The Last Time
by Logan Wordes

Theodore Turnbull and Mary Whistler had been running for two days. First across desert, then through chaparral hills that lead into thickets of pine nestled at the foot of a mountain range with its various peaks armored in snow.

Their horse had collapsed, a beautiful brown mare with a cream-yellow mane that Turnbull affectionately called Blondie. They couldn't slow their pace in order to camp for the night as there was always that thin wisp of dust on the far horizon coming ever closer—the horses of Alvin, Slim, Windham, and Russ—the men who wanted to carry away Mary and Teddy's scalps.

Turnbull slung his rifle across his back after packing everything he could into his saddle bag, and, after ignoring Mary's protests, left a bullet in Blondie's skull. He did not have the time to bury the beloved horse or butcher her for provisions so he left her for the vultures and coyotes.

They knew the men chasing them—two weeks ago they had all shared a campfire, with Mary cooking and cleaning; they had traded stories, ate, and hunted together under the collective name pinned onto them by the Arizona Daily Star after an especially successful train hold-up, Alvin's Outlaws.

At first the men found the alliterative name hilarious and juvenile in its simplicity. They began using it as a joke to annoy Alvin, who hated it, before it was later adopted as their official name once the sheen of humor had worn off.

Led by the infamous Minnesota outlaw Alvin Petroski, the group had recently found a way to get money legally, without robbing stagecoaches or stealing cattle and without having to keep looking over their shoulders for the law. The frontier police down in Mexico—the rurales, would accept Apache scalps no questions asked at 10 dollars a piece.

But soon they found out that Apaches are hard to catch.

So Alvin and his crew had started killing those who weren't Apache, travelers and rural farmers. The rurales either didn't notice or didn't care. The scalped bodies the gang left in their wake would then be mistaken for Indian attacks on innocent civilians. Thus leading to continued requests from the Mexican authorities for Apache scalps and closing the circle of supply and demand.

Profits rose steadily and everyone except Turnbull and Mary were happy.

At the age of twenty-three MaryWhistler had come to join the outlaws by way of Texas. She had followed her husband west to Arizona and later down to the Mexican border where he met Alvin Petroski.

After her husband was killed while robbing a warehouse in Yuma, Mary—distraught and with nowhere else to go—decided to stay with the outfit. She cooked, she cleaned and she helped dye the illegitimate scalps black to better pass them off as Apache. She hated this part of her job and was comforted by telling herself that one day it would be the last time.

The first time she met Theodore Turnbull she was scared of him. Everybody in the gang had done their share of violence, but nobody did it more calmly than Turnbull. She had once seen him slice open the throat of a man with a straight-razor, while no hate, no fear, nor excitement showed on his face. It was as if he was cutting through a loaf of bread.

She slowly found herself feeling safe near Turnbull. After her husband had died none of the other men had touched her out of respect for the deceased. But after a few months had passed she started feeling as if she were their captive and not their friend. Their tones were short when speaking to her and they began to order her to do things instead of asking. Sometimes she caught the men looking at her lustfully, not like the young boys she had grown up with had, but like she was prey and they were predators—all of them except Teddy Turnbull.

One night when they were the only two still awake, Turnbull opened up to Mary: he had been a cattle rustler his whole life, he was never married, but he once had a daughter, he was getting tired of killing and thinking of leaving the gang. Then Mary confessed everything to him. That she did not feel safe here, that he made her feel safe, that she wanted to leave, wanted to go to San Francisco where she had an aunt, and that she wanted him to come with her.

One week later they had stolen what was left of the scalp money and fled. Turnbull had killed the night-lookout named Fogle, thrusting a knife point into the hollow of his throat as he slept on the job, thrashing the blade back and forth within the neck to make sure he had not missed the jugular veins. Vocal cords torn and wet with blood made Fogle's muffled screams bubble as his hands grabbed about frantically and then his eyes aflame with terror, fizzled out into an unseeing stare. It was messy and probably unnecessary but Turnbull figured that a man like Fogle had it coming.

Mary had asked Turnbull to make a detour. They stopped at a mail outpost and she told the station master where the infamous Alvin's Outlaws were hiding. Their pursuers were intercepted at the border by Arizona marshals. Kapp and Two-Dogs were captured and hanged.

This left only Petroski, Russ, Slim and Windham to even the score with the turncoat Turnbull and the maid Mary.

After a day of walking parallel to the foot of the mountain range, weaving through pine and searching for a spot to pass through the looming rock face beside them, Turnbull saw it: a trail following a little creek which cleaved the mountains in two.

Turnbull pushed up the brim of his Stetson hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"What do you think?" He asked Mary.

She folded her arms across her chest and exhaled. "Well . . .  the trail doesn't look too overgrown . . . but we don't know where it goes. It might go nowhere. You think it's smart to risk it?"

"We ain't got much choice Mary, we keep walking on foot and they'll catch up to us."

"Well if you think it wise then I'm with you" She searched the sky and then pointed a finger past the mountain tops.

"Teddy, look at that. Weather's turning quick."

"Well then we better hurry"

They entered the V-shaped passageway beneath a sky filled with ragged gray and black clouds.

The winding mountain path frequently diverged from the creek before returning, and was here-and-there cut by a ravine small enough to leap over with a running start.

Between these jumps (which burst the blisters on Turnbull's feet) and scrambling over boulders blocking the tortuous path, (which ground his open blisters into the sweat-salt and pus collecting in his boots) Mary was grateful that she had thought to put on a pair of trousers before they had fled.

A few drops of tentative rain touched the earth as the path began to narrow and the walls became vertical, then curved up and inward, until only a narrow strip of gray sky hung above them. Turnbull could now reach out and place one hand on each side of the canyon—which he did—giving relief to his aching feet. They began to see crude paintings representing bulls, birds, deer and horses smeared in pigments of red, yellow and black along the close canyon walls.

As they passed a final bend, the trail ended in sheer rock, but the creek continued to trickle out from a low cavern, two feet tall by three, whose mossy mouth was strewn with remnants of lumbered wood and rusted nails.

"What now?" Mary asked.

"We take our chances inside." Then Turnbull smiled. "Or, we can wait for Alvin to show up and say 'gee we're real sorry about Fogle and the missing cash'"

In the pines at the mouth of the defile Alvin Petroski dismounted his horse and looked at the creek, a heavy rain was striking the ground around him and dimpling the creek water.

"The damned fools have either got themselves cornered or killed" He said.

The scout named Slim knew that they were lucky the storm hadn't come until now, when they had already cornered Turnbull and Mary, soon the tracks would be washed away by rain.

He stepped up alongside Alvin.

"How you know this crack in the mountain don't go clean through Al?"

"I don't"

"So they could already be on the other side of that mountain, headed to god-knows-where while the rain erases their tracks?"

"This mountains pretty big, they didn't have enough of a lead to pass through that quick," Alvin said as he shook his head and then pointed a finger at the creek that came out of the defile to make a point.

"You see how that crick has overrun its banks? The path alongside isn't much bigger—He's wet, miserable and wading up to his knees in water right about now and she's probably drowned."

Slim raised his eyebrows and looked over at the other two men who were listening while mounted on their horses. Russ, in agreement with Slim, shook his head while grimacing and Windham gave a flippant shrug, not wanting to take any sides.

Alvin placed his fists confidently on his hips and turned towards the men "we camp here 'til the rain stops, then we see what-is-what when that crick slows down."

Turnbull and Mary were in the cave crawling on their bellies with Turnbull leading the way when the creek began to swell and quicken with the downpour. He panicked and tried to reverse, not thinking, and accidentally kicked Mary in the face. He tried to yell over the rushing water but she could not hear. Panic had set in but he had no choice but to continue or get them both drowned. He crawled forward, raising his head when he could to gasp for air, bumping the top of his head on the rock ceiling, and every time he stopped he would wait to feel Mary's hand on his heel before continuing. After a few meters he raised his head again and found that it touched nothing. He pushed himself up onto his knees and still did not feel rough rock digging into his back. He was now able to stand up straight. He turned and grabbed Mary by the wrists, helping her up and out of the low cavern.

The damp smell of the cave and the deafening rush of water confused his senses. The tunnel which they had just come in from was almost completely submerged. He felt the terror of death closing in.

We will drown here, he thought, this damn fool of an idea ends with us entombed in a wet cave.

Then in a moment of calm, a strange thought occurred to him: in a pitch black cave he shouldn't have been able to see or grab Mary's arms, much less notice that the low tunnel they had come from was almost underwater.

He felt Mary's breath on his ear.

"Teddy look, an exit!"

