A Hard Road to Big Spring
by Gary Clifton

"Joe Henry, betcha two bits you ain't got a chance in hell at takin' down another one o 'them buzzards circlin' their supper over there with that iron yer packin'," the trail boss called out."

"Aw, hey, Boss, like I said that day in Oklahoma, that was just a lucky shot.""

Last day of the cattle drive, August 1889 and pay day was first thing the next morning. Joe Henry Murphy was barely two weeks past his nineteenth birthday when he'd let himself be persuaded to sign on with a San Antonio to Abilene, Kansas cattle drive at the beginning of summer. With eleven other hands, he'd been on the trail just short of three months, riding herd on two thousand head of Texas Longhorns up the remnants of the old Chisholm trail.

Big, robust and gentle as a new pup, he'd grown up on a hard scrabble cattle ranch west of Big Spring, Texas, the youngest of seven boys born to a stern lay minister father and a deeply Baptist mother. The old man had taught the boys to shoot with a pre-Civil War era muzzle loading rifle. Joe Henry Was always the best shot. When he'd acquired an old and worn Colt Navy .36 caliber revolver, he was amazed how the better tooled weapon made him feel he couldn't miss.

The trail boss was chiding him over an incident near Oklahoma City early into the drive. A calf had drowned crossing the Canadian and a hand had lassoed and dragged the carcass to dry land. When buzzards began their hovering, Joe Henry had dismounted from his gray mare, Ruth, taken careful aim, and brought down one of the scavengers - a feat unheard of with a handgun. The shot raised his youthful status significantly among the crew. But Joe Henry, placid and easy going to a fault, insisted from the get-go, that the shot was pure luck.

His best friend, Cicero "Pepper." Blunt, the person responsible for enlisting Joe Henry on the drive, chimed in. "Joe Henry, if you had a Winchester, betcha you coulda brought down the whole kaboodle. But, remember, buzzards gotta eat, too, partner," he chuckled.

Blunt had grown up on a ranch similar to the origins of Joe Henry, just twenty miles north from the Henry spread. They had gone to church together, attended rare social events or holiday family meals and remained close. A traveling preacher had tagged him with the nickname "Pepper" for the excessive use of the condiment pepper on his barbeque at a church social. Often chided for his unusual name "Cicero", he had been grateful for the exchange. He encouraged and actually nurtured the moniker, the only name most knew him by at present.

Today's similar buzzard shooting situation had developed while the cowboys were slowly circling the herd, waiting for space in the Abilene stockyards. Joe Henry's huge Great Pyenes, Noah, had softly barked at a cluster of vultures circling above some unidentified carrion just to the south. The boss's challenge came as Joe Henry was telling the dog to save his warning to a more important prey.

Noah, a combination burglar alert, tracking expert, lover of children, and affectionate companion, was a normally passive, outwardly gentle animal. He'd been confirmed by the feed store scale back home at a hundred and seventeen pounds. When necessary, he could become a very large bundle of romping hell. The trail drive hands had been amazed when Noah had ripped a pair of large Timberwolves to shreds down in Oklahoma after the predators had attacked a calf. The crew had also been delighted to learn that no one, friend or foe could slip up on Noah at any time, night or day, sound asleep or wide awake, a priceless tool on a cattle drive.

The boss altered the bet, "Joe Henry, ask if you can borry that old Winchester in Slim there's scabbard . . . if he's got any cattridges for it."

The grizzled old cowboy's grin revealed an irregular pattern of gaps in missing front teeth. He handed the well-worn old Winchester model 73, 40-33 caliber rifle over to Joe Henry. "She's loaded awright. Ain't got but three cattridges. They four cents apiece, boys.",

Joe Henry dismounted Ruth and jacked a round into the chamber. He knelt on a knee, held a bead on the circling birds, and squeezed the trigger. A buzzard tumbled out of the sky. A round of guffaws, skeptical hurrahs, and congratulations erupted from the hands. No one was more surprised than Joe Henry.

Before noon the following day, with the herd loaded in railcars for shipment up east, the entire crew lounged around or slumped in their saddles outside the City Bank of Abilene. The boss exited the bank with a heavy sack. "Sorry, Boys, all I could get was twenty-dollar gold pieces. Y'all are going to have to find change somewhere on the trail."

At that, they went their separate ways. Joe Henry and Pepper decided to ride straight south across East-Central Kansas, then angle southwest across Oklahoma to Big Spring due south of the western Oklahoma border. Being young and restless, the pair started that afternoon. By early afternoon the next day, they estimated they'd traveled thirty-five miles south of Abilene. Both were packing four twenty-dollar gold pieces.

A rag tag collection of buildings appeared through the hot, blowing prairie dust. Joe Henry said softly, "Pepper, I'm gonna stop in this next little town and try one more time to make change for some 'a this gold. No place 'tween here and Ft. Worth's gonna take a twenty-dollar piece. We could starve with good money in our pockets. Maybe I could pick up a good buy on a Winchester."

"Joe Henry, I'm thinkin' yer wastin' time . . . but I'll go along." He grinned. "But you wanna be careful roun' these towns. Plenty of sorry hombres waitin' to relieve you of that gold."

Joe Henry flashed a toothy grin. He was a youthful mind that if he tended to his own business, no one would molest him. A gentle giant, he could have counted on his fingers the number of times he'd lost his temper throughout his lifetime. A deeply religious young man, he'd initially been chided by other hands on the drive for holding church services in the wild, although eventually most crew sat in on his impromptu sermons.

"Let's go Ruth." He spurred his gray mare off the faint trail toward the cluster of buildings. Pepper reluctantly followed. Noah, all-purpose Great Pyrenees, brought up the rear.

As they neared the town, they passed a crudely painted sign: "Jimville, County Seat of Logan County, KS. Yer bidness is welcome, trouble ain't."

Joe Henry chuckled, "Jimville don't look so hot from a distance."

Pepper laughed. "Joe Henry, I'm bettin' she ain't any better up close. No way they gonna have change for a twenty-dollar gold piece, and they sound meaner 'n hell."

"We're goin' bankin' partner, not lookin' for any trouble."

Joe Henry spotted East Second Street which showed promise of heavier population and rode west. Eventually they found the hitch rail in front of the Cattlemen's Bank, a brick front building standing among hastily built wooden storefronts. Joe Henry ordered Noah to flop on the boardwalk. He pushed through the double bank doors into a situation which would change his life forever.

"Hands high, both y'all!" growled the rangy, trail dust covered, thirtyish man who stood in the middle of the lobby, pointing a Colt at Joe Henry's chest. A second, dirty, unkempt man behind the counter, was filling a sack with cash from drawers. Several terrified bank customers stood with their hands raised. Pepper's hands shot up.

Joe Henry studied the man with typical calm.

"Drop them gun belts, hayseeds, now! Empty yer pockets, quick."

Pepper's Colt hit the floor with a heavy thud. He dug frantically in his pocket, willing to surrender three months wages without complaint.

Joe Henry wasn't so sure. He slowly reached to unbuckle his Colt. The gunman stepped forward, poking his pistol sharply into Joe Henry's chest.

Pepper, standing partly behind Joe Henry, complained, "Hey man, no need to hurt nobody."

The man stepped back and shot Pepper just below the heart. The friendly youth coughed blood as he hit the floor, dead.

Joe Henry, stunned and filled with terrible anger, started for his Colt.

A graying man, waving a Colt, barged headlong through the door, inadvertently shouldering Joe Henry to the floor. "I'm Sheriff Clarence Smith. Drop that pistol!" he shouted at the gunman.

The bank robber fired twice, the bullets striking the sheriff in his chest two inches apart. The officer fell beside Joe Henry, spasmed in death briefly and stopped breathing.

The bandit behind the counter vaulted over into the lobby, dragging the sack of cash behind him. "Whut the hell, Will, you've shot the law. We need to clear, right now."

To the surprise of all in the lobby, Joe Henry rolled on his back, yanked his Colt and put a round in each bandit's chest. The second man fell across the sack of cash face up, his eyes fixed on eternity. The outlaw who'd been called Will, hit the floor face down, gasped several times and shuddered in death. A woman screamed. A burley cowboy fainted.

"Hero," "Brave," and "Wonderful" were prominent among words bantered about by bystanders.

Joe Henry said nothing more. He stood, devastated by his best friend, alive and well seconds earlier, now sprawled in death on the floor.

"Heavens, now Logan County's got no sheriff," a woman wailed,

"But they's a couple of deputies" a fat man replied.

A balding, obese man in a brown business suit clambered from under a spacious desk behind the counter, brushed himself off, and rushed over to help Joe Henry to his feet. "Lord 'a Mercy sir. You've saved the day. I'm Hiram Speed, son, Mayor of Jimville and owner of this bank. To whom do I have the pleasure . . . ?"

Joe Henry, Smoking revolver in hand, interrupted. "Are there more? Did anyone see a third man ride away . . . or maybe lurking around before the robbery?"

A couple of cowboys dashed outside and returned quickly. "Two horses hitched alongside, but nobody seen a third man," one reported.

Hiram Speed said, "Nobody lurked around, young man, and I saw these two hitchin' out of sight 'roun there. Sent a boy to fetch the Sheriff. Tarnation, that didn't work out too good." He gestured to the Sheriff's prostrate body.

Joe Henry studied the exasperated banker. He felt uneasily that this talkative man generated a negative edge he couldn't quite place. Not one to offend, he holstered his Colt and fighting back tears said, "Sorry, sir, I'm Joe Henry Murphy. Me 'n my partner here was ridin' back to Big Spring, Texas. Couple days ago, we got paid off for near three months of droverin' a herd up from San Antone to Abilene. "

A man wearing an undertaker's suit arrived, followed closely by two men with badges pinned on their chests. One, a beardless youth about Joe Henry's age. knelt by Sheriff Smith's body in tears. "Dad! Oh God, Dad!"

The second deputy, a fortyish obese man with graying temples disappearing into his Stetson, leveled a Colt, hammer back, at Joe Henry. "On the floor, cowboy," he snapped.

Hiram Speed cried out, "Hold on, Barger, this young man saved the day. The robbers shot the sheriff and this man's companion, then this spunky young fella here killed both bandits. Saved our lives."

"And saved your money, Speed," Barger replied. Holding his pistol on Joe Henry, he demanded, "Show some identification, boy."

Joe Henry, eyes cold, said softly, "Stop pointin' that iron at me."

Hiram Speed said hurriedly. "Better lower that weapon Barger, while you still have a choice. We all just saw what he can do with that Colt."

"I'm the senior lawman now." He continued to hold his pistol on Joe Henry. "Lemme see whut's in your pockets, now!"

Joe Henry, suddenly realizing that the scruffy deputy appeared capable of stealing the gold pieces in Pepper's and his pockets, saw hesitation in Barger's eyes. The man was a coward. "Deputy, my partner and the Sheriff are murdered and I've done for the men responsible. The banker and the rest of these folks can vouch for that. Now either put that Colt to use or holster it . . . quick!" An innocent youth minutes before, he was surprised at his grit.

The youthful deputy, bent over his father, sobbed, "Dammit, Barger, we've had enough killin'."

Barger lowered his shifty eyes and holstered the pistol. "Cain't never be too careful."

Banker Speed sighed and nodded to Joe Henry, "Whut brought you two to our bank, anyway, sir?"

