Gulch.

It was often said there were only two types of men that lived there—those that made the nooses and those that swung by them. It was a morbid saying, and the thought chilled O'Keefe. The western wasteland was nothing like the rolling Irish hills he'd left behind. He closed his eyes and gave himself a few seconds to once again stretch out on the cool green grass of Ireland before returning to the scorching outskirts of Hangman's Gulch and the rows of swinging corpses that danced in its town square. Instinctively, he reached for his own throat. As far as he could tell, it was free of the rope—for now.

LeBlanc was an older and more experienced highwayman, and he was no longer prone to restlessness. The same could not be said for his younger companion, who had been fidgeting ever since the stakeout began that morning. O'Keefe's pale Irish skin was red and blistered from the blazing Texas sun, and although a gentle breeze had started to roll in as dusk approached, the fading rays of the sinking yellow disk beat their backs mercilessly.

"What's the matter, boy?" the bandit growled, noticing O'Keefe's fingers twitching near his own sweaty neck. "You ain't afraid of Tall John, are you?" LeBlanc's eyes gleamed as he taunted the younger highwayman.

O'Keefe quickly removed his hands from his collar and glanced at LeBlanc. He forced a weak grin. "Hell no. If anything, he ought to be scared of us." It was a lie, of course. There wasn't an outlaw alive in Hangman's Gulch—other than LeBlanc, and maybe the Fish brothers—that didn't fear the strange mountain dweller that had begun wandering into town. He was freakishly large, towering at six-and-a-half feet, and his knotted hair and unwashed beard curled down his back and his torso, both adorned with colorful braids and other Indian trinkets. Black and brown pelts clung to his body, and his foul odor was masked only by the tobacco smoke that swirled from his long-stemmed pipe. Nobody knew his name or from where he had come. His monstrous, hirsute frame resembled that of a bison, and some claimed he'd descended from an unholy Indian buffalo-god. Ultimately, the folks of Hangman's Gulch figured him to be another John the Baptist—the only other fur-covered, desert-wandering wild man they knew—and from then on, he'd been known only as "Tall John".

LeBlanc grunted and stared back out toward the darkening emptiness that stretched out before him. Twilight was setting in, and painted shadows shimmered across the desert floor—brushstrokes of the Sun setting behind the pair.

O'Keefe's sunburned skin grew redder as he looked away, embarrassed. He wanted to seem tough in front of the fearless bandit, and he knew so far, he had been unconvincing. He furrowed his brow and squinted his eyes in a pitiful attempt to look older before adding casually, "You think he's got the treasure with him?"

A throng of flies swarmed LeBlanc's face. He'd grown accustomed to the heat, the sand, and the long waits, but the bugs were irritating, and the kid's overzealous bravado was tiresome. "Use your head, boy!" the grizzled LeBlanc snapped before sighing and sticking out a finger. "Think about it—Oxley runs off to fight with those filthy Yanks, so he sure as hell ain't welcome back in Mississippi after the war." He extended another finger. "He falls in with Tall John for some Indian fighting until he drops dead with a gut full of arrows in some Comanche raid." LeBlanc raised a third finger. "Not a day later, Tall John is galloping toward Jackson like a bat out of hell. Everybody knows Peter Oxley was one of the richest men in Mississippi. Ain't nobody going to touch that Yankee-lover's blood treasure—except Tall John. He's off to collect the traitor's gold—and then he'll be riding back toward Hangman's Gulch. And when he does," LeBlanc grinned, his smile toothy and tobacco-stained, "we'll be ready to meet him."

As if by the divine providence of a malevolent outlaw deity, it was at that moment that something moved just out of the corner of O'Keefe's eye—a brown dot bobbing up and down beyond the eastern horizon through the shadowy haze. It almost looked like a grazing buffalo, but the movement was the unmistakable trot of a man on a horse.

"Well, well," LeBlanc muttered, noticing the approaching phantom in the distance. "Speak of the Devil." LeBlanc placed his finger across his lips in a demand for silence, and the two highwaymen crouched low. They'd strategically chosen this hiding place—an overturned wagon, the remains of one of the few stagecoaches that dared to make the ill-fated journey to Hangman's Gulch—for their ambush.

O'Keefe shut his eyes and counted. He was sweating profusely, even though the Sun had nearly set and its scorching rays had dwindled. They had to stay invisible until the last moment to spring upon their prey. It took a behemoth of a horse to hold Tall John and its massive hooves echoed resoundingly in the desert stillness. It wasn't until the terrible, thunderous step of the brute drew alongside the crumbling debris that LeBlanc nodded to his companion, and with O'Keefe's shaky swallow and nod in return, the two leaped from their hiding place.

O'Keefe had seen Tall John before at the Jackrabbit Saloon, but he'd never been as close to the mountain recluse as he was now. Very little of the giant's face was visible beneath his beard—dirty, but marvelously adorned—and his black eyes were unafraid beneath his dark, weathered skin. His gaze pierced the young bandit, who shuddered fearfully despite being protected by his revolver, which was aimed at Tall John's heart. The colossal hermit appeared to be more monster than man.