He looked up and saw a storm-gray light shaft cutting into the darkness of the cave.

The next day, the smallest of the gang, Slim the scout, crawled out from the low cavern mouth and threw his lit torch into the creek, extinguishing it. His knees and elbows were muddied. Alvin watched him expectantly under a vertical ray of noon sun penetrating into the defile.

"Anything?"

"No," said Slim, "only this." He reached into his waistband behind his back and pulled out a brown hat, crushed and damp. Alvin took it from him and turned it over, pressing his fist into the inside of the hat to reform its shape and inspect it. "A man's hat. It's a Stetson Boss-of-the-Plains. No doubt It's Turnbulls," turning it over and searching along the hatband with his fingers.

"This all you found? No sign of the whore?"

"No, not a lot to see in there . . .  dark as hell. I double checked every corner searching for a body or a clue—Nothing. Neither wind nor light, which would signal any exits. It's a dead-end."

"You think she ditched him?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

Alvin made no reply as the two of them looked up and down the high canyon walls searching for a clue. Here the canyon walls were smooth and curved inward at the lip. Climbing them would be impossible.

The man named Windham kicked at a rusted nail and watched it skitter across the rocks of the canyon floor.

"Looks like someone was prospecting here," he said. "Don't make sense that there would be only one entrance and nothin' else."

Russ replied "and those Indian finger paintings we just passed. Maybe they got captured by Apaches."

Slim answered. "Fool-headed miners sometimes dress the path to their mining claims up in voodoo nonsense to scare away superstitious strangers, Indians didn't do that."

"So what now?" asked Russ.

"I don't know," said Windham facetiously, "maybe if we set up camp here they'll be nice enough to come to us."

Russ laughed at Windham's open insolence.

Alvin interrupted them. "Knock that horseshit off—they was here but they're gone now. we double back til we find something we may have missed."

Turnbull lay prone with his repeater rifle at the ready on an outcropping of rock above the last bend in the ravine before it opened out into the pine forest they had fled from yesterday.

Last night he had boosted Mary up through the hole in the cave ceiling before climbing the many hand holds of the inner cavern wall to the exit, losing his hat along the way.

After climbing out of the cave, Mary had turned to him. "We gotta do something to stop them or they'll just follow us through."

Mary had helped Turnbull throw as many volcanic rocks as they could carry into the hole to jam up the exit before they sat away from the edge of the opening and used the heels of their boots to kick at the dirt rim until it became loose and the soil slid down onto the rocks, sealing the exit.

They had spent the night out in the rain and Turnbull had been able to take off his red-leather boots, soothing his tattered feet in the chill air.

Now he felt a cold coming on, fogging his brain.

As he waited in his prone position he suddenly saw the red of Russ' flannel shirt coming around the bend with Windham just behind him. His rifle was already zeroed-in. All he had to do was press the trigger.

The outlaws had found nothing and were headed back to their waiting horses. Alvin was annoyed with Slim. He had questioned his authority and wound up being correct—They should've pushed up the canyon yesterday. Now Turnbull and Mary had escaped and Russ was openly mocking him. Alvin knew that if he lost the confidence of his men or was killed, Slim was next in line to take over the gang's leadership role. But Slim's Outlaws didn't have the same ring to it.

"Why're you all the way in the back?" Alvin said to Slim who was behind him. "You're the damn scout, so go scout out ahead."

"I already told you there ain't nothin' here to be worried about, and Russ's just as capable a scout as I am." replied Slim.

Damn it, thought Alvin, that's how it is: When I'm gone Slim leads and Russ is the scout and second in command. They ain't even trying to hide it anymore.

Alvin stopped and quickly swung around to face Slim, stabbing a finger into his chest to tap his anger out in morse code.

"Listen here you little bastard, I know what you're doin and I'll be god-damned if—"

A shot rang out and interrupted his tirade. Windham came limping around the corner, wide-eyed, with blood blossoming around a hole in his trousers at the thigh.

"The son-of-bitch killed Russ and winged me"

Down the sights of his gun barrel Turnbull saw the pop of bone, blood and brain debris exit from the back of Russ' head as he crumpled to the floor and Windham grabbed at his thigh before quickly leaping back behind the bend.

Turnbull waited a few moments waiting for someone to appear but nobody did, so he crawled backwards away from the ledge to where Mary was.

"I got two with one shot," he whispered.

Mary smiled and grabbed his shoulders silently shaking him with excitement, but he knew that hitting two men with one shot had been pure luck.

Slim dragged Windham back up the path by his armpits. Windham's femoral artery had been cut by Turnbull's bullet and he left a dark trail of blood in his wake. Slim had to keep the man's arms back from covering his grave wound in order to properly drag him to safety.

"Leave it alone," Said Slim, trying to wrestle Windham's arms and calm him. "I'll tie it up with your kerchief in a minute."

"Leave him, he's done." Said Alvin.

Slim and Windham shouted. "What?"

Alvin lowered his revolver. Windham's eyes followed the gun barrel, as Al took aim at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

Alvin pushed past Slim.

"We go back to the cave," he said.

Slim hesitated, shaken by the cold-blooded deed he had just witnessed. The canyon was now so silent that he could hear the sound of blood trickling from Windham's nose. But he knew Alvin was right. Windham was good as dead as soon as the main artery in his leg got damaged and he would have only slowed them down. He turned to catch up with Alvin.

From above the rim, Turnbull looked down on the body of Windham: his head laid in a patch of dirt soaked dark-brown and his face was mapped with threads of blood that weaved across his face from the gunshot hole, his eyes, his nose and his mouth.

"Son of a bitch," Turnbull muttered to himself.

Mary and him walked in a crouch, far back from the rim of the canyon, intermittently stopping and waiting, listening for the sound of boots scraping across rocks.

"Wait." Mary said, stopping Turnbull by grabbing his shirtsleeve. "Why don't we just cut out now, leave with two of their horses—we can scare off the other two in different directions—by the time they find out we're not after them anymore and catch their horses, we would be far away."

"No," said Turnbull.

"We have a chance to get away. It's now or never."

"I said no." He pulled away from her grasp.

She wanted to hit him, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of three muffled gunshots. Turnbull quickened his pace and Mary followed.

Damn Him, she muttered.

They had reached the section where the canyon walls curved upward and tightened to only a few feet across.

"Turnbull!" He heard the voice of Slim shout.

He did not answer. No good could come from Slim knowing he and Mary were just above the canyon walls. Slim was testing him, to see if he was still following, or at the very least he was trying to get Turnbull to lower his guard.

Turnbull pulled his revolver from its holster and handed it to Mary along with a handful of rounds.

"You know how to use this?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," she said.

He nodded. "Right. Go around on the other side, leap across. We might not be done shooting yet—if you get a line of sight on either of them take the shot."

Mary nodded and jogged off.

"Turnbull!" Slim shouted again. "If you're out there, it's over. I've killed Petroski."

"Don't bullshit me Slim," Turnbull called down.

"I ain't."

"Then prove it."

"How?"

"Show yourself."

" . . . Alright."

Turnbull heard cloth scraping against rock and saw Slim crawl out of the cave mouth. He stayed on his knees but put his hands up.

"I'm Alone, Alvin's body's back there in the cave," Slim said.

"Take off your gun belt."

Slim slowly lowered his hands and undid his belt buckle, letting it fall in the mud and shuffling forward on his knees, away from the belt.

"You trust me now?"

Turnbull looked up at Mary, who was only a few feet away from him on the other side of the narrow gap at the top of the canyon. She shrugged in response. Not knowing what to do. She had never seen Teddy undecided before and it scared her.

Earlier, Slim had entered the cavern behind Alvin. When they got into the large room where they could stand, the butt of Alvin's revolver had grazed Slim's hand. He acted quickly, placing his palm over its wooden handle so that it could not be pulled up and then pressed his revolver barrel against the soft mass of Alvin's body and shot three times. Alvin's body thumped to the ground but his gun was still in Slim's hand.

Slim tucked the weapon into the length of waistband behind his back. He crawled back to the opening and waited.

Mary heard the gunshot and saw Turnbull's face explode. He fell forward and smacked his chin against the far side of the gap, making a horrendous hollow thud like a dropped watermelon as his body fell down into the hole.

Two more shots followed.

Slim ran up and put two more rounds in Turnbull's head—just to make sure. His gun was empty now, but it didn't matter. Five people had entered the canyon and only he was alive.

No more Alvin's Outlaws. Good riddance. But what now? Maybe he would go east to Texas and start over again, but this time leading his own gang. Or maybe he would go straight. His life was now nothing but new beginnings.