"Needed change for some twenty-dollar gold pieces, sir. We walked in and encountered them two robbin' the bank. They murdered my partner and I guess I jes' acted. I'm no gunfighter, sir."

"You coulda fooled all of us, son."

Barger growled, "See, banker, we need to hold that money as evidence. They prolly stole it someplace."

Joe Henry turned full face to Barger. "One more word outta you, sir and you'll need that Colt. Now ease on outta of here."

"Whut the . . . ?" Barger stammered. "I'm the law."

Joe Henry laid his hand on his Colt. "That's way more than one word, mister. Out!"

Barger turned back and hesitated, his hand near his pistol. Noah crashed through the closed screen door, leapt and caught Barger in the chest with all one hundred plus pounds, driving the belligerent lawman to the floor against the bank counter. His Colt slid across the floor, out of his reach.

Joe Henry said softly, "Now on your feet. Go sit on the boardwalk and wait for the mayor here's instructions. Noah will go with you. Let him up, Noah."

Barger scrambled through the shattered screen doors and sat meekly on the curb of the boardwalk. Noah followed and lay quietly watching him.

Joe Henry walked over to the double doors and surveyed the boardwalk. Noah was on the job. Barger wasn't right, nor someway was the fat banker, but intuition was far from proof. He turned back to the horrible bank scene.

Inside, Hiram Speed, said, "Good Lord, son, I can't begin to imagine how you must feel at the loss of your friend. Besides owning this bank, I'm also the owner of the local funeralizing parlor. We can arrange burial services right away . . . at no charge to you of course. It's the least we could do."

Joe Henry studied the rough-hewn floor. "Pepper needs to be took back to his mama in Big Spring."

"Son, Big Spring's gotta be five hunnert miles. Most it plenty rough country . . . and hard case people. Body's gonna deteriorate. Best use the local cemetery."

"Mr. Speed, I read in Harper's about a powerful new treatment called embalmeration . . . or such like. Me 'n Pepper both carryin' four twenty-dollar gold pieces . . . cattle drive pay. Can you fix Pepper up for eighty dollars?"

"It's called embalming. Like I said, son, we'll do whatever is necessary at no charge, including the cost of the finest coffin we can put together. Joe Henry, impressed at the banker's generosity, wondered why.

During the next two nights, Joe Henry camped on the prairie with his animals while making plans to transport his slain friend home. He swapped the twenty-dollar pieces of both he and Pepper, then purchased a team of horses and a spring wagon. He bought two forty-pound bags of oats, twenty pounds of red beans, a fairly new Winchester, a box of ammunition for each the rifle and his Colt and other supplies, all from the local feed store. Fully equipped, he had just over fourteen dollars remaining. He calculated that with equipment, supplies and Peppe's coffin, scant space would be left for Noah to hitch a ride in the cramped wagon bed. The relatively small rig was about the size of a buckboard.

On the third day, he attended funeral services for Sheriff Smith. On learning from the Sheriff's heartbroken son that his father was a widower, he sat with the young man. He noticed that in the sizeable numbers of mourners in attendance, Deputy Barger was not present.

He overheard talk that Deputy Barger, humiliated in the bank robbery, had just drifted out of town.

Coincidentally, he learned that Pepper's brindle gelding had been stolen from the local livery. Never inclined to make rash accusations, he quietly vowed that if he ever encountered deputy Barger again, the crude lawman had best not be in possession of Pepper's horse.

Then the pot became more lucrative. Banker, mayor, undertaker Hiram Speed approached Joe Henry after the burial. "Mr. Murphy. I just received a telegram. The bank robber you gunned called "Will" is William Northcutt Winston, wanted as the Carlsbad Kid. The U.S. Mail and the Denver/Northern Railroad was offerin' rewards dead or alive . . . train robbery and murder."

Joe Henry typically waited patiently without comment.

Speed continued. "Reward totals just over seven hundred dollars. On my authorization, the money arrives at my bank after three p.m. today."

"You're sayin'?"

"It's yours. Stop by the bank before you leave town. I'll arrange to transfer the total to your bank down in Texas. You don't want to carry that kind of money on the trail."

Speed was stunned at Joe Henry's lack of reaction. "Don't have a bank, Mr. Speed."

"First Drovers Bank of Big Spring are associates of mine. They're fully insured. Your money will be waiting on you, safe and sound." Speed handed over a stack of documents which he explained were proof the reward money was legally Joe Henry's. Joe Henry glanced at them before folding them up and stuffing them in his pocket.

Joe Henry, unschooled in such transactions, said, "I wouldn't want to have to come back up here, Mr. Speed."

Speed, not below skimming a share of complicated money affairs, had seen Joe Henry in action. He'd studied the husky boy's cold eyes and heard the edge in his voice. Reaching up to place a hand on Joe Henry's shoulder, he said, "We've had enough grief here, son. Your money is safe." He pulled out his wallet and handed Joe Henry a hundred dollars in U.S. Gold certificates. "Yours in good faith, son. I'll deduct the cash from your account when your money arrives."

"Not sure I'll need this money, Mr. Speed." Joe Henry reluctantly stuffed the bills in his pocket.

Early the next morning, Joe Henry headed his team south with Pepper's coffin roped in the bed, Ruth reined to the tailgate, and Noah trotting behind. Hiram Speed had planned a formal departure, but Joe Henry had opted to leave early to avoid the commotion.

As he cleared the town, a cowboy called out, "Heard you hit the mother lode, kid."

Joe Henry ignored the man, but wondered what it meant and who might have sowed such seed. In a few miles, he quickly forgot the incident and moved on South.

He camped in the open under beautiful starlit skies the first two nights, estimating he'd made over twenty miles each day. The midday Kansas heat faded to nighttime chill and the trip was uneventful. He felt comfortable estimating the trip would take around four weeks.

On the third night, his luck changed. Lightning and thunder, drifting in ominously from the west developed into blowing rain. Joe Henry roped an oilcloth over Pepper's coffin, making a cramped shelter beneath the wagon for Noah and him to squeeze closely for a semi-dry night.

At first, Joe Henry was not surprised when Noah spent the night restlessly, pushing out of the makeshift tent countless times to sniff the rainy air. He figured Noah had picked up the scent of a wolf or a pack of coyotes, driven from shelter by the storm, and gave the matter no further thought.

But the following day, Noah again was agitated and restless. Several times, he jumped onto the spring wagon, nervously nudging Joe Henry in the ribs.

Joe Henry realized Noah wouldn't show such behavior over the scent of prairie predators—unless they were the two-legged kind. He checked the loads in his Winchester and Colt, then began carefully studying the surrounding terrain. If somebody was following him, he had no clear idea why or who.

Early in the day, Noah's ears perked up when the faint report of a gunshot, then two, wafted up from the south . . . ahead of him. Then the sounds stopped.

Near to midday, like lightning from a sunny sky. a rifle round whined no more than a foot over his head. Joe Henry slapped the team with the rein trace and, at the best gallop the heavily burdened team could make, headed for a cluster of spruce trees ahead. Noah bounded off the wagon and made a straight line toward a small rise off to the left. A round kicked up dust in front of the angry dog. "Noah, come here!" Joe Henry shouted.

The big white animal hesitated, then obediently turned and was back on the wagon in seconds. Joe Henry gambled, stopping, which made him a stationery target. In three seconds, he sent three Winchester rounds along the ridge line near the point Noah had been heading. He lowered the Winchester and pulled into the limited safety of the Spruce thicket. "Noah, stay. They must be wantin' our horses or they woulda tried to wing one of 'em. These trees aren't much protection, but maybe we can spot one of 'em up there." He tethered the team and Ruth to separate spruce branches and settled down to wait.

Another rifle round ripped through the treetops overhead. Joe Henry figured the shooter or shooters were firing downhill, making accuracy difficult.

He whispered to Noah, "God found us a pretty good location. Let's crawl over there and see if one of these bushwhackers makes a mistake. Boy, you got any idea who'd be shootin' at a coffin?" Several more rifle rounds crashed through the spruce.

At the thicket's edge, he poked his Winchester barrel to the edge of the brush and waited. Shortly, a Stetson showed, then a forehead at a distance too far away to recognize, but within range.

"Noah, that's one big mistake." He held his bead on the spot. In seconds, the hat reappeared about a yard from the original spot. Joe Henry squeezed the Winchester trigger. On the ridge, an arm flew up. The hat sailed upward, then flew away on the wind.

"Well, Noah, somebody's havin' a bad day. Now we wait to see if somebody else makes a mistake. Whoever is shootin' is an amateur."

Minutes passed, then the big part of an hour. "Noah, you don't reckon that first fella was alone do ya?"

The dog stared back at him quizzically.

"C'mon Noah, the horses are secured. What say we try to flank an old boy who might be missing part of his head?"

In a half hour, crawling in the two-foot-tall crop of summer prairie grass, Noah growled a warning. They were near another human, unknown if dead or alive. Then Noah found the body. Both Joe Henry's aim and first guess had been correct. His round had carried away part of the man's head, leaving him unrecognizable.

The assailant was wearing a duster, an overcoat worn to protect clothes beneath, usually meaning he was wearing fine clothing. Joe Henry opened the duster. The corpse was dressed in a silk business suit. "Somebody dressed up to kill us, Noah."

A black gelding was grazing nearby. Noah's fine nose found no scent of any other animal or gear of additional men. The bushwhacker had either been alone, or his partners had been holed up some distance away.

Joe Henry caught the black mare, fully saddled. Leading the animal, he crept low back to the spruce thicket, saddled Ruth, and with Noah, circled the area several times. They found no other human sign. He tied Ruth and the black mare to the rear of the spring wagon and started warily south.

Joe Henry had made about ten miles when a scratchy man's voice called out from a buckbrush thicket, "Hold it right there, Cowboy. I'm the Sheriff of Davis County. Throw your weapons in the back of your wagon and drive the team over here toward my voice. Any move for a weapon and we will shoot." His voice was familiar.

The shooter must have had others who now intended to finish the job. He intended to resist. Joe Henry, picking up on the "we," pretended to follow the voice's instructions. Not fully convinced he was dealing with the law; he slid his Colt beneath a duster on the seat of the spring wagon.

"Keep on comin' . . . straight ahead," the voice directed.

Joe Henry pulled up twenty yards from the buckbrush.

"Closer!" demanded the voice.

Joe Henry called out, "No closer` 'til somebody shows some tin."

A pair of dirty men on foot, each leveling Winchesters at Joe Henry, pushed out of the thicket. Each wore a silver badge on his -left chest.

The normally unflappable youth was genuinely surprised when the man who been shouting at him showed himself. He was mounted on a brindle gelding . . . Pepper's horse!

"Deputy Barger, you're quite a piece from Jimville. See ya' got a new horse. Lose your way?"

"Naw, hayseed, jes' collectin' that seven thousand Banker Speed give to ya'."

"Seven thousand? Surely you mean seven hundred?" He leaned his left leg against the colt beneath the duster.

"No, no, hick boy. Speed said he give you seven grand. The money was insured by the railroad and the government. We take your seven grand, he steals it back from the government and them railroads. Whut Speed did was his bidness. He slow trailed you down here. Tol' me yisterday, he meant to bushwhack you this mornin'. Now git down and pony up the cash."

"Barger, you're in for one big disappointment. I'm carryin' less than twenty dollars gold, plus a hundred in gold certificates. If Speed would lie to me, what makes you think he wouldn't do the same for you?"

