Dog Bone for the Bounty Hunter
by Tom Sheehan

His father's past had holes in it, questions, great open areas, but his mother had always said, "Shush now. Shush. He'll be back soon's the job's done he went to do. It may be a while. We'll keep busy doin' what needs be done." She had soft eyes and leathery skin that the sun no longer bothered.

With her hand shielding her eyes, she followed the slimmest shadow of her husband, Burt Steggins, going over the last rise out on the grass. Every time he went off she made the same moves, loved the shadow she saw, knowing it was part of her man.

"What's he doin' all the time, Ma? You never told me once what he does, never mind me askin' him who don't talk much."

Young Harry Steggins was 12 years old, big for his age, good with plow, rope, a team of mules, any horse and any weapon, and a big dog he called Hardtack that he could almost make dance. He was crowding 13 like it was tomorrow, when he too saw the shadow of a man disappear out on the grass, like it wasn't there in the first place. He remembered always wondering about the man who was his father. Beside him was his dog, black as night and big as a wolf. The dog never seemed to leave the boy's side.

His mother said, "Thems that need him call him for the work. When he's done there, doin' for them, he comes home to us."

"Allus bringin' a present for you, Ma, and somethin' special for me, like we was waitin' all the time for it."

"Yore pa's a good man, Harry. Someday he'll speak a whole lot about what he does a whole lot." Her hand, hard with ranch life leaving marks on it, touched his shoulder light as a shadow.

Five weeks later, Burt Steggins had not come home. His wife Martha sat out front of the cabin every evening as the sun set down on the home range, the mountains looking like fire was on them and her trying to see a dot of a man coming across the grass with the red sun behind him.

Harry pestered her no end, saying, "I ought to go lookin' for him, Ma. It falls on me. You can't go. I can't leave you, less someone's here spendin' time with you, helpin', gittin' by til I come back with Pa. So what'll we do?" One hand dropped onto Hardtack's scruff and lingered there. The dog wouldn't move with Harry's hand on him, moved only at trained commands sent by that same hand or by Harry's voice.

"I've sent word to cousin Lovell Dunkirk, sayin' we need help. He'll be here soon's he knows, then you can go."

"You sure, Ma? I hope so. I can't stand no more o' this."

"You go lookin', Harry. Your pa all this time's been a bounty hunter. They sent word they wanted him in Foster City, to track a gent raisin' some special kinda hell out there. Sheriff knows Pa from way back in Sugarland. Name's Luther Stemwick. Go see him when cousin Lovell shows here. Luther Stemwick, sheriff, Foster City."

A week later, after the arrival of Lovell Dunkirk, Dunkirk smooth in the saddle and with his talk as any man ever met, better looking than the barber in town, young Steggins rode out the same way as his father had, casting a shadow the grass swallowed all too soon. Hardtack was right behind him, all the time looking back the way they had come.

In Foster City, in Luther Stemwick's office built against the side of the Foster City Bank & Loan, Harry Steggins said to the man sitting behind a small table he thought was supposed to be a desk, "Sheriff, my name's Harry Steggins and I'm lookin' for my father, Bert Steggins, you asked help from, a bounty man who ain't been home in 6 weeks or so."

"I been wonderin' about him too, son, since he left here more'n a month ago."

"Who's he chasin' down? Who'd you send him after you couldn't chase yourself?"

"Yore pretty crispy, ain't you son?" the sheriff said. A tired face sat under his Stetson, one bullet hole near the crown as plain as a wart, him moving around in his chair with a sure itch working him over. When one of his hands started to shake a little as it sat on the table, the sheriff moved that shaking hand into his lap.

Finally, with a sigh limping from him soft as a curse, Stemwick stood at the table serving as his desk, lazy looking to Steggins, too round at the belt like he couldn't go too far on his own two feet if his life depended on it.

And he was wearing a sneaky look, the same kind Steggins had seen on Lovell Dunkirk's face, as if they had all kinds of things planned to make themselves better.

"My ma sent me to look for my pa. You don't tell me nothin', I go lookin' on my own. I don't owe anythin' to anybody 'cept my Pa and Ma."

"Man's name is Hurry George. That's all I know. Big, hulky, like a Clydesdale on a freight line. Kilt three men, one woman, a kid no more'n 10 years old, like in a few minutes of shooting not much more'n a month ago. Swore forever he'd never go to jail. Lives, far as we know, up in the Rockies deep as a man kin go. He's kilt two deputies went lookin' for him, far as I know. Maybe more. He's wanted by every lawman from here to Independence City."

"Why 'd you ask my pa?" Steggins, not bashful at all, stared into the sheriff's eyes with the direct stare only the innocent can muster.

Stemwick nodded, shrugged one shoulder, and said, "Boy, your pa's better than any my deputies. The fact is I can't spare any more. Hurry George kilt two of them and I'll run out of 'em and be alone. Can't do that." He measured an added fact, then said, "I sent him, yore pa, out lookin' for the Testa brothers one time an' he brought 'em both back, and hell, if he don't git a hold of Luke Carbornet on the way back and bring him in too. Must've celebrated with yore ma over that. Brought some wine home, a new dress, I'll bet."

Steggins saw a sorry look go across the sheriff's face, the way he saw a cowboy look at another cowboy once who was getting up on an unbroken stallion with a burr under his blanket, put there for real teasing.

"I'll go lookin' for him. See what he says about my pa." He turned toward the door, turned back and said, "When I find what's happening, see Hurry George, I might come lookin' see if you need a real good deputy."

"How old are you, boy?"

"Old enough to git kilt, sheriff."

The sheriff thought the boy was finished talking, but he turned and looked back at him, straight in the eyes again, and said, "On'y if'n my dog lets him whoevah."

"Well, son," the sheriff said, "you go up in there, make sure anythin' give you a sign, move yourself behind somethin', 'cause he shoots from shadows, darkness, hidden places you don't suspect. A rat shooter, he is. A bushwhacker all the way. Man was born mad and gets madder all the time."

Then he said, having moved to a window, "Is that your dog out there, the black one? He come with you, tag along all the time? He trained like you say?"

"Can do tricks, what I tell him, knows how to round up horses, scare cattle, chase the mules all the way home. Can almost git his own supper."

Harry Steggins, now 13, smiling at the sheriff, having an upper hand, rode out of town, his dog at his heels looking behind them every few minutes, scaring some of the people on the street going right through the center of town.

For four days Harry Steggins tied his horse off in hidden areas and went searching on foot through the mid-range of the mountains, his eye always looking for signs of Hurry George. Hardtack was a silent, stealthy companion, crawling when his master gave the word, standing still another time for 10 or 12 minutes, his nose in the air. On the fourth day Steggins, alerted by Hardtack, smelled something cooking, followed the smell coming out of a gorge entrance he had passed a couple of times. A shift of wind brought the odor of cooked meat down through the gorge and right into his nostrils. Hardtack's tail twitched lightly.

"Supper's on, boy," he said, "but they's plenty for tomorrow." Then they faded into a rocky background.

The next two days, from higher up in the rocky tor, with a spyglass his father gave him after one trip, he watched Hurry George as he plied his way between a cave and a fire pit outside the cave. A couple of time, when Steggins really thought about what he was looking at, he realized the man was bringing food into the cave. after he had eaten his own share.

A surprising hope started to build in him that his father was a prisoner in the cave, or somebody else.

The whole scene had to be set up in his mind, right down to each detail. And most important to him was getting between Hurry George and whoever was in the cave, hoping it would be his father.

Steggins spent that night back with his horse in a hidden area, no fire, chewing on hard biscuits and jerky, drinking water from his canteen, keeping Hardtack watered as well as his horse, thinking about his father's homecomings.

The sheriff's words came back as he remembered one return when his father came with a bottle of wine and a new hat for his mother who said she'd save it for next year. But he also brought three new dishes and a couple of sharp knives for her. He couldn't remember what his father had brought him on that return from bounty hunting. It didn't seem very important now, unless it was the spyglass. He touched it with his fingers.

In early light, with Hardtack hidden behind a rock, Steggins studied again the movements of Hurry George, who led his horse to a small spring of water seeping out of a mountain crack. Then the killer carried two canteens full of water back into the cave after hobbling the horse. He spent no more than 10 or 12 minutes in the cave. The fire, kept as far away as possible from the cave to prevent quick discovery, was fed from a pile of wood stashed in under one ledge. The pile was nearly depleted and Hurry George, as he had a few days earlier, would leave the gorge and come back in less than an hour with a bundle of wood tied in a blanket on the rump of his horse and another bundle in his arm.

Young Steggins and Hardtack sat still for two hours until Hurry George grabbed his blanket for toting wood and mounted his horse. On his horse, he yelled into the cave and waited. A near mute reply came out of the cave.

Then he rode down the gorge and went out of sight. Steggins and Hardtack slipped down off the higher ledge and entered the cave.

It was dark. Young Steggins was right behind Hardtack who had only gone a few yards and the dog almost hummed a growl.

"Pa, you here?" he said. Hardtack let out a soft yelp.

"Be still, Harry. No talkin' but cut me loose quick. My hands and feet are tied real tight. "You got your rifle?"

"Yes, Pa."

"Hurry, boy. Git that knife out. There's a girl in there deeper. We'll cut her loose later. I owe this critter."

His voice was hard as beat tin. "I don't care if you break skin, Harry, but cut these ropes. Do it quick. He don't take long to git wood. Just picks it up, what he can handle. Hurry."

The knife was quick. Hardtack paying attention to the deeper part of the cave, the darker part, a continual sound in his throat.

"He won't come real close less'n I answer the right way. You gotta be out of here and away when he gits back. Might have dynamite here. He's awful tricky. When he calls, don't let him shoot into the cave. Don't give him a clear shot. I swear he's got somethin' gonna break loose somehow or other."

He thought for a second. "Put some little thing out of place out there, draw his eye, make him slow down."

Standing, one hug for his son, he said, "Take yore rifle, give me your pistol. Make the shot count. Git him in the left shoulder. Hurry."

"Git now," his father said, and Harry Steggins ran with Hardtack at his heels. He looked around outside and set Hardtack up on a ledge nearer the entrance to the gorge, patting him down in a prone position, whispering to him, touching him again. Then he climbed back out of sight, but over the cave, not away from it. He wanted to place himself between Hurry George and his father and the girl he had not seen, deeper in the cave. He remembered what his father said about grabbing the killer's attention and threw a bone Hardtack had been chewing on out onto the rocky floor of the gorge. It hit with a cracking sound.

Less than 15 minutes later Hurry George, loaded down with scrub wood in his arms, rode back into the gorge. He stopped in place, cocked his head, listened, put his nose in the air as if a new aroma had been discovered. Two or three times he looked around, as if trying to see what had changed. He was half conscious of the chewed bone on the rocky floor.

Hurry George's voice rang out in the gorge. "Burt, you wantta eat?" He still sat his horse, still had his head cocked to one side, trying to settle something in his mind.

""Same as ever, Hurry, stuff it. I don't eat no more off'n no animal what tortures a girl, beats a man who's tied up 'n' can't fight back."

That's when Harry Steggins, hearing those words, anger and frustration coming like a flood over him, stood up, aimed his rifle and whistled. Off the cliff ledge came the black cloud of Hardtack fully airborne, a growl coming from his throat deep as a canyon sound, but more frightening.

Hurry George's horse reared on his hind legs, tossing rider and armful of wood and blanket full of wood to the ground in a wild scramble.

Leaping up from the ground, his horse struggling to gain control of four legs, Hurry George saw the youngster on the ledge, heard a growl from behind him, heard his horse's hoofs striking the rocky floor of the gorge, and tried to draw a sidearm. A bullet slammed into his left shoulder. When he fell to the ground, his pistol loose, the open jaws of a black dog were almost at his throat.

Hurry George screamed. The black dog did not move. The shooter on the ledge stood still, a smoking rifle in his hands, and Burt Steggins, bounty hunter, stood over Hurry George with a pistol aimed right between his eyes.

The pair of Stegginses had him hog-tied in a hurry, stuck a clean cloth against the wound, and promised him a doctor, "If we git time to do it."

"Harry," said his father, "watch him. If he moves shoot him in his other shoulder, close up. Make it hurt. I gotta check the girl. She been cryin' for a week near. Think she goes hungry."

He went into the cave, stayed less than five minutes and came out with a girl with dark hair, pale skin, bruises on her face and arms, but a light in her eyes. Sobbing, she hugged the elder Steggins as he carried her from darkness. Her dress was in tatters but she didn't seem to notice it.

"This here's Alma Coombs, Harry. This crazy feller kilt her folks, all o' them. She's comin' home with us, after we take him to the sheriff in Foster City, tell her story, git us a payday, git this gent hung proper, sure as breathin' free ag'in."

He put Hurry George over the saddle of his horse and tied him underneath, a rope cinching hands to feet. Alma Coombs he sat on the saddle of Harry's horse, sitting tight against the son, her arms around him. She was a fourteen-year-old girl who was now a woman.

With Harry's rifle in hand, Burt Steggins led the two horses out of the gorge, setting off on a slow walk back to Foster City.

He was wondering how his wife was when Harry said, "Pa, what you bringin' Mom this time, 'sides a new daughter?"

Beneath the Devil's Sun
by Nathan Stone

The seven broken bits of mountain teeth curved around him like the horns of the moon. Rifle butts, knife hilts, gun belts and pistoled steel stamped rattlesnake warnings across their bodies. Sweat winked on quivering horseflesh, dropping in and out of the sun's light as the lungs worked like bellows.

Aeneus kept the rifle in his left hand, an old kingsnake ready to spit its fire. His eyes circled them all at once. Hector stood beside him, the short bristles of his hackles raised, thunder rolling in his chest, waiting the word.

The tall man smiled again. "Now, Mr. Adams, like I told you, we don't want much. Just water for our poor horses here. A little civilized food. Not asking much, is it? Been a long time since we tasted fresh bread or a piece of pie."

"And like I said, the river's free for anyone." Aeneus's voice was a lone oak on the prairie. "Socorro is only twenty-three miles south of here. Albuquerque just two days ride in the opposite direction. Plenty of places for a meal. Saloons too. That would suit you boys better than whatever we could offer."

The tall man's head made the smallest of movements while his eyes and body stayed still. The right tip of the horn twitched forward.

The rifle rose like cobra, pointing its hood at the tall man's chest. The six shooter winked out of its leather cave. Tight against Aeneus's body, it watched the crescent's tip.

A cricket chorus of rifle sounds echoed inside the house. The same song played in the stable.

"I'll repeat myself once more," Aeneus said, "we don't have anything for you. I suggest you keep moving before you lose too much more of the day."

The tall man split his grin wide. Moon white teeth caught the light and filled his mouth with ghost blood.

The skin of Aeneus's neck tried to crawl away. It was a rare feeling. Even during the War, when he had charged seething, grey walls, that sensation had been absent. Behind the shells and the witch fingers of bayonets, had just been men, men like him who teetered between madness and fear, who bled, laughed, loved and hated and who, one day, would die when death rolled for them with his dice. They had been men in the midst of death, the most natural thing in the world. This man was not.

"My, my," the tall man said. "Seems we underestimated you, Mr. Adams." He lifted his head, taking deep, sharp samples of the air. "Well, no hard feelings. We'll be leaving then."

He addressed the men around him. "All right boys. Let's go. Ride in line. Keep those hands away from your waists and rifle scabbards."

The tall man turned his horse and twisted back at Adams, both hands on the pommel. "Give my respects to the family," he said.