LeBlanc, however, noticed none of these things. Instead, he gleefully focused on the intricately carved wooden chest slung over the side of the humongous steed. His mouth salivated at the glittering riches and lost Confederate gold locked inside, his lust for treasure soon to be satiated.

"Easy there, big fella," the older outlaw sneered, the cocking of his gun pronounced in the quiet of the Texas twilight. The big horse had gotten jumpy at the sight of the two strangers emerging from behind the waylaid stagecoach, but its rider patted its neck gently; the beast snorted and relaxed beneath its master's reassuring touch. Tall John still didn't look anxious or surprised—in fact, he seemed entirely emotionless. With a couple of highwaymen aiming their revolvers directly at his chest, O'Keefe thought before shifting uncomfortably, why isn't he afraid? If LeBlanc was nervous, he wasn't showing it. He simply smirked at his prisoner.

"Well, we're a long way from town, ain't we, Mister?" LeBlanc's gravelly voice dripped with contemptuous mockery for the mountain dweller. "Now, where would we be riding from? It couldn't be Jackson, Mississippi, could it?" LeBlanc had hoped to frighten his captive—to see the giant that towered over him sweat or falter—but Tall John sat in calm silence.

LeBlanc frowned, disappointed at the lack of reaction, and motioned his gun toward the ground. "Why don't we just step off that old horse now?"

Tall John didn't say a word. The graying traveler simply swung an enormous leg over the side of the enormous horse and jumped down. The ground shook beneath the mountain man's boots, a cloud of sand swirling in the last remaining sunbeams and billowing through the Texas air as Tall John made contact with the ground. O'Keefe coughed and watched the animal sway under the force of its rider disembarking, the wooden chest thumping softly—almost rhythmically—against the side of the horse.

LeBlanc's revolver remained locked on his captive, but his eyes darted greedily toward the hypnotic sway of the box. "That's it, ain't it? Oxley's treasure chest?" Tall John had leaped toward the other side of the horse, and he quietly stood there, his hands raised but his face unchanging. A weird, unhinged cackle suddenly erupted from LeBlanc's lips; it was unnerving to O'Keefe, as was the black-pupiled stare of the mountain man as he turned to face O'Keefe.

"How about that, boy?" the older outlaw gasped through his guffawing laughter. "Didn't think it'd be that easy, did you? Bet you didn't really believe we'd end up with that Yankee-lover's treasure—or John the Baptist's head on a platter! Head on a platter! Ain't that rich!" O'Keefe, mesmerized by the gaze of the prisoner, didn't utter a sound. LeBlanc frowned again.

"Head on a platter, O'Keefe." LeBlanc looked back toward his companion. "Get it, boy? Come on, ain't you got any church learnin'?"

It was three seconds—three short seconds that the bandit took his eyes off the giant buffalo-man.

That was all Tall John needed.

With a swing unnaturally quick for a man of his size, Tall John struck the already nervous beast with his humongous paw. The startled horse brayed and lunged, the animal rushing headfirst into the distracted outlaw. The bandit saw the half-crazed steed less than an instant before it collided with him, LeBlanc yelling and flailing, his gun firing wildly in the chaos. Clouds of sand shot up around him in the skirmish and O'Keefe, terrified, tried to find Tall John through the opaque sand-wall and his coughing fit, his own weapon lost in the mayhem. The madness was momentary, and the fearless LeBlanc didn't have time to register the lightning-speed draw or the flash of fire or the billowing puffs of smoke before he dropped dead onto the sunset-drenched desert floor.

LeBlanc's body had collapsed mere feet from O'Keefe. The Irishman's eyes grew wide as terror overwhelmed him, his head swinging wildly, back and forth, between his partner's corpse and the glistening gun of the still-expressionless mountain man, the Indian braids in his beard lightly splattered with blood.

He dropped to his knees and began to tearfully beg. Most of the words he uttered were incoherent, the only sentence whispered clearly being: "Please, don't shoot." He blacked out from shock, only rousing into consciousness when he heard Tall John speak.

"Open it."

O'Keefe's forehead was soaked with sweat. He opened his horrified eyes and found himself staring straight into the barrel of the wild man's gun. He forced his attention up to Tall John's face. O'Keefe was frightened, but bizarrely fascinated. These were the first words O'Keefe heard the traveler utter, and they were guttural and raw, the big man's voice unwavering in its demand.

"W . . . what?" the outlaw stammered.

The buffalo-man slowly motioned the gun toward the box that still hung to the side of the massive horse—the glittering gold that had cost LeBlanc his life.

"The treasure chest. Open it."

Shaking, O'Keefe rose from his knees, the revolver trained on his head, and he limped fearfully toward the side of the horse. The chest was carved from magnolia wood, intricate and beautiful. To O'Keefe's amazement, it was not locked. He untied it from the now-relaxed brute and set it on the ground. He knew Tall John would put a bullet in his head any moment—that the lustful quest for Oxley's riches had been doomed—but he couldn't help but tremble in anticipation as he opened the chest and stuck his hand inside.