"Jes' get down from there and gimme the money, kid."

"Was that Speed I killed back there?" He gestured, using the movement to secure a grip on his Colt.

"We wasn't needin' him no more. Fact 'a bidness, we never needed him. He jes' decided to do our job . . . ambush you.

Joe Henry recalled the distant gunfire he'd heard earlier. "Who ya' been shootin' at down this way, Barger?"

"You, if'n ya' don't hand over the money. That shootin'was jes' Cedric there, killin' a couple rabbits for dinner" He pointed his chin at one of the two "deputies" holding Winchesters at Joe Henry. "We thought we was outta earshot."

"Pretty stupid, Barger."Joe Henry had no choice but to try his newfound gunfighter skills. Cottonmouth quick, he whipped out his Colt and put a bullet in the chest of each of the men pointing Winchesters at him.

Both were dead when they hit the ground. His third shot caught Barger in the gun hand shoulder, knocking him off Pepper's horse. He fell heavily into the thorny brambles, screaming in pain.

Joe Henry stood over Barger. "Is that wild tale you just offered got any truth in it?"

Barger writhed in pain. "Doctor . . . for God's sake, I need a doctor."

"We're many miles from a doctor, Barger. You maybe shoulda thought on that before you commenced tryin' to murder me. Gimme two good reasons why I shouldn't let the air outta you right here." He gestured angrily at Pepper's coffin. "I'm hauling the results of your bank robbery caper home to his mama. Got no time for you, pard."

"Oh God, nooo!" Barger pled upward from the thorny brush. "Don't kill me!"

"Tell me . . . exactly what was the plan?"

"Uh . . . Speed had insurance on some of the bank's deposits. Will and his cousin were inlaws of mine. Speed hired them to rob the bank. Another insurance deal someway. Then you two walked in. later, Speed somehow got word of a reward for Will. Tol' me it was seven thousand . . . that's a lottta money out here. Like I said, Speed tol' us to rob and finish you. When you didn't show down in Texas to claim the reward, he was gonna steal it. He insisted on comin' along. Then, you know he tried to waylay you, but you turned a trick and got him instead. Now for God's sake . . . a doctor." His voice trailed into a rattle.

Joe Henry considered his vow to murder whoever possessed Pepper's horse. But he was no murderer . . . not exactly. "Its only a few miles back to Jimville. Tough old boy like you can walk it."

Joe Henry coaxed Pepper's brindle mare close enough to grab her bridle. He tied the animal beside Ruth to the back of his spring wagon, climbed aboard, and started to leave. Barger fumbled with his waist with his uninjured hand and pointed a small, two shot derringer at him. "Haul me some damned place to find a doc or I'm gonna put one in your back, hillbilly.

Like an angry puma, Noah leaped from the wagon bed and ripped into Barger. He sprang back onto the wagon bed, the small, blood saturated pistol clamped in his teeth. Joe Henry pointed at the wagon floor. Noah dropped the gun. Joe Henry started south.

"My God, help. They'll eat me alive!" Barger shouted frantically. With the sound gradually fading, he hoarsely repeated himself until Joe Henry and moved out of earshot. "Noah, less than four weeks to go." He reached back and gave his partner a good ear scratch. From a corner of his eye, circling buzzards were gathering.

He smiled. "Like Pepper said, Noah, buzzards gotta eat, too."

The Road to Texas
by James Burke

Rex Kingston looked back over his shoulder at the plantation that had been his family's since 1805. More than half a century of wealth and prosperity reduced to destitution by the damned Yankees. Just a few miles outside New Orleans, his rice crops had fed everyone from rich to poor. Now because a Yankee president and a handful of Bible-thumping Yankee bleeding-hearts his labor force was gone and with it his entire livelihood. Even as he sat in the driver's seat of the head wagon the blue-bellies occupied New Orleans, thankfully that wind-bag Butler was gone, but his replacement was no better. And since he wouldn't degrade himself with an oath of allegiance to that crooked railroad lawyer of a president, all that was left was exile. Banishment from his own childhood home!

The soft hand of his wife snatched his gaze from the high, white pillars of the big house. Regina Kingston's face was somber but strong. Two decades his junior, her face had only just started to line and hairs began to gray at the base. He managed to ruffle his thick, gray mustache with a sad smile as he gently patted her hand. She nodded to him without a word. They still had their three little daughters, Dalila, Eva, and Jezebel, in the back of the wagon. The other two wagons were manned by his four sons, Seth, Ham, Julius, and Darius. All of whom had served in the army or militia. Their gray uniforms given to the nearest Swamp. Armed with pistols, hidden beneath their fine clothes and charged with defending the last of the family fortune with their lives.

Over the past few days they had rounded up all remaining family property, some of it stolen. Boxed it all up in about a dozen half-rotten crates speckled with holes. Six crates in the two rear wagons. One brother drove the horse team while the other braced in the back with a pistol drawn and a box of matches ready. If the Yankees, or anyone, tried to take what was theirs, they were to set the wagons ablaze. If they couldn't have their fortune, no one could!

Kingston hardened his face and his heart as he turned to the road ahead. Was about to shout the order to move out when a foreboding sight froze him solid. About a hundred yards out, where the plantation trail met the main road, stood a man in black perched upon a pale horse. Too far out to make out his features but there was something ominous about the man's gaze. Even at a distance, his eyes seemed to sear in Kingston's direction from the shade of his wide-brimmed hat. Like the rays of a summer sun. Then suddenly the stranger turned and rode off westward down the road. The stomp of hooves soon echoed.

"Rex?" Kingston turned to his wife's worried face. "Who was—"

"Nobody!" he cut her off. "Just a passerby. No doubt heading west of this blue-coat Hell himself," he grunted before waving a hand forward with a loud shout. With a snap of the reins the wagon train was on the move. Carrying a family's hopes and dreams to an uncertain future on the frontier in covered wagons. Like so many had before.

Even as they exited the plantation grounds, when uncertainty turned to thrill and soon after to hope, Kingston couldn't shake the Haunting gaze of the man in black from his mind.

It was a quiet ride to the Yankee checkpoint. No one bothered them nor even shot a second glance. Now sweat streamed from ever pore as Kingston frowned down on the searching glare of a Yankee officer. Several blue-bellies blocked the road with rifles at the ready. Fixed bayonets shone in the sunlight. The enlisted men's faces were no friendlier than the officer's.

The young lieutenant inquired about their destination with a thick Boston accent. The insufferable snobbery of a bible-thumping school teacher who thought he knew better than his elders. "We're going to Texas," Kingston grunted.

"On business?" the Yankee asked.

"Family business!"

"And your cargo?"

"Just necessities. And the last of our possessions. "

"Possessions?" the Yankee's eyes narrowed. Kingston mirrored his expression.

"I suppose you'll be letting your band of plundering vandals rummage through my wagons? I expected no less! You've already robbed us of our property and our livelihood. Suppose it's a miracle we can keep the clothes on our backs!" Kingston hissed. His face twisted into a lined and leathery scowl.

The Yankee stood unfazed. "Property and livelihood indeed," he repeated coolly. An egg could have been fried on Kingston's head and he knew it. Self-righteous fools like the young officer made his blood boil. Looked at him like he was King Herod himself! As if his kind were any better. A rush of panic swept through Kingston as two Yankees came from his rear on either side of the wagon. The crafty fiends had been checking the wagons from rear to front while the young pup pestered him!

The surge of horror subsided as the soldiers reported all was well. Only the family and their luggage. Nothing unseemly or suspicious. Kingston fought with all his might not to let a smug grin curve his mouth in the face of the lieutenant's disappointed frown. "On your way then," the Yankee ordered with a slight edge. It took all Kingston's strength not to do any more than nod.

With a wave of the lieutenant's arm the blue-bellies swept from the road. A snap of the reins and the Kingston clan was on their way again. The tense glares of the Yankees followed as they passed. When the third wagon cleared the checkpoint Mrs. Kingston gently grasped her husband's arm. He turned to a hopeful, but mournful, smile. "We've made it, my love," she whispered. Her voice broke into a sob as she finished.

Kingston was unmoved by his wife's optimism. Especially considering the man in black he saw smoking a cigar against a tree just past the checkpoint. Was it the same one as before? Didn't see the pale horse anywhere. Nor did he get a good look at his face. Kingston ventured a curious glance back over his left shoulder and immediately wished he hadn't. The man in black had vanished! Was it his imagination? His fears and anxieties playing tricks in his mind? He questioned his sanity in a cold sweat.

With a fierce shake of his head Kingston banished all doubt in his mental faculties. Any number of men wear black. He couldn't possibly be the same man. Even so it was likely a coincidence. He turned to his wife with a stern face. "When we get to Texas is when we've made it," he snapped. Mrs. Kingston blinked in astonishment at his hostility, but soon hung her head in understanding.

That evening they made camp in a meadow. A swamp to the north and a thick tree-line to the east and west. A narrow path to the south before reaching the quagmire road. Not the most desirable path west but it avoided most Yankee patrols. The sun set and their campfire crackled with coals. Supper had been meager, but kept hunger at bay. Darius, being the youngest boy at sixteen, was restless as ever. "Pa, you suppose we might break out some of . . . our fortune?" Darius ventured with a boyish voice. Kingston eyed his son with stern curiosity.

"To sell?" Seth, the oldest, looked at him like he'd taken leave of his senses.

"No! I just mean for . . . personal use," his father's eyes narrowed. Mrs. Kingston glared in disgust. The glow of the coals reflected the flames of damnation in both parents' eyes. "It's just there's nothing to do is all!" Darius slouched in pouty defeat.

"We might consider putting the stash on sale," Ham suggested. "Plenty of friendly folks between here and Texas. Could be even some Yankees'd be interested."

Kingston stood to thunder like an Olympian. "I'LL BE DEAD BEFORE I DO BUSINESS WITH A WRETCHED YANKEE!" All four sons bowed their heads in piety. Kingston trembled with rage for the better part of a minute. His fingernails dug painfully into his palms. He felt the red heat of his face, knew it was red as the hot coals that crackled beneath him. Eventually his puffing gasps of breath eased, like a steam engine run out of fuel. He sat back down and tossed a nearby log on the coals. His two youngest daughters stuck their heads out of the back of the head wagon to see if their papa's storm had subsided. Jezebel, the oldest daughter, emerged from the rear wagon with the bucket of left-over stew in hand. She approached the campfire tentatively. Kingston sighed, he never wanted to be seen as a tyrant. But everybody who ever lived on the Kingston estate knew to fear his temper.

"Pa, what's the point in saving our fortune if we can't use it?" Darius looked up to plead. His voice was almost a whimper. "We're already west of the Mississippi, we got past them Yanks without any trouble at all!"

"And you really think it's worth the risk?" Seth growled.

"Enough," Kingston snapped softly, but firmly. "When we get to Texas, then we'll talk. Until then, not another word about it." Sullen silence settled around the fire. Kingston knew there'd be no more than talk of trading. Until they were out of the country, their fortune had to be kept secret. At least until they reached Brazil.

"HELLO, THE CAMP!" a grizzled old Cajun voice called out of the darkness to the south. Instantly Kingston and his sons sprang to their feet and produced their pistols. Jezebel didn't need to be told to run for the front wagon with the other girls.

"WHO GOES THERE?" Kingston roared.