They rode off quick as drumbeats.

One of the thunder wolves broke free of Hector's chest. He threw one woof of defiance at their backs.

Aeneus put the pistol to sleep and reached down to scratch the dog behind the old, scarred ear.

The rifle kept watch.

Eddie Longbones chuckled. Short shovelfuls came out of his mouth and scattered in the unwinding evening. On his right, Butch Riker spat, his girth swaying in the saddle.

"Don't see any damn reason to laugh. Easy pickings my eye. Hard day's ride and for what? No gold, no women, nothing. So much for just walking in and taking, what we wanted."

To his right, Diego Vasquez nodded, his snake light body oscillating in the saddle, staying in front of every direction at once. "Si. Are we afraid of farmers now, patron? Farmers with their bleach bone wives and dogs so poor, their faces are more scars than skin. Farmers are too strong for Eddie Longbones, eh?"

On the left, Tom Starkey muttered, "How the hell did they even know we was comin? That's what I want to know."

A buckshot of laughter burst out of Longbones.

"Vasquez, if I didn't think you were still useful, I'd kill you right now and be done with it. See the way he stood? Way he held that rifle? How that pistol came out to cover Iron Shirt? Treat a man like him like a regular peon and you'll be vulture's meat." He turned without moving his head. "And if you'd been paying any attention, Tom, you'd have seen that little platform on the roof of the house. With a pair of field glasses, a man could see for miles up there."

Longbones turned and looked past Starkey to the man who had said five words in the last twenty-four hours.

"Eagle Drink, what did you see?"

Black eyes stared ahead, cutting through the thickening webs of dying light and shadow.

"Six in the house. A woman, a girl and young ones. Two in the stable. Older than the ones in the house."

"And what were they like? What does Iron Shirt say?"

Brief conversation passed between the Comanche and the other sun-loved man on his left in words that came like wind through the spaces between the stars.

"He sensed determination. But also inexperience. Doubt."

"There, Butch," Longbones said. "Nine total on that farm. Probably only four who can fight and only two or three who can do that well enough to mean anything. You'll get your gold. And your women. You all will. Just like I promised you would."

"And what'll you get Eddie?" Starkey asked.

"Me?" Longbones turned to look at the little man for the first time in a week. "Didn't you smell what was in that house? Didn't you hear it moving around beneath its bandages of blankets? Couldn't you taste sugar sweet, bread simple dreams?"

He laughed and the other men pulled their jackets closer to their bodies.

Aeneus hung his rifle on the wall with the others. The gun belt stayed wrapped around his waist.

Hector sat down, eyes flickering between him and the stove where pork, beans and cornbread called to hungry stomachs.

Aeneus smiled. "Get on and help then."

Hector smiled and trotted over. Little Israel laughed and threw his arms around the thick neck, laughter increasing as the leather pink tongue came out to wash his face.

Kathy came from the stove, leaving Abby to direct Washington with the fire and the pots and pans. She enveloped herself around her husband, above the gun belt that separated and united them, threatened and protected them.

"What did they want?"

He breathed in the summer night of her hair. Where there had been pitch, now streaks of moonlight cut through on spider's webbing. So much of their story was recorded in those silver veins, he thought. And there was still so much more to add.

"I don't know. Not the water and food the tall one asked for. They probably planned on robbing us and worse once we let them in. They were bad ones, Kathy. I could almost taste the blood on them. But that tall one . . . there was something else underneath the blood."

The door opened and Peter and Eli came in, rifles in hand.

Aeneus turned to his two eldest.

"Is everything secure in the barn and outbuildings?"

Peter nodded. "Yes, Dad."

Eli spoke up, the fifteen years inside of him boiling over in excitement. "Were they thieves, Dad? Are the grapevines going to be ok? I can stay out on the cupola tonight and keep an eye on them so that if they came back I could—"

He put his hand on the wet clay of the thin shoulder where muscle waited like spring storms to rise and smiled. "No, that won't be necessary." The smile vanished. "You boys know to stay off that cupola during things like this. I didn't build it to be a fort. You'd be a sitting target up there. I expect you to obey, regardless of what's happening. After supper, I'll check on the grapes. Afterwards, we'll all stay close to the house until morning. By then, everything should be all right."

"You think they'll be going?" Peter asked.

"Probably, son. After breakfast, I'll ride to Socorro and let the sheriff know about them. He can do what he thinks best after that."

The bedroom door opened and Joshua brought out pink-bundled Rebecca, all sage fire and mountain stream. Comet light raced from toe to head, pushing the great loop of growing universe ever wider. She took the mummied, New Mexican air and made it Edan. Black eyes seized faces and turned them into smiles. Dumpling hands held the world like a lollipop. Innocence spilled up from her.

Kathy took her, held her close. Aeneus rustled Joshua's ripening buckwheat hair with one hand while the other stroked the duck down evening of Rebecca's head.

They sat down and ate, Hector laying under the table, waiting for his scraps.

The gun slept in its cave.

The grapevines were still laughing virgins, their green bonnets catching the last light of the day. Aeneus reached out to feel a leaf. It was as fresh as a December dawn. There was still a month before the hot weather came, riding on horses of quicksilver and mercury. Even then, the leaves would not shrivel and the grapes would probably not die thanks to the Rio Grande. All signs pointed to a good year.

He looked out over the now-close-to-three-hundred plants dancing to beats he could not hear, thousands of drunk arms dancing on the air, repeating laughing prayers to Dionysius. Not long ago, there had been only thirty, the concentrated total of all their wealth planted in holes which left raw blisters on the hands and empty promises on the heart. Their families back East had said they were crazy to move to the strange southwest. Crazier still to start a vineyard. How could you grow grapes in the desert?

It had been a crazy idea. He could admit it now. Twenty years ago, it had been a promise of rebirth after all the blood of the battlefield, the chance to sit beneath his own vines and let their songs wash away the accumulated death. Only Kathy had believed in it. She could have flowed with her people, broken their promises to each other and stayed, killing half the dream. But the possibility had never even risen as a ghost in his head. And she had followed him, the fresh gold around her finger singing like morning dew as she climbed into the tiny wagon beside him, not knowing Andrew was already with them. They had buried him in the flatlands of Colorado.

Ahead, Hector sniffed at the base of the vines, following different trails, years falling off him in puppy excitement.

"Come on, boy. Time we got back to the house. Don't want to get caught out here after dark." He remembered the tall man's grin too well for that.

Hector broke off the trail and started trotting the half mile back, stopping and looking back every few yards to make sure Aeneus was still following.

Shrill screeches broke the peace. Two owls dove down together and rose again. Each trap of talons carried a still wriggling plump rag. Aeneus watched the victors fly off with the spoils, heard again the rattle of the dice like he had when he was seventeen in the War. Odd that they would hunt together . . . must have been mates . . . though they had both looked like females.

Unseen eyes fixed themselves on him, on the vineyard, on his family. Their claws were poised like bayonets in the dark for the critical second when they would all become mice and rabbits. His body shivered against orders.

Hector came back and pushed his head beneath Aeneus' hand, brown eyes asking what the matter was. Aeneus's fingers made the usual motions over the loaf pan head, he familiar fur and scars and warmth soaking into him.

"I'm worried about nothing, boy," Aeneus said. "Morning will come and they'll be long gone. If we hadn't stood today, it would be different. But we did and everything will be fine."

The campfire gibbered, tearing shadows out of the dark with its swords. Butch Riker sat by it, wrapped in his saddle blanket, nursing the last swallows of bourbon from the bottle. Tom Starkey came from the dark and sat next to him.

"Where's Eddie?"

Riker spat into the fire.

"Where do you think?"

Starkey cast an eye to the mesa looming before them. A single, orange eye glittered at its top. If he listened close, he could almost hear the shrieks and animals screams like before . . . 

Starkey shivered. "What the hell does he do with those witches? It ain't natural. I tell you, Butch, I haven't been easy since Eddie brought those two in. The two Comanch ain't as bad as those Apache."

"So why haven't you left?"

"You know damn well. Where would I go? Where would any of us go? We've all burned all our bridges. There's no going home. There ain't no home for us."

"Then shut up and accept it."

Footsteps stepped on brush, noise popping behind them like the break of bones. The two men didn't even look behind them. Their footsteps were now as familiar to each other as the heat of the full grown sun and the whispers of the spirits at night.

Alejandro Diaz sat heavily down, whale muscle spilling over his gun belt, reaching toward the warmth of the fire.

"Cold," he said simply.

Butch grunted.

"Hey. Los Comanches. Where are they?"

"Went off together after dark. Probably going to find a straggler somewhere and have some fun. Probably should've gone with'em. Would've gotten a little fun, anyways."

Diaz laughed. "You have the—how you say?—the itch on the foot, amigo?" He looked around, eyes passing over the form of Diego Vasquez curled beneath blankets between the fire and the night. "The patron. He is with las brujas? There?" He pointed to the mesa. The eye had closed leaving nothing of the place but its outline against the pall draped sky.

"You got it," Riker said.

"Wish I knew what goes on at those powwows," Starkey muttered. "It'd be better than this. Sometimes I think I'll—"

"Sneak up there again to try an' get another peek an' Eddie will kill you." Riker tipped the bottle and swallowed the last drink, throwing the empty glass into the dark. "You want to be staked out in the desert, fine. Me, I don't care what Eddie does with whoever he does it with. He can kiss the Devil's ass every night far as I'm concerned. Long as I get what he promised me. Gold. Whiskey. Women. Now if he doesn't . . . "

Eddie Longbones walked into the firelight on lion paws. He wore no shirt and his chest and shoulders were covered in a thick pelt of sweat. His eyes caught the flames and played with them, turning them into green snakes and white maggots.

"All right, boys," he said. The glow of his teeth was dirt on the fire. "Everything's ready. Be ready to ride before dawn. And be sure to fill your canteens full. You're going to want them."

Aeneus jerked awake. Sometime in the night, he must have dozed in the old cowhide chair. The rifle still slept across his lap and the pistol dreamed scattered dreams in his holster.

Sweat crawled in drooping lines on his forehead and cheeks. The shirt's cloth sucked at his chest and back. His trousers were an insect's hide, tight around his legs.

Hector sat at the front door, woofing at it every few seconds in a constant beat. It was one of these that had awoken him.

"What is it, boy?"

He rose, ungluing himself from the chair. The warmth came up to greet him like a great wave. The room was almost unbearable thick, filled with rising dough of high summer heat. The promise of dawn was not the usual, strawberry freshness of late spring, but the sullen glare of a camp follower, daring the chaplain to set himself against her.

Hector barked.

Aeneus opened the window and listened. The usual sounds—birds testing their voices, bees making their morning visits, the earth rolling over to let the sun massage cramped muscles—were gone. A heavy spell of fire lay on the backs of everything that lived, pushing them into the earth.

Hector barked again.

Kathy came from the bedroom, her hair drowned moss clinging to her face and neck.

"What's the matter? What's Hector barking at? Is there a fire?"

Aeneus shook his head.

"I'm going out with him to take a look. Get Peter and Eli up."

"Do you want your second pistol?"

"No."

He went to the door and opened it, rifle in his left hand.

The dog walked out, down the porch to the edge a hundred yards away, the invisible mark which separated the house from the rest of the wildness and stared, deep strings of bass playing in his chest.

Aeneus walked slowly through the August rotted temperature. Everything was quiet, buried under invisible snow that froze all sounds to the ground. His eyes and ears stretched themselves out, trying to dig beneath the snowbanks.

Hector quivered, eyes focused on something that couldn't yet be seen, the great jaws a bear trap.

The crack of the gun split the morning in two. The bullet screamed past Aeneus and buried itself somewhere behind him.

The rifle responded. Two lead warriors whooped war cries and charged their invisible enemy. There was a yell.

"Hector!"

The dog dove forward.

Rifle fire came from either side of him. Dark forms of men stood against a copper sky, lifting long guns. Bullets danced. Explosions of light and dirt bloomed like flowers on rocks.

Aeneus ran back to the protection of the house. The rifle in his left hand fired, somersaulted through his fingers, and fired again, in a repeating arc of action. The six shooter was in his right, screaming its old cries. All three remembered the old familiar dance of death. The rifle fired and the target spun halfway round and fell, the shriek rising higher the lower he fell.

Gagged explosions came from the house, rifle mouths appearing and disappearing through the firing holes like jackalopes at midnight.

Aeneus's feet jumped onto the porch. He crouched down, sending the last of the flock of lead crows nestled in the long gun and pistol to his left while the others took on the right.

The men turned and ran. Some spun back like tops to give parting shots but these were balled fists shaken to the sky. They disappeared and Aeneus heard faintly the sound of hoofbeats pouring away.

It was the body of a Mexican, a small stick man of brittle wood, all the snake quickness in the muscles pooled on the ground with his blood. A bullet hole splayed across his chest and his throat had been opened by a dog's jaw.

Hector sat over the prize, panting, looking up at the man and the two boys, tongue and jowls coated red. Aeneus leaned over and jostled the old ears. The dog leaned his head against his leg.

"Dad!" Eli said, "He was one of the riders who came up yesterday! They must have stayed to get us this morning. Before we were even up!"

"Makes sense." Aeneus let go of Hector and knelt down besides the body. The man's eyes looked at the sky, glass already covering the hard rock in the sockets. "They timed it to when they thought we would still be asleep. Or, exhausted if we had stayed up all night watching for them."

"Dad?" Peter looked at his father. "Why didn't they ride off like you said they would?"

"Maybe they think we have money in the house. Maybe they think we have a mine of silver somewhere. It doesn't matter. They think we have something valuable to them."

And maybe they just want to kill and burn.

"But we don't—"

"Doesn't matter. Even if we let them in and ransack the house, they wouldn't believe us. Besides, men like this don't just want gold."

"What . . . what do they want?"

"The horses. The pigs. Our guns. Your mother and your sister."

The words fell and trapped the boys. The tininess of their years against the sky and earth and the things that came from their caves at night shrank them down to pebbles.

"But they're gone now," Peter said. "One of them dead and another wounded, they've got to be going this time, right Dad?"

Aeneus straightened. His eyes looked over the land, baking under the eastern cracked sun, raking it like a hawk, pushing himself to find what he could not see and what he knew was out there.

He called Hector and started walking to the house. He wiped the sweat from his face. The heat was increasing. The light burned like noon.

"Dad! They're—"

"What we did this morning means they can't go. They had their chance last night and didn't take it. Now they don't have a choice. They have to stay. They have to prove to themselves that they're still the hunters, that they're still the terrors they've built themselves up to be in their own minds. They can't run now."

"Good!" Eli grinned. "We can beat them. They're nothing but Gila monsters, too slow and fat to get their teeth into us!" He patted the rifle in his hand. "One more time and there won't be any of them left!"

"I hope you're right, son," Aeneus said. But I already know you're wrong.

"We should pull out now!" Starkey stood among the loose weave of rain cloud faces staring at him. Riker sat melting against a rock, left shoulder bandaged, eyes sparking as he drank the whiskey Diaz had given him. Diaz squatted on the ground, cleaning his rifle. The two Comanche stood on the outer ring, their faces of square granite still as summer ponds. Eddie Longbones sat cross legged on a flat rock, his back to Starkey, looking in the direction they had come. There was no sweat on his face.

"Diego and Butch is hurt. Probably needs a doctor."

"Don't use me as your excuse to turn yellow," Riker said. His face flushed like a burst grape. "You rats all want to run, fine. But I'm staying till I kill that bastard. No dirt digger is going to put lead in me and walk away."