His jaw dropped as it sifted through his fingertips. He stared dumbfounded and looked up at Tall John, bewildered at the hideous joke. Doubloons and rubies did not trickle through the outlaw's fingers back into the chest. It was just dirt—brown, filthy, ordinary dirt.

The last bit of sunlight caught Tall John's dark, wrinkled face beneath his wide-brimmed hat. It was most likely a trick of the dying red rays of dusk, but O'Keefe would have sworn the mountain man's face softened.

"Oxley was my friend. He used to talk to me about the war—about the things he'd seen, and the things he'd done, and about Mississippi—the choir of mockingbirds, the jasmine wafting through the air like incense. That was the funeral he always wanted, kid. A quiet burial with the mockingbirds chirping 'Amazing Grace', a grove of magnolias as his tomb and his final resting place underneath six feet of Mississippi dirt."

O'Keefe's twitching evolved into wild convulsing as the big man drew nearer, the gun still pointed at the Irishman's head. Suddenly, he felt a cold piece of metal pressed against his temple, and the convulsions stopped.

"Oxley never went back to Jackson. He knew he wasn't welcome. He reckoned he would never get the mockingbird choir or the perfume of a sycamore tree or that grove he loved so much. Well, I reckon he was right. But I'll be damned if my friend ain't going to be buried in Mississippi dirt."

The cocking of the gun echoed in the twilight as Tall John pulled the hammer back.

"You can pray now, kid."

The quivering O'Keefe began to weep and beg God for mercy, desperately trying to remember the old prayers his mother had taught him back in Ireland. He hoped he remembered his rosary prayers—and he did, for the most part—and he was still crying out to God and St. Patrick as Tall John mounted his horse and rode off into the darkness toward Hangman's Gulch, the beloved treasure of Peter Oxley slung alongside the monstrous steed.

The Train
by Dana L. Green

July 4, 1876, as the Kansas Pacific began to pull out of the Fairmont station two men slipped into the second passenger coach unnoticed. The conductor wasn't aware of them nor did the coach attendant. They were not on the train to see the newly completed transcontinental Kansas to Denver tracks and landscape. Trouble was ahead. I knew it. Two other men had loaded five horses into a boxcar one hour earlier. I saw it all from my seated position in my traditional train station perch.

Long trails of black sooted smoke weaved and hung in the mountain skyline as the locomotive climbed upwards. We had two stops between us and Deer Trail, Colorado. In the coach car, we're several families headed to our destination stop. They would be attending the ninth annual Deer Trail Rodeo. Deer Trail was the inaugural site of the world's first official rodeo on July 4, 1870.

The train ride would take a little over two hours. We would pick up passengers in Behams and Bijou. Once we crossed the Kiowa River Bridge, we would be clear of Cheyenne Indian territory. That was as long as no holdups took place, cows wandered onto the tracks or mountain rockslides fell into our path. Something always seems to happen on my watch. At least that is what the railroad claims on their monthly incident reports to the Governor's Office.

It was reported in the August 1870 issue of "Field and Farm" magazine that several ranchers came with their unbroken horses and top cowboys to the 'Bronco Bustin' Contest' in Deer Trail. First year winner was E. J. Gardenshire of Mill Iron Ranch. He saddled up and rode 'Montana Blizzard' for fifteen minutes. That July 4th his bronc ended up on its knees and EJ was declared the First World Champion Bronco Rider. He returned the following year to defend his title. It was a repeat victory on his horse 'White Lightning.' There have been no repeat winners. E.J. Gardenshire will be returning this year to compete. His first appearance in four years. He has been guaranteed $500 for competing. If he wins, he will be paid $2,500 dollars. That will be the largest bronc payout in US rodeo history. Let the betting begin. Don't break a leg.

My incident report to my Chief of Railroad Security stated that the E.J. Gardenshire bronc riding competition was not the most memorable event that happened on that day.

Seated in the last two rows of the KP passenger rodeo train were several bankers, a couple of well-known gamblers and a gentleman with a suitcase and those two black hat strangers who slipped on unnoticed.

Raindrops began to pelt against the windows and some folks began pushing and pulling on the opened windows to get them closed. A couple of young brothers had their arms flailing out a window trying catch random raindrops. Their mother was trying to haul them in and get them seated when the coach attendant arrived. Their dad pulled the boys in by their short pants. The man with the suitcase frowned and brought his suitcase to his chest. He gripped it so tight that his knuckles turned white.

About 10 minutes outside of Fairmont, the rear door of the passenger car flung open. With the cold, wet breeze staggered in a bespectacled, drunken, uniformed soldier. He tried to sit down next to the suitcase carrying gentleman but was rebuffed with a shove. He finally got himself seated to the side of a husbandless spinster who at once got up and plopped herself in the vacant seat next to the suitcase man. He clutched his suitcase under his whiskered, screech owl shaped chin. What he carried in that suitcase would buckle the knees of most of Henry Wells and William Fargo employees. Five thousand dollars. Cash. Lots of damn cash.