"TWO WEARY SWAMP FOLK, WE ARE. HAVE GOODS TO SELL, WE HAVE. PERMISSION TO COME IN?"

"JUST ONE OF YOU! OR ELSE WE'LL SHOOT!"

"FAIR ENOUGH, MISTER," the Cajun conceded. The gentle copping of mule hooves were heard and soon a man in buckskins led his pack animal into the glow of the fire. He looked near Kingston's age, with a filthy over-grown beard and straw hat. The warm smile under his unkempt beard only made him look menacing. "Got me some goodies here," he drawled before pulling two sacks off the mule. "A couple alligator tails, scaled and everything. And four big old catfish."

Kingston eyed the bags in the stranger's hands. One shook every few seconds, evidently his catch was still kicking. "Asking price?" He lowered his pistol.

"Cold hard cash is best. But I take it you ain't got no Yankee dollars, else you wouldn't be on the move. I could do with some tobacco or whiskey. If'n you ain't got nothing else?" he finished with a leading tone. Kingston shot Darius a warning glare, the young man hung his head.

"Seth, go on and fetch the man a bottle of whiskey," he ordered before fishing his own tobacco bag from his pocket. The stranger accepted both payments gladly and handed the sacks off to Seth. The fire's glow made the swamp-dweller's face look all the more hideous. Word was most Swamp folk mingled with Indians. Remnants of the Creeks and Seminoles. Kingston's stomach churned at the thought of it.

The stranger pulled another sack from his mule. "Got me a Cottonmouth in here! Gutted and skinned already. She a big one and good eating! You got anything tastier than baccy and liquor to trade for?" His leering smile made Kingston's skin crawl.

"Pa," Darius ventured.

"NO!" Kingston snapped with venom in his eyes. Again Darius slunk in embarrassment. The stranger only giggled.

"No hair off my hide, Mister," he took up the male's reins and led it back towards the main road. "Goodnight to ya. And pleasant dreams y'all. Pleasure doing business with ya!" he finished with a howling laugh as the darkness of night enveloped him. Kingston and his family kept silent as his mule's hoof beats faded.

Seth took the newly acquired food to the front wagon. The other boys settled back into their seats around the fire. Mrs. Kingston flipped open her Bible to resume her nightly reading in the fire's glow. Kingston's eyes remained affixed by the darkness to the south. Both men were still there. Somehow he knew it! Then, with a soft snap, a match lit up in the blackness and a weathered face returned his gaze.

A man dressed in black, or some darker color, glared at Kingston. Even at a distance of at least 50 yards he could see the blazing inferno in his eyes. The face turned downward slightly as his hand placed a cigar in his mouth and lit it with the match. The mysterious man shook out the match but the sparks of burning tobacco lingered as he puffed. A dragon seething in the shadows. Moments that felt like hours later, the faint clopping of hooves were heard as the two strangers rode off to the west.

"Pa?" Seth's voice chimed.

"My love?" Regina's hand touched his and Kingston took in a deep gasp as he realized he hadn't been breathing. His sons all pestered him about his health and prescribed a good night's sleep.

"I'M FINE!" Kingston snatched his hand away from his wife and snarled at his well-meaning boys. "I'm off to bed," he grumbled, as if it were his own idea to begin with. "You boys remember to keep watching in the back wagons, take it in shifts a few hours at a time!" He shook his nerves back into place as he stomped to the front wagon. It couldn't be the same man as before! Could it?

The next day went far smoother than Kingston expected. They broke camp at dawn after enjoying a hearty catfish breakfast. They were on their way before the full light of day was upon them and saw no sign of either stranger. Despite his daughters' pleading begs, Kingston refused to spend the night in the tavern at the nearby town. Too many new faces and not quite enough misery. Half the townsfolk had probably taken the oath of allegiance to the Union. Filthy traitors! Sniveling cowards! Even if he didn't have reason to fear prying scalawags and inquisitive Yankees, Kingston wouldn't suffer the same air as them any longer than necessary.

They made camp near sunset and made a decent supper of one gator tail and some preserves. Near the end of the meal Darius opened his mouth to speak only to be shot down by his father's vicious glare. As the sun began to set Kingston eyed their new campsite. Another meadow, this one hemmed in entirely by thick forest. Except for the narrow exit to the south. A sanctuary? A cage? Perhaps both.

The night had been peaceful. Only the chirping and chittering of nocturnal woodland creatures. A soothing chorus that eased Kingston to sleep. Until a banshee wail jolted him upright. Old instincts from his youthful days took over and in instants he sprang from his bedroll in the front wagon and was charging into the night with pistol in hand. Again came the scream and he nearly shot the ghostly white figure rushing towards him. Almost too late, he recognized his youngest daughter, Eva. The poor dainty, thing leapt into his arms and clung to him like the ledge of a cliff!

Soon the whole camp was awake. The Kingston boys stumbled from the wagons with pistols at the ready. Mrs. Kingston rushed to her husband and daughter's side with a lantern in hand. Eva's silk nightgown was torn and dirtier by bushes and bramble. "Eva, what on Earth?" Kingston panted.

"A ghost, papa!" she sniffled. Her father tried desperately hard not to let his sigh sound like a groan. Of all the silly, girlish things! Old wives tales and superstitions had brought him to the very brink of a panicked frenzy!

"Oh, silly child!" Mrs. Kingston gently chided. "There is no ghost!" Kingston suppressed his anger and patted his daughter on the back. Most likely an owl or some other night-time critter spooked her.

"But I saw his eyes, mama!" Eva whimpered. "Moonlight shone through the trees and I saw him in a black cloak! His eyes under a black hood, like Death himself! I screamed and I ran! I felt him grasp at me! And I heard him chasing me!"

Kingston went stiff before gently handing the weeping figure off to his wife. "Child, what on Earth were you doing out in the woods?" Mrs. Kingston asked. As the girl explained she was off to the privy, her father took the lantern from her mother and crept carefully out the way she came. The Kingston boys soon produced their own lanterns and followed after their father. Kingston checked both cargo wagons and found the crates undisturbed. He then followed his daughter's footsteps out to the woods. Held up a firm hand to signal his boys not to follow him. They obeyed with sullen acceptance but kept all the more watchful.

Tense minutes crept by as the Kingston boys eyed their father's lantern-light. A glowing specter scanning the dark corners of the wilderness. They sighed with relief as the light in the darkness approached with their father's footsteps. Their relief vanished at the sight of their father's pale and stiffened face in the lantern-light. Kingston waved off his sons' questions as he passed by like a man in a trance. He returned to his wife to find Jezebel had produced a lantern of her own. Eva clung to her mother but was no longer quivering or whimpering. Kingston shook himself and furrowed his brow into a stern frown.

"Nobody goes back to sleep!" he snapped, loud enough to be heard by his whole family. All eyes were on him. "We leave at first light. Jezebel, you know how to shoot. You'll be standing a watch along with your brothers and I each night. And from now on no more sneaking off in the woods. We'll select a bucket for the privy and keep it between the back two wagons." The Kingston family cringed in unison at the thought. He snapped at Darius to fetch a bucket for the purpose and turned to go check on the horses.

"But what about the ghost, papa?" Eva ventured cautiously. To the girl's horror her father flew into a rage. Snatched her roughly from her mother's embrace and cuffed her hard across the face.

"Shut up you sniveling brat!" he growled, unmoved by her resumed whimpering. "There ain't no, ghost!" he snapped before thrusting her back into Regina's arms. Ignoring his wife and children's shocked expressions, he stomped off to the horses with the lantern held high. Fumed at the child and himself. But he knew he was right. No ghost leaves boot prints in the dirt. Stupid girl couldn't even tell the difference between a black cloak and a black hat!

The next several days were tense as they were uneventful. The Kingstons were on the road before the day was bright. They saw no one for miles. Even then it was mostly deserted homesteads and towns occupied by weeping widows in black and skinny orphans in rags. Elderly and infirm men wet their whistles with bottles and hip-flasks. All eyed the travelers with numb envy.

Kingston had to harden his heart. It was tough times for all of them. It wasn't his fault they were even less fortunate than him. But he had greater fears. Numerous times he considered breaking out the contents of the locked box in the front wagon. No! Not the time for that. Not yet! But his right hand scarcely left the holster at his side.

Time and again each day Kingston drew his pistol at the first sight of a man in black. Each time he awkwardly holstered the weapon with a grimace towards the innocent bystander. At one point he very nearly murdered a catholic priest! As the days of journey dragged on Kingston began to question his sanity. Was Eva's attacker even the same man? Was the Cajun peddler's companion the first night even the same man he'd seen at the Plantation and Yankee checkpoint? Maybe not, he tried to convince himself. But his mind could never truly settle the matter. He slept little at night and what few winks he did catch were haunted by glaring eyes in match-light. The black hat casting the faces features in shadow. Only those horrible, vengeful eyes!

They were barely a day's ride from Texas when the Kingstons stopped at a small town. The sight of it brought a scowl to the patriarch's face. Men of fighting-age roaming the streets unashamed. Un-widowed women smirking and gossiping. Children laughing and playing. Free blacks, runaways most likely, selling their own goods and speaking freely to whites. Scalawag-country! Filthy traitors! Kingston's hand gripped his pistol for a new reason.

No! Not now, not when his family and the remains of his fortune were at stake. He choked down every drop of his pride, released his pistol, and dismounted the wagon to enter the general store. He spoke no more than necessary. Purchased bacon and cornmeal, the first he'd seen of either in ages. Cuddling Yankees had its benefits. Keeping his patriotic sentiments private, Kingston paid the man and returned to the wagon with supplies in hand.

After loading the food he climbed up into the driver's seat beside Regina. Was about to snap the reins when a familiar voice caught his ear. He turned down the street to see the friendly Cajun peddler who sold them catfish and gator tail that first night of the journey. Same unkempt, hairy face. Same buckskins and straw hat. The old wretch took no notice of them. Jovially greeted the locals with a yellow-toothed smile, offering them freshly caught catfish and various other wares. His dark and mysterious friend was nowhere to be seen. But Kingston ran cold as he eyed the pale horse hitched to a post beside the Cajun's mule.

Kingston willed his heartbeat to slow down. Took deep gasps to control his breathing. No! It couldn't be the same one! There could be any number of horses that color. But that peddler? Could he have been heading this way all along? Could it just be a coincidence?

Regina grasped his arm firmly and asked what ailed him. Unwilling to trouble her with his fear, Kingston shook himself and brushed her hand away. Insisted it was nothing. Just couldn't abide all those Yankee-lovers! Damned treason it was! He'd see the whole town burn if he could!

The anger burned steadily in Kingston for hours. Even as the sun vanished over their campsite in the woods. Dark clouds blanketed the stars with the rumble of thunder. Still he seethed silently into the campfire. Regina and the children avoided his glaring gaze. Conversation was kept at a minimum. Gathered around the fire, the family's tense eyes spoke for them. What had they said? What had they done? Was it really those scalawags in town getting to him? Their father ignored them. Stood only to toss more logs on the fire. Fueling the flames and his rage.

They ate their dinner in the loudest silence ever. Broken occasionally by encroaching cracks of thunder. Lightning stabbed illuminating flashes about the camp. Jezebel shivered in one such flash as she exited the back wagon with a bucket of oatmeal, fanning her nose in disgust. The fire was burning low again. It's glow weakened and waned. Kingston sat like a statue. His eyes turned up from the flames and gazed into the darkness of the woods around them. Another sharp flash of lightning lit up the camp for a split second. Shadows stilted in the trees beyond. In the instantaneous illumination there was movement among the shadows. Not the swaying of branches or trunks, nor the graceful bounding of woodland creatures. One of those shadows in particular froze Kingston's blood.