"We can always come back," Starkey pleaded. "Right now, they're probably expecting us to come again. Smartest thing is leave and come back in a month or two. Besides, in this heat, we might give out before they do. They've got a water supply. We don't." He looked at the hungry faces. "Diaz, you've got to see the sense of—"

"Quiet." Longbone's noise was the eye of a storm. Everything plastered itself to its gaze for protection. "We're not going anywhere. There's too much at stake and not enough time. We can't leave now."

He flicked his eyes to the rabble of scraps around him and, not for the first time, despised them. Ants with no understanding of their insignificance and so no conception of what was needed to overcome it. Gold, women, an endless supply of whiskey and good food was their heaven. Pigs in their troughs. Soon, though, he would not need them. Soon, he would supersede them. All he needed was the baby in the house . . . 

"There's gold there. And women. You'll all get what you want and the chance to have some real fun. All you got to do is take it. Unless you think a farmer's better than you."

He stood, each leg a crane pushing him up past them, past the mesas, past the sun.

"This afternoon, hottest part of the day, we'll go again. But this time, we do it like this . . . "

They stood in small batches of twos, baking in the guts of the afternoon.

Aeneus walked from one edge of the porch to the other, pausing at each pole to stare into the vastness before him and wipe the prickly pear sweat from his face, before he shot himself to the other end to repeat the same actions. By the door, Hector lay on his side, panting, tongue splayed on the mummy wood.

They were lucky. In the barn, where Peter was, or in the house where Kathy, Eli and Abby were, where Washington stood guard over Joshua, Israel, and little Rebecca in their bedroom, the heat swallowed you whole and kept you trapped in its cage of forge red ribs. Here, on the porch, you were more exposed, but the walls were not here to press down and squeeze you between its fingers. It was not an escape. But it was the appearance of it.

He looked at the sun now obviously crawling west. It hung in a cracked mirror sky, a white snake, staring at the world with white empty eyes. Its rattle lay silent and it spilled its poison over everything.

There had been hot springs before but in the last twenty years, there had never been such a quick step that changed spring to high summer overnight, that whispered drought and desert at the end of April. It was like the tall man, there and inescapable, surrounding you and laughing.

The tall man. He was the force driving those men to attack them. Aeneus had seen that type once before, soon after the War, in a nameless Kansas town. Eating dinner at the hotel, a man had walked in, bringing winter ice with the dust. Aeneus had caught the tip of the stranger's eye-barb wire pushing back with spindle arms a raging fire. Death clung heavy to him like summer rain. Here was a man who had decided that the only way to beat the dice was to become part of them and deal out what the master decreed. Words and laws could do nothing against him. It was no longer even a full man. Its humanity had washed away, leaving a knub of something that came out from the mud at night to hunt.

"Aeneus." Kathy's voice was a ghost on oven wind, her body a melting candle. He walked to the window where she stood.

"Have you heard anything?"

"Nothing." The sweat shriveled on his face, the last drops of water in his body hiding in crevices and ravines to save themselves.

Kathy handed him a ladle and he drank the greening water.

"We'll need more. People have had to drink, almost constantly, especially the children. I don't understand this weather. It makes you have to drink. But no matter how much you do, you're still parched. All the little ones can think of is water."

"Put some in a glass and I'll take it to Peter. Afterwards, Eli and I will refill the jars."

He stepped off the porch, into the milk-white blindness of the light, rifle in one hand, glass in the other and started walking to the barn. Hector woke, lifted his head, scrambled up and followed, panting.

The attack came when he was between the two structures.

War whoops tore through the muslin curtains of lava. Gunshots gave birth to explosions.

Aeneus dropped to the ground. The glass shattered. Hector roared.

The two Comanches charged towards him, dark blotches riding hard from the west, the sun's stare providing them cover in the open.

Aeneus squinted into the shine and fired, sending lead lightning towards the attackers. Peter's shots answered his from the barn.

The Indians whooped and broke apart, firing at him, wheeling their horses on the fingertips of the air, avoiding the hot bullets that whizzed by them from the house.

Hector tore after one of the Comanche horses, snapping at its legs, making it break its dance. Horse and warrior screamed. Hooves and bullets weaved, trying to find their mark but the dog stayed glued to the horse, moving with the animal, herding it away from the house.

The other Comanche screamed and charged.

Aeneus rose on one knee and fired. The Indian gurgled a last war cry and fell from the saddle.

They wouldn't just send two.

"Peter!" he shouted above the dry thunder of the guns. "Stay where you are! Watch the back of the house!"

He ran back to the porch, reloading as he went.

The tall man seemed to appear from thin air. He sat in the saddle at the corner of the house where no rifle holes were bored. He lowered his pistol like a judge's gavel at his prey's stomach, the smile wide on his face.

A bellow of thunder rolled over them and Hector was there, leaping up on rusting muscles, jaws wrapping themselves around the tall man's meaty calf, teeth sinking into the softness. The man shrieked as he was pulled off his saddle. The horse screamed and danced in terror.

Aeneas rushed into the house and into the bedroom, pulling the window shutters wide open, already knowing what he would see.

The three were only fifty yards away, torches belching smoke to the blue above them, horseflesh striking away at the distance. Aeneus aimed and fired. He heard two guns join his. One was Peter from the barn but where was the other one coming from . . . 

The three veered off, their surprise attack killed, horse and riders dodging the bellowing steel blue dragons.

He heard Kathy's feet running towards the bedroom. "Stay where you are!" he roared. "Make sure they don't come around to the front."

He kept up his firing, following the three horsemen until the corner of the house covered them, the second gun echoing his. Before the corner swallowed them, one of the men drew his pistol and shot. Not toward Aeneus but high up on the roof. At the cupola.

There was a scream, wet thunder on the roof, the dull embrace of bone on the dirt. Peter was yelling, his screams mixed with those of the gun. Aeneus ran out, back into the blazing sun. He saw the tall man riding back into the wilderness, saw Hector, fresh blood flowing from his head and jaws trying to chase him, but all he could see was Peter outside the barn, firing at the two retreating men, standing over the still form of Eli. A red river poured from his chest, watering the greedy earth. Aeneus joined his rifle to Peter's until the four were specks against the vast body of the vastness stretching itself forever.

The pain burned and twisted beneath shredded skin, the mangled red swamp overflowing with spikes and kegs of barbwire. Every step was a scream he had to swallow. Leaders could never show pain.

Longbones swore as he climbed the trail to the mesa's top. Below, the others were milling about, bandaging minor cuts and wounds, drinking or rummaging through saddle bags for food.

There would be trouble now. Two defeats in a row were bad enough. Two defeats by the same opponent were lethal. Especially when the opponent was not even worthy of the word, just a dirt grubber with his wife and brats. The gang had always been flimsy, a cacti needle, sharp but splintery, held together only by his promises, successes and fear. But defeats made punchlines of promises, even eroded fear. It was a simple law, simple as the desert: Deliverer, you lead. Do not, you die.

He laughed at their puniness, the scaly notes slithering out between his clenched teeth. Even in the pain, he couldn't help himself. They, who thought themselves predators, unbound by any convention or restriction, who had thrown off society's cords, they still acknowledged that law. Even the Comanche recognized it, a single tooth comb of civilization that smoothed out their barbarism, made the warrior all a stage act. And that would be their death. Survival only came to the uncivilized, the raw people who could harness pure power and use it on whoever, wherever they wanted.

He was not civilized. Nor were the Apache sisters. They understood what was needed to survive, had not been afraid to find the answer and accept it deep in themselves and love themselves for their decision. And after he had killed that farmer and drunk his blood, when he had his baby, he would have not only the answer but the key.

Longbones finished the climb and limped to the center of the mesa.

They were waiting for him, wrapped in shadows brought from deep caves and a dozen different soul's midnights. Light and heat slid off them like oil on water. Wolf eyes watched him from human thin faces molded from copper, always a breath away from melting and reforming into a different shape for different purposes. Sometimes an owl, with stone beaks that ripped hearts from pale chests. Sometimes Gila monsters which waited a week beneath the sand or among river reeds for the chosen victim. Sometimes as smoke that covered a person as they slept to drown them in nightmares. He licked his lips at the thought, at the sight. It was the taproot he had envied since he heard the stories, coveted since he found them, and had been promised since he had joined the circle.

The first one spoke.

"Another failure."

Her sister continued.

"They are protected by strong magic."

"Yes, but where is it?" Longbones asked. "We need to finish this. Tomorrow will be the last night the ceremony can be performed for another year and if we don't have the baby, there will be no sacrifice which can be offered."

"The dog." They spoke in unison. "The dog protects them. Powerful magic. Deep forces flowing in its body. Kill him. Tear out his heart. Rip off his head. Rip off his flesh. Stake his stomach to the ground to trap his spirit in the earth. Kill the dog and you will take what you need."

"Good." He turned to go. A hand fell on his shoulder. The usual ice sick water filled his stomach and he reveled in it.

"But first, you will stay with us."

Eli lay on the bed, the fever roasting him on a spit. His mouth was a fish on the sandbank gasping for air. Kathy replaced the cloth of cool water on the moon skin of his head. Rebecca lay on the floor beside her mother, crying for attention, sensing the fear weaving its net around the house.

Aeneus sat at the table with Peter. Abby worked around the stove. Hector lay on the floor by Aeneus's feet, crying softly to himself, the white blotch on his head stained red where the pistol butt had broken the skin and fractured the bone, letting Joshua and Israel try to comfort him with rubs and treats. Washington walked from window to window, looking out into the distances folding into distances. The salamander light of the setting sun was a bonfire.

"Your brother is going to need a doctor," Aeneus said. "Can't take him in the wagon; too easy to spot and too slow when they do. Someone has to go to Socorro and get Doc Henderson. Peter, that's going to have to be you and Washington. He can keep up with you and you'll need an extra pair of eyes and hands." He looked at his eldest. "If they spot you and you can't outrun them, you know what you'll have to do."

Peter nodded.

He looked so young, Aeneus thought, too damn young for something like this. Sure, he had run away to join the Army at sixteen, afraid the fighting would be over before he could legally join, but that had been his choice. For Peter, there was none.

"Leave at dark," he continued. "That will give you some cover. And they've lost two men. They won't be able to spread themselves over as much ground now. Especially if the house is still their aim."

"Do . . . do you think it is, Dad?"

He nodded.

"They're not going to stop, are they?"

Again, he nodded.

Kathy came from the bedroom, Rebecca sticking on her arms. "His fever is still rising. I can't stop it. And that bullet . . . Aeneus, it's poisoning him!" She sat down at the table. "And the water. Something's happened to the water. Like pond scum. Hardly fit to drink. But he needs it! We all need it! Aeneus, what's happening?"

"All I know," he said. "Is that Peter and Washington are going for the doctor soon as it gets dark. Don't argue. I'm going to take another look before night."

"Take your other pistol in case."

"No. Leave it in here if you need it. I can load quickly if need be."

He got up and made for the door.

Hector saw him, struggled up and followed.

The usual colors of evening were melted into bronze sludge still hot from the blacksmith's forge. Nothing spoke, or buzzed, or twittered, flew or lowed. Only the flies moved, reveling in the grave heat, attacking flesh too weak to flick or nip them away. Aeneus pushed through the haze around the house, the barn, the chicken coop, Hector trailing behind, stopping every few steps to catch a breath before continuing. The dying sun glared at them with all the hatred of youthful noon.

He stopped, sniffing. A tinge of smoke cut into his nose. Now he could hear the faint whisper of flame, see orange light play with itself against the evening light. It came from the vineyard.

Hector bayed.

Aeneus ran, ignoring the clammy hands of wet fire grabbing at him, pulling him down, cursing himself for not anticipating this move. Hector ran behind him.

The fires were orange and yellow tomcats pawing and leaping onto the green vines, adding their life to the sun's. Aeneus made for the secondary well, already knowing it was hopeless and knowing that he still had to make the effort.

The big man rose up from the cluster of vines and heaved himself forward. One arm was slung in a black bandanna. The other had a bowie knife. It came down on Aeneus and he felt cold teeth and hot blood and singing nerves running down his left arm. The rifle fell from his hand.

He stumbled back. The big man bellowed and lumbered forward, bear anger greasing his legs and arms. The knife was lightning falling from heaven, hungry for blood.

Aeneus stepped forward, met the bear, forcing left arm and hand to hold back the lightning. It gave way and the knife bit into his shoulder as the six shooter reared and fired three times. The lead termites bored through intestines, broke off bones and drank away the big man's life. The bear limbs crumbled as the fuel seeped out of his eyes. The big man gurgled once and fell.

Gunfire sounded from the house and Aeneus was running again, the pistol in its holster, the rifle in his right hand, red rain showering down from his useless arm.

There were three of them, the Mexican, the Comanche and the little man crouching low, two covering as the third darted forward, the process repeating until they were at the porch, making the gun holes useless.

Aeneus ran to the rear corner of the house. One of the men saw him, took a shot. It went wild. He emptied the rifle, cradling its body in his left arm, turning immediately back to the pistol when the rifle clicked its gums and did nothing else. Iron hornets flew at the three men, forcing them back into the brush. A red explosion appeared on the Mexican's shoulder. He yelled. The white man grabbed him and they were running into the deepening black, the Comanche covering their escape.

Aeneus stepped from the house's corner, hands trembling, blood wet fingers slipping across the pistol's body as he fed it. Four bullets in the cylinder, he raised it and emptied them all into the mouth of the crouching night.

He stood for a moment, letting the sounds of flames and panicked birds, of the horses pounding on their stables, wash over him. It was all right. They had repelled another attack and another of them was dead and another wounded. The grapes could be replanted. He and Eli and Hector would heal . . . 

Hector.

The dog was not with him.

Starkey finished strapping the dirty bandage on Alejandro Diaz's shoulder. The darker man grimaced.

"Madre de Dios!" he guttered. "Tom. Give me another bottle!"

He snatched it and drained away half its life in a gulp.

Starkey looked up from Diaz to Longbones. The tall man stood before the mirror hall of the fire, looking into its faces. Hordes of blood dried on his hands and front and there were even specks of red around his mouth.

Starkey stopped looking, stopped thinking and started talking.

"I don't give a hoot in hell what you want, Eddie, but we're gonna leave while we still have something to ride on. This ain't worth it."

He rose from his haunches and stood across from the tall man. "Especially with you leading us."

Longbones chuckled.

"Sit down, Tom. You know you'll only try when my back's turned." He lifted his head, stared staright into the small man. "And you wouldn't t try even then, would you? Too afraid I'll still see you."

He turned and addressed the other two. "We've come too far to turn around. Run now and you won't stop. A toothless prairie squatter will be able to chase you off his hovel. The only way out is through. Tomorrow this time, you'll have gold, two women to split and swap and whatever else you want in that whole, damn place."

"Those pretty speeches haven't done us any good yet, Eddie," Starkey said.

Diaz grunted. "Tom makes a good point, patron. Why is this promise different from the other two you made us, eh?"

"Because now their protection's gone." The tip of tongue came out and touched one of the red flecks. "And because we'll all be there tomorrow." He looked at the men around the fire. "You understand me? All of us."

A cold wind whipped around them, taking away the fire's soul.

Iron Shirt said nothing. His expression did not change but he shifted his weight and threw his thoughts into the fire.