Two soldiers, Connelly and Mulvey of the 7th Cavalry Regiment on July 2, 1876, rode into Hays City drunk and wildly shooting out the dress shop and general store windows. Sadly, an inebriated Connelly wounded a boy of ten with a flailing arm gunshot. This rampage took place in the presence of Bill Hickok, the US Marshal of Ellis County. Hickok was standing outside of the Hay's City Saving and Loan when he confronted the two horse-backed soldiers. They fired at Marshal Hickok, and he returned the favor. The pony soldiers were buried before sunset. Then, in less than forty-eight hours, Hickok took a seat on the Kansas Pacific out of Denver headed to Deer Trail Rodeo to partake in the $5,000 Winner Take All Poker Tournament.

Trains do not collide. At least we hope they don't. That's why train stations exist. Our train was headed west to Deer Trail and Hickok's was riding east to the same stop. Ours had the five thousand dollars that Hickok planned on stuffing in his pockets. We had four men on our train that other plans for the money. I was to see to it that Hickok had his opportunity to get rich in the card game.

Forty minutes out of Fairmont we slowed down. We were approaching Behams train station for passengers and more gamblers of ill repute. Not to be disappointed we picked up 10 more rodeo ticketed passengers and three finely dressed cowboys who said 'The Game' was their destination. Nothing eventful happened over the next 20 minutes. The three cowboys started a card game and were joined by the two gamblers from Fairmont. Meanwhile the suitcase carrying man was getting beads of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He was looking tired and like a man who could use a good nap. Most of the kids were either sleeping by now or playing games of 'what you see out the window.' Older folks were reading, sleeping, or watching the gamblers. The attendant told me that the other passenger car was carrying families and a few ranchers. No gamblers or suspicious looking characters.

Our next stop was Bijou. We took on only five passengers for the rodeo and a gambler. He was an easy one to spot. He was a tall, thin, and pale gentleman who fashioned a handlebar mustache. He was wearing a high white collared shirt with a satin bow tie. He smartly wore a black four button Livingston mid thigh coat. His vest was carrying his gold chain pocket watch. He gave all appearances of being either a doctor or an unsavory sort of fellow. He had cleverly tucked away in his jacket a revolver.

A gambler from Fairmont gave a wave over to the Livingston coat gentlemen. The gentleman rose from his seat and withdrew a small bottle from his coat pocket along with a red handkerchief. He stood for a moment surveying passengers and then drank a swig and coughed into his handkerchief. He didn't appear all that well. He was headed to Denver to the 'lungers hospitall' for tuberculosis treatment. I've seen his type on the train before.

"Hello Doc."

Tipping hat to the two dark coated gamblers seated with the three cowboys.

"Hello Wyatt. Virgil," he said.

"Doc, would you like to join us?" Wyatt asked.

"Doc, you will help us play a better game of Omaha. More balanced game with six players," said Virgil.

"Deal me in gentlemen. We got an hour to Deer Trail."

I am Bartholemew William Barclay Masterson. My friends know me as 'Bat' Masterson. I have been a U.S. Army scout, lawman, professional gambler (who hasn't in the wild west), journalist and newspaper columnist. My job on this train is to serve as a lawman for Wells Fargo under the employment of the KP security. The train is my job. Passenger safety and guarding money are my tasks. In 'two shakes of a pig's tail' undesirable things can happen on the train.

My KP detail now has Wyatt and Virgil Earp, current Wells Fargo guards and their friend, Doc Holiday, four rows from my seat. Three of Kansas and Colorado's most well-known lawmen and gunfighters. I did overhear Wyatt tell Doc that he left his position as assistant Marshall in Dodge City and has been working as a Wells Fargo recovery agent. He and Virgil are riding some trains on speculation of robberies. There younger brother Morgan Earp had just moved to Tombstone to serve as a deputy. Wyatt and Virgil were going to Denver and staying there for two days and then heading to Tombstone to work with Morgan on a recovery detail of $6,000 dollars of Wells Fargo gold. Wyatt mentioned he and Virgil and Morgan get 10% of the recovery. Doc said he was going to Denver to play in the $5,000 winner take all poker tournament. Then he was going to his see his wife, Kate, at their place in The Hotel Glenwood in Glenwood Springs.

John Henry Holliday had been with Big Nose Kate for two years. The rumor in Glen Springs was that Kate and Doc got married. No knows for sure. He was suffering from his increasing symptoms of tuberculosis. He shared with Wyatt he had gone to see a doctor in Kansas City to get some treatment and was now returning home to Colorado. He told Wyatt to write to him and let him know how hot it was in Tombstone. Virgil got a good laugh at that. Doc said he might like to see the place someday. His Dental Surgery practice and his TB diagnosis both started at the age of twenty. He would be 28 in a month. Doc said he was getting itchy feet to move his dental practice to a new location. Doc was advised strongly by his doctor to stay in the 'ratifying and healthy air' of Colorado. I'm not so sure he will follow that medical advice. He's stubborn. He's still drinking his 86 proof Old Overholt Straight Rye Whiskey from his silver flask. A bottle lasts him two days. I'm not sure if his liver will give out before the TB gets the better of him. That is a bet I wouldn't take. He might die first in an old fashion gunfight.

Indians are on the hillside. Looks like fifty or more Cheyenne on horseback. It's hard to be sure because they never show their full riders. They are watching. They are not approaching the train. There have been no Indian attacks for several months.