He turned to walk back to his ammunition belt when he heard a revolver's hammer being cocked back and a woman's voice shout:

"Hold it!"

Mary was in a wide stance at the top of the canyon, while holding the revolver Turnbull had given her in both hands, pointing it down at Slim.

When Slim had turned around and saw that it was Mary, he seemed relieved.

"Well I'll be damned. you should be thanking me, not pointing a gun at me."

She didn't answer and kept the gun pointed at his chest. Aiming center-mass just like her late husband had taught her.

"Put it down. It's over, they're all dead," he said.

"And why shouldn't I add you to the tally?" She replied.

"Because I saved you."

"How do you figure that?"

"There's no more gang, you're free. You don't gotta be Turnbulls whore anymore."

She tightened her grip on the pistol and said "I never was."

"Oh come on Mary, you all bent outta shape over Turnbull? You really think after everything he'd done and everything he'd seen, that he would be able to turn over a new leaf?"

"You're right. You did me a favor," she said.

Slim smiled. "Good I'm glad you've come to your senses."

"Thanks Slim," Mary said before she emptied her revolver into his chest.

She pushed back the brim of Turnbulls crushed stetson and wiped the sweat from her brow. She had buried him in a peaceful little sun exposed rise nearby. She had everything she needed already packed on Alvin's sorrel, along with forty dollars worth of scalps in a burlap sack. It would be enough to get to California . . . 

 . . . and as she mixed together charcoal and ash with water in a leftover canteen to create black dye, she smiled, because this would be the last time.

The Yankee and the Grayback
by Jesse Hamilton

Somewhere east of San Antonio, in a little but lively cattletown, two bounty hunters, unbeknownst to each other, met at "The Split-Tail" saloon, sometime around midnight, on the chance that The Four Figueroa Brothers had passed through.

The Yankee ambled in first, stroking his narrow beard and his ego. He stood for a moment at the threshold and clocked every firearm he could see, every patron drinking and dancing to the piano man in the corner of the room. The whole saloon was packed, the main floor and above, on the balcony where painted ladies smooth-talked men out of their purses. He was thirsty, and he didn't drink the cheap shit, so he sat at the nearest table with his back to the wall and waited.

The Grayback walked in shortly after with a Peacemaker dangling from his right hip. If the Figueroa Brothers were here, none of the patrons matched their descriptions. As he headed to the counter to grab himself a shot of whiskey, the Yankee he had spotted immediately upon entering, with a Confederate-issued LeMat sticking out of his frock coat, said: "Lookin' for someone?" He tipped his bowler hat.

"Lookin' for trouble?" The rebel retorted, stepping past the man, not a few years older than him.

"Could be we're lookin' for the same trouble. 'Bout ye high, three hermanos, tall as this table, maybe a big boy too," he hovered his hand over the wood grain.

"You're gonna have to be more descriptive than that."

"The Four Figueroa Brothers."

"I thought you said there were three?"

"You don't know?" The Yankee said, as if it were common knowledge.

"Know what now? The Grayback was getting impatient.

"The fourth ain't related. Just some feller," he said, glancing around the room for the brothers.

"Well, the handbill I got says otherwise."

"Since when you ever known a handbill to be accurate?" The Yankee asked, the bulk of his revolver showing when he leaned back in his chair.

"Never," the Grayback was blunt, and the more the seconds passed, he just wanted a drink.

"Damn right. Now sit," he gestured to the southerner.

"Not so fast, friend . . . "

"Why you slowin' up on me?" The Yankee wasted no time.

"Are we going to split the money? That it?" The Grayback pushed back. He wouldn't take anything less than fifty-fifty, and more often than not, preferred to work by his lonesome. And never with a Yank.

"Unless you plan on shootin' me first," the Union man said.

"We just met." The Grayback was matter-of-fact, and he had never shot a stranger. Wanted men weren't strangers, and all was fair in war-if you asked him.

"That settles it then, don't it?" The Yankee said.

"I suppose it does."

The Grayback pulled out a chair and sat across from the other bounty hunter. The saloon owner yelled something to them, but they ignored him. "How'd you figure I was a bountyman?" He said. The Yankee had sized him up the moment he stepped into the saloon, and likewise, the Grayback did the same.

"Just a lucky guess," the Yankee didn't admit to his perception. And although they had never met each other before in this life, perhaps, in a not-so-distant one, they had met face to face and fired their weapons.

"Where did you serve?" The Grayback asked before checking his surroundings for gunmen, on the balconies, and in the dimly lit corners of the room. One could never be certain.

"And how do you know I served?" The Yankee said to him, stroking his beard again.

"That LeMat pokin' out of your coat," the Grayback played along, and pulled a smoke from his own, "rare piece of metal-that thing. Only know a few folks ever got those."

"Yeah?" The Yankee said, peering around the place and out the front-facing windows.

"Officers. Mostly," the Grayback lit his cigarette.

"Not anymore, it seems . . . " Like the stale tobacco smoke, the Yankee's words hung in the air for some time. He had won fair and square. By gunshot.

"Well, I hope it doesn't misfire."

"Me too," the Yankee said.

As the Grayback was about to stand and ask some of the locals if they'd seen the brothers around, two men in dusters stepped through the doorway. The two bandits drew every eye in the place, and for a slow second, every one in the room went silent.

"Carry on!" The short one said as he took his hat off and bowed to the crowd. But they didn't recognize him, and they returned to their song and dance by the time the bandits finished their entrance.

"I told you so!" The Yankee shouted in amusement.

Lo and behold, one of the banditos was white. And despite the tall hat, slouching atop his head, the Figueroa Brother still towered over him like some mute giant.

"Well I'll be damned," The Grayback was in disbelief, "that's one big son of a bitch."

"Handbill didn't say nothin' about that," the Yankee joked, leaning forward in his chair. The big one locked eyes with the Grayback and spat on the ground beside himself.

"He won't stop staring at me," the Grayback said.

"Cuz you look suspicious."

When the Mexican Goliath broke eye contact, he lumbered alongside his friend to the counter where the saloon owner stood, wiping down a glass. The bounty hunters couldn't tell what they were talking about, but it didn't appear to be a friendly conversation, and a disturbance was mounting outside the saloon. Horses whinnied, spurs jingled on the boardwalks.

"So what's the plan?"

"I thought you had the plan, seeing as you approached me," The Grayback admitted.

"Let's get to it then," The Yankee announced to the room and shot up from his chair.

"Hold on now," the Grayback stepped in front of him, "you're just gonna walk right up there and gun 'em down in broad day?"

"It's midnight, partner."

As the Yankee turned and headed for the bandits arguing at the counter, two Mexicans in identical dusters entered through the second story. The youngest, Omar Figueroa, recognizable by the scar under his left eye, walked like something was stuck up his ass.

Before the Grayback could warn his newfound partner about the men up top, the runt on the bottom floor drew his pistol. The saloon owner reached for something.

"Heads up!" The Grayback yelled, his hand on his revolver.

The shot was deafening. People ran left. Right. They dropped to the floor, they flew out the doors. The saloon owner fell first, his shotgun after, and before the runt of a bandit could turn around and fire again, the Grayback's Peacemaker went off in succession. A brother screamed. Another fell from the balcony and clipped his head on a table before shaking violently.

"Damn you! The biggest of the brothers grabbed the Yankee by the neck and lifted him from the floor. He wasn't surprised by the brute's strength, but instead, the body odor that made him want to cry.

His partner couldn't get a clean shot, and just as he was to take one, the bandits on the balcony pulled their weapons from their coats. The goliath squeezed harder, but before he could snap his neck, gentle as bird bones, the Yankee unbuttoned his shoulder holster, flipped the shotgun switch, and sent the giant slumbering over the count with a gaping wound in his chest.

In the span of a few seconds, the saloon had cleared of patrons, and the last gunman stood at the top of the stairs. As he was about to pull the trigger on his sawed-off and send the Grayback packing, the piano man sat up from his instrument and shot the bandit in the leg with a bootgun. Midfall to the floor, the bandit's sawed-off jerked into the air, discharging through the roof. Dust and splinters coated him, he writhed on the wet wood.

"Fine shot," the Grayback nodded to the piano man and loped up the stairs. A woman screamed outside.

Just as the bandit was to reach for his shotgun on the ground and fire the last round, the Grayback blew the man's hand from his wrist and into jagged pieces. When the smoke cleared and the Grayback snuffed his cigarette on the sopping corpse, the piano man wiped the blood from his forehead and peered out the window.

"Oh, Lord . . . " The piano man muttered under his breath.

"What is it?"