The grave lay on the western side of the house, where he had often sunned himself after the real work of the day was done, watching Aeneus and the boys finishing the chores, sometimes chasing a chicken back to the main group while they waited to be escorted into the coop for the night.

Aeneus finished shoveling on the last bit of dirt, the emptiness eating him away. Kathy, with Rebecca, stood at the foot of the grave, a single tear sailing down her cheek. All the children were crying. Peter and Abby shook silently. Israel and Joshua bawled, understanding that the dog which had watched over them their whole lives, who had helped them chase butterflies and jackrabbits, who had checked on them every night, promising to be there for them in the morning, was gone and was never coming back.

The last light peeped from the coffin already lowered into the western sky. Now, the rest of the lid started closing. The oven hotness stayed free. The night was a black fever, wringing them dry.

Aeneus spoke, his voice coming from somewhere other than his mouth, from another corner of himself where he had never been.

"Peter. Washington. Saddle the horses. Abby, go into the kitchen and put some food together for them. I'll get their guns ready."

He walked toward the dream house on dream legs. Everything was off by a fraction of a degree, turning the world into a carnival mirror, familiar faces and landmarks hiding deformed bodies. Three days ago, the world had been normal, promising to flow in that direction forever. And now one of the links in their chain had broken and scattered them with no way of returning to that old river.

When the dark was still fresh cut, Peter and Washington raced south, their hooves muffled with rags.

Aeneus watched them disappear, the emptiness branching out, pulling himself inside of it.

He walked back into the coffin hot blackness of the house and sat in the cowhide chair and put his right hand down where nothing was waiting to be scratched.

The sun was a lizard's eye when it climbed over the rim of the earth. Aeneus felt the heat when he woke up, shrouding itself tightly around him, tightening when he opened the door and made his way to the barn.

This would be the day. They had started with seven. Three were dead. Two were badly hurt. Even so, the tall man would send at least one rider out to reconnoiter. He would see Peter and Washington's tracks. He would know that two were gone and another dying. He would hit now before help could come. It would have to be today.

He did the chores with his good arm, the sling limp and dead. When he was done, he stood in front of the house, waiting.

Four riders rose in a line, forcing horseflesh through the walls of prehistoric fever. Behind and to the left of them, two more figures followed. January ice poured itself into Aeneus' stomach at the sight of them. They were too far away and too distorted by the sidewinders of heat to see clearly, but he smelled them and what was on them. He heard the dice rattle as plainly as if he was sitting at the table across from death.

He stopped and waited, the one pistol in its leather blanket cave. The other pistol slept against his back.

The two creatures stopped a hundred yards off. The other four kept coming, stopping only when they were fifty feet from where he stood.

The tall man nudged his horse forward another thirty feet. His eyes crawled from beneath his hat, two sick green suns burning worlds for the joy of death.

"Gonna stand your ground then." Flies buzzed around his leg where the blood-caked bandana was tied but the muscles didn't move.

Aeneus said nothing.

"Didn't expect anything else." He grinned. "I'm glad. It'll make this more fun."

The two things jumped down from their horses and came forward in a fast coyote trot, backs humping into the air, fingers touching the ground ahead of toes. The line became a circle, the circle bent into a lopsided dance. Legs snaked out of blankets to swoop through the dirt. Wrinkled arms sprang up from red cocoons. Rattles and copper bells filled the oven air. Black words whispered on the still air.

The ice burst his stomach. He knew what they were from stories the old timers whispered to each other in Socorro and Albuquerque, stories he had not wanted to believe.

He needed to shoot them, needed to take them before he did anything else. But the heat was unbearable now. There had never been any coolness. Oceans, clouds, autumn rains, spring breezes were shredded into dead dreams. He was in the heart of a funeral pyre, staked to the ground, the flames screeching over him, digging into him. The light intensified, opening its rattler mouth for him, erasing everything into a white nothing.

He could only hear the tall man laughing.

No. Kathy. Abby. The boys. Rebecca. Oh God, no not that for Rebecca . . . 

The gun was in his hand but it was a Gila monster, biting, sinking its teeth into crisp flesh. Nerve tips screamed and his fingers spasmed open. He dropped to the ground, pawing in the dirt, trying to find it, trying to bury himself to escape the million whips of the sun on his body and soul. He needed to open his eyes . . . if he could see, he could find the gun . . . but the glare skewed them with spears, forcing them tight against his skull.

"Soon enough, dirt grubber," the tall man laughed. "You'll be in the earth soon enough. After the coyotes and vultures eat their fill of good bacon, course. Wouldn't want to deprive them, would we?"

Aeneus wiggled blind and scalded on the ground, the sling falling off him like snake skin.

There was a creak of leather. "They won't put up a fight in the house now. Go on in, boys, and do what you will."

Something pushed against Aeneus's body, something warm and familiar. Something like a powerful, loaf pan head came under his arms, lifting his chest from the ground. There was a sound he had thought he would never hear again in his ear and a warm, leathered tongue licking his face. Some of the heat melted away and he could breathe.

It left. There was a roar, a scream, followed by shouting, yelling. Gunshots swam through the air. He heard the dandelion explosions of bullets hitting the earth.

Aeneus opened his eyes. The glare was dwindling. He saw one of the witches on the ground, a mummy face looking up into the sky, a red gap where her throat had been. The other was rolling on the ground, flailing as if trying to escape something on her back. The tall man was riding around it, yelling, firing his pistol at nothing.

The Mexican swore and charged.

The pistol lay in front of him.

Instinct grabbed it, aimed and fired in the time it took lightning to strike. The Mexican's head reared back and he toppled over the saddle and the horse's haunches.

The little man cursed, spun out his gun and aimed at the tall man's back. The tall man pricked up, swiveled and fired. His bullet bit off the little man's face.

There was a final scream from the witch and it lay still.

The tall man howled, spun his horse and charged Aeneus. He screamed words older than the mountains and uglier than the things that lived beneath them.

Something bit Aeneus' hand. Blue fire numbed his fingers and burned away the muscle. The pistol dropped for a second time.

Aeneus saw the crazed light burning through the tall man's eyes, blood, pain and death dancing together, gibbering obscene words. The pistol came up.

A black shadow skirted alongside the horse. There was the echo of a dog's baying and the horse veered away. The shot went wild and the tall man cursed, wrenching himself around the saddle.

Aeneus' left hand reached and pulled out the second pistol. His arm and shoulder screamed with the gun as it emptied half its life into the body.

The tall man slumped over and collapsed.

Aeneus turned toward the Comanche who had not moved from his spot.

A silence stood between them. Aeneus grit his teeth, forcing the pain in his arms back, ordering the pistol in his left hand to stay watching the mounted man. Even so, it quivered.

No charge came. The Comanche raised his right arm in salute, wheeled his horse and started north, looking neither left nor right.

Aeneus dropped his arms. Rubber replaced muscles and his legs jerked like a marionette's. Footsteps ran behind him and Kathy was there, her arms around him, crying, trying to fix his sling and wipe his face at the same time. Her tears were cool against the desert of his flesh.

He thought he felt a soft muzzle, scarred from many tussles, whisper beneath his numbed hand. He looked down and around, twisting himself out of Kathy's arms.

The wildness was vast. There were many things there. But none that he could see.

A cool wind came, picked up her skirt and ran.

A Regrettable Incident
Outside a Saloon in Joplin, Missouri, 1871
by Karl Luntta

You pull the trigger on your Remington six-iron, oiled and slick for quick release from the holster, and it kicks back as the brass bullet flies loudly from the barrel. The man facing you thirty yards down the dusty street, drunk and sloppy and possibly aware he's now involved in what will surely be written up in the Wild West nickel periodicals being sold back East, which you've been devouring as if they were books of the Bible, has also drawn his weapon and fired, a half-second slower than you. You knew it was going to happen that way, you gauged his sobriety and knew he was impaired and slow, an easy target, churned up by whiskey and the snarling of his equally drunken and windy friends.

But you're standing on this street, smoking gun in hand, to reclaim your name and gather some fame, and he's the chosen one, the unfortunate means, for him, by which your fame is going to happen. You're mostly happy with your choice but not completely, you're almost sad this fool is going to die for nothing. He might have children and a wife who will become victims themselves, but still, it's the choice he made. Truth be told, you might have goaded him into it, lied to him when you told him in that growly voice you sometimes use that when he spit his tobacco wad into the spittoon by the bar he missed and hit your boots. And out here there's nothing lower a man can do to another man except shoot his horse or insult his wife.

You'd picked him out of the saloon crowd because he looked like a farmer, with the overalls, sweat rings under his arms, and a tarnished pistol on his hip. Him being a farmer meant he was probably handy with a rifle and a branding iron but not so with a hand gun, and he was drunk enough to be sloppy and slow when all he was doing was laughing with his friends, all just having their fun. You chose him because he was going to be an easy win.

Coward.

You're about to put a rest to that.

The farmer's pistol puffs forth a second time and the retort ricochets off the buildings on the street while you're doing the math, recalling an old ciphering sum your teacher gave you a few years back. If a man on a horse is traveling west from point A at fifteen miles per hour and a man on a faster horse is galloping east from point B at twenty miles per hour, and there's fifty miles between point A and point B, where they gonna meet? You're thinking you drew first and your bullet's flying close to four hundred miles per hour, and your bullet is nearer to him than his is to you, although ciphering this one wouldn't matter none at all as his shots are going to go wild anyway because he's drunk and loose and that's why you chose him, right? Drunk and messy and soon shot dead.

The bullet whizzes by, or it might have been a bee that brushes brushes your arm. You react instantly, thinking you must have missed him if he got off a second shot, so again you pull the trigger and your gun thunders and kicks back.

Your mother loved you, that's for certain, with the heart and tender arms of a mother who couldn't have loved her family more. Just as she loved Jedediah and Laura, both of whom died too young, Laura of the fever when she was just five, and Jedediah up at Chancellorsville back in '63. Fact is, you wanted to join up too, go with him, be with him, but your pa said you were too young and that Jed had made his choice at seventeen years old to wear the battle gray and fight for old Dixie, while ma said she didn't want Jed to go and fight over some slave business, you never even had any slaves, and she said no boy of hers should be shooting at other American boys, and you, well you're only twelve anyway so don't even think about guns and going to war, you just aren't joining up and that's that.

Your pa got drunk the night Jedediah and some other boys left for camp, and stayed drunk for another year until Jed took a ball in Chancellorsville and the news came back but nobody came with it, and after that pa lived with the whiskey until it took him apart and he fell off his horse. Then it was just your ma and you and the memories.

You challenged this farmer when he said there ain't no tobacco juice on your boots, boy, no one spit on anyone's boots here. And you said who're you calling 'boy' in that voice you can put on sometimes, that challenging voice, that big-man voice, like someone who's been bellowing at the moon and shouted himself hoarse. In your heart you know he called you boy because he was right, he was a full grown man and you're just barely scratching twenty. And when you moved your hand over your gun anyway, in that steely, defiant way you learned in the stories, he told you to keep your hand away from your pistol, son, that is no place you want to go.

After pa died and you and ma needed money, you set out to get some. You had the farm, small as it was, and you worked it with her day and night for years, sold a cow here and there, ate some of the chickens, raised vegetables and alfalfa and corn, but you still needed the money and you were the man of the house so you went out and got your pa's gun and horse and road twenty-eight miles to the next county, tied a red bandana around your face and walked into the First Missouri Savings Fund Bank with no idea what to do next. You were bewildered, and realized it was the first time you'd been inside a bank building without your pa. You stood there, gun in your belt, bandana across your nose and mouth, wide-eyed and frozen. A teller looked up from his window and said boy, either you take that bandana off your face or the sheriff's going to come over and throw you in jail. And you did, you pulled the cloth down and croaked you was sorry, it's just dusty out there and I was looking for the feed store, so he pointed and you just ran out of the First Missouri like a . . . 

Coward. You've had enough of being called boy.

The drunk and sloppy farmer in the saloon again told you to take your hand away from your holster. Men around him backed away, giving him space. He asked you what your name was and you told him they call me The Jackeroo Kid, because you'd learned in the stories that Kid what they called the roughest and toughest of the Wild West shootists. The men laughed, a loud, raucous laugh, and snickered and pointed. It was the first time that had ever happened to you, and you sure as hell did not like it. The farmer shook his head and said, look boy, or Kid, now don't be a damn fool, you got a ten-dollar Stetson on a five-dollar head right now, so go home, your ma and pa need you, you don't want to keep this up. Leave your gun alone and go home.

You again told him he'd spit on your boots and he said he did not, and you said you and me are gonna take this outside right now. The farmer said you don't want to do that, you really don't, and you said it's either here or out on the street, you and me, what's it gonna be.

Where all those words came from you had no real idea, probably from the stories, but you weren't shaking or scared, and the coward business seemed to be sliding off your back. You were freer than you ever been since you let Jedediah go and die alone. And you weren't no boy no more.

Well, the farmer said, if that's the way it's going to be we'll go outside but I am surely sorry about this, and another man in the crowd said don't do this son, it's going to go bad on you. The farmer frowned at the ground and shook his head and sniffed once or twice, and you thought, who's the coward now?

You try to squint to see if a red blotch has formed anywhere on the farmer's shirt, or if he's staggering or grabbing for his wounded gut, but you taste dust and think a bullet has hit the ground and kicked up some dirt into your mouth. You reach up with your sleeve to wipe your face but your arm scrapes the dirt and you realize you're down. You look up at the sun above you, your gleaming gun next to you in the dust, your sleeve bloody and your arm heavier than it should be. You reach for the gun and the next bullet smashes your skull, sending bone and brass splinters into your brain at four hundred miles an hour, and as the sun goes dark your brother reaches out with a Wild West weekly, and you see it's a story, The Jackeroo Kid's story, your story.

For Old Friendships' Sake
by Eric Axner-Norrman

The badge looked good on him, the patrons all agreed laughingly as they welcomed the town's new Deputy Sheriff back to the saloon. Caleb glanced at the table at the rear end of the room, decked with cards, cash and a newly opened bottle of rye whiskey. Around it sat his three closest companions, as always. "When the cat's away . . . " he thought to himself and snarled as he saw a young man, barely out of his teens, seated on what used to be his chair. Times had changed and bigger things had to be attended to than not giving away your hand with your face and coming up with the cleverest remark to fit the outcome of the game. Once he had made his presence felt, he had strict orders to come straight back to the office. Sheriff Tierney had some business out of town to attend to, and a dangerous prisoner needed vigilant eyes watching his every move.

"Your turn to babysit your friend, Ryder!" the Sheriff smirked as he put his newspaper down and stood up with a bit of a strained moan, well befitting his big Irish frame.

"He's as much my friend as you are, Isambard" Caleb snapped back.

"It's Sheriff Tierney to you. And how was the saloon?" the Sheriff grunted as he put his overcoat and hat on.

"Calm as a church on a Monday. Not much else to expect a balmy morning before noon is there?"

"Not now, once I've gotten you out of there! I'll be back before next week and look in on you . . . "—the Sheriff slowly turned his body around, facing the cell—" . . . and you . . .  first thing. Alright?"

Caleb, now in his employer's previously relaxed position behind the desk, feet up and nose down in that morning's paper, nodded deeply. Once the door closed behind the Sheriff's sizeable back, Caleb heard his name called out from the cell on the right; but he didn't flinch and continued browsing the pages, pretending he hadn't heard a thing. The voice was gravelly and sounded both dead tired and bone dry, continuing to call out the Deputy by his first name. Eventually, it got a response:

"It's Deputy Sheriff Ryder to you."