The family patriarch rose with a roar. All but muted in the rumble of thunder which followed instants after the lightning. His wife and children gasped in horror as Kingston rushed to the front wagon in a frenzy. He ripped a key from his pocket like a dagger from its scabbard, stabbed it into the long lock-box behind the driver's seat and tore it open to reveal its contents. Moments later he emerged from the wagon to thrust loaded Henry Repeating Rifles in the shocked faces of his sons. One rifle he kept for himself and placed his Colt into Jezebel's trembling hands. Lightning and thunder burst in unison as the storm arrived. Rain drops began to patter like so many encroaching footsteps.

"CHECK THE WAGONS!" Kingston roared. His sons sprang into action. Regina rushed the girls to the front wagon. Kingston stomped after his sons. Seth and Ham called out as they secured the second wagon. Their father said nothing as he marched on to the rear wagon. His finger gripped the trigger. His eyes pierced the cloth covering of the wagon, as if he could see through to the intruder within.

"YOU! HALT!" Darius barked into the wagon from the driver's seat. He fired his rifle only to topple over as a pistol shot replied. Screams engulfed the camp. Kingston sneered as Julius foolishly dropped his rifle and lunged to his fallen brother's aid. With a guttural war cry he shouldered his rifle and fired thrice into the fabric ceiling of the rear wagon. Boot steps trampled to the wagon's rear and Kingston rushed in pursuit. A shadowy figure leaped from the carriage mere yards ahead of him. A flash of lightning instantaneously showed a black hat and jacket vanish into the trees.

With a frenzied howl Kingston emptied his Henry into the trees. Half his mind cursed his foolish waste of bullets, the other half desperate to rid himself of the cursed phantom. Desperate to protect his fortune. Desperate for peace!

Thunder and lightning mingled with bursts of gunpowder and lead. Kingston toppled to his knees as bullets zipped past him like so many horse flies. He mechanically took aim but squeezed the trigger only to hear a dry click. With a muttered curse he fled for his life. Briefly noticed Julius and Darius firing into the darkness. Blood stained the arm of his youngest. Kingston wasted no sigh of relief as he ran. Narrowly avoided Seth and Ham's gunfire as he rushed past them into the front wagon. Ignored his wife and daughter's screams as he rummaged the rifle crate for boxes of cartridges. After loading his weapon he rushed out with his arms full. Frantically tossed a few boxes to the ground between Seth and Ham.

"All the ammunition we have, don't waste it!" he thoughtlessly barked before clumsily rushing to the rear wagon and repeating the instructions to Julius and Darius. As his boys reloaded Kingston knelt and fired furiously into the forest. Occasional lightning flashes revealed crouching shadows with protruding gun barrels in the trees. But for every shot he fired another came in reply. He doubted they were Yankee soldiers, missing too wide for professionals. A voice in the trees barked in rebuke instants after several shots struck the wagons. Moments later the enemy shots zipped closer over Kingston's head. His eyes widened and he cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner.

"IN THE WAGONS, BOYS!" Kingston bellowed. "THEY WON'T RISK THE GOODS!" Father and sons clambered into the wagons amid a hail of bullets. With fingernails and knives they ripped open the canvas at the sides and fired at the unseen attackers. Only after they had exhausted their ammunition did they realize the enemy had ceased fire. Without a word they discarded their spent rifles and drew their pistols. The storm had passed them by. The rumble of thunder was a distant echo.

Hours of tense, sleepless, darkness elapsed before dawn cast its blood red glow on the Kingston camp. The full light of day revealed a camp riddled with bullets but devoid of foes. It was a most miserable, exhausted family that emerged from the wagons. Kingston and his sons took in deep gasps of unfouled air. Regina broke down in tears at the sight of Darius' blood-soaked arm. Fussing over her precious, wounded boy became her top priority. The other three Kingston boys set about breaking camp while their father checked the horses. He was pleasantly surprised to see they hadn't driven the horses off. The dirty thieves likely figured they'd need a means of transportation for the goods.

Seth came to hitch up the horses and Kingston crept carefully towards the treeline. He found splashes of blood amid the moss and tree bark, but no bodies. In a pond just inside the forest he saw a gator drag something from the shore beneath the water. A cruel smirk curved Kingston's lips at the thought of it being one of the scalawags. And end fit for a thief and a traitor! His eyes lit up and his smirk became a devilish smile as he realized it may well have been the man in black.

"THEY'RE GONE!" he danced back to camp to proclaim at the top of his lungs! "ALL OF EM!" he shrieked a shrill laugh. His wife and children stared in a shocked stupor as he cackled like a madman. Proclaimed with confidence that the thieves were routed and what remained of their ride to Texas would be peaceful. Regina forced a supportive smile as she took her husband by the hand. Awkward nods and grimaces prevailed among the children. By the time the wagons were ready Kingston had calmed himself and took up the reins with a confident nod. His wife seemed relieved but said nothing.

Much of the day passed in peace. Only the sun and stifling air troubled them. It was with a vibrant rebel yell that the Kingstons rumbled past a sign post marking the Texas border. Even Regina and the girls clapped their hands in a dainty, cultured manner. Kingston planted a firm kiss on his wife's mouth and she blushed crimson as a lovely smile parted her lips. They had made it!

Kingston snapped the reins back and grasped his pistol as his breath froze. His gaze unmoved by the wagon's sudden lurching halt. Regina righted herself only to gasp at four oncoming riders. Ahead of the other three rode a man in black on a pale horse. His eyes hidden beneath a wide-brimmed black hat.

The Kingston daughters peeked past their papa's shoulder with horrified whimpers. As the man in black closed in a sharp light stabbed Kingston's eye and a deep sigh turned to a hearty laugh as he recognized the tin star tacked to the man in black's chest. His hand fell away from his pistol. "TEXAS RANGERS!" he announced, as if to a royal court. The Kingston women sighed in unison. Hearty cheers sounded from the boys in the wagons behind. "Rex Kingston of Louisiana, at your service, gentlemen," Kingston removed his hat and bowed to the waist as the lead ranger halted alongside.

"Howdy," the grizzled lawman grunted with a sharp nod. The two men eyed each other in silence for a moment. The ranger's thick black mustache put an unpleasant depth to what Kingston figured for a habitually soured face. A lawman's business is rarely a pleasant one. "What brings you to these parts?"

Kingston blinked in astonishment at such an obvious question. "Why, those blue devils who took over our land, of course!"

"Brung your valuables, have you?" the ranger stabbed a half-burnt cigar into his mouth and lit it with a match. He puffed deeply as Kingston explained they had brought only what few possessions the Yankees left them. Keeping secret the family fortune shut up in the crates.

"If there's some border-crossing fee, I'm afraid I have little to offer you, Ranger . . . ?"

"Purvis," he snapped. "Magnum Purvis. And there ain't no fee." His voice was cold as ice. The ranger's frigid face and voice sent a wave of apprehension over Kingston. The elation he'd felt since morning vanished.

"Well, Mr. Purvis, I'm afraid I don't quite understand what the problem is," Kingston shrugged innocently. Purvis managed a cocky smirk.

"You don't remember me, do you?" Kingston stared back, dumbfounded. "We was neighbors, you and me. My grandpappy fought beside your pappy against the Redcoats under Andy Jackson. My kin kept to the swamps though. Except for one time, about ten years back, you and me hardly even saw one another."

Kingston blinked, still unable to recall seeing Purvis before. "It was ten years back you pulled up stakes to come out here to Texas?"

Purvis chuckled. "No, my relocation is a more recent development," he paused for another deep puff of smoke before tossing the cigar in dirt. "Ten years back you sold me something very precious. A man of business, like you, might call it an investment. And that investment paid off; brought me a greater fortune than I ever thought I'd have," a more genuine smile brightened his dour face. Kingston smiled with a sigh of relief, though he still could not remember the ranger. "And then about a week or so back, you stole that fortune from me," Purvis' face soured in an instant. His eyes blazed like a smithy's furnace. Kingston could only gape in confusion, his hands began to tremble. "That precious investment you sold me ten years ago, Mr. Kingston, you sure you don't remember that transaction? Only to you it wasn't very precious at all. In fact, as I recall, you sold her cheap!" he snapped.

Kingston's eyes widened at the memory of the transaction. "You!" he gasped in a dreadful whisper. A shocked cry from behind tore his gaze away from Purvis. Another four riders were coming from behind! Led by the Cajun peddler from that first night. Kingston turned back to the ranger and found himself staring down the barrel of a Colt and into hazel eyes of blazing hellfire. Eyes he had first seen in the glow of a match the night he'd first seen the peddler. "YOU!!!" Kingston roared.

The thunder of a gunshot cut Kingston off. He fell limp into his wife's arms with a hole through his forehead. Purvis was unmoved by Regina's cries, nor by the girls' screams. He quickly tore the tin star from his chest and tossed it away. The cursed thing still stank of the dead man he'd taken it off of! Purvis had been disappointed in the Texas Rangers, had heard a lot of bluster about them. The fools trotted right into the ambush they had set for them that morning. A bitter smirk curved Purvis' lips, at least they had been good for something.

With vengeful cries Seth and Ham came running from the second wagon and leveled their rifles at their father's killer. Both fell in a mingled bloody heap as Purvis gripped the trigger and fanned the hammer of his Colt. More shots were fired and Julius and Darius Kingston both fell dead in the dirt. The peddler, Purvis' long-time friend and neighbor Jacques, blew smoke from his own revolver. The townsfolk who had volunteered to join Purvis in his adventure all cheered. They were all Union men and were proud to have assisted in the downfall of a planter-family. Some had even deserted the Confederate army as it became clear the current conflict was a rich man's war but a poor man's fight.

Purvis ignored their revelry and dismounted to approach the rear wagon. Somehow he knew his fortune was in that one. Stepping over the bloodied bodies of the youngest Kingston boys, he climbed into the wagon and approached the nearest crate. A dirty, rotten container, that reeked soil and filth. The padlock was rusted but held firm as he gripped and pulled at it. He readied his Colt to shoot it off when he heard a sharp grunt from behind. Jacques smirked from the driver's seat, a key ring swinging in his grasp.

"It was in the old man's pocket," the Cajun chucked before tossing the keys. Purvis caught it in air with a grateful nod before removing the padlock and gently opening the crate. His own hazel eyes, reddened from tears and lack of sleep, gazed up in shock. More tears soon flowed from those eyes to stream down dark cheeks and curve down a short, rounded nose. The same nose that adorned the woman Purvis loved. The woman whose freedom he had purchased a decade ago. Purvis gripped the brittle, rotten crate so hard he could feel it begin to crack in his grasp. It was all he could do to keep from weeping himself.

"Susanna," he gasped his daughter's name in a trembling voice.

"PAPA!" the girl cried as she sprang from the crate to throw her arms around him. Purvis returned her embrace, squeezing her close like she would a doll. He feared he might choke her, but couldn't let go. Her cotton dress was long-since soiled and her frail body betrayed a meager diet. But she was still alive, and he had found her. Like he swore he would the day one of those Kingston boys lassoed her and dragged her off, claiming her as a runaway slave.