We are nearing the Kiowa River Bridge. It is less than ten minutes away. The Indians won't cross the river. Deer Trail is another ten minutes after the bridge crossing. When we cross the bridge, we will stop at the water tower to feed a thirsty locomotive. We will need to take on 8,000 gallons of water to fill the tender. Short stop and hopefully uneventful.

As the brakeman and the fireman saw to it that the water tender was being filled, kids and some old folks looked out their windows to watch the watering. The man holding the suitcase was fast asleep and did not stir. Younger men stood and milled about the coach stretching their legs. The two strangers from Fairmont stood next to the suitcase banker and were watching the opposite side of the train. Indians. Lots of Indians. A hundred or more on horseback were approaching the train. They had crossed on the train trestle that morning and had been waiting. The Indians we saw before lining the hillside were for show. A distraction. A ruse. Now what?

I was watching the passengers as they began to notice the Cheyenne approaching on a trot towards the train on the left-hand side. No Indians were on the water tower right-hand side? Doc, Wyatt, and Virgil stood and started for the front coach door. I asked them to reconsider.

"Whom are you, my friend?" asked Doc.

"Bat Masterson. I am the Wells Fargo guard on this coach," I said.

"Bat, nice to meet you, but circumstances dictate we need rifles on the roof," said Wyatt.

"Outside this car is the rifle box. Here is my key. Ammo is in the side box. I'll try to recruit more men and send them out," I said.

The Indians stopped about fifty yards from the train and lined up across the two passenger coach cars. The rear coach door flung open and in came five masked men. They had rifles and revolvers. One gunman pointed at me to sit down and put my hands on my head. Two other men waved guns at the passengers. Then one shooter lowered his mask and shouted the command to 'be seated and stay seated or be prepared to take a bullet.' The passengers complied. The suitcase man was awake, and bug eyed with fear.

A burly cowboy walked straight to the suitcase man and asked him to give up his possession. He closed his eyes and said he couldn't do that. The cowboy shot him in the chest and took the suitcase. He told folks to listen up. He said no one else would be harmed. He was just taking what was 'rightfully his.' They exited the passenger car and locked the door.

Wyatt, Doc, and Virgil were getting on the passenger car roof during the robbery. I asked folks to still be in their seats and told them I was going for help. When I climbed the passenger car ladder and poked my head up to see where Wyatt was, he signaled me to stay put.

"Wyatt, they came in and shot the banker agent and took the suitcase with the five thousand dollars," I said.

"Five thousand dollars?"

"Yeah. The money for the Deer Trail Rodeo winner takes all tournament."

"Jesus. I was not aware that money was on this train."

"It wasn't supposed to be. There was a change made this morning in Fairmont. The sheriff said he got word of a planned hold up of tomorrow's train. I was hired to ride shotgun over the suitcase," I said.

"Well, the Wells Fargo recovery fee is 10%."

The five robbers had traded rifles with the Cheyenne for providing their safe passage off the train. The five cowboys rode their horses through the Indian blockade and off in the direction of Denver. They got clear in less than five minutes after they entered the passenger car and murdered the Wells Fargo agent. We moved his body to the supply car and instructed the conductor to get us to Deer Trail as soon as possible. We arrived twenty-five minutes later. Only ten minutes behind schedule. One passenger dead. Five thousand dollars lighter.

I completed my incident report in the train depot and went ahead to the Deer Trail Rodeo fairgrounds. I met with the poker tournament director and informed him that the prize money was stolen. No prize money, no poker tournament. He agreed.

To my surprise Wyatt, Virgil and Doc were waiting for me as I entered the lobby of the St. James Hotel. Wyatt asked if I wanted to go with them to Denver to recover the $5,000. He said would pay me $100 plus expenses. I agreed. We would leave in the morning on the 6:15.

We arrived in Denver at noon. Wyatt divided us up to go casino hunting for our robbers. I went with Doc. Our second stop was the Black Hawk Casino. We were told that the four men we were looking for had arrived last night. We were looking for five. Who was missing?

They had been seen with 'soiled doves and playing roulette and faro.' We paid one of the 'doves' (Jill) a handsome amount of cash to tell us what she knew. Turns out the cowboys were staying outside of town at The Prince Guest Ranch. The 'doves' also service that location on Sunday mornings. Seems the doves don't attend regular church services. The cowboys planned to return after dark tonight to the casino for supper, gambling and bedtime play. We had other plans for the 'gang of four' that did not include any of those activities.

Wyatt and Doc decided that we would meet them between of The Prince Guest Ranch and the outside of town. The plan Doc came up with was dangerous, but Wyatt and Virgil liked it. Doc would approach the gunmen asking for directions to The Prince Guest Ranch. He would have a full day's worth of alcohol on his breath and would be a bit tipsy. He would pass through and double back behind them with his double-barreled shotgun. We would wait for them to get nearly to town and stop them in the road and ask them to give up the money or die trying to escape.