A low and subtle chuckle was followed by a piercing creak as the weight of a body was removed from the cell's bedboard.

"You know, Deputy Sheriff Ryder, I could kill for a glass of water."

"In a moment, Clarence."

"No hurry, old friend. I'll be out of there by noon anyway. And it's Mister Briggs to you, if I may."

By now he had grabbed Caleb's attention, resting his torso towards the grimy iron bars, letting his hands provokingly dangle freely outside the confines of the cell.

"You sound awfully sure of that" Caleb, now on his feet, said sternly. "What are your boys up to, Clarence, huh? Tell me."

Clarence hinted at the bottle of water on the desk.

"A drink first, for old times' sake."

"And then you'll tell me? For old times' sake?"

"I'm a man who believes in keeping friendships alive."

"And I'm a man who believes in ending them if ever they become a liability. Nostalgia isn't really my thing. Especially not if it involves the killer of my predecessor."

Caleb had picked up the bottle and was about to pour from it when he went out cold. The explosion left him passed out, temporarily deaf and slightly bleeding. More permanent damage was done to the Sheriff's office. Even more pressing still, the most desired effect of the explosion was achieved: Clarence Briggs was free, nearly without a scratch, backed by his loyal, lawless bunch.

Caleb was helped back to his senses by a whole crowd of Good Faith City's inhabitants, all of whom were both worried about him and outraged that he, the outlaw turned lawman, had let such a thing happen right under his nose. Trust was hard enough to build in this place; now it seemed Caleb had lost any last amount there might have been towards his character. The thought did cross his mind briefly, but it was obviously among the least of his concerns. Dead or alive—preferably the first, if Caleb had his way—he would bring the man everyone called "his old friend" back to Good Faith City. If not before Sheriff Tierney returned home, then at some point, whatever it would take. It was personal. The gang had been seen by several towners heading on horseback into Rattler Desert, but everyone understood they couldn't stay there for long. Even Spadefoot River at the other end of the desert had nearly dried up in the sweltering August heat, so if Clarence Briggs had any of the will to survive still in him, which had just been so blatantly demonstrated, he and his real friends had to come back the same way they had galloped away from.

Not that he could get much sleep that night, but in the wee small hours Caleb had relaxed enough to doze off. That's why he hadn't heard the footsteps entering his room, but he couldn't help but feel the coldness of a revolver barrel resting on his left temple. His eyes opened very slowly, so as not to give away the fact that he was mortified from such a rude awakening. Three or four gold teeth glistened in the moonlight spying in through the dusty curtains.

"You're lucky, Deputy Sheriff. I would've thought it was a safe bet that you'd be spending tonight in a coffin, asleep at peace."

Caleb lightly cleared his throat, exhaled loudly as if bothered by being awoken and said casually:

"You're not so lucky on the other hand, Clarence. If you put a bullet in me now then that'll only solve this bad spot. Afterward, you'll have killed two men of the law, and that my old friend is just about as bad as it gets. I reckon you'll be dead by the end of this year anyhow, no matter what you do to me."

Clarence chuckled as if amused by the whole situation.

"If my intention was seeing you dead I would've put that bullet in you while you were still asleep. That much I feel I can offer an old friend. No, I have something different in mind."

Caleb turned around and faced the man he more than anyone else wanted to see—however in much the reverse position.

"You, Caleb Ryder", said Clarence smirkingly, "you're coming with me and the boys tonight. We've got a need for your special skills in a little errand we've got tomorrow. At the bank just down the street from here".

The next morning came way too soon but also way too late for Caleb; too soon because he was dead tired from not getting any real sleep but way too late considering the company that he had to endure. Other than taunts and shoves from the near dozen of his former allies, Caleb had gotten away pretty lightly considering his switching of sides. But then again, he wasn't the first to do so or the first to switch back again either. It's every man for himself in the Frontier, and everyone knows that.

"No time to kill now, boys. It's time to kill!"

Clarence's combined wake-up call and call to arms aroused the weary-eyed motley crew just as the sun began to paint the horizon in a bright orange tint. Only a few of them had been able to get any shuteye that night, anxious as they were both by the task ahead and the presence of a prodigal brother. Caleb, who had tried to keep himself as far from the others as they would allow him, was now pushed to the very front, up next to Clarence. Alongside him, he was going to head the gang into town, letting the citizens of Good Faith City know he was back to his old saddle again.

The recently awoken towners could see the dust the horses were kicking up long before they comprehended who was riding them, and it took even longer for them to understand who the two leading them were. Most weren't really all that surprised—some were, but they kept their disappointment to themselves. With no lawman in town, there wasn't much for them to do save for locking their doors and praying at least they would be out of harm's way once the bullets started flying across the air.

"Remember last time we rode in like this," Clarence asked Caleb through a cheeky smile, "we sure gave those townsfolk a pretty damn good scare!"

"I'd rather forget . . . " replied Caleb while clenching his teeth.

"It's about time we refreshen your memory then!"

Clarence put his spurs in his horse's side and galloped ahead, the rest of the gang following suit, dragging Caleb's horse with them in the stampede. Clarence jumped off right outside Good Faith City Bank and gazed through the front window, keeping his men in eager anticipation with their hands on their holsters. As he could see someone moving in the backroom behind the counter, he yelled:

"Looks like we're right on time, boys! Bank's open!"

They entered through both the door and the windows on each side of it, leaving a trail of broken glass, splintered wood and a few smoking bullet shell casings, fired off in the heat of excitement. But their rampage suddenly and unexpectedly came to a halt. Standing in front of them was not the little old bank teller they had been expecting, but rather a big and burly man with a thick black beard and bushy black hair. Especially Clarence, who stood face to face with the man behind the counter, stopped dead in his tracks. One of the men at the back wondered loudly what the hell was going on. The man behind the counter replied laconically:

"Looks like hell just froze over. And it's time for you devils to leave."

Even if Caleb could hardly believe his eyes, deep down he wasn't very surprised. Sheriff Tierney was someone you could always trust to do the unexpected. As his revolver arose from underneath the counter, aiming its long black barrel at Clarence, Caleb—who was already among those closest to the door—elbowed and punched his way out onto the street and drew his gun, while the band of bandits was still left dumbfounded. The outlaws were in effect surrounded, but in turn heavily outnumbered the lawmen by ten locked and loaded six-shooters or so. The only thing stopping any of the guns from going off was the cramped conditions that prevented any of the robbers from raising his arm somewhat straight. Only Caleb and the Sheriff had enough room to aim properly, but as men of the law, they had no reason to shoot unless things escalated. The scene would have been comic had it not been for the fact that violence, in one way or another, was the only way the situation was going to be solved.

Sheriff Tierney, to end the rather awkward stalemate, sighed deeply, put his revolver back in the holster and knocked Clarence out cold, clearly intending to do the same to all of his underlings. After successfully knocking out two more without meeting much resistance, Caleb joined in from his end. Blood, spit and at least a dozen teeth were left on the floor after the last of the dozen or so men had finally been dragged out and tied up; the Sheriff and his Deputy having gotten help from the towners, emboldened by the courage they had witnessed.

Two things in particular Caleb noticed once it was all over. First, the Sheriff wasn't half as badly bruised up as he was, and second, he surprisingly didn't look like he wanted to give Caleb the same treatment he had just given Clarence and his boys. Caleb didn't have time to stand up from the dusty ground he rested on before he was joined by the Sheriff, who parked right next to him.

"You never told me getting blown up was a potential occupational hazard" Caleb croaked.

"The chance of getting shot down is bigger, so I didn't think much of mentioning it. But taking part in bank robberies, that's not all that common for a Deputy."

"It was a choice of being of little use in robbing a bank or no use to anyone being dead. What would you have chosen?"

"Well . . . ", the Sheriff muttered as his hand disappeared into his beard, "I probably wouldn't have nearly gotten myself blown up in the first place, so I'm not sure I would've faced the same later options as you. Good thing though I was caught up by old man Sánchez who told me about the rumors of a bank heist that had been floating around town. Surprised you didn't pick them up at the saloon . . . "

Caleb didn't have time to respond, as Sheriff Tierney briskly stood up and offered his hand to Caleb. The Sheriff couldn't keep a mischievous smile from coming over his face, turning himself downwards to release a pattering round of poorly suppressed laughter.

"Please tell me", remarked Caleb dryly, "I'm dying to hear what about all of this that is so very funny?"

The Sheriff straightened his posture and his gaze, holding back a new onslaught of laughter as best he could:

"Three things, Deputy Sheriff Ryder, three things about this otherwise deeply tragic turn of events is so very funny. First off, how are the good and honest people of this town ever again going to be able to trust you? Secondly, had I not been the kind-hearted and good-natured person I am, right now you would've been tied up back to back with your friend Mister Briggs. And the third thing, last but not least, because the, shall we say, unfortunate event of the Sheriff's office getting dynamited to bite-sized bits happened under your watch, you won't see a nickel of your first twenty or so salaries."

Although Caleb couldn't for the life of him find any of the three things Sheriff Tierney listed as even remotely amusing, he could admit—be it only to himself—that there was a certain irony in having an old acquaintance come along and disrupt the peace and quiet of the new life he had started building for himself here in Good Faith City. Old friendship nor the promise of quick cash was going to lure him back out into the desert again. Hopefully, the past would leave him be from now on and let him worry solely about the future—guaranteed to give him enough troubles to deal with.

Hanging Day
by Daniel Lumpkin

Adam Wallace drank his coffee, listening to the heifers in the cattle pasture in the distance with their little bells clanging with each rock and nod of their hornless heads. Men who survived war long enough eventually desired peace and Adam Wallace wanted nothing more than to hear the cows that morning, every morning, for the rest of his life. He kept a Colt on his hip, mere decoration at this point in his life, but at a time it was just one of the many tools of his former trade. Those days were gone.

"Morning deputy," she called out to him from the bedroom window. He turned and smiled when he saw her smiling face.

"Morn'n," Adam said, staring at her in the first light of the day. He sipped again from the metal cup.

"Why are you staring at me?" She asked.

"There's nothing better to look at," he said.

"There's a beautiful sunrise right over there," she said, pointing over his shoulder toward the slowly widening pink stain in the vast dark sky.

"My bride's superior," he said and all she could do was smile, let him gaze a little longer, before she walked out of frame towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Adam always woke before the sun broke over the horizon. It had been ingrained in him as a boy working on a dairy farm and even after leaving home, soldiering, and settling down in the flat grasslands, he never could break the habit. Waking early, he enjoyed it. There was a cold silence in the world. A peace. Something he saw as his responsibility to maintain as the day grew long and hot and whatever loomed just beyond all horizons made itself known.

And Christ said, Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God.

Adam pontificated on Christ's beatitudes throughout the moments of the day which allowed for free thought. Free thought, perhaps, was what grew best out in Green Valley. Better than the short corn or the black beans. Wheat took easy, but Adam's orchards struggled, only sixteen trees made their way past the sapling stage, but still two years too young to harvest any fruit. A farmer he was not.

She came out onto the front porch with two plates and forks, eggs steaming and weeping still on the flecked metal.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course," she said, sitting beside him in a rocker that creaked when she leaned back and the floorboards under the chair sang out in reply.

"Hanging's today?" She asked.

He nodded in response. He wouldn't speak ill of the situation. Wasn't his place to, so he spoke nothing of it.

The Carlson boy had done wrong. Would admit that himself, but had he not been so lucky that night, he certainly would have been killed by both Riley brothers. One's gun flat out didn't fire when he pressed it into the boy's back. Probably stole it off of some departed, but that's what gave Timothy Carlson some chance. He pulled his own, fired twice. Second Riley brother, Sampson, charged out, probably knowing what his brother thought of doing, and saw his brother on the ground either bleeding out or already dead. Sampson unsheathed that Bowie sword he carried on him and made every effort to kill Timothy. Now, what choice did Timothy have? Was he supposed to let the second Riley brother kill him? Gun versus knife that night.

Judge Waldrep, now, he's good friends with the entire Riley family and it didn't make anything better when Timothy Carlson sheathed the large knife into Sampson's chest after shooting him dead. That's probably what did it, but folks forget what surviving feels like. After making out with your life in a situation where you probably were close to death, you do things that will be a lifelong riddle. Not every time, but Adam had seen enough to know the boy was scared for his life in the moment and then soon after.

"I made him some food," she said.

"He probably can't eat nothing," Adam said.

"I know," she said. "People cooking for him means people love him, that's comforting in itself."

"Sure is," Adam said. "I'm probably heading out soon anyway."

"Okay," she said. "It's on the table. Are you going to read to him?"

"Yes," Adam said. He didn't look half as educated as he was, but his family's money had afforded some of the best education and tutors in the area. Adam took to learning just fine, but he didn't take to a life indoors, a life where risk taking and adventuring weren't part of a daily way. This, of course, was Adam's outlook when he was young. Now, older, he looks upon the decisions in his life as miraculous where every turn, ignorance and foolishness guided him all the way to a decent life.

"His mother sent in a letter," she said.

"I've got it with me," he said, patting his breast pocket.

"Did you read it?" She asked and he barely shook his head. She kissed him before he left and she was his constant reminder of good in the world. For some, that was God, religion, faith, but for Adam it was the love from the best woman he ever met.

Walking into the sheriff's office that morning was a quiet affair. No use in waking up Bruce the guard hound that was just about as useless as the last jail cell lock. It hadn't worked in years, so they used it mainly for storage, rather than storing criminals. Bruce snores were only drowned out by Deputy Bernard's own snores. The two laid together, cuddled on the long bench as though married. Deputy Bernard worked night duty, but his main responsibility was going to wake the Sheriff or Adam if something went wrong. The Sheriff reluctantly let him carry a gun, but the hope was he never had to fire it or even pull it from the holster.

Adam walked to the back room where all the four cells were and only two were occupied, one soul in the front cell on the left and one in the right. When Adam walked in, he saw Ulysses Miller sitting up already on his cot waiting for someone to come in.

"Mr. Miller," Adam said.

"Morning, deputy," Ulysses said.

"Is Mr. Carlson awake?"

"He is," Ulysses said.

"Mr. Carlson," Adam said. The boy did not move. "There's a letter here from your mother. I can read it to you, if you'd like."

"No," the boy said, still facing the wall.

"I've also brought a meal made by my wife," Adam said. "Might not do much good, but a decent thing would be to try to eat it. It would certainly mean something to her and I can vouch for the biscuits and preserves. There's even a pastry. I was tempted to take that myself, but somehow she would know."

"Do I deserve such kindness?" Timothy asked.

"That's for you to determine, but my bride seems to think so," the boy rolled over and evaluated the gift, a parting gift as he saw it before he left the world behind. Ulysses Miller stood up and leaned against his own bars, studying the gift for himself.

"If you ain't gonna eat it," he started.

"Sit down, Mr. Miller," Adam said. "Thou shalt not covet."

"A man's wife and breakfast are not the same, Deputy Wallace," Ulysses said.

Adam did nothing and said nothing, but the silence was enough for Ulysses to reconsider his remark.

"Sorry, sir," Ulysses said and Adam nodded and turned around, happy to see that Timothy Carlson was unrolling the bag of food and pulling out each individually wrapped piece of food, placing it on his cot's moldy blanket.

"Here," he said, picking up the pastry wrapped in paper. "Give that to him."

Adam reached out and handed it to Ulysses who took the pastry, unwrapped it and ate it in two bites. He spent considerable time finding any morsel or crumb in the paper wrapper and then on the dirt floor.