"There's more of 'em . . . "

"Get away from the window!" The Grayback yelled from the balcony. But before the piano man could take cover, the glass shattered in his face, and his neck spurted a narrow stream of blood all over the keys.

"More of them?!" The Yankee jumped behind the counter where the dead saloon owner lay.

"I'm coming in!" The bandit outside made his presence known, along with the gaggle of gunmen outside, who may or may not have been related. "We're coming in!"

"Who's we?" The Yankee yelled out to them, peeking his head over the bar. Bandits yipped in circles, torches and all.

"The fifth Figueroa!"

"The fifth Figuroa?" The Yankee gave a confused look at the Grayback.

"About that handbill . . . " The Grayback said as they readied their revolvers.

The Stage Stop
by Daniel P. Douglas

Thomas Cooper pressed his forehead against the cold panes of the front window, watching snowflakes swirl in the gathering dusk. The glass held the bite of Wyoming Territory's fierce spring weather, but he welcomed the chill, it kept him alert as he studied the road where it emerged from Carter's Pass. From his favorite perch in the window seat, cushioned by his mother's patchwork pillows, he could see half a mile down the road. He'd watched the same view every evening for thirteen years, ever since his parents had taken over Last Creek Stage Station.

The station's main room spread warm and familiar behind him, a space that had witnessed countless travelers' stories since the stage line pushed north from Cheyenne. His mother, Martha, moved between the kitchen and the long dining table, the old floorboards creaking beneath her steady stride as she prepared for the evening arrival. Fresh baked bread and beef stew scented the air, mixed with wood smoke from the big stone fireplace where his father James checked the station's logbook. Even after all these years, his father maintained his former cavalry sergeant's posture, ramrod straight despite the day's fatigue.

Thomas traced patterns in the frost blooming on the windowpane, remembering the stories some travelers told of cities back east with their gaslight, newspapers, and daily trains. Sometimes he yearned for more than this isolated outpost, but he'd learned to hide such thoughts. His parents took pride in their reputation for reliability, in making Last Creek Station a dependable haven between civilization and the wild northern ranges.

"Stage is late," Thomas said, though he knew his parents had already noticed. They saw everything about the station's routine, from the subtle changes in regular passengers' habits to the meaning behind unexpected schedule shifts. That attention to detail earned them the stage company's trust, making Last Creek one of the most respected stops on the Cheyenne line.

"Storm's coming," his father said without looking up from the ledger, his pencil scratching across the page. "Charlie Webster's taking it slow through the pass. Man's got sense enough to respect spring weather."

Thomas recognized the signs too—the heavy gray clouds pressing down on the prairie like a wool blanket, the way the wind had shifted to the north, carrying the bite of mountain snow. Spring storms were often the worst, striking fast and fierce when everyone thought winter had loosened its grip.

A flash of movement where the road emerged from the pass caught his eye. The evening stage appeared through the thickening snow, running later than usual but still making its daily appearance. With cautionary steps, four horses, down from the usual six, negotiated the slick road. Thomas frowned, studying the team's gait. Something looked off about their movement, but he couldn't quite place what troubled him.

"They're coming," Thomas said, already moving to help his mother with her preparations. But something made him pause, squinting through the snowflakes. "Pa? They've got more passengers than usual."

His father joined him at the window, breath fogging the glass. The stage drew closer, its dark shape resolving through the curtain of snow. Even at this distance, they could see it rode heavy, packed with travelers who hadn't expected to spend a night at an isolated station between Cheyenne and the northern ranches.

"Your mother's intuition was right," James said, nodding toward the extra blankets Martha had already stacked near the fireplace. The wool coverings had been expensive, ordered special from a merchant in Cheyenne, but they'd saved more than one traveler's life during unexpected storms. "They'll all be staying the night. No stage is getting through Carter's Pass once this storm hits."

The next fifteen minutes filled with the familiar bustle of a stage arrival. Thomas helped his father lead the tired horses into the barn, noticing how the animals' breath came quick and ragged despite the slow pace through the pass. The lead horse, a big bay Thomas admired for its steady temperament, showed the whites of its eyes and danced when approached. Something had unsettled the whole team.

By the time they returned to the main house, stamping snow from their boots on the covered porch, the station's main room had transformed from quiet way station to crowded shelter. The aroma of wet wool and leather mingled with hearth smoke and his mother's cooking, creating the distinct atmosphere Thomas associated with storm-stayed travelers.

Thomas hung back near the door, studying the unusual group of passengers while melting snow dripped from his coat. A well-dressed woman warmed herself by the fire, her clothes and bearing marking her as someone accustomed to finer surroundings. The fabric of her traveling dress shimmered in the firelight. Real silk, Thomas guessed, like he'd seen in newspaper illustrations of Chicago fashion. Another woman, younger and plainly dressed, sat alone at the far end of the dining table, her eyes darting between the passengers like a rabbit watching for hawks.

Near the window, a tall Black man in a well-worn army coat stood at parade rest, his posture reminding Thomas of his father's military bearing. The coat's brass buttons bore cavalry insignia, polished to a shine that spoke of years of ingrained discipline. By the kitchen, a businessman in a city suit asked Thomas's mother detailed questions about the station's accommodations, his manner just a shade too interested to be casual curiosity.

"Miss Adelaide Ward," the well-dressed woman announced to the room, apparently tired of the awkward silence. Her voice carried the cultured tones of eastern theaters, though something about it struck Thomas as practiced. "Recently of the Chicago theater, though I doubt that means much out here," she said, smiling. But Thomas noticed her eyes held a sharp watch as she studied her fellow passengers.

"Sergeant Marcus Hill," the tall man said, "Buffalo soldier, retired." His voice held the measured calm of someone used to making himself understood in difficult situations. Thomas had heard that same tone from other veterans who passed through. Men who'd seen enough trouble to know the value of careful words.

"Sarah Blake," the quiet woman said without looking up from her hands. Her fingers worried at a loose thread on her cuff, the motion betraying tension her neutral voice tried to hide.

"Harrison," the businessman said. "Just passing through." He turned back to Martha, his questions becoming more specific. "You must see quite a lot of valuables pass through here. Stage company money, bank transfers, that sort of thing? I imagine security's quite important at a station like this."

Thomas saw his mother's polite smile tighten. The expression he'd learned meant she was weighing her words with caution. "We see all sorts," she said, turning to check the stew warming on the stove. "Mostly just tired travelers wanting a hot meal and a safe place to rest."

The evening unfolded with the forced intimacy of strangers trapped together. Martha served beef stew and fresh bread, the passengers relaxing in warmth and good food. But Thomas, from his customary spot near the window, noticed things that didn't quite fit, details that nagged at him like burrs caught in a horse's mane.

Miss Ward used her silverware like a ranch hand trying to remember fancy manners, not like someone accustomed to fine dining. Her fingers gripped the spoon too tight, and she ate with the focused attention of someone used to grabbing meals when they could. Sarah Blake startled at every sound from outside, her hand often straying to her skirt pocket with a motion that spoke of checking something concealed there. Sergeant Hill watched everything but revealed nothing. His military bearing never slipped, even as he helped Martha clear the dishes with unexpected grace.

And Harrison's questions always seemed to circle back to station security and schedules, each casual inquiry building on the last like a man testing fence posts for weakness. His eyes lingered too long on the kitchen door that led to the cellar steps, and Thomas noticed he'd positioned himself to keep track of everyone's movements.

As the evening deepened and the storm intensified, Thomas helped his father check on the horses one last time. The barn's familiar scents of hay and leather took on a sharper edge in the cold, while snow hammered against the wooden walls. Wind found every crack and seam in the old building, creating a hollow melody that made the horses nervous. Their breaths puffed out great white plumes, nostrils flaring at each new gust.

"Something's not right with that stage," his father said, murmuring, running his hand along one of the wheel hubs. The lantern light caught the metal fittings, revealing marks that shouldn't have been there. "These scoring patterns here. Someone's tampered with the bearing assembly. Made sure they'd have to stop here tonight."

Thomas felt his heart quicken, recognizing the deliberate nature of the damage. He'd helped maintain enough stages to know the difference between normal wear and intentional sabotage. "Should we tell the passengers they'll have to stay longer?"

His father straightened, his expression grave in the lantern's flickering light. The shadows deepened the lines around his eyes, reminding Thomas of the times he'd seen that same look during previous troubles at the station. "No. Best not to let on we know. But keep your eyes open, son. Your mother and I have been expecting something like this since we got word about the bank shipment."

"The strongbox in the cellar," Thomas said, whispering, understanding dawning on him. The station held secure items for the stage company, but his father had been especially careful with this latest delivery. Thomas had noticed extra precautions, new locks on the cellar door, changed schedules, his parents taking turns sleeping to maintain constant watch.