Jacques took the keys and began opening the other crates. Their unionist comrades got busy helping all the other girls out of their crates. They ignored the Kingston women's objections as they rummaged their luggage for clothing to replace the girl's soiled garments. Within half an hour the six kidnapped girls had all changed into borrowed dressing gowns. Such rich fabrics were beyond any of their dreams, but under the circumstances it brought them little comfort. Mrs. Kingston and her daughter's could only stand tearfully by as their property was stolen. The local Union men agreed to take in the other five girls. Would either find homes for them or else hand them over to the Union Army. Each girl was helped up on a mount to ride double. Susana, in an angelic silk gown, still clung to her father like a limpet. He nestled her in the saddle and assured her he'd never let such a terrible thing happen to her again.

"Your mama is worried sick about you, little darling," he told her. "Let's go home."

"What about us?" hissed Regina Kingston. She approached Purvis with a defiant glare. He blinked in silent indifference at her question. "Those slave girls were all we had! Now look at us! All our men are dead! You're just going to leave us here? Penny-less? What are we to do?" the last she said with a trembling voice, choking back tears with all her might.

Purvis shrugged. "Question is, do I give a damn?" he spat in the dirt and spurred his mount to trot away. Jacques gave a cruel chuckle before doing the same. Mrs. Kingston wailed after them. Shouting curses and oaths; condemning Purvis and his men for their love of black folk, damning them for betraying their home-state, and decrying them as thieves and brigands. Purvis paid her no mind. Even as she fell to her knees and screamed like a madwoman as her daughters wept in despair.

Losing Bet
by Kevin Hopson

I watched as a man with a shovel tossed dirt into the grave. My husband's grave. The crowd had disbursed after the preacher's sermon, and only a few people remained.

The summer air weighed on me, perspiration building beneath my cotton dress. I didn't know it at the time, but my uncomfortable situation was about to get worse. And it wouldn't be due to the oppressive heat.

"Rita," a voice said.

I turned to look, and a blond-haired gentleman approached. His wavy, shoulder-length hair was tucked behind his ears, and the man's blue eyes didn't waver when meeting my gaze.

"Thank you for coming to pay your respects, Boone," I said.

"Of course. Levi was a good friend."

I could only nod in response.

Boone cleared his throat and glanced at the ground before locking eyes with me again. "There's something else you need to know. This isn't the best time but, hell, there isn't really a good time to say it." He pursed his lips and hesitated.

"Just spit it out," I insisted.

He gently bobbed his head. "I don't know how to tell you this, but I own your land now."

My brow furrowed. Then I looked Boone up and down. He wore black trousers with a white, wing-collared shirt. "You look sober enough, but perhaps I'm mistaken."

Boone shook his head. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's the truth. Levi and I came to an agreement before his unfortunate death."

My mouth was dry, and I forced myself to swallow. "What kind of an agreement?"

"It was more like a wager."

"I don't understand."

"The night Levi died," Boone said. "Did you know his whereabouts prior to the accident?"

"Of course. He told me he was going to the saloon."

"That's right. He came in and sat alone at the bar. Early on, at least."

"What does that mean?" I inquired.

"He joined me and a few other men in a game of poker shortly after."

Boone's reveal forced me to pause. Levi told me he'd given up gambling years ago, and now I was supposed to believe all of it was a lie.

"He'd been doing it for months," Boone admitted. "He was casual about it at first. Betting a few coins here and there. But it got worse as time went on. He thought he had a sure thing the other night. I wagered a hefty sum on the cards I was holding, but Levi didn't have the money to match me, so he—"

"He put up my land instead!"

Boone licked his lips. "I'm afraid so."

"It's not even his land to give."

"You added his name to the deed when you married."

I was taken aback. "And how do you know that?"

"Levi said as much."

I huffed. "This is preposterous. Even if that's the case, I doubt a verbal agreement would hold much water in a court of law. Especially if Levi had been drinking."

"He only had one drink at the bar. And he didn't touch the stuff during our game. It wasn't until later that he lost control."

"After he lost the bet?"

"Uh-huh."

"So, you admit to killing Levi?"

Boone's eyes narrowed, and his cheeks tightened. "I admit to nothing of the sort. He's the one who fell and hit his head during the walk home."

"But you sure as hell pushed him to it," I barked.

I clenched my fingers into a fist, ready to strike.

"Excuse me," a gentleman interrupted.

The man loomed to my right. He wore striped trousers with a navy-blue vest over his shirt, his hazel eyes peering at me through spectacles.

"Thomas," I said. "Just the man I need to see. You're a lawyer, and I may require your legal counsel against Boone here."

Thomas glimpsed Boone, then me. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, Rita. I already represent Boone in this matter."

I squinted at Thomas. "You knew about this?"

Thomas nodded.

I let out a frustrated breath. "This is the first I'm hearing about it, and you two were already scheming to take everything from me!"

"It's not like that," Thomas said. "I'm not out to ruin you. But Boone does have a legitimate claim."

"It's just his word, though. The entire thing could be a farce."

"I don't think so. The other men at the table can corroborate Boone's story, and I believe their testimony will be enough to convince Judge Wilson."

I wanted to lash out, both verbally and physically, but I choked back the temptation.

"Get out of my sight," I finally said through clenched teeth.

Thomas took a step forward. "Please, Rita. It doesn't have to be like this."

"Now," I shouted.

The two men obliged, gradually walking off together. I dipped my head and squeezed my eyes shut, taking a moment to breathe. Then I heard soft footsteps approaching.

When I looked up, a familiar and welcoming face came into view.

"Rita," Cole said, extending his arms as he neared.

I wrapped my arms around Cole and hugged him tight. When I relinquished my grip and backed away, tears welled in those kind brown eyes of his.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Not only about Levi, but—" Cole couldn't finish his sentence, and that's when a tear broke loose. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, eventually composing himself. "I wanted to tell you sooner, but none of us wanted to break the news so soon after Levi's passing. It didn't seem right."

Anger coursed through me again. But as much as I wanted to aim it at Cole, I couldn't.

"So, you were one of the men at Boone's table that night?" I said.

Cole nodded. "In addition to Boone and Levi, it was me, Aaron, and Clay. I wish I didn't witness what I did. Levi's wager," he elaborated. "But I did, unfortunately."

I shook my head. "You can't fault yourself for being there. My husband was the irresponsible one, and now I'm going to pay the price for his stupidity."

I looked away, spotting Cole's wife and two children in the distance.

"They're waiting on me," Cole said. "But I didn't want to leave before speaking with you." He hesitated. "As I'm sure you know, they can't get out of here fast enough. This town, I mean. And given what's happened lately, I can't blame them."

I'd known Cole ever since his family moved to town, and Laura and the kids never really took a liking to the place.

"And what about you?" I asked.

Cole raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Do you want to leave?"

He sighed. "As much as I love this town, I love my family more. I've always insisted on making a home here, but I have to think about their well-being, too. Still, I've yet to make a decision one way or the other."

I pondered for a moment, an idea coming to me.

"Did you know my parents were wealthy before they died?" I said.

Cole's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Their wealth came from my grandparents, but no one knew about my parents' prosperity because they refused to flaunt it. They worked normal jobs, wore average clothes, and lived in a modest house. But they saved every penny of their inheritance. And that's what I've done since they passed it on to me. I never told Levi. Or anyone, for that matter. Until now."

"You're well respected around town," I continued. "A lot of people look up to you because you're a family man, and you're a hard worker." I closed the gap between us, my gaze unflinching. "I have a proposition for you. One I hope you'll consider. All I ask is that you keep an open mind."

A few days later, I was in the kitchen working on a cup of tea when a banging noise stole my attention. Someone was at the front door. Based on the constant thumping of their fist against the wood, it must have been important.

Thomas had already paid me a visit the prior day. Other than stating that I would see him in court, I had nothing to say to Thomas. It was a lie, though. I had no intention of letting the court decide my fate.

The floorboards moaned under my weight as I made my way into the foyer. Then more banging ensued.

"Hold your horses," I shouted.

When I turned the knob and pulled the door ajar, Boone stood there glaring at me.

He huffed. "What the hell did you do, Rita?"

"Nice to see you, too, Boone."

"Cut the malarkey and answer my question."

I shook my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't."

Boone took a step forward, attempting to push his way inside, but I stood my ground.

"I never invited you in," I said. "You'll stay on the porch unless you want me to report you to the sheriff."

Boone pursed his lips and puffed out his chest. "They're all gone," he finally said.

"Who?"

"You know who!"

I held my tongue, waiting for Boone to elaborate.

"Cole, Aaron, and Clay," Boone revealed.

"What do you mean gone?"

Boone huffed again, trying to keep his anger in check.

"All of them up and left," Boone said. "For good." He paused. "Even though Aaron and Clay are loners, they wouldn't split town without telling me. And Cole's a family man. Families don't leave on a whim. Not unless they're running from something."

"Well, this is news to me."

Boone nodded. "I'm sure it is," he replied with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "You expect me to believe that the three men who witnessed my wager with Levi all left town at the same time?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I know you're behind this, Rita."

I shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. Thomas' wife and children never cared much for this town, so it was just a matter of time before they left. But I can't speak for Aaron and Clay."

"You're a conniving little—"

"Don't even say it," I barked. "I was born and raised in this house. If you were a true friend to Levi, you wouldn't have taken advantage of him. And you sure as hell wouldn't try to pry this land away from me now that he's dead."

Boone clamped his mouth shut. Then he raised his index finger, holding it a few inches from my face. "This isn't over."

"I'm sorry, but it is over. If you or Thomas show up again, you're going to regret it."

Boone arched an eyebrow. "So, you're hurling threats now?"

"No. But I heard a rumor. One where you paid those men to corroborate your story. Knowing they would have to lie in court, they got spooked and ran off."

"That's a load of nonsense."

"Maybe, but that's what they're going to say if you try to coax them back. And that's what I'm going to tell the townspeople if you step foot on my property again. Be sure to pass that message along to Thomas."

Boone's mouth hung agape. For the first time, he was speechless.

"Good day, Boone," I said, slamming the door in his face.

I spun around and put my back to the door, taking a moment to exhale. I expected to hear the sound of Boone's fist against the door and prepared for the worst. However, the pounding of wood never came.

In fact, Boone never stepped foot on my property again. I'd see him around town every now and then, but we always steered clear of one another. And the same went for Thomas.

As much as I missed Cole, I didn't regret my actions. He claimed that he loved his family more than this town, and I could understand that. Though I had no family left, I had plenty of memories. And many of those memories resonated throughout the house. A house I would defend until my last breath.

The End of Josh Creekmore
by Terry Alexander

The big man pushed through the swinging doors of the Barlow Saloon. "Peg, Peg Barlow. Get out here. I need a drink and companionship." His loud voice carried to the second floor.

A tall spindly woman, wearing a blue dress and glasses appeared from a door behind the bar. "Josh Creekmore, is that you? I haven't seen you in six months. I was wondering when you'd be back to see me."

He walked to the woman and hugged her close. "Peg, I just finished a job down in New Mexico. I figured I'd stay in town for a month or so before I pull out for the next job."

"Glad you made it back in one piece." She glanced at the short balding man behind the counter. "Charlie, get a bottle of my personal stock and send it to my room, and send one of the girls down to Mama Dolores place and get two steaks and all the trimmings and have it brought up stairs." She glanced at Josh. "I imagine you're hungry."