"Thank you, sir," Ulysses said.

"Thank Mr. Carlson," Adam said.

"Thank you, Timothy," Ulysses said. "And thank Mrs. Wallace for me, too, sir."

"I will," Adam said. He pulled out the letter and left it on the metal slot.

"Can you read it yourself?" Adam asked. Timothy looked over, licking the preserves off his fingers and rubbing the ruby colored delight on his gums and teeth before shaking his head.

"No need to," he said.

"Everybody has a mother," Adam said. "Perhaps she can give you some parting comfort."

"Comfort? No sir."

"I wish I had a final letter from my own," Ulysses said. "She passed when I was twelve."

"How'd she die, Mr. Miller?" Adam asked

"Infection of some sort giving birth to a sibling that died days after being born," Ulysses said and he sighed deeply. "Am I getting taken today?"

"I believe it will be tomorrow, Mr. Miller," Adam said.

"And then I am to hang the day after?"

"Unless the judge has changed his mind," Adam said.

"Two men set to die, one after the other," Ulysses said. "Maybe we'll see each other in God's eternal glory. Bump into each other on them golden streets. Can't wait to see them."

"Perhaps I'll ask you to drop water on my tongue for relief," Timothy said.

"You watch your mouth," Adam said.

"I'm only quoting the scriptures," Timothy responded.

"You're doing so in mocking fashion," Adam responded. "That will not be tolerated in my jail."

"I am not repenting for my sins, Deputy Wallace," Timothy said. "According to the scriptures, I'm doomed eternally. Hellfire and gnashing of teeth."

"You've read your Bible?" Adam asked.

"He quotes it better than the reverend," Ulysses added.

"Of course," Timothy answered.

"And you reject Christ's mercy?"

"I simply believe I am undeserving," Timothy said.

"We all are," Adam answered. "Only choice is to take it or reject it, but I can't have no sympathy for a man knowledgeable on the scriptures willingly rejecting Christ. Just foolish."

"Did you read the scriptures before or after you became a deputy?" Timothy asked.

"Raised as a boy to read them and believe them, but I took it seriously towards the end of my time as a soldier and I read them everyday now," Adam said.

"Yes," Timothy said. "You took God's word seriously after you killed all those savages."

"Timothy! Don't!" Ulysses shouted. "He don't know what he's saying, sir. He's losing his mind on account of him losing his life at noon today. Hold off on his beating, sir. He's getting what's coming to him soon enough."

"There's a difference between murder and war," Adam said.

"I think they are merely different forks in the same stream," Timothy said. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, deputy. I am curious, however, what the difference is between you and me. Between you and Mr. Miller, even. You've taken more lives. We know what battles you fought in."

"I'm sure this thought feels rather intelligent, but I can assure you it is the most common inquiry of every man I've stood over in your position," Adam answered. "It's as predictable as the sun rising in the east. The simple answer, and the one you already know is, I was conscripted to do so. Wore a uniform. Sworn in. Did my duty for my country. You, however, embarked on a night of drinking, accused of cheating at the—"

"I ain't no cheat!" Timothy said, spitting.

"—at the poker table and then once you heard the Riley brothers remarking on some prostitute, you embarked upon the journey that brought you here behind this very cell door."

"Every life you took was merely service? You didn't enjoy it?" Timothy asked.

"Only barbarians and heathens would enjoy such depravity," Adam answered.

"I know you enjoyed it," Timothy said. "You did it for so long."

"You know nothing," Adam said.

Timothy sat silently on his wooden cot and glared at Adam.

"Now, the reverend is going to make his way down here and sit with you until time comes to take you outside," Adam said. "You best remember your manners. He's a man of God and I will not tolerate any amount of disrespect towards a man in his position."

"You need not worry about me, deputy," Timothy said with a long sigh. "Forgive my loose tongue. Your wife's cooking was of such fine quality that it made me want to live past noon for a chance to eat some more."

"I will pass along your compliments, be them sincere," Adam said.

"Most sincere," Timothy answered. The deputy turned to go but Timothy called out to him one final time.

"Sir," Timothy said. "Could you read my letter? Determine if there's any part of it I need to hear?"

"You're the only one who could determine that," Adam answered. Timothy got up, picked up the letter and held out for the deputy.

"No," Timothy said. "My mother did her best, but she revealed to me that having a child only ruined her life and it was the single greatest regret she carried. Reminded me of it nearly every day."

"I see," Adam said, taking the letter from him.

"She was also the prostitute the Riley brothers were boldly discussing that night," Timothy said. "The whore in Hagerstown. That's what they kept saying. It's a ranch town with very few ranches left and only one whore remaining."

Adam looked upon the young man, rueful as he was youthful, and all he could do was nod in consolation.

"Did the brothers Riley know the woman they spoke about could have been your mother?"

"I resemble her," he said. "You'd know it, too, if you saw her. They also spoke of her port wine stain on her thigh. A mark she's had since birth. It was my mother. They knew it. They enjoyed the discomfort it caused me."

"And Judge Waldrep knew of their comments?"

"Murder's murder, even if he did know, deputy," Timothy said. "Could you do me one kindness and say if there's anything in that letter that I need to hear?"

The deputy opened the letter. He unfolded the paper as he made his way into the guard's chair, next to the burning candle and read in silence. The script was small and she left very little space, filling up nearly all corners with words.

"Well? Any comfort? Or just cruelty?" Timothy asked.

"Much of it, she quotes the scriptures," Adam said. "Would you like to hear that?"

"No, sir," Timothy answered and the deputy read on. "She pleads for your salvation. She must have known of your theological stance, yes?"

"I suppose," Timothy answered again. "But anything from her, deputy? Any loving words or—"

"My son, I only pray for your salvation so that I may follow you into eternity and we meet again. I was not much of a mother to you. That is my greatest shame. Please forgive me, my sweet boy. Forgive me and place your trust in Christ."

The deputy looked up from the letter and saw Ulysses wiping tears from his face as Timothy lay stiff as a board on the cot. With nothing else to say, the deputy began to fold it up, planning on placing it back on the slot, but he predicted the doomed man's response.

"Burn it," Timothy said.

"Oh, now!" Ulysses yelled in protest, but the boy did not relent.

"Burn it, please, deputy," he said, rolling slightly on his side to view the parchment shrivel and blacken in the flame.

Deputy Adam Wallace heard the front door swing open and the Reverend talking with someone in the front office.

"That'll be the Reverend," Adam said to Timothy. "Best behavior now. Consider what your mother said?"

Timothy nodded, though he looked unconvinced. "Figured I'd swing one day. Just didn't know it'd be this quick is all. If she comes, tell her I was grateful for her words."

"I will. I will do that. You'll have your chance to speak, too. Right before."

"Not sure I'll be able," Timothy said, and for the first time Adam heard that childlike voice of his waver. The truth was setting in on the boy, like it eventually did on every man in his particular predicament. Death waits on no one.

"Good luck, son," Adam said. "I'll come to retrieve you when the time comes."

"Yes, sir," Timothy said. "Thank you, sir."

Adam nodded and left. He came out to the front office where Bruce now slept on the floor at Sheriff Robert Cunningham's crossed boots and the Reverend stood waiting. They exchanged a "morning" greeting as Adam settled down in one of the chairs.

"He's in the back," Adam said. "Primed for conversion if you ask me."

"Praise God," the Reverend said, looking slightly nervous but he made his way back towards the jail cell. He wore a dirty black suit. Same one he wore when he did weddings. Same one he wore on Sundays. Might be the only clothes he owns.

"His mother wrote," the deputy called out. "She would like for him to put his faith in Christ."

After the door closed behind the reverend, the Sheriff turned to his deputy.

"That true?"

"It's better than what the letter actually said."

"Which is?"

"Hanging you's good for the world," Adam quoted from the letter.

"God," the Sheriff said, shaking his head. "How could a mother say such a thing to her own child."

"Felt like hanging her, too," Adam said. "That would be true justice."

They sat in silent agreement before the Sheriff spoke again.

"The men ain't coming for Mr. Miller tomorrow," he said.

"He get a stay?" Adam asked, but the Sheriff shook his head.

"We hanging him here?"

"Can't do that," the Sheriff said. "I need you to ride out with him. Take the jail wagon. It's a day's ride out and a day's ride back. I'll pay for your stay at one of the hotels overnight."

"Just me?" Adam asked.

"I'm not for that. I say take Bernard with you. I'd go, too, but that would leave the town lawless and unprotected."

"What's he going to do?"

"Two's better than one," the Sheriff said. "Plus, it'll be good for him. Get some wagon experience. I wouldn't ask you if I thought it was overly dangerous."

"I wasn't aware I was being asked," Adam said with a smile that made the Sheriff's mustache squirm slightly. "But it's no matter. I doubt Ulysses will put up much of a fight."

"No, I don't see that he would," the Sheriff agreed. "It'll be good to be rid of it. I don't like having the jail cells occupied and occupied by men waiting for the most severe punishments. I'd like to get back to some normalcy around here."

"Sometimes I wonder if death is that much of a punishment as it is compassion for the community no longer having to put up with them. It's not really for them. It's for everybody else."

"You question the hangings?"

"No, sir," Adam said. "Taking a man's life, that's something I've partook in. War is an agreement. Civil, in a way. You take mine or I take yours, but one of us is departing by the end of it all. Taking a man to slaughter. That's different."

"You know Mr. Miller's crimes?"

"I do," Adam said.

"Which of them is not deserving of his punishment?"

"Can't speak to that," Adam said.

"Nothing to say," the Sheriff said. "Killed two lawmen who were pursuing him after he killed another man in cold blood. What can you do with a man that has no regard for good in the world?"

"I'd like to know which action best represents the man," Adam said. "Is it the Ulysses that killed a man in a field without reason? Is it the Ulysses that killed those two lawmen in fear of his own life? Or is it the Ulysses that we've grown to know the past few days here in our jail cell?"

"That is the man," the Sheriff said. "All of it. He weeps at night, praying for forgiveness, knowing what he done is evil and wrong."

"Does he give an explanation?"

"How does one explain his own nature?"

"You think he might be done doing evil then," Adam said. "If it makes him feel so bad."

"That's what the rope makes sure of," the Sheriff said. "This job's a hard one, but it's right for men like us. We see these men come in and we know that could have been us. We chose different. Heck, we might have been better robbers and murderers than they are. But we chose the better path. Perhaps we were always on the better path. We've got more in common with the men that hang than the people we protect, but that's better than not. I ain't gonna be Sheriff forever and I'd like to retire knowing I'm leaving it to a man that can handle the responsibility."

"Yes, sir," Adam said.

"Alright, well, take a walk, inspect the rope, do your rounds," the Sheriff said. "Get some fresh air in your lungs and after the hanging, you can spend the afternoon with your wife, since you're heading out and all."

"You don't need me for—"

"Naw," Sheriff Cunningham said.

Adam didn't know whether to take the offer as a punishment or reward, but he knew his wife would like him home, especially if he would be gone for the next two days.

Before Timothy Carlson hung in front of a crowd of around a dozen souls, not counting the two deputies, the sheriff, and the mayor, the young man apologized for what he did. His brief apology was not heard by any Riley kin, as they were not in attendance. The floor fell out and the rope snapped him clean. Deputy Bernard helped pull the body down and Adam walked home, glad that his wife was not one of the onlookers. She didn't ever go to hangings after watching her daddy's.

They made the most of their afternoon, their love heightened by the fact that he would be gone for two days. She still was naked under a sheet when he rolled out and dressed.

"What kind of man is he?" She asked worriedly. "The one you're taking tomorrow?"

"The kind of man deserving of being hung," Adam said.

"Will you tell me what he's done?"

"I will not."

"Does he pose a threat? More than normal, I mean."

"I don't think so," he said. "Mr. Miller is quick to talk about Christ's forgiveness now and prays for his forgiveness for what he's done every night."

"How does he work that out?" She asked. "Getting caught up in no-good and then crying out to God at night."

"That's just the nature of a guilty man with a conscience."

"You said he liked the pastry?"

"He did indeed."

"I'll make a batch for all of you."

"I'm not sure if a basketful of baking will encourage him to be on his best behavior or reinvigorate his will to live, survive at all costs."

"Don't joke about such things," she said. "Makes me want to poison his."

"It would be cruel to kill a man on the way to his death," he said.

"Not kill him," she said. "But just make his stomach panic. I know the leaves that can do it. It would subdue him into the fetal position."

"It would also make cleaning out the jail wagon quite the job," he said. "No, I think Mr. Miller will go as peacefully as they come."

"You believe his conversion real?"

"I do," Adam said. "I've been fooled before, but Mr. Miller apparently stood alongside the Reverend today as they convinced Mr. Carlson of his need. They sang hymns in the jail together before I came and got him."

"I hope he chooses to do good things leading up to his death," she says. "I don't like thinking about you having to get mean."

"Oh," Adam said, cracking a smile and wrangling her small frame in his arms with ease. "I think you do sometimes."

"Stop," she said, smiling now, too. "Just be careful tomorrow."

"I will," he said. She got out of bed slowly, knowing he was watching her move across the room and picking up her dress. "I suppose I need to get started on making three lunches for tomorrow. I'll throw in some biscuits and preserves tomorrow morning before you head out."

"And pastries?" Adam asked.

"Three," she said, nodding.

Adam spent the afternoon attending to some chores around their property and inspecting the budding orchard trees, hoping that they would avoid any kind of bug or fungus that would halt their growth. That evening, after supper, he read by candlelight long after his wife fell asleep, her light snores and her warmth in their bed kept him company. He slept lightly, dreamless, only flashes of light before he woke. When he woke the sun had not broken yet, but he could hear the earliest songbirds begin to sing. He made coffee, a luxury he developed a habit for in the war, and went out to the front porch drinking as the sun broke over the horizon.

As she finished making breakfast over the stove and the smell of her biscuits came through, he stood and stretched. In the morning light, he checked his Colt was clean and then went back into his bedroom and shouldered his repeating rifle and a scatter gun. He figured Deputy Bernard would want a gun across his lap if he saw Adam with a rifle slung over his shoulder. When he was ready to leave, his wife kissed him as passionately as they did after exchanging their vows.

"I'll be home tomorrow," he said. "Thank you for all of this. It smells so good, I'm tempted to eat it all myself."

"See that you don't," she said, patting the small yet noticeable potbelly he had earned in the six years since becoming a deputy. "Be safe."

"Always," he said. They kissed a final time and he held her gaze, one that reminded them both of their deep affection for each other and although it was not spoken, their love was exchanged, a shared regard between souls.

Adam saddled his horse, Theseus, a liver chestnut Hanoverian, and rode into town where Deputy Bernard was sitting on the front porch of the Sheriff's Office, Bruce resting his drooling, dense head on Bernard's thigh. They exchanged greetings.

"Rosemary and the wagon are all ready," he said. "They're around back."

"Good," Adam said. "Have you eaten yet?"

"I rarely have breakfast," Bernard said, standing up and looking hopeful.

"Is that a practice?" He asked.

"I forget," he said before he opened the paper wrapper revealing a buttered biscuit slathered with strawberry preserves. His eyes rolled in pleasure in between bites as Bruce whined and begged.

"Once we get Mr. Miller loaded in, I've got one for him, too," Adam said. "Is he up?"

"Mr. Miller?" Bernard said, nodding, between bites. "I doubt he slept much last night."

Adam walked Theseus to the back and he sniffed Rosemary, a sturdy, all black Belgian Draft already strapped to the jail wagon.

