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?"