"Truth to tell, Peg. I could eat an ornery old jackass that died of old age and not complain." He snatched a bottle from the bar and pulled the cork, guzzling a huge amount. "Whowee, that stuff tastes like sheep dip."

"I wanted you to wait for the good stuff. That's the cheap stuff for the bummers and dregs." She playfully elbowed him in the ribs.

"Tell me, did you get some new talent?"

A coy smile touched Peg's face. "I have. I've got three new girls and a new girl playing the piano."

Josh frowned. "A female piano player. Only time I ever heard a female piano player was in one of them opera houses in Saint Louie. That girl played some sad tunes. Is this girl any good?"

"She's the best piano player I ever heard."

Josh scraped his fingernails through the thick beard covering his face. "Which one of the girls is mine while I'm here? I want a top-quality girl."

"You can sample them all if you're a mind to. But take it easy on them. They're new to the trade." Peg elbowed him gently in the ribs.

"I need a bath. I've been in the saddle for a solid two weeks. I smell worse than an old Billy Goat." Josh lifted his arms and sniffed his underarms.

"Soon as we finish a bottle of the good stuff and eat a big steak. I'll arrange for you to go over to the Swede's bathhouse." Peg grinned. "That man can get the water just right. I don't know how he does it. Every time I heat water, I get it scalding hot or lukewarm. Never can get it right."

"You go visit this fella, do ya?"

"At least once a week. I try to get there early in the morning and get the fresh water. He's got a man working for him that gives a fancy haircut and shave." She leaned in close and whispered. "Ain't nothing like a nice hot bath after a night of dealing with the gents that come in here."

"Let's get started on that bottle." Josh grinned.

A short woman wearing a green dress came through the front door. "Miss Peg, Mr. Hollister at the General Store said that material you wanted came in today on the freight wagon. He said you could pick it up tomorrow if you wanted."

"Thanks. Trudy Sherman, this gent here is Josh Creekmore. One of the last of the genuine hellraisers." Peg grinned. "Josh, this is Trudy Sherman. My piano player."

Trudy froze, her eyes widened briefly. She recovered quickly and moved forward. Her hand extended. "Any friend of Peg's is a friend of mine."

Josh licked his lips and grinned. You're the piano player?"

Trudy nodded.

"You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?"

"Best of my knowledge, we've never met." Her attention shifted to Peg. "If t's all right, I'd like to practice some of the new tunes the ranch hands have been asking for."

"Sure, go ahead. We can stand a little music in here." Peg smiled.

"I've seen that girl before. I know I have. Where's she from?" Josh asked.

"Hell, I don't know for sure. She came here from a wide spot in the trail up in Kansas." Peg shrugged. "I don't care where she comes from. She helps draw in the customers. You'd be surprised the number of cowboys that come in here just to drink a few beers and listen to her tickle those keys." She gave Josh a hard look. "She's off limits to you. She's not in the business, so you leave her alone."

"Fine." Josh nodded. "Let's drain that bottle. I hope the steaks get here quick. My belly thinks my throat's been cut."

Peg laughed at his tired joke. "Don't forget the bath. Like you said, you smell worse than a Billy goat. Some new clothes wouldn't hurt either."

"You're right, I need some new duds." Josh followed her into the office.

"Okay Peg, I want a look at them new gals." A freshly scrubbed Josh Creekmore, wearing clean clothes pushed through the swinging doors. It was early in the evening, three cowboys leaned against the bar, nursing drinks. One younger fella chatted up a young redhead. A low piano melody played in the background. Josh glanced over and saw Trudy's back as she played. A young cowhand sat close to her, tapping his toe to the music.

"Well get over here." Peg answered. "Come here, girls. I've got a special friend I want you to meet."

Three young women approached Peg. The redhead left the cowboy sitting alone at the table, she was joined by two thin blondes, obviously sisters. Josh looked them over critically as they approached.

"Josh Creekmore, this is Dolly and Daisy Meadows." The two blonde girls nodded. "And this one here is Melody Johnson." The redhead smiled.

"So, this is the famous Josh Creekmore." Melody's hands settled on her hips. "Peg's told us stories about you."

"Good or bad stories." Josh returned the smile.

"They were the good stories, Josh." Peg answered.

"Melody's gonna be my companion for the night." Josh licked his lips. "I plan on keeping her busy."

"Okay girls, go back to the other customers." Peg jerked her head toward the cowboys in the saloon. "See if you can scare up some business."

"The fella I was talking to earlier wants to do some business on the credit," Dolly said.

"If I extend him credit, he'll have to pay double price on payday." Peg grinned. "I have to get a little interest on the loan."

"Hey Trudy, You got any of that special drink?" Daisy asked.

"Sure." She pointed at the bottle on top of the piano. "Get you a glass."

Daisy grabbed a shot glass and filled it to the brim with the amber liquid.

"What's that?" Josh demanded.

"This stuff is smooth." Daisy sipped from the glass. "Some of the best sipping liquor I've ever had."

"What is it?" Josh repeated.

"Peach Brandy. I brought a case with me when I started working here." Trudy smiled. "I've still got a few bottles left."

"I ain't had any peach brandy since the war." Josh licked his lips.

"Since you're a friend of Miss Peg's, I'll give you a glass, if you like."

"What about me?" Melody asked.

"Okay," Trudy nodded. "Dolly, get enough glasses for you and Peg as well." She took the bottle from Daisy's hands. She refilled her own glass and those of her co-workers. Josh downed his shot in a single gulp, the others sipped at their glass.

"Boy, that stuff is smooth." He licked his lips, hoping to find a stray drop of liquid. "That reminds me of my time in Georgia, before I came west. I had good friends there once."

"Once?" Trudy said. "Where are they now?"

Josh grew quiet and cast a sullen look at the piano player.

"Come on, girls. Drink up. You've got a job to do." Peg lifted her glass and drained it in a large gulp. The other girls followed suit. "Melody, take Josh up to room thirteen."

"Really, Miss Peg. Do you mean it? Room Thirteen." Melody smiled.

"What's so special about Room thirteen?" Josh asked, his mind focused now on the mysterious room.

"That's the best room in the house." Dolly licked her lips. "Only the special customers get to use that room." She cast a sideways look at Melody. "I hope I get to entertain in there one day."

"You'll be in there before you know it." Peg grinned. "Melody, get him on up there. You can't do business down here." She glanced over to Trudy. "Keep playing, maybe we can get these fellas interested."

Trudy's hands moved across the keyboard. A beautiful ballad came from the piano. She turned to watch Josh and Melody as they hurried up the stairs. Josh caught her eyes. His glare sent shivers up Trudy's spine.

She knocked on the door to Room Thirteen. "Melody, are you awake?" Trudy asked.

"Who's out there? What in the hell do you want?" Josh growled. He ran to the door and yanked it open swiftly. The hall light showed a naked man standing in the threshold with a pistol gripped in his fist.

"It's me, Trudy." Her voice quivered. "I upset you with my question tonight." She glanced toward the side wall and not at his genitals. "I brought you up a bottle of brandy for you and Melody to enjoy. My way to apologize."

"Damn girl ain't got any stamina. She had to get some sleep." He glanced at the darkened saloon. "What time is it?" The pistol barrel dipped toward the floor.

"It's nearly two. The last customer just left. I'm going home." She turned to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Creekmore."

"Yeah, tomorrow." He pulled the cork free with his teeth and took a large drink, his Adams apple bobbled up and down. "Where are them other girls?"

"They're in rooms eleven and ten, but they're entertaining customers right now. Let Melody sleep for a bit and she'll be ready again." Trudy walked down the stairs. "Have a good evening, Mr. Creekmore." She crossed the floor to the front door and departed.

"Josh, Josh." Melody shook his shoulder. "I'm going back to my own room. You fart too much, smells worse than a hog pen in here." She wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders.

Josh opened his eyes and rolled to a sitting position. He grabbed his stomach, his face wrinkled in pain. "Feels like I've got two racoons fighting in my belly." He glanced over to Melody. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel good." Melody edged toward the door. "You want me to get Miss Peg?"

"Get the chamber pot. I think I'm gonna puke my guts up." Josh mumbled. One hand went to his head. "What did I eat last night? Those steaks, maybe the steaks were bad. Maybe the meat was tainted." His teeth gritted together in agony. "What's wrong with you, get the chamber pot like I said." He bent over holding his stomach. Hot bile spewed from his stomach and splattered on the floor.

Melody screamed and ran from the room down the hallway. "Miss Peg. Miss Peg, come quick. Something's wrong with Josh. Miss Peg."

"Land sakes, girl." Peg yanked her door open. "What are you going on about?"

"It's Josh. He's sick. He's in the special room and he's spewing vomit everywhere." Melody dropped the blanket and ran the hallway naked.

"Get your clothes on and get Doc Stevens up here." Peg fastened her housecoat and hurried to Room Thirteen. She found Josh Creekmore laying on the floor, surrounded by his own vomit. "Josh, are you alive?"

"I'm still kicking," he mumbled. "Help me get back in the bed."

She hurried to his side, stepping around the massive slick spots on the floor. "Give me your hands. We must get you out of that fifth."

"Peg, I can barely move." He reached out his hands. "I'm so light-headed, ain't ever had my belly cramp like it is now. Feels like every muscle I have is trying to bind up." He caught her hand and squeezed.

"Come on, Josh, get your feet under you. I sent Melody after the doctor. He should be here in a few minutes." She strained under his weight and succeeded in getting him back on the bed. She rolled him to the center and held his hand.

"I'm freezing, but I'm pouring sweat." Josh sucked in a deep breath. "Get me a shot of whiskey. Maybe that'll settle my stomach."

"No whiskey, that might make things worse. I want Doc Stevens to get a look at you." Peg ran her hand over his forehead. "You ain't got a fever. You skin feels clammy."

"Miss Peg." Melody shouted. "I've got the doc. I had to wake him up and he's nursing a terrible hangover, but he's here."

"Get him up here quick, then wake Dolly and Daisy. Have them fix a big pot of coffee."

Footsteps banged on the stairs. "Slow down, woman. I can't run anymore." A high-pitched voice protested. "It's not dignified for a man of my years."

"Being a rummy isn't dignified either." Peg glanced toward the door as he entered the room. "Get over here, Josh needs some help."

"I need some light, Peg. It's too dark in here for a proper examination." Doc Stevens walked into the room. "What is that stench?"

"Josh had a rough morning." She glanced at Melody. "Get the girls like I said, then round up every lamp and lantern we have."

"Yes Ma'am." Melody nodded. She ran down the hallway. A loud banging vibrated the walls. "Dolly, Daisy, Time to get up. Get rid of them shifty no goods. We need coffee on the stove."

"Be quiet, Melody." Dolly opened the door and stared at her with one eye closed. Her hair stood straight on one side. She closed one eye and focused on Melody. "Patrick kept me up most of the night. I didn't get much sleep at all. I'm going back to bed."

"We need some coffee made, and Miss Peg needs help in the special room." Melody stamped her foot.

"So, you and Creekmore dirtied the special room." Dolly shook her head. "You can worry about it then. I'm sleepy."

"Dolly, get rid of these fellas and get your sister out of bed. I want that coffee brewing inside of five minutes or someone's gonna be scrubbing floors tonight." Miss Peg stuck her head out into the hallway.

"Yes, Miss Peg." Dolly rushed to the next door and pounded on the wood panel. "Daisy, get up. You need to get to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee."

"What are you talking about?" A lazy voice mumbled.

"Get your ass out of bed. Miss Peg wants coffee." Dolly hurried back to her room. "Come on, Patrick. Get up, it's time to go."

"What the hell? What's going on?" A male voice asked.

"Get up. Get moving. Go down the back staircase, you can put your clothes on in the alley." Dolly pushed him from the room. "Come back tonight, we'll have a fun time."

"Hell, I'm not sure if I want to come back." He staggered down the hallway and out a narrow door, his clothes and boots gripped tightly in his arms.

"Come on, Bill. Get moving." Daisy stood in the hallway, staring into her room. "You need to get back to work anyway." She managed to put her underwear on before she hurried to the kitchen. "I don't know why we couldn't wait for Edna to get to work for coffee."

"Don't let Miss Peg hear you complaining. She needs coffee for Doc Stevens. She wants him sober when he examines Josh." Melody hurried down the hallway to Room Thirteen.

"What did you do to him?" Dolly whispered as she hurried to Melody's side.

"Nothing, he was fine when I went to sleep." Melody stopped at the door.

"Get the chamber pot." Josh screamed. "Hurry, I can't hold it for long."

Miss Peg crossed the room quickly. She grabbed a white enamel bucket and returned to the bed.

"Help me up. Quick now." Josh ordered.

They pulled him from the bed and placed him on the pot an instant before his bowels released. A foul odor filled the room. "Oh, my Lord." Doc Stevens mumbled.

"Daisy, get this bucket out of here and clean it up." Peg ordered.

"Miss Peg, I need to go help dolly with the coffee." Daisy edged away from the doorway.

"Daisy, get in here and get this bucket, or you'll find yourself without a job." Peg snapped. She cleaned Josh and helped him return to the bed.

"Yes, Miss Peg." She came into Room Thirteen. She took care to avoid the vomit and carried the bucket at arm's length, her head cocked to one side.

"Where's the coffee?" Stevens asked.

"One of my girls is getting it ready right now." Peg's hands landed on her hips. "Look Josh over, while we're waiting. Do you have any ideas?"

Stevens rubbed his temples. "Tell me, have you eaten or drank anything out of the ordinary in the last few days?"

Josh sat on the edge of the straw mattress. His arms wrapped around his middle. He rocked back and forth. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. "I ate some beef jerky and rabbit the day before yesterday. After I got into town, I drank some whiskey and ate a steak, and drank some more whiskey."

"I ate the steak too." Peg scratched her head above her ear. "You drank some peach brandy."

"Miss Peg, we all drank some of Trudy's peach brandy," Melody said.

Peg nodded. "Yeah, that's right."

"She brought a bottle for Melody." Josh moaned. "Where's the chamber pot. I might need it again."

Peg turned to Melody. "Get a pot out of the girls' room." She glanced around the room, spotting the bottle lying on its side under the foot of the bed. "Here it is?" She held the empty up to her nose. "I can't smell anything."

"What are you trying to smell?" Trudy leaned against the doorway. "What happened here?"

"Josh got sick." Miss Peg walked toward the piano player. "Why did you bring him this bottle. This is your special stuff. You don't share it very often. Sharing the glasses yesterday was strange, but you give Josh a full bottle, why?"

A coy smile crossed Trudy's face. "I was trying to show Mr. Creekmore that I was sorry if I said something yesterday that might have hurt his feelings."

"You're lying. You little bitch. You're lying. You poisoned me." Josh hugged his sides.

Doc Stevens took the bottle from Peg's hands and held it to his nose. "I can't smell anything."

"Josh said that brandy reminded him of his time in Georgia. Said something about friends." Peg turned to the sick man. "Who were your friends, Josh? Do you remember any names?"

His body shook as he inhaled a deep breath. "I can't remember."

"They were your friends, but you can't remember any names. I can remember my childhood friend's names. They must not have been close friends." Trudy moved closer to the bed. "What about Alice Frazier? Does that name ring a bell for you?"

Josh's eyes widened at the mention of the woman's name, his pale face turned a shade whiter. "Did you know Alice?"

"She had a husband named James." Trudy said.

Josh bent over the edge of the bed as a spasm of pain racked his body. Vomit spewed from his mouth splattering on the floor. Doc Stevens jumped away from the splatter. Josh wiped his mouth and stared at Trudy with sorrowful eyes. "They're dead."

"I know. You murdered them." Trudy took the empty bottle from the doctor's hands. "I dreamed of catching up with you for years."

Daisy appeared in the doorway, holding the chamber pot. "Here you go. I managed to clean this thing up." Melody appeared with two that she had taken from the other rooms.

Trudy turned to the women in the doorway. "Put them around the bed. He may need them again." She smiled. "My aunt made me get an education, but I dreamed of coming west and catching up with you. I'd nearly given up on my dream when I heard your name in Arkansas. A fella was telling how you killed Ambrose Pete." She looked Josh in the face. "You remember Mr. Pete. You ambushed him and murdered him with a rifle from long distance. How much did you get paid for killing him?"

"I know who you are, now. You're Michelle, Alice Frazier's daughter." Josh panted like an overheated dog.

"You're right." Trudy nodded. "When I heard you were spending your free time at this whorehouse, I decided to get a job here, playing piano." She paused for a second. "I put my education to good use. Aunt Lois would be proud."

"Josh, did you murder this girl's folks?" Miss Peg demanded. "I want the truth."

Josh was silent for nearly a minute. His wild eyes went from Trudy to Peg to Doc Stevens and the other girls. "The war was nearly over. I had to get out of Georgia, and her folks had money. I didn't plan to kill them."

"You're lying, Creekmore." Trudy shifted her eyes to Peg. "He hired out to my Daddy to break ground. Daddy had a good team of mules. After two weeks, Creekmore got into an argument with some folks in one of the saloons. They knew he was a deserter. He killed the man in town, then came back to the farm and went after Mom and Dad."

"He was a Yankee, nothing but a damn Yankee. They were going to hang me for killing him. I went to your father. Told him I needed money to run away, and he wouldn't give me any. Said he needed it for you and your mother." He twisted his head to one side. A painful grimace wrinkled his features. He slowly straightened and drew a deep breath into his lungs. "I pulled my knife on your father. He tried to get it away from me. I stabbed him in the leg. He went down, and I started cutting on him. I wanted him to tell me where the money was."

"He wouldn't tell you, would he?" Doc Stevens mumbled.

Josh drew in a deep breath. "No, he wouldn't tell me. When Alice came out and I got hold of her, he sang like a little bird. I found it easy enough then, but he only had seventy dollars." His eyes locked onto Trudy's face. "I looked for you, if I would have found you, I wouldn't be in this fix."

"That was all the money they had." Trudy licked her lips. "I'm glad you remembered them, at least you know why I killed you."

"Should I go for the sheriff?" Melody asked.

"Not yet." Miss Peg turned to the doctor. "What do you think Doc?"

The old man turned to Trudy. "You've been carrying this around for a long time?"

"Eight years, come September." Trudy answered. "I dreamed about this day. All that time I spent trying to find out where he went, what he was doing, was well spent. Now I get to see him die."

"Melody, you and Daisy go downstairs, help Dolly get breakfast ready." Miss Peg glanced at the floor. "We're going to have a devil of a time cleaning this room."

"What did you say, Miss Peg?" Daisy asked.

"Get downstairs, help Dolly with breakfast. I want biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs." Peg glanced at Josh. "I knew you were a heartless bastard, but I didn't know how mean you really were." She laid her hand on Trudy's shoulder. "Stay here if you want, but after this is done, you need to leave town, and don't come back." She walked toward the door, followed by Doc Stevens.

"Thanks, Miss Peg. I'll leave in the morning." Trudy said as the door to Room Thirteen closed.

The Return to Tombstone
by G.C. Stevens

The desert is beautiful this time of the year, March in Arizona is cool at night, clear with a few wispy clouds. The moon is so bright tonight he can see the desert like its day time . . . Almost. He'd been back in Tombstone for about a week. It was a long trip back from the east coast. The final miles on the train into Tucson really tired Ted ( As his friends called him) out, but the stage from Benson to Tombstone was about the worst ride he'd ever been on. Nothing in the desert had changed. It was always an interesting to be in southern Arizona. Lot of folk, miners, Indians, Mexicans. And outlaws. It had been about five months since the big shoot out at the OK corral. And Ted had wondered if it was safe to go back to Tombstone or not.

Ted knew plenty of regulars around the area who walked on both sides of the law, and for some reason, they liked talking to Ted. He had a way about him that seemed to get folks to drop their guard. Perhaps it was that he didn't really take sides in Tombstone, even though most everyone between Tucson and Bisbee did at one time or another. And according to people that knew the Earps and Johnny Ringo, who was the last hold out of the Cow-boy gang of Tombstone, Also knew that Johnny Ringo still held power around the mining town. Most folks around the area, including some Pima County lawman told Ted in firm words, that the Earp's had won a major battle in Tombstone and Cochise County, but essentially lost the war. Virgil Earp seriously wounded by assassins bullet had moved on, Morgan was shot dead and Wyatt Headed out on a grand adventure, and God only knows where he ended up. But truth be known. He left town with a real prize, with a lady called Sadie, who apparently didn't like being called by that name. But none the less, the dark desert from Tombstone to the Dragoon Mountains was back in the hands of the lawless. The brigands of the deserts still held sway over cattle rustling and stagecoach robbery. The red-sash Cow-boys gangs had been slowed down some by the Earps, but nothing really changed. When Ted had first come to Tombstone during the Earp days. he had met some of the famed outlaws of the region like Curley Bill Brocious and Ike Clanton. In a way, Ted liked Brocious, but had nothing but contempt for Ike Clanton. All things considered. Ted had pretty fair insight into people, and his dislike for Ike was well founded. For Ike was pure hellcat trouble in Tombstone. But the one former red-sash Cow-boy that was worst than Ike Clanton, was Johnny Ringo.

It seemed that Ringo was always involved in trouble. when two American rustlers, by the names of Elijah and Pete Backus, were dragged from the Mason jail, in Mason County Texas and lynched by a mob. The lynching resulted in a Full-blown war called the Mason county war in that began in May 1875. Then a man by the name of Tim Williamson was arrested on suspicion of cattle rustling, and killed by a hostile posse. Johnny Ringo, in retaliation, and along with his friends started a terror campaign against other factions involved. Officials called it the "Mason County War" But locally it was called the "Hoodoo War". Ringo along with other outlaws retaliated by killing local German ex-deputy sheriff John Worley, then taking his scalp and tossing his body down a well on August 10, 1875. But violence seemed to be a way of life for Ringo, and this was just the tip of the iceberg. Now, with most of the Cow-boy gang gone, Johnny had less competition in the hills and arroyos around Tombstone.

Morning dawned bright and clear in Tombstone, Ted walked down the street and was once again refamiliarized with the sound of boots and spurs on the wooden walkways of Tombstone. He located a good stout cup of coffee to start his day, and walked over to the Tombstone Epitaph. As he walked up to the newspaper building, he heard someone call his name, and at first Ted had a bit of a start, he had actually worried about running into Ringo, and had Johnny on his mind as he drifted off to sleep on the previous night. But he immediately recognized the man calling him as Sam Purdy, who he