"I'll go get him," Adam said. You keep your gun aimed on him as I load him in, alright?"

"Yes, sir," Bernard said, attempting, but failing to conceal his nerves.

"It'll be alright," Adam said. "I doubt Mr. Miller will want to be any trouble for us."

"You're right about that," Ulysses called out from the jail cell window. "Please don't let Deputy Bernard shoot me!"

"Don't give him any reason," Adam said and he winked at Bernard.

Adam unlocked the steel jail door in the back and threw a pair of shackles and handcuffs over his shoulders. Ulysses Miller was already standing with his wrists out through the slot, waiting for the handcuffs.

"Mornin', deputy," Ulysses said. "How'd everything go yesterday?"

"As good as it could," Adam said, standing at the cell door.

"Did he cry?"

"Not before I put the hood on."

"Good," Ulysses said. "Reverend and I prayed for him and he accepted Christ right then and there before you came in."

"Reverend Black told me," Adam said. "Said you were quite helpful."

"I don't know," Ulysses said. "Just got to see God's work is all."

"That's right," Adam said. "Now, after I put these on your wrists I want you to go over to that far wall and kneel like you're praying. Face the wall and I'll put these on your ankles."

"Not too tight?"

"These are the most comfortable ones we've got," Adam said.

"My wife made some breakfast for you," Adam said. "A lunch too, along with one of those pastries you like. You will be able to get it as long as you maintain good behavior today, alright?"

"Yes, sir," he said.

"You'll get the breakfast once you're loaded in and we're ready to head out. At noon, we'll break for lunch and then when we're able to see Fort Johnson, I'll give you the pastry. At any point of backtalk or disrespect, I'll eat it myself."

"Yes, sir, I won't be any trouble to you."

"Alright, let's get on with it then," Adam said.

Ulysses Miller followed every instruction without hesitation and once he was loaded into the cell cart, Deputy Wallace handed him his breakfast and they rode out through the main path in town and north towards Fort Johnson and their destination: Johnsonville.

The morning ride was quiet and pleasant with a rare cloud in the sky and a cool wind that would whip up as the wagon wheels creaked along in the dry, dusty road. Deputy Bernard possessed an outstandingly bothersome habit of whistling, humming, or sometimes even singing songs. He claimed that the lyrics were from songs learned as a boy, but Adam believed that some, if not all of his little tunes, were his own compositions as he thought of them on the spot. The songs lacked much poetic tact and Deputy Bernard lacked the simple ability to produce a decent-sounding note with his singing voice or stay with one note for an acceptable amount of time.

The tick on the dog's ear
Never seems to remotely fear
The scratching claws
Of her massive paws
Or the squirmers on her rear
When she drags so sincere
Across the dusty floor
Across the dusty floo-oor!

"Deputy Bernard," Adam said to the wagon operator after much of the morning had already been spent in the state of a traveling concert. "I don't want any more songs about squirmers. I would prefer some quiet solace. Remember the reason for our work."

"Yes," Ulysses said. "Have mercy on me."

"Quiet now," Adam said, glancing back at the cage, before scanning the horizon and seeing the sun's position above. "I say we ride on yonder to that shade tree. That'll give Mr. Miller some relief from the sun and our horses can water at the creek just by. We can eat lunch before carrying on."

"Yes, sir," Bernard said. "It'll be good to stretch my legs some."

The jail wagon stopped under a colossal cottonwood that could have been close to a century in age, with thick branches stretching out across all directions and blocking out the sun underneath. The wagon halted and Rosemary joined Theseus down in the shallow stream drinking and shaking flies as their tails waved in the breeze.

Ulysses only expressed gratitude for the cornbread and jerky strips. Bernard chewed tenderly on his lunch as most in town knew of the multitude of teeth ailments he constantly dealt with.

"This jerky's rather tender," he said. "Usually can't eat the stuff."

"What do you usually eat?" Adam asked.

"Back at home, I stick to soups and stews," he said. "Something soft that I don't really need to chew. I can just press my tongue against it. My tongue's still strong. Does just as good of a job as my teeth ever did with soups."

"What causes that?" Ulysses asked. "I've never seemed to have trouble with mine."

"My mother and father had bad teeth," Bernard said, now sucking the jerky until it became flavorless and spitting it out.

Adam ate on in silence, not enjoying seeing his beef jerky spat out on the ground, but knowing Bernard could do nothing else with it. Then, in the distance, he saw the shape of four riders heading towards them, coming from the direction they were heading.

"Bernard," Adam said, getting up. "Get Rosemary hitched up again."

"I haven't finished this cornbread yet," he said, before he looked over his shoulder and saw the four riders himself. "I'll just eat it on the road, I suppose."

Adam saddled Theseus and helped Bernard get Rosemary secured to pull the jail wagon again.

"Who do you think they are?" Ulysses asked.

"Hopefully strangers that simply pass us by," Adam said. "But I don't want to be caught flat-footed if they stop us, or try to."

"You're real suspicious," Bernard said. "Could be four men on their way to a barn-raising or a tent revival."

"I believe optimists die first," Adam said and regretted his statement when he saw Bernard's shameful expression.

As the wagon party made their way on the road towards the four riders, Bernard began singing again, but Adam stopped him.

"Don't sing right now," Adam said. "Keep that shotgun close and cocked and do not stop the wagon."

"Yes, sir," Bernard said, pulling the shotgun to his lap as he maintained control of the reins. Adam's pulse began to beat quicker when the four men stopped in the road as his party approached.

"Good afternoon," one of the men called out to them. "Is that a Mr. Ulysses Miller in your jail wagon?"

Adam had his Henry repeater's stock resting on his hip and barrel pointed in the sky.

"That is the business of the law and no one else," Adam said. "Best keep moving so we can deliver our prisoner."

"Them ain't no lawmen," Ulysses said under his breath. "I know those men."

"We were conscripted by Sheriff Phillips in Johnsonville to retrieve the prisoner from you," the leader of the four riders said. "He sent word by telegram this morning."

"Never received such a telegram," Adam said. "Now, let us pass, gentlemen. Any delay will be seen as an obstruction of justice."

"We're trying to help carry out justice," the speaker said. "And save you the rest of the day's journey. It's only out of Sheriff Phillips' decency that he sent us to find you."

"Did he send you with any official papers?"

"Only the telegram," the speaker said. At this point, the wagon passed by the four riders, who turned their horses and rode alongside the wagon and Adam.

"I suggest that you men ride on," Adam said sternly. "Be you upholders of the law, you should know the proper forms needed to retrieve a prisoner."

"Last we heard, Johnsonville couldn't send over any men to retrieve Mr. Miller," Bernard said, before realizing that he said too much.

"That's due to a war band going around and attacking travelers near Johnsonville," the speaker said. "Apaches, most of em. If you are refusing the offer to transfer Mr. Miller to us, allow us join you escorting Mr. Miller to—"

"We kindly refuse," Adam said. "You may ride on ahead of us, but you will not join us. None of you possess any badge from Johnsonville or any other town. You may ride on ahead, but I won't allow you to follow behind."

"Won't allow?" Another horse rider said. "We're offering to help you. It's a war band of twelve well-armed savages you'll have little chance against."

The leader of the four raised his hand so Adam could disregard the man who spoke out of turn.

"We're offering our services, but if you refuse, we'll simply ride on back."

Adam nodded and the men followed the leader and the horses left a trail of dust in their wake as they sprinted back to Johnsonville.

"You think a sheriff sent those men?" Bernard asked.

"No telling," Adam said as the group of three carried on throughout their day's journey. He kept an eye on the men as they grew further in the distance and then, when the road forked down into a lower trail through a valley, he hoped he wouldn't run into an ambush. That was the only path to Johnsonville, however, through a stretch of valley with high canyon walls on either side. The way wasn't narrow, but it certainly led to them being vulnerable.

"What are you thinking, Deputy?" Ulysses asked. "We headed in the same direction?"

"Yep."

"We'll be in a pinch in there, won't we?"

"That's where they'll strike," Adam said. "If they strike, it'll be in that canyon. If we get through there, it's not much further to Johnsonville."

"And I'll get that pastry?" Ulysses asked.

"You will," Adam said.

"I figure it'll be foolish for me to ask for a gun, riding in there,"

"You figure right," Adam said. Ulysses nodded.

The party rode on, the sun growing warm for the first time that year, warm enough to produce sweat on the brows of the men in the wagon and the deputy escorting them on his war steed. As they carried on and took the trail that descended down into the valley, they saw a wake of carcass birds flying overhead. It wasn't until they made their way into the valley, surrounded by the high walls of red soil and rock, when they saw what the birds were feasting on: the four riders, shot through with a plethora of arrows, making each man look like a densely forested island in a red sea. Some of the men also had hatchet marks on their cheeks and face. Their bloody skulls, freshly scalped, glistened in the sun.

"My god," Ulysses breathed out upon the vast scene of death.

"Mr. Bernard," Adam said. "Whip that horse and beat it until we make it out of here. I'll follow up behind."

"Right behind?"

"Right beh—"

An arrow stuck Bernard, stopping about half-through his right wrist as more flew their way. Two struck Theseus and the horse fell, screaming, Adam got up and knew if he did not move to the wagon, all of their fates would follow the same. He staggered with his pistol out firing towards the ridge, blindly firing at their war calls, smoke staying in the air past the explosion of the bullet. He jumped up on the wagon and Bernard, with another arrow in his side and through his thigh, whipped the reins hard and Rosemary pulled at a tremendous speed. Adam attempted to take the reins, although Bernard would not give them to him.

"Shoot em, Deputy!" Bernard shouted, coughing. "Shoot them bastards!"

Adam aimed his rifle and despite the uneven conditions of the trail and the speed that Rosemary was pulling the wagon, he took aim at the ten or so on horseback, now pursuing them along the canyon ridge. He fired well, felling two with their faces caked in white clay as the others hollered in pursuit, waving decorated spears and lances on their painted horses. Arrows tinged off the metal cage as Ulysses swore and cursed their pursuers.

"Go back to hell," he yelled. "From which you came, you savage devils!"

Arrowheads continued to chime off the iron, only growing louder as their pursuers, on quicker steeds, got closer as the valley flattened out. Adam continued to fire and every chance he had to reload, he would look down and see Bernard struggling more to keep a good grip on the reins. Six pursuers remained by the time Adam reached down and picked up the shotgun. He shot, surprised by the kick, seeing the slug round tear through the white appaloosa's neck and tumble violently, downing the rider. He leveled and aimed again at a rider coming up on Bernard's side, readying a spear with decorative feathers flapping near the broad spearhead. The round tore through the rider, spraying blood and meat out in an explosion as the horse pulled away from the cart, with the headless man atop, eventually falling off long after.

Their murder cries pierced the afternoon as Adam continued fending the attackers off, becoming more conservative with his rounds as he knew they were becoming scarce.

"Here they come!" Ulysses shouted, as three riders came up on them, two on Bernard's side and one on the rear, waiting for an opportunity as Adam attempted to fell all three, but failing on his attempts and the riders pushed up as he worked to reload his weapon. Before he could load the last shells into the shotgun, one threw a spear at Rosemary, sending her to topple over herself and then the cart crashed as well. Pieces of wood shattered as the metal cage broke in an eruption of splinters and twisting metal. Adam hit the ground hard and lost consciousness for a moment, waking up, hearing Bernard groaning in pain and Ulysses, also in pain, hollering at Adam to get up.

"Get up, Deputy!" He cried out, pinned by the bent metal cage laying over his legs. Adam heard the sound of approaching hooves. All four riders, who fell back when Rosemary had been struck down, now came up to finish their chase. He pulled his pistol, which had somehow remained holstered and fired when one pursuer dismounted with a stonehead tomahawk only moments away from planting the crude blade into Adam's flesh. The man stepped back and fell as the other pursuers turned their attention on Adam, one readying a final throwing spear, but Adam struck that man down as well, firing into his neck and seeing a geyser of blood as the man, disoriented, wandered off to die, falling to the ground six steps from where he got shot.

"Look out!" Ulysses shouted, although it was too late. An attacker came up from behind him and kicked him hard in the head with his bare feet. His vision blurred when it came back, then it split into two identical views of a hollering native, hair shaved on the sides of his head and his face caked in white paint. There were flecks of blood on his white mask as he screamed holding a large flint blade above him, celebrating, before he reached down with his other hand and pulled hard at Adam's hair, near the roots, making Adam's neck arch up.

Before the man could scalp him, Adam heard a gunshot and then another and another, before the man's grip loosened on his head and fell next to him. Adam, disoriented, looked around and saw Bernard, laying weakly with his own pistol smoking. The last rider leapt off his horse and plunged a lance through Bernard, finishing the man's life abruptly as Ulysses cried out.

Adam looked around and saw his Colt in the dirt, knowing he only had two rounds left. He picked it up as Bernard's killer rushed over to him, leaping with a knife and thrusting it into Deputy Adam Wallace as the lawman fired his last two shots into the chest and gut of the last member of the warband. After the smoke cleared, the warband had been disbanded. All dead. Adam laid there, knife still between his left shoulder and breast. He couldn't move that arm and the Colt fell out of his hands.

"You alright, Deputy?" Ulysses called out as Adam groaned, leaving the blade in, although he had heard that some tribes oiled their blades with poisons. He knew if he pulled it, he would bleed out. Adam sat up in the dirt. It hurt to breathe. There was a pain in his legs that must have come from landing hard after being thrown from the wagon. He called out to Bernard, but the man never moved again.

"They got him, Deputy," Ulysses said. "Damn basterds got him. But he saved you, Deputy. Didn't know he could shoot that good."

As Adam dragged himself closer to Ulysses he had to force out his words.

"Are . . . Are you hurt?" Adam asked.

"I'm pinned," he said. "Pinned, but I think if I can get this cage off me a bit, I should be alright."

"You still shackled?"

"Yes, sir."

"And handcuffed?"

"Yes sir, but they's twisted some."

Adam got to the cage and some power came back into his arm.

"If you can help me lift it," Ulysses said. "I'll carry you into town. Get you help."

"What'll keep you from running off?"

"I ain't gonna leave you," he said. "Without you, we'd all be scalped and skewered. They woulda tortured me to death. I've seen their work. Knows you've, too."

The deputy knew his only option was trusting the man scheduled for his hanging day before tomorrow's sunset. He breathed hard and deep before grimacing in pain, readying for even more when they both lifted the heavy cage. Both men heaved, moving the cage only inches higher, but it was all they needed for Ulysses to unwedge himself and stand up, nearly unscathed from the scene of death and destruction around him.

He walked over to Deputy Wallace and stood there next to the man. They both knew the lawman's chances to live were dwindling. It would take some luck, perhaps God himself intervening, for Ulysses to carry Adam into town, into a doctor's office, and to be saved. It could happen. Men had been saved from death with similar wounds, but time was not on their side.

Adam attempted to see what the handcuffed and shackled man planned on doing, but his expression was near unreadable.

"Keys, Deputy?" Ulysses asked, but all the deputy could do was point towards the breast pocket of his black, bloodstained vest. Ulysses bent down and removed the key after he found it. He unlocked the shackles and then freed his wrists, tossing the restraints off the road into a bricklebush.

Ulysses kneeled next to Deputy Wallace, studying his wounds from battle and gauging all of his options that laid before him under that bright blue sky in the west.