Back in the main room, the passengers had arranged themselves for the night. The storm's constant moan through the eaves mixed with the crackle of the fireplace, creating an atmosphere that should have been cozy but instead felt charged with hidden tension. Miss Ward entertained them with theatrical stories, her voice rising and falling with practiced skill, but Thomas noticed she always kept the window at her back, maintaining a clear view of the entire room. More telling still, her stories revealed nothing about herself, always focusing on characters far from Wyoming Territory.

Sarah Blake had moved closer to the kitchen, drawn by the warmth but nearer to the cellar door. Her fingers kept worrying about her cuff's loose end, but Thomas now wondered if she was checking something sewn into the fabric itself. Sergeant Hill cleaned his spectacles with methodical precision, though Thomas hadn't seen him read anything all evening. The firelight caught the lenses as he worked, and Thomas noticed they were plain glass—no prescription at all.

"Such a shame about the storm," Harrison said, his voice carrying across the room with careful casualness. He'd positioned himself near the stairs, a spot that offered clear lines of sight to both the front door and the kitchen. "I don't suppose there's any chance of the stage running tomorrow?"

"Not through Carter's Pass," Thomas's mother said, her tone pleasant but firm. She stood at the stove, focused on preparing coffee, but Thomas saw how she'd angled herself to keep Harrison in view while staying within easy reach of the drawer where they kept the derringer. "Not until the storm breaks and we can clear the road."

A look passed between Harrison and Sarah Blake, so quick Thomas almost missed it. But he'd spent his life watching travelers, learning to read the silent language of gestures. In that fleeting exchange, he translated confirmation, calculation, and something harder. Danger.

Thomas caught his father's eye and saw suspicion reflected there. The storm trapped more than just snow that night. It confined people whose actual purposes remained as masked as the landscape outside, hidden behind a swirl of lies as thick as the blizzard's veil.

Near midnight, when the station had settled into uneasy quiet, Thomas lay awake in his small bedroom on the main floor. Moonlight filtered through the storm-streaked window, casting strange shadows that danced with each gust of wind. The blizzard's voice dropped to a low, constant moan that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The station's night sounds—settling timbers, ticking stove, creaking stairs—took on new significance as Thomas strained to separate the familiar noises from potential threats. A high-pitched wind almost hid the quiet creaking of the floorboards below. Almost. Growing up in a stage station, Thomas learned every sound the old building made. This one didn't belong to the usual nighttime chorus.

He slipped from his bed, careful to avoid a loose board near the doorframe. The wool socks he wore muffled his steps as he eased open the bedroom door just enough to see the main room. The waning fire cast everything in shades of deep orange and black, turning familiar furniture into crouching shadows.

A darker shadow moved near the kitchen—Sarah Blake, her shape discernible as she tried the cellar door. In the faint firelight, Thomas saw the glint of metal in her hand. Not just any metal—the distinctive shape of a derringer, a small but deadly pistol at close range. His heart pounded so loud he feared she might hear it.

Before he could decide what to do, another figure materialized from the darkness. Sergeant Hill's voice, a whisper, carried the iron authority of command: "That's far enough, Mrs. Blake. Or should I say Kate Randall?"

Thomas's throat closed. His lungs forgot their purpose. Kate Randall. He'd heard his parents discuss that name in worried whispers. Part of the notorious Powder River Gang, responsible for a string of stage robberies that had left three guards dead last summer.

Miss Ward emerged from the shadows near the window, her theatrical accent gone, replaced by the clipped tones of someone who meant business. "Three years we've been chasing you and your husband. Did you think the Pinkertons wouldn't recognize two of the Powder River Gang's finest?"

Thomas watched as the quiet drama unfolded in the shimmering light. Sarah Blake—Kate Randall—held her derringer steady, its small barrel somehow more threatening for its size. Harrison appeared at the top of the stairs, his own weapon trained on Miss Ward, his city slicker affect replaced by the cold confidence of an adept outlaw.

"Just move along," Harrison said, stern. "That strongbox holds enough to set us up proper, somewhere warm. No need for anyone to get hurt, long as you're sensible about things."

"Drop it, Harrison." Thomas's father said. He stood in the kitchen doorway, rifle steady, his military training clear in every line of his stance. "Your little stage breakdown plan is over."

The next few moments burned themselves into Thomas's memory with the sharp clarity of a lightning bolt. Harrison's gun barked, the muzzle flash brilliant, turning night to day for a heartbeat. The bullet struck wood somewhere above Thomas's head as Miss Ward, the Pinkerton agent, dove into a roll that would have impressed any acrobat. Sergeant Hill moved with surprising speed for his size, tackling Kate Randall before she could bring her derringer to bear.

Thomas's mother appeared from the back hall upstairs with their second rifle, her night braid swinging as she helped corner Harrison. The businessman-turned-outlaw tried to duck back up the stairs but found himself caught between two steady gun barrels. And Thomas, seeing Kate break free from Sergeant Hill and sprint for the front door, did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed one of his muddy boots sitting next to the bedroom door and threw it, tripping up her legs and sending her crashing to the floor.

Only the storm's voice drowned out Thomas's thundering heartbeat. Sergeant Hill, the Pinkerton agent, bound the prisoners while Miss Ward covered them with unwavering attention.

"You all right, son?" his father asked, checking the wall where Harrison's bullet had struck. The lead had buried itself deep in an old support beam, adding one more story to the station's long history.

Thomas nodded, aware of how his hands trembled. "I'm fine, Pa. But how did you know? About them, I mean?"

His father's expression softened with pride. "Same way you did. Watching. Listening. Your mother and I saw what you saw. All those little things that didn't quite fit. Pinkertons contacted us last week, said they had agents tracking the Randalls. Wasn't hard to guess who they were once we started looking proper."

Dawn broke clear and cold, the storm blown out to the east. Thomas, alert and perched again by the cold panes of the front window, watched Sergeant Hill and Miss Ward lead their prisoners to the fresh stage from Cheyenne. The morning sun turned the snow-covered prairie into a sea of diamonds, each crystal catching fire with colors deeper than any city jewels.

He'd seen the same view from his window seat a thousand times before, but now he saw it differently. Every stage that passed through carried its own stories, its own mysteries. His parents didn't just run a station, they helped maintain order on the frontier, playing their own quiet part in the drama of the expanding West. Their isolated outpost wasn't just a waypoint between more important places. It was a crucial link in the chain of civilization, a place where law and chaos often met and tested each other's strength.

The Billings Ransom
by Dalton Henderson

"CRACK"

"Don't take ONE step closer!"

The bullet sliced through the air above his head, a sound that had unfortunately become familiar. Luke Hendry ducked behind a wagon and rotated the cylinder of his revolver, half as a nervous assurance and half out of habit.

"Name's Luke Hendry—Sheriff of Kirwin. You know why I'm here."

"I assume you've brought the money," the man shouted in a smooth and sharp voice from a small cabin in the Wyoming foothills.

"Are the Billings still alive?" Luke asked, hoping to get a better idea of what he was dealing with—knowing full well even if he could convince the town to pool their money, it wouldn't come close to what was demanded. He figured these men were not from here, otherwise they would have known to choose a different town.

"They are, and they'll stay that way as long as we get what we asked for." There was little apprehension in his voice, as though he'd done this before. The wagon Luke was behind was only about 20 feet from the entrance of the cabin, and both men could hear each other clearly.

"Have them call out. One by one. I want to hear them," bellowed the young lawman.

Rustling and commotion could be heard from the cabin, and then silence. A woman's voice broke into a whimpering exclamation, followed by two small children, a boy and a girl.

The woman was a widow named Mary Billings. Ever since her husband passed 3 years prior, she'd been working out of their house as a seamstress. She had an 8-year-old daughter named Elizabeth and a 5-year-old son named Elijah. Mary had recently left town to see her sister at Fort Laramie.

A few moments later the voice from the cabin sounded again, "Okay. You heard they're alive. Now toss the bag to the door. Once we count it, we'll let them go, and we part ways."

The lawman figured the man on the other side of the door sounded young—not too different from himself in age. He also pegged him as educated—there was precision in his tone, and the way he chose his words.

"You're asking for a lot. I don't know if you've ever been to Kirwin, but that'll take more than a few hours. They're working on it," the lawman said, rotating the cylinder of his revolver to check for six rounds once again.

"Our note was clear, Sheriff. I'd rather not paint these walls with the blood of a woman and her children—but I will. And I'd rather not do the same with what sounds like a young lawman—but I won't hesitate there either. If the money's not here in an hour, she dies first."