We were unaware that another 'soiled dove' (Becky Ann) overheard our payout to one of her sister doves. She didn't want to miss her big tipping cowboy's planned visit that night. She sent word to him by a Chinese servant. Her note said that some strangers had been in asking questions that afternoon. She thought they might have been playing cards with them the previous night and might be trying to set up for a robbery.

The cowboys were on watch but didn't suspect too much. They figured the doves were trying to butter them up and ask for more money for watching their backs.

Doc's appointment with the riders took place at sunset on the road as planned. There were indeed only four cowboys on horseback. Where was the missing number five gunmen from the train?

"Gentlemen, can you tell me how to find The Prince Hotel?" asked Doc.

"You mean the The Prince Guest Ranch partner?" asked one of the cowboys.

"Mmm. That must be it. A fellow down the road told me they got rooms," said Doc.

"Where you headed?" asked another of the four horsemen.

"I'll be going to Glen Springs tomorrow. A two-day ride."

"We might cross path with you again."

"You don't say. Safe travels," said Doc.

Ten minutes later Wyatt looked at his watch and then to me and then to Virgil. We were tucked in the thickets and only five paces to the road. Our horses were tied up. I had my Winchester and Virgil had his rifle in his right hand and a revolver tucked in his belt. Wyatt was holding his Colt Army revolver with its Buntline 12-inch barrel.

"No shots have rung out. That is good. Doc must be safely by them," said Wyatt.

"Don't say another word, Wyatt. They're coming our way," I said.

The cowboys were within 10 yards when we stepped out of the thickets and into their path. They pulled the reins on their horses and three of them drew their pistols. The fourth shooter took his rifle from his scabbard.

"What do you three gentlemen want?" asked the man with his rifle aimed at Wyatt.

"We want you four to throw down your guns," said Wyatt.

"Why? Who says?" asked the rifle.

"We are agents of the Wells Fargo."

I saw a finger pulling on a revolver on my right and Virgil saw the same on his left. We both fired and two gunmen fell off their respected saddles. Two remained steady. They hardly flinched.

"Wells Fargo men, huh. What do you want?" asked the rifle.

"The money," said Virgil.

"What money is it you're referring to?"

"The five thousand that's in the Wells Fargo suitcase," I said.

"Oh, I see. You're the Bowler hat that was on the train."

"That's right," I said. "I'm charging you with murder."

"You are. Are you? I don't think so."

"If you last two want to die right where you sit, we will step aside and let the gentleman behind you unload his double barrel shot gun. I would hate to see your horses take on pellets at your expense."

"Nice try," said the rifle.

"Boss."

"Yeah?"

"That guy on the road we let through."

"Yeah?"

"He's behind us with a shotgun aimed at your back."

The lone rifleman leaned down to his right and opened fire and hit Virgil in the thigh and the other gun fired at Wyatt. I shot him and Doc took out the rifleman. It was over. Now we needed to find the money. And the missing 5th cowboy.

We returned to the The Prince Guest Ranch and searched the room of the cowboys. We found $3,000 dollars in saddle bags in their room. We had taken $300.00 off the lone gunmen. We needed to find the remaining cash of $1,700 minus what they had spent the first night at the Black Hawk Casino. Wyatt was convinced based on what the first dove told him that they did not lose any of the train robbery money gambling. In fact, the lady dove said they made a few hundred dollars. Enough to pay the doves bedding fees, supper and for everything they drank. The full $5,000 needed to be found.

Wyatt went to the Black Hawk and found the dove that sent the message to the gunmen at The Prince. He searched her room and turned up another saddle bag. It had $1,900 dollars in it along with the keys to the Wells Fargo suitcase. He also found a dead cowboy in her closet. He was still wearing his boots and had $150 dollars in his pants. Seems he died with his pants on of alcohol poisoning. She had been hiding him and his money in hopes of finding a way to get his dead body out of her room. No such luck. She didn't kill him. She just kept him prisoner.

My incident report to Wells Fargo covered all the details of the recovered money in Denver. I was notified by telegram that Wells Fargo had sent a second suitcase to Deer Trail Rodeo for the Winner Take All Poker Tournament.

Doc Holliday traveled by stagecoach to the tournament. He arrived a day late. Wild Bill Hickok won the tournament. Doc went back to Glen Springs, Colorado and buffered up his health. Hickok headed off to Deadwood in Dakota Territory. He would die in Deadwood less than a month later. On August 2nd, Hickok was shot in back playing poker. Wild Bill's dying hand had a pair of Aces and a pair of eights. Known forevermore as a dead man's hand.

Doc did eventually make his way to Tombstone, Arizona to be with Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan. Big Nose Kate opened and ran one of her houses of ill repute in Tombstone so that she and Doc could be together. Kate was a Hungarian born western American outlaw, gambler, prostitute, saloon owner and common law wife of Doc Holliday. She and Doc were notorious gamblers, drinkers, and western gunfighters.

Doc did march down the Fremont Street in Tombstone with Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan. It is known as The Gunfight at O.K. Corral. Legendary. Courageous. A remarkable story for another day.