Bass Reeves: Judgement Day
by Arnold Edwards

The setting sun dappled the land in a golden haze. Three horsemen plodded up a small incline into a stand of Cottonwoods and Scrub Oak. On the other side of this wooded island, a vast expanse of land stretched out before them, waist high buffalo grass swayed like ocean waves between them and to the next island of shrubbery and trees.

The lead rider, Charles Running Dog, pulled his tall gelding to a halt, the others two riders did the same. As a full-blooded Cherokee, The United States Marshals hired Charles as a tracker. Behind him rode Bass Reeves, the marshal in charge, and bringing up the rear, US Marshal Trip Banks on his first manhunt.

Charles dropped to the ground, looped his reins around the saddle's pummel. His horse bent down nibbling on patches of grass. Charles studied the ground. He hunched down for closer inspection.

"What'cha got, Charlie?" asked Bass.

Charles remained silent, scooped up a pile of what looked like dirt, smelled it, crumpled it back to the ground, and slapped his hands against his thighs, dusting them off.

"Horses," he said and pointed to a smaller clump of what looked like dried mud. "Human."

Next, he walked over to his horse, pulled out a field telescope and stood at the edge of the tree stand. Bass was a tall, rangy black man. He wore a tan vest over his black long- sleeved shirt. A shoulder holster filled with his Colt .38 six-shooter, and he sported a Colt .45 revolver on his waist in a conventional cross-draw holster.

"See somethin'?" he asked, climbing down from his gray stallion, walking over to the tracker. Without a word Charles handed the glasses to Bass and pointed across the huge expanse of the field of undulating grass.

"There, just past tree line, above tree tops."

Bass adjusted the glasses.

"What the hell y'all lookin' at?" asked Trip.

Charles turned to him and sliced his lips with his finger asking for silence. Bass still searched for what Charles pointed out, the only sound, the rustling wind through the Cottonwoods the only sound. Finally, he spotted what Charles saw. Smoke. A thin plume drifting about the tree tops.

"I'll be damned," said Bass.

"What?" demanded Trip.

Charles signaled him to come over. He dismounted and approached them. Bass handed him the glasses. "Straight ahead, just yonder above them trees."

"That them?"

"You best believe it."

"Jesus H. Christ," said Trip. "They certainly is full of themselves, ain't they? Doin' what they done and lightin' fires, hardly even tryin' to hide."

"Hell," said Bass, "they don't know we on 'em. They think they got clean away. Think we won't go after 'em 'cause they in the Badlands."

Trip headed back to his horse.

"Where you goin'?"

"Ain't we gon' go get 'em?"

"Not now."

"Whaddaya mean not now?"

"That smoke maybe three, four miles away. They see us comin' and they get to movin' again."

"But it's been three days, they still got Mrs. Talley with 'em."

Bass looked at the anguish in Trip's eyes, the hurt and rage playing out all at the same time. His first manhunt and he had to bite the bullet and stand down. Charles showed no emotion whatsoever, willing to let white men have their own way. But Bass was different. It was hard to understand how a black man could manage feelings and emotions concerning white people, but then again he was working for them. He didn't have to understand them, just do his job. Charles guessed Bass had his own reasons and let it go at that.

"I know, Trip, I know. But if they see us comin', they jest might decide to lighten they load before they rabbit outta there."

"But God only know what they been doin' to that poor woman."

"God ain't the only one, son. Believe me. We know. They done shot that li'l Ramirez boy and his grandma, stole those Arabians and took Mrs. Talley. We know what they been doin', but it will stop tomorrow. I promise.

"We camp here tonight and move before light. Take 'em before they awake."

"What if they place a guard?"

"They lightin' fires and got them a woman. Ain't gon' be no guard. Dry camp, fellas, no fires. We move out before dawn."

The three men broke the meeting. They unsaddled and rubbed down their mounts. Charles kept an eye on the smoke above the tree line in the distance.

Across the plain underneath that tree line sat four men, huddled around a small campfire; dirty, filthy, more the worse for wear. Draped in the shadows was a frightened, horrified Victoria Talley; clothes ragged, skin bruised, feet bare and swollen, blood coagulating in small and large cuts, eyes dried out from useless crying and begging. She's early forties, slim and fit despite the damage caused during this nightmare. What beauty she possessed was tossed aside on the trail bit by bit with every mile and every degradation she endured. Those hazel eyes were now so dull and listless, trying to distance herself from her reality.

Bodeen Pitts lounged near the fire, meanness carved in his eyes and etched throughout his entire being; a big, gruff man with an uneven, matted beard hanging on him like mange on a dog. Yellowish, brown crooked teeth sparsely populated his mouth.

Next to him was his younger brother, Bobby Joe; early twenties, equally big and distasteful, just as filthy. Their cousin, Pat Hooks, a slimmer version of the two brothers, but worse, sat across from them next to his sixteen-year-old son, Delmore, who looked like he would rather be anywhere on earth than where he was. Acne peppered his face giving it the texture of a hand puppet he once saw at a Punch 'N Judy show in Texarkana. His Adam's apple was as big as the real thing. A dirty bottle of cheap whiskey made the rounds. Pat tilted it greedily into his mouth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, continually talking.

"What're you catterwallin' about, Pat?" said Bodeen, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the fire causing it to hiss and sizzle.

"I'm sayin' it's my turn with this bitch."

"The hell it is," said Bobby Joe. "You done poked her twice already. I'm climbin' that hill tonight."

"Delmore here ain't had no turn yet," Pat said kicking at his son who barely got out of the way.

"That be Delmore's business. Ain't no givin' turns away now is there? 'Specially cooze."

Bodeen quietly listened to this interchange, really not caring and just pissed about all the fuss this woman was causing with this constant bickering. He should have put a bullet in her head from the start, but he felt pussy was scarce out here so he put up with the bitching. But after his next turn he just might blow her brains out and end all this quarrelling.

He felt he had to keep an eye on Pat. Cousins or not Pat couldn't be trusted in any situation. Bodeen eased his hand closer to his holstered pistol and slipped the tie off the hammer as Pat continued his plea.

"Delmore ain't never had none. Don't know what to do with it. I'm his daddy. I'm pokin' that bitch and Delmore gon' watch; learn what a man do."

Bobby Joe burst out laughing, joined by his big brother. They laughed until tears formed in their eyes. Pat seethed at the disrespect. He hated being the butt of their jokes.

"You gon' show him? Shit! Like you poked that whore in Elsinore? Couldn't git your whacker hard."

"Hell," said Bodeen. "That ain't surprised me none. Pat's pecker been in some mighty filthy holes; some strange ones too when they ain't no whores around."

Angered, Pat went for his gun, but Bodeen was ready. He whipped his Navy Arms out and clicked back the hammer.

"Ain't gon' be nunna that, Pat. You had a go and if Delmore cain't cut it, he just skipped. No giveaways."

The cocked and aimed Navy Arms simmered Pat down, but the fury bubbled beneath his skin. As he sat back down, he looked at his son, hauled off and backhanded him across his face. Delmore's head snapped straight back and he fell hard on the ground. Pat towered over him.

"Tommora, before we head out, you gon' mount that bitch like a man and I'm gon' make sure you do. Gon' make a man of you yet, goddamnit!"

Bobby Joe snickered out loud. He stood and snatched Victoria up onto her feet. She wailed and cried weakly trying to resist the inevitable. "Please, I . . . I can't. Please, I just—"

Bobby Joe yanked her closer and slapped her across the face.

"Shuddup! You ain't here to talk. I'm gon' put that mouth of yours to real good use real soon. Now c'mon!"

They vanished into the shadows, Bobby Joe dragging her along into the brush and trees behind the campsite. Pat sulked near the fire, poured the rest of the bottle down his throat.

Bodeen spat another stream of juice into the flames making it crackle again. Delmore remained on the ground glaring at this father's back, not wishing he was someplace else, instead wishing his father would simply cease to exist.

From the bushes Victoria cried, squealed, and begged while Bobby Joe grunted like a pig.

Dawn spilled out gray and feathery revealing the Marshals slipping through the grass approaching the thicket where their quarry waited. At the edges they dismounted and spread out with Charlie leading his horse to the back. Bass moved to the right, while Trip stayed in front. On Bass' signal they tied their horses down, and proceeded towards their target.

Inside the thicket, Bodeen slept fitfully near the smoldering embers of the campfire. Across from him Pat, mouth opened, drool pouring out. Delmore was awake, saw Trip and Bass advance, but never uttered a warning, just raised his hands.

Trip loomed over Bodeen, nudged him with the toe of his boot. All Bodeen did was mumble turning in his sleep. Next Trip kicked him hard in the ribs lifting him up off the ground. Bodeen shot straight up cursing and fumbled for his gun. Trip pointed his Sharp's .50 caliber buffalo rifle right between his eyes. "Go on, draw down if you want. I'd like that jest fine."

Bass pulled out his .38 and fired a shot in the air. Pat jumped up off the ground, the barrel of Bass's .38 looking like a huge tunnel with no light shining from the other end.

From the rear of the small clearing, Charles came through pushing Bobby Joe in front of him. Bobby Joe trying to hold up his unfastened, filthy pants, as Charles ushered him towards the group. The confusion on his face was beginning to surrender, replacing it with anger.

"What the hell is this shit?" asked Bodeen.

"Where's Mrs. Talley?" asked Bass.

Pat looked up at this black man standing in front of him asking about a white woman. "What's it to you, nigger?"

Charles shoved Bobby Joe into the fray of the moment. "She's in back," said Charles. "Bad shape, but said she'd be out soon. She was with this one." Charles shoved Bobby Joe into the middle, where he fell to the ground.

Bodeen gathered himself together and said, "What y'all want? We ain't done nuthn'."

Bass turned to face him. "Y'all boys kidnapped Mrs. Talley from her ranch four days ago, kilt her cook, Graciella Flores, and Miss Flores' grandson, Miguel, then stole them Arabians you got tied up over yonder."

"We done bought them horses, and the woman came with us 'cause she wanted to. Don't know nuthin' 'bout no killin's."

"We'll let the courts settle that," said Bass.

"I ain't doin' nuthin' some nigger say," declared Bodeen. With that Trip took a step forward and slammed the butt of his Sharps into Bodeen's face, breaking his nose, blood splattering all over his face and chest.

"Damn! You done broke my nose," he screamed, sprawled out on the ground.

"This here is U S Marshal Bass Reeves out of Fort Smith, Arkansas."

"Arkansas!" barked Pat. "You dumb assholes, we in Oklahoma. This ain't Arkansas. You ain't got no say here."

"You stupid sumbitch," said Trip. I said U S Marshal. U S stands for United States."

Bobby Joe laughed out loud. "Hell, what makes you think some nigger, some wet-behind-the-ear nigger lover, and a half-breed Injun Joe gon' get all four of us back to Fort Smith? That be a long travel."

"We'll make do," said Bass. As if on cue, Charles reached into the bag he had slung over his shoulder and brought out a handful of iron shackles and tossed them on the ground.

Pat eyed the manacles and spoke. "It ain't gon' be no easy trip for you, nigger. We gon' see to that."

Trip stepped back while Charles stepped in to start manacling the prisoners. As he began his task, a single gunshot exploded in the back where Mrs. Talley remained. The sound and singularity of the shot silenced and froze everyone.

Charles immediately drew his gun and raced back towards the gunshot. Seconds became minutes and seemed like hours before he emerged carrying the limp dead body of Victoria Tally, with Bobby Joe's gun belt looped around his neck.

A pall drifted over the marshals and young Delmore as Charles gently laid her down.

"That poor woman," said Delmore. "She ain't done nuthin' to nobody." He openly cried. Pat reached out and backhanded Delmore across his face. "What kinda man is you? Cryin' like some little girl. Goddamn you!" Then without regard to where he was or who he was with, Delmore charged his father, taking him by complete surprise, drove him to the ground and started beating him relentlessly. Pat was too stunned to move or react.

Finally, Trip pulled him off his father. Delmore shook Trip off and stood over Mrs. Talley's body crying unashamedly.

Despite his broken nose Bodeen smiled then spoke, "Now you ain't got no witnesses to what we was supposed to did. Shit, so take us back goddamnit! You got a handfulla nuthin'."

Bobby Joe managed a smile also. "Hell, she wasn't even a good fuck. I paid two dollars for better pussy in lots of nastier places."

His words stirred a morose Trip Banks, his face contorted in a mixture of hate and rage. By the time Bobby Joe pulled himself up to a kneeling position, Trip scrambled over and stood over him, brought the Sharps around and pulled the trigger, splashing blood, brain matter, and skull fragments all over the ground and his brother.

Everyone stood around in shock. Trip was immobile, frozen in time, finger still on the trigger. Charles walked over to him and helped lower the gun.

Bodeen was beside himself with rage. He charged Trip only to be knocked down by Bass. "What you done! He my baby brother! What you done! Now we got sumthin' to tell that judge back in Fort Smith. Goddamnit! Take us there, you done murdered my brother and you gon' pay for it now, yessir, you gon' pay for this."

Quietly, Bass approached Trip. The Sharps still leaked smoke from the breech and muzzle. The smell of cordite wafted in the small area. Bass could see the anger in Trip dissipating, being eaten away by guilt and shame.

"My God, what the hell have I done? Sweet Jesus."

Bass eased the rifle out of his hands and said, "You ain't done nuthin' that didn't need doin'."

"I just lost it. I done murdered an unarmed man."

"Yes, indeed, he was unarmed, but murder and man may not be the proper words here."

"What's gonna happen now?"

"Don't worry about it. We gon' take care of this."

Bodeen stood again. "Damn right you gon' take care of this! I'm gon' see to it! You gon' shackle him too? Like you gon' do us? Goddamnit, you better do somethin'."

Bass turned, eyed him with no expression whatsoever. "Don't worry," he said. "That be exactly what we gon' do."

A few hours later, the sum climbed to its summit in a cloudless sky. The rays bounced through the thick tree cover, splattering sunlight on the small gathering. They clustered around the rock covered mound as Delmore finished hammering in the rough-hewed cross at the head of the grave. Bass turned to him.

"Would you like to say somethin', son?"

Delmore looked up, eyes still streaming tears. "I don't have the words," he said.

Without hesitation, Charles Running Dog spoke a few words in his native tongue as Delmore delivered the final stroke to anchor the cross in the ground.

"Any ideas of what you gonna do?" asked Bass.

"I might have blood down near Hazleton. Farmers I think. My daddy wasn't too welcome most places."

"I understand."

Trip walked over leading a small mustang pinto, saddled with bags strapped to the rear. He handed Delmore two canteens of water. "I put a few days-worth of food in the bags. Should tide you over for a bit."

"Thank you, sir."

"No need. Just get on with your livin' and be somethin'."

"I'll try."

Delmore shook hands all around. Even Charles offered his with a non-committal grunt. Delmore climbed aboard and softly nudged the paint west out of the thicket.

"He gonna be okay," said Bass. "I can tell. He gon' be alright."

Trip looked away over Bass' shoulder. "What about them?"

Bass turned to view the three bodies hanging from the thick branch of a Cottonwood, swaying in the breeze, the branch creaking with each undulation.

"They can stay right where they be. Don't want them touching the ground where Mrs. Talley is resting."

"Why we hang that Bobby Joe. I already kilt him?"

Bass spat on the ground before speaking. "If anyone deserved to be kilt twice, it was him." Bass spat again. All three men mounted up, stringing the Arabians behind them. They each gave a cautionary glance back at the grave of Victoria Talley, each man figuring justice was served, rough as it was.