Luke could hear Elizabeth and Elijah begin to cry while their mother tried to comfort them.

"Quiet down!" came a voice from the cabin, a different one from before—one with a little more age in their growl. Luke slumped back down behind the wagon and looked at the sun dipping low over the horizon toward Kirwin. Luckily, it'd be dark soon. Involuntarily his mind drifted to earlier that evening when his wife, Alice, was standing in the middle of the road begging him not to go. Begging her husband to ride to Onessa to gather more lawman before going after the bandits, but he knew there would be no time. He pictured her now, alone on their porch, staring down the road she begged him not to ride.

"Was I wrong to come alone? Was she right?"

A couple moments in thought passed in silence before the sheriff's mind snapped back to the situation at hand.

He yelled over the wagon,

"What should I call you?"

"You can call me Miles," replied the younger of the two men.

"Well now, Miles . . .  they're gathering the money. It'll be here soon. I can tell you, I've been sheriff four years, a lawman for seven. I've seen hijackings, robberies, murder—everything in between. And I've put these men behind bars, or in the ground.

With time, I've come to better understand the kind of men who do these things. But the ones who hurt women and children—they're different. They don't walk this earth the same way the rest of us do."

Luke continued, "That woman you have in there is named Mary Billings, and those are her kids Elizabeth and Elijah. Mary was born in Kirwin, spent her whole life here. She's the one who sewed the very pants I'm wearing. Elizabeth works in the stables—says she's loved horses ever since she could talk.

And Elijah . . .  he's such a sweet boy, Mary never has to ask twice for someone to watch him—the women in town adore him.

I'm telling you this so you know what you are putting at risk. So tell me, are you like the others? Or are you something different entirely?"

After a few seconds, Miles replied, "What kind of man I am isn't your concern. It's easy to imagine a villain that fits your story, but the truth is this—their fate rests in your hands, Sheriff, not mine. To suggest that I'm solely responsible? That's a convenient story.

"Where is Ms. Billings' husband? From the way she was traveling—and the fact he's not here—I'd guess he's out of the picture. If we hadn't picked them up, someone else would have, farther down the trail. Traveling like that, alone with children, was reckless.

The burden lies on YOU, and on the rest of the town, for letting a woman and two children set off without protection or a plan."

The sheriff considered that a moment, then called back, "You must be educated—I can hear it in the way you talk. And maybe you're right. Maybe I should have done more to keep them safe. But if you're educated, then you should understand this: for that family to be in danger, a man—likely one with the same justifications you're clinging to—has to choose to threaten them.

Every man walks a line between justice and corruption. You chose corruption. Just like every man I've ever locked behind bars. And no matter how you dress it up in excuses or inevitability, you bear the full weight of that choice— you, and your soul."

"You think we have a choice?" Miles called out. "Only someone who's had the privilege of choice could believe that. I bet you went to bed with a full belly most nights growing up—parents to tuck you in. And I'd wager there's a woman waiting for you now, wondering when her husband's coming home."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind through the trees and the soft whimpers from inside the cabin.

Miles continued, his voice quieter but edged with something darker. "In some ways, I envy you—that illusion you live in. Justice. Corruption. 'Protect and serve.' Makes no difference. If it wasn't me who grabbed them, it'd be someone else. And long after you're gone, Sheriff, there'll still be thefts, murders, and robberies. Nothing changes. In the end, we're just two men getting paid—doing what we can with what we've got."

Luke sat back, his eyes drifting again towards Kirwin. The sun was completely down over the horizon, with the moon peeking through the clouds. He thumbed open the loading gate of his revolver to glance at all six rounds once more, and then replied,

"It may not matter to you," Luke said, "but it matters to those three innocents in that cabin—and to the people who care about them. Maybe you're right. Maybe there'll always be men like you. But if no one believed in justice, there'd be nothing left for men like you to take."

Miles replied, "Like I said, Sheriff . . .  I can respect your folks for giving you that kind of illusion. Not everyone was lucky enough to live with their heads buried in the sand—"

"THUMP"

In an instant, Miles' sentence was cut short by the door crashing open with a vengeance and the appearance of Sheriff Luke Hendry. Before anyone had time to react, Luke's revolver cracked with deadly precision, striking the older of the two bandits in the center of his forehead. The man began to collapse to the floorboard and the Billings family began to scream. In the fractions of seconds that ensued, Luke looked to his left and locked eyes with Miles.

Miles had blue eyes and brown hair, with soft and handsome features. He stood about 6 feet tall, and couldn't have been over the age of 25. Miles had already drawn his pistol, but for the span of a heartbeat, it hung frozen at his side, while he intently looked at the man before him. Luke was not burdened with the same fraction of a second delay, and he aimed in and fired a single round.

Miles raised his pistol and fired, but by the time his pistol was oriented towards his target, he could already feel the pummeling shock straight through his neck. His gun fired errantly, striking the top of the cabin as his body thrust backward and down into the ground.

Miles laid on the ground, holding his neck as blood quickly rushed onto his shirt and the cabin floor. Luke stood over him, watching the recognition drain from his eyes as he pried the revolver from his grasp.

He checked the cylinder of his revolver—four rounds left. He walked over to the other side of the cabin and untied the Billings family. He asked if there were any other men, and then told them to start packing the wagon that had been stolen. He told them he'd be coming out behind them shortly.

Luke had planned to wait for nightfall, using conversation to keep them distracted long enough to strike. He stepped back toward Miles, whose eyes still clung to the man above him—just seconds of life remaining.

"Why'd you hesitate? " Luke whispered, almost solemnly as the tunnel vision that gripped him since kicking in the door began to fade. He stood in silence, watching a young man die—his question left unanswered.

The last flicker of life disappeared from Miles' body, and Luke stepped outside to bring the Billings family home.

You're Never Too Young to Die
by Kevin McEvoy

After riding through a surprisingly fierce rainstorm coming out of the Northeast part of West Texas, I finally made it to El Paso on the Mexican border, not that you'd notice the border much, except for the Rio Grande running alongside it. El Paso and Juarez across the river are kissing cousins, both dry, both dusty, both poor, and both making you wonder why anyone would build a town here, let alone two. I've rode into lots of places in the middle of nowhere, but two towns in the middle of nowhere speaking different languages is more than enough tobacco to chew on. You wouldn't even notice the two languages after a while, since most settlers here learn a bit of both quickly, or wind up getting cheated, or killed, or both.

Riding into a poor town is normally not good business for a man in my profession. Call me a gun for hire if you want. I prefer that over gunfighter, like many of us do, since we don't gunfight for nothing unless we have to, and we like getting paid for it. But sometimes it doesn't work out that way.

By the time I reached the middle of town looking for the saloon the sky had cleared, and the sun grew so hot again my long riding coat was already dry. Cooler wet or hotter dry, I'll take dry every time. I don't like walking into a saloon dripping wet like a soaked prairie dog back out on the plain, especially if I figure being in there for a while. With no contract yet I had no place else to go, except maybe the hotel up the still muddy street. That comes later.

I get surprised when I'm recognized in a new town. There's never a picture of you to go by unless it's drawn on a wide-reaching warrant for your arrest, nailed up by the sheriff's office door. If you're smart and know how to goad the other gun to pull first, it's self-defense if you're good enough. If not, you don't last long in this profession. I've been hauled in front of a county judge a few times and always got off so far. Best is when I don't face a draw down at all because the other gun runs out of town. I still get paid with no risk and no new bullets to buy. That's a good day. I think it's funny that if someone is looking for you, you don't want to be recognized, and if no is, you do.

I had no warrant and no contract and thought I'd be pretty unknown in El Paso or Juarez, but you never know what will tip someone off. I carry a Colt single action six shot revolver with a smooth brown handle in a plain leather right sided holster. Nothing fancy, but always oiled and ready. Simple and quick.

The saloon was as dusty inside as it was outside, fairly dark and smokey with the smell of cigars, beer and whisky. The bar was off to the right along the wall and there was a small empty table on the left in back. At the bar I slapped down a 50-cent piece and said "Whisky. Bottle." The barkeep didn't ask for more money and handed me the bottle with a glass. I sat at that back table alone facing the door. A number of card players at tables around the room gave me a quick eye but kept on playing. After a few minutes a couple of Mexican looking gentlemen suddenly got up and left. Something about them felt odd. They maybe had no reason to stay longer but no reason to leave suddenly either from what I could tell. In my business you learn to notice and figure things quickly and I've been in enough saloons to know.