Prologue from "Ethan Tucker's Job"
by Kevin Matthew Hayes

A light breeze with a hint smell of the sea made the hot and humid night in St. Marks somewhat more bearable. The streets were almost empty in the small coastal town except for a few people working late or looking for a good time. At the docks, a ranch foreman began talking with the sheriff.

The foreman held a lantern up to one of the cattle's brands. "Do you see this, sheriff? This brand has been changed. I know because I worked for this ranch down around Pine Level."

"When were these cattle delivered?" asked the sheriff. He was an older gentleman who dressed more like a politician. He sported a three-piece suit with a black tie. Many would not think much of the aged sheriff by judging his peaceful-looking face, but others knew he had a reputation for a quick draw that could put down out-of-hand sailors who were looking to get into trouble.

"They came off that steamer this afternoon," replied the foreman. He pointed toward a small steamboat anchored in the harbor. The foreman was a rough-looking man. His clothes, wool hat, and knee-high boots looked new given he had moved to the area recently, but his face showed scares reminiscent of the rough south Florida frontier from which he came. "There were four of them. The man in charge was named Alaster Conley. He is the one that completed the sale."

"Did any of the sailors say anything about these men?" asked the sheriff.

"No, you know how they are when they arrive. When they get paid, they head right for town."

"Did you see where they went?"

"After my boss had paid Alaster for the cattle, Alaster turned around and paid his men. His men talked about visiting the bordello with the sailors. Alaster mentioned something about playing cards at the saloon."

"Let me go talk with Mr. Conley and see if we can get this figured out."

"Be careful, sheriff. I know the type. These are some rough cowboys. Sometimes they don't take kindly to the law."

The moon was full and at its peak in the sky. The rumbles from a distant storm over the Gulf could be heard in the distance. The clock struck midnight as the sheriff entered the saloon. The double-action door swung shut behind the sheriff as the sounds of his boots stepping on the wooden floor echoed throughout the room. The bartender was busy drying dishes, and there were two cardplayers sitting at a table in the far corner. The well-dressed cardplayer sitting with his back to the wall was well-known in town and a regular at the saloon. Looking much like a wealthy plantation owner, he was a professional cardplayer and gambled on riverboats throughout the region. He had managed to make his own fortune but never worried about money, considering the wealth his family had accumulated.

The other man with his back toward the entrance was Alaster Conley. His wide-brimmed wool hat was full of dirt and grease and hanging on the chair next to him. His hickory shirt and cotton pants were torn in some spots, and his boots extended above his knees. His spurs were a showy Spanish style and possibly stolen. They were too fancy for this cowboy.

The sheriff looked directly at the back of the cowboy. He paused for a moment and placed his hand on his revolver but kept it in his holster.

"Mr. Conley," called the sheriff.

Alaster froze for a moment. He appeared to be staring directly at the cardplayer. The smoke from his lit cigarette rose at a slight angle above his head and danced above him due to the thick, humid air.

"Mr. Conley," said the sheriff. "I need to ask you a couple of questions about the cattle you sold earlier today."

Alaster still refused to move. He just sat in the same position like a stone. The cardplayer opposite Alaster sat still as well. He looked right into Alaster's face. He knew the type and had gambled with them before. He figured Alaster was wanted somewhere. He never discriminated against anyone concerning their background as long as they were willing to play a good hand of cards, a rule he was beginning to regret on this night. He could tell Alaster was ready to draw blood.

The cardplayer glanced quickly at the sheriff. The sheriff read his eyes. Alaster was going to draw. Alaster lifted a revolver out of his lap, turned, aimed, and fired from under his left shoulder. The old sheriff had his Colt out of its holster and was ready to fire at Alaster when the bullet struck him in the heart. He hit the ground dead. Blood began to flow across the floor from the exit wound.

Alaster turned back toward the cardplayer and was greeted with the barrel of a pocket pistol. The cardplayer fired, and the ball just grazed Alaster's cheek. Alaster, angered at the cheap shot, aimed his revolver at the cardplayer and fired twice. The bullets thrust the cardplayer back to the wall with his arms extended out like a sign of forgiveness. Blood splattered on the wall behind him, and his body bent forward in the chair and came to a rest on the tabletop.

Alaster looked at the bartender behind the counter. He was in shock at the sight and stepped backward until his back was against the wall. The scene that seemed to play out in slow motion only lasted several seconds.

Alaster looked back at the table, stood up, put his cigarette out, and downed his shot of whiskey. Then he placed his revolver back in his belt, picked up all the money at the table, packed it together neatly, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Then he proceeded to rob the cardplayer of his valuables and weapons.

Alaster walked over to the sheriff and began to remove his Colt and belt when another man from outside yelled. Alaster froze in the middle of removing the belt. "This is the deputy. Both exits have gunmen on them. There is no place for you to go. If you throw up your hands and come out, we won't shoot you."

Alaster put the sheriff's belt over his left shoulder and held the other end with his left hand. He pointed the Colt at the bartender with his right hand. The bartender's eyes got big.

"Is there any way to get to the roof?" asked Alaster.

"There's a skylight in the hall upstairs."

Alaster grabbed his hat and headed up the stairs, with each step screeching from the loose boards. Once in the hall, he spotted the skylight. It looked like it came off an old ship, probably one that was decommissioned in the harbor.

He looked down both sides of the hall. The doors were all closed, and he figured if anyone was in the rooms; they were too afraid to come out. Alaster took a chair in the hall and placed it directly under the skylight. Then he used the butt of the sheriff's gun to bust the glass and frame. He tilted his hat above his eyes and blocked his face with his hand to protect himself from falling glass. Ship skylights often had brass bars extended over the glass to protect the windows from being busted at sea; fortunately for Alaster, the bars had long since been removed.

After the glass and window frames were busted out, Alaster grabbed the edge of the window sill, pulled himself up through the opening, and rolled his body onto the roof. His newly acquired gear made the roll appear somewhat awkward.

Alaster stood up and examined his surroundings. It was hard to make out in the lantern-lit street, but there appeared to be one man in front holding a revolver, the deputy, and another man at the back door. The man in the back had a long gun of some sort. The blacksmith's shop was right next door to the saloon. Despite the weight of his gear, Alaster felt he could make the jump and land on the roof of the blacksmith's shop.

Alaster quickly walked to the other end of the saloon to get a running start. He took a deep breath, prepped his mind for the jump, and started running. When he got to the edge of the building, he put both his feet on the ledge and leaped. He looked two stories down briefly before the next roof appeared beneath his feet. Alaster braced for the impact, hit the roof, and began to slide down the angled side. He pressed his boots against the shingles of the shop as if he were attempting to dig his boots into mud or sand. His descent on the roof slowed before he came to a stop.

He looked around and saw a dormer window above him. Alaster worked his way back up the roof toward the window, careful not to let his feet or hands slip out from under him or make any noise. When he got to the window, he was relieved to find that it was cracked open to let the heat out of the building. Alaster opened the window and entered.

The room was engulfed in darkness, and it was impossible to make anything out. He could hear the deputy and some other men talking outside. A crowd was beginning to fill the street in front of the saloon. Alaster fumbled in the darkness and reached into his pocket to pull out a match. When Alaster lit it, he was greeted with an unpleasant sight.

The blacksmith was standing in the room holding a loaded double-barrel shotgun in Alaster's face-both barrels cocked and ready to fire. The blacksmith was a large and rough-looking man with dark hair and a thick dark beard. His clothes were stained and burned from his occupation, and he was wearing a leather apron and working late into the night.

The blacksmith yelled out to the deputy. "Deputy! I've got your man! He's upstairs in my shop!"

The blacksmith never took his eyes off Alaster. Alaster stood there with his arms halfway up in the air as a somewhat sign of surrender. He was frozen like earlier, with a match still burning in his hand, contemplating how he could get out of this situation.

The sounds of men running up the stairs resonated throughout the room before the door swung open. The deputy, a middle-aged man wearing shooter boots, cotton pants, and a button-down shirt with suspenders, entered. He looked as if he hurried over to assist the sheriff due to his lack of a hat and jacket. Another man followed with a long gun. He wasn't a deputy but was probably there to help out. He looked like a longshoreman judging from his attire.

Still excited about the entire incident, they both ran past the blacksmith while acknowledging him-his eyes still darting out toward Alaster. The longshoreman placed the barrel of his gun in Alaster's face, and the deputy fumbled to put his revolver away in his holster. Then he pulled out some handcuffs. He was still shaking from the events that had transpired. The deputy grabbed Alaster's arms, pulled them down, placed the handcuffs over his wrists, and locked the cuffs. Then he proceeded to remove Alaster's weapons. The deputy and the longshoreman led Alaster out of the room. They thanked the blacksmith for his help as they exited the building.

St. Marks was a quiet coastal town that rarely had incidents such as the one that unfolded tonight. Whether it was out of boredom, excitement, or just being plain nosey, everyone lined the streets so they could witness the episode firsthand and see the man responsible.

As Alaster was led down the street toward the jail, the deputy began to talk. "Do you have any idea who you shot?"

"A sheriff that made an unwise decision?" responded Alaster.

"I'm not talking about him," replied the deputy. "I'm talking about the man you were playing cards with."

"What about him?" responded Alaster.

"He's the son of a politician in Tallahassee. That man is going to want your head in a noose."

Just before they entered the jail, Alaster saw a familiar face. It was one of his men. He winked his eye once toward Alaster as a sign of assurance. Alaster knew it wouldn't be long before he was out.

Alaster was led into the building and toward his jail cell. At the entrance, the longshoreman held his gun at Alaster's face as the deputy removed the cuffs. He was then led into the cell, and the door was shut. One turn of the key by the deputy and a click signaled that Alaster was secure.

"As soon as morning arrives," started the deputy, "I'll get the judge so he can get started."

The deputy spoke to the longshoreman. "Stay here and keep an eye on him. If anyone enters and tries to cause trouble, fire a shot, and I'll be right back. I'm going to take care of the sheriff."

The deputy exited the building, and the longshoreman pulled a chair out from behind the desk and placed it in front of Alaster's cell. He sat down and put his gun in his lap. He refused to take his eyes off the criminal. He wanted to make sure nothing got past him and that justice would be served.