I was two drinks into the bottle and stopped the cork back in when one of Mexicans took a few steps back into the saloon.

"Yanqui. You!" He looked and pointed right at me. "Te queremos afuera. Ahora!" When I saw him walk back in I slipped my right hand under the table up to my holster. "I'm not going anywhere. Now or later." I stayed calm and relaxed, but ready. Always ready. He backed out but I left my hand where it was.

Maybe three minutes later a woman came running into the saloon, her eyes were darting around the room until she spotted me. "Se ñor, por favor, Sal afuera. Si no lo haces, lo golpearán como un cobarde!" Her voce was shaking.

"Who will beat who?" I asked, never taking my eyes off the front singing doors.

"Mi hijo, van a golpear a mi hijo." Someone would beat her son if I didn't step outside? I've been called out for lots of reaons but this was a new one. Her raspy, desperate voice and shaking hands convinced me there was something real going on. I got up and stepped outside onto the boardwalk while pulling my long riding coat around the back of my holster.

Below on the Street were three men and a young boy. The man that came into the saloon shouted, "Yanqui! Enfrentarlo!" He pointed at the boy.

"Face him for what? He looks twelve years old."

"He must prove he is a man."

"He's not going to prove it on me. He draws on me and I shoot you," my finger stabbing at him in the air. "Maybe I'll shoot all of you except the boy. Don't think I can?"

The three men looked at each other for a moment and stated to slowly back away, and then ran, leaving the boy standing alone in the middle of the street. The woman ran over to the boy, crying and holding him, mumbling something in Spanish. She then looked at and smiled through her tears. "Deja a tu marido," I shouted to her as I turned around to walk back into the saloon. The entire saloon had emptied and everyone was standjng behind me on the boardwalk.

"If she leaves her husband how will she survive," one of the card players asked."

"I can use help with the bar, and the boy can clean up when we close. In the day he should stay in school. Learn English good." The barkeep then paused and in a lower voice asked me, "Did you think about drawing on the boy?"

"No, that's not a contract, and it's not even self-defense. Besides, he's just a boy."

"Just a boy," the barkeep said, looking back at the kid.

"Just a boy," I repeated. "Nunca eres demasiado joven para morir."

"You're never too young to die," repeated the barkeep.

The Dual Duel
by Stephen Cunningham

This is a story where the bad guy wins. Where the snakes in the grass of the past rise up and strike the unwary. Where some decent folks get taken advantage of, and where the riches go to those who do the deeds. Where one man will tip his hat to fate, and another shoots his arrows at moving shadows, hoping for a hit. There'll be two sets of twins, slowly circling in toward each other, and a man with one hand. One hand left. His left. Superstitions. Vultures, greenhorns, wagon wheels . . .  When will this land grow up?

The Tenney twins were camping in an abandoned shack just the other side of the hills from town. Everybody knew that they were out there, but no one thought to bother or disturb them. They were native sons, born and raised in these parts, and for the most part, had been good boys. Now that they were tall, and stringy, and wired up like a hundred miles of fence, all taut and straight and sure, they garnered some respect. Folks said that either one or the other would one day be the sheriff of these parts. Maybe the two of them together. Would be a first, but, where one went, the other went as well. It was just the nature of the two of them together. That they were always found together. Finishing each other's thoughts. Helping one another. Like having an extra set of eyes in your head. An extra set of legs, and arms, and an extra heart. Either one of them was good enough for anyone, and there were two of them. Camping out there in that crumbled-down shack, lighting a fire in the evening, cooking up a meal. Finishing each other's plates of beans, and never letting any coffee go to waste. Even their horses looked alike. One had a large brown spot on the left side, and the other one had one on the right. Only difference.

Augustine Tenney was lying in the bunk, and he rolled out in his sleep and hit the floor. Waking up his brother with the thud.

Anthony Tenney looked over at his brother from his own bedroll, saw him lying on the floor, and asked what happened.

"You alright? Looks like you fell right out of bed."

"I . . .  I must have slipped."

"Slipped? Looks like you slid. You having dreams again?"

"Aww, I don't know. I don't remember. Let's just let us get a bit more shut-eye, before that sun comes shining back around again. Got lots to do today. There's lots to get to."

The two twins got back to sleeping. In the morning, they rose, and stretched, and sopped up some of the leftover gravy with what was left of their biscuits. Drank scalding coffee made from running the boiling water through some day-or-two-old grounds. Not the strongest, but the temperature of it helped wake them up. The bad taste of it, too.

"Might as well just pour the water through some of this dust around here. It'd be thicker, at least. Instead of this old shit."

"Yeah . . .  We need to get to town, get us some supplies."

"That's what we're gonna do today, isn't it? That's what we talked about doing."

"We will. We will. You got your pistol ready? Cleaned and loaded?"

"You know I do. You watched me working on it just yesterday."

"You got your bullets on you?"

"Brother . . .  Sometimes you worry me. Always fussing on the details like you do. Almost acting more like a mother to me than a brother. I mean, I'm much obliged, you looking out for me and all, but . . .  You don't need to worry on it so much. I'll be fine."

"I know. I know. I saw you're ready. It's just . . .  Ain't you nervous? You just gotta know they're in there, waiting on us. Knowing we'll be coming in one day."

"Well, so what if they are? We can take them. Don't you think? We can . . . "

"We can get our fool hungry heads blown off, is what we might be doing. Just walking in there like we ain't got any concern. End up carrying bullets up to heaven with us, is what we're gonna end up doing. Bullet holes and grief. That what you're wanting?"

"No. Of course I wouldn't want that. But some real coffee would be good."

The Tenney twins both laughed at that, and after a quick scrub of the dishes and a look around, checking to make sure they were prepared, they saddled up and began to head to town. Riding slowly, even though they knew the way. They knew just about every trail there was to know around there. A few of them they'd made themselves. Why the Norths hadn't ever come out to where they'd been camping was kind of a mystery, but Augustine reckoned it wouldn't look good, them coming out like they was in a hunting party. Everyone in town knew the Tenneys hadn't committed any major crimes. It was more like a blood feud, just something that had happened between the Tenney brothers and the Norths. Folks who knew them both had tried to talk some sense into them, to get down to the bottom of it and see if there was some way things could settle. "There's just no way," the Norths would respond, not endearing themselves to the locals much in saying it. What with the history of feuds and such, everybody waited until it all played out. Hoping for the best, but knowing someone was going to have to die about it.

Meanwhile, the man with one hand, Mr. Roston, sat up on the hill, in his big fancy two-story house, surrounded by the things his money had bought for him. With servants, and helpers, and men who'd do whatever it was he needed doing. Ranch hands, miners, hired guns . . .  Mr. Roston owned most of the whole town by now, and he had his eyes on what was left. Like a lot of bad men of the West, he was greedy, mean, and acted like he didn't have a soul. The Norths were on his payroll, and he was hoping they would turn out like he did. His own son had been killed years before, and in the time since then he'd somewhat adopted, as it were, the Norths. Took them in, kept them fed, kept them busy . . .  His idea of 'adopting' them was basically just to use them, as they were fast with their guns and good shots. Always had been. As they grew older, even more so. Being twins, they had very similar abilities. It was like having two of the best gunslinger around. The best, except for the Tenneys. Everybody knew they had it over the Norths when it came down to it. That's where the real roots of the feud between them were. To see which set of twins would prove to be the better, quicker shots. It really just came down to that.

Mr. Roston had gotten rich from mining. There'd been gold found on his property, and once the mine was started, the men found chunks so big they'd often rub their eyes in wonder. Large oval-shaped rocks of gold, like big tears inside the earth. The men would scrape the dirt off from around them, and they'd be as big as a man's thigh, sometimes, or skull-sized. Everyone got a piece of what was going on, but Mr. Roston took the largest for himself. He was the boss. He owned the land. He paid the guards well, to make sure no one got away with any of the gold, and for the most part, they did their job. A little piece or two might have slipped by, here and there, but the main haul was untouched. Making Mr. Roston one of the wealthiest men for hundreds of miles in any direction. He was a coward, though, through and through. Had his own men killed while they were sleeping, just to keep them quiet. In ways which were not honorable. Took their gold dust from them, their cornmeal . . .  Sneaky. Cold blooded.

The Tenney's father, Cliff Tenney, had been the sheriff in town. Had always been a righteous man, but one who never lorded it over his neighbor. Everyone knew he was an honest man, one who did his job and kept a level head about it. When he stood up for a man who was going to be dragged outside of town, by Mr. Roston's men, and lynched, the people of the town knew the man must be innocent. There would be no other reason for Sheriff Tenney to step in like that. He talked of releasing him, not of putting him in jail to await a trial. So he must not have done what Mr. Roston, through his hired guns, had said he'd done. Yet, when the dust did finally settle on the situation, the accused man was dead, lying on the ground with a dozen bullets in him. And the Sheriff was beside him, breathing his own last breaths, hand still on his pistol, pistol still in its holster. Gunned down for no good reason. The townsfolk knew that Mr. Roston was a bad man, then, for sure. Whoever had still doubted it, now knew without a doubt. Sheriff Tenney had a proper burial, and was spoken of in mostly whispers ever since, but he was not forgotten. Not by his twin sons, especially.

The Tenney twins were riding toward town, and the morning was already hot. They didn't know what they'd come across once they reached the main street, but they felt that they were ready. Ever since their father was murdered, they hadn't lived in town much. They still did, at first, but then they slipped away. Roamed a while, and took on some jobs, but they eventually came back. They'd yet to be in town again, but it was now or never, now. They could each feel it coming to a close, and felt it was going to happen this very day. Neither one of them were killers. In fact, neither one had ever killed a man. If they had their choice, they'd never pick up another gun again as long as they lived. They'd much prefer to be peaceful, just live as farmers or store owners, husbands, raising kids and such. Something more worthwhile than revenge. If they could just ride into town, and get their supplies, and be done with it today, then, fine. That would be that. If it was trouble that they'd find, they'd go facing it head on. No more hiding, they thought. Let's get this over with. Our father's in the ground, and there's no ever bringing him back. But they weren't quite ready yet to join him there. So they rode into town together, carefully. They'd prefer to be non-violent, but . . .  They'd do whatever they had to do.

The Norths were still asleep when the Tenneys entered town. It was another of the hired guns who went and woke them up. They got excited, and strapped their guns on, and started to run right out there, when Mr. Roston said to stop. Said they'd all wait a while, and see what happened. "Let them think they're gonna make it," is what he said, chuckling to himself beneath his breath. "Let them almost think they're gonna make it . . . "

Mr. Roston's thoughts drifted back to when he was younger, back to when his hand was chopped off. He'd set out to find the men who'd killed his brother, and he had found them. Got caught up in a trap they'd set, with no way out, and they'd surrounded him. He'd vowed to take revenge on those who had killed his own flesh and blood, and there he was, tied to the ground, his hand lopped off with a hatchet, lying not too far away from him. How he didn't die from the loss of blood had always been a question rattling around his mind. An Indian had found him, had brought him to his people, and they had healed him. There was nothing to be done about the hand, but they'd helped to seal the wound, and saw him through his fevers and recuperation.

You might think, being helped like that, by people who'd asked nothing in return, he might have turned a page somehow. Might well have given up some of the badness weighing down his heart. All it did was add more fuel to his hatred. For the Indians who helped him, he had nothing but thanks. He'd never go against them. But for the bandits who'd robbed him, who'd taken the very life of his one and only brother? Never. He'd track them down if it was all he ever did.

Within two years, he'd done so, with the help of hired guns. He even rode among the posse. Wanted to be with the men who took the lives of those who had done him such wrong. They'd been thieves stealing from thieves, but that was no concern of his. There were bullets to the brains of those who'd chopped off his hand, and knives across the throats of those who'd killed his brother. Eye for an eye, a life for a life. Full-blown obsessive retribution. Mr. Roston's reputation as a man to watch out for was just about solidified right there. He left behind a bloody patch of land. But he never left the memories behind. His stump of a right arm reminded him of that at every turn. While learning to be left handed, without a choice. Still feeling some sensations as if his right hand was still there. He'd get sudden pangs of pains, an itch, or he'd reach for something with his stump, not being able to grasp or pick things up with it. He'd killed those killers, but he still felt filled with rage. Still felt incapable of being able to really ever put an end to it all. Still thought of his hand out there, the bones in the sand somewhere. Or long ago in the belly of a coyote, or dragged up to an ant hill by some hungry ants.

When Mr. Roston would go out to his brother's grave, and would bow there, on his knees, staring at the marker . . .  Having vowed to get revenge, and having done so, yet still feeling like a failure somehow . . .  He expected there to be a ghostly grip upon his shoulder, his brother's voice from the beyond, telling him it'd be alright. He never heard that, though. He never heard, 'You already have' or 'Thank You', or anything but the wind. A hoot owl swooping by, and the shrieking of a rabbit. Dead leaves rustling in the trees above the graveyard. He didn't think he'd ever find real peace, and it disturbed him. All the gold in the world could never buy him that, and in the knowing of it he knew despair. He knew he'd never find real happiness. He knew he'd already lost too much, no matter how much wealth he discovered or hung onto. He knew that he was doomed.

He was in love with Miss Truly, though, or as close to love as a man like Mr. Roston could ever feel. She had loved the Sheriff, though. When he'd been murdered, and everybody knew that Mr. Roston had been the one to put those men up to it, had paid their fees to do the killing, Miss Truly closed her heart to him forever. Not that it had ever been even close to being open to him, but from then on, he would never have a chance. She wouldn't even look at him, or speak, or acknowledge him in any way. She thought of moving to the coast, but with her parents still around these parts, and what with them getting older and still needing her help around the place and what not, she stayed. She knew that when they passed, if she was able to, she'd leave. She'd sell the place, or give it away if that was what it took, and she'd pack her few important belongings and get as far away from there as she could. She'd never take another man to be her own, her heart being for the Sheriff and for Sheriff Tenney only. She'd really loved the man, and he had professed his love for her. They'd talked of getting married.

His wife, the mother of the twins, had died in childbirth, and he'd had a lot of long tough years raising them on his own. Once they were old enough, he'd told Miss Truly, "We'll join ourselves in holy matrimony." That had been the plan. He wanted his boys to not look on her as a mother, but as an equal. "Once they become men," he'd say . . .  But he was gunned down before that. His life was taken from him, and not just from himself, but from Miss Truly, and from his sons. From the townsfolk he'd pledged to look out for. His death had been a loss for the whole community. It was still resonating among them to this day.

The Tenney twins rode into town. Past the stable where their father had kept his horse, and the restaurant where he'd take his meals. Past the barber who would trim his hair, and who'd been one of his good friends. Down past the jailhouse and the saloons.

The Tenney twins eased their horses to a stop outside of Johnson's general store, tied them to the railing, and went on in. Their eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside, squinting and refocusing.

Anthony went off to find the rope, the matches, and other items, while Augustine moved toward the foodstuffs.

The word was out, the Tenneys were back in town, and the people began to talk among themselves about it. A few of them walked in the direction of the store, but when the North boys were seen riding down the street, most scattered. The Norths rode until they were outside the front doors of the place, then called for the other twins inside.

"Tenneys . . . " They both called, in unison. "You best come out."

Inside the store, the twins had heard, and were deciding how to react. They could ignore it, and finish rounding up their supplies. Which is pretty much what they did. They could step outside, and try to talk things over with the Norths, and probably get their heads shot apart. Which is most likely what would happen. The way those boys yelled 'Tenneys' sounded like bullets just raring to fly. Or they could go out there, guns firing, and take care of it once and for all.

They paid for what they'd chosen, stacked it all up against the wall by the door, and slowly stepped out, side by side, into the sunshine.

The hand of every twin that used a gun was at the ready. There was silence in the air. The people who were still around to watch were nervous and distressed. No one was willing to step in and stop it, but no one wanted it to happen, either. Four hands at the sides of four gunfighters. Four trigger-fingers thinking four steps ahead. Whichever set of twins drew first might come out the winner, and when the four hands blurred and moved themselves to action, most of the spectators closed their eyes and couldn't watch. Four loud pistol blasts rang out, and four again. Like thunder. Ending the young lives of two sets of twins, the four men dying because of what had been done in the past. Four fast shots that each took a life, and changed the town even more.

As the smoke cleared, and the townsfolk wailed and cried, the old grave digger walked out to look the bodies over. Mumbling to himself about how the gunslingers always left their messes behind, and never took care of any of the afterwards.

"At least this time, all the ones who threw bullets at each other caught one. No one left to clean up anything," he was thinking, measuring the first twin. Figuring if he measured one of each, he wouldn't have to do them all. Each set must be pretty similar, he'd decided, as he went about his work.

Mr. Roston chuckled to himself, and sat there at his table eating a hearty meal. He lived a long, full life, married a woman thirty years younger than himself, and had a couple more sons to hand his wealthy legacy down to. He had even more money when he died than when all of this had happened with the twins. He would think about the killings in his life as just stories from the past, more than something he should ever feel remorse about. He made sure to enjoy the best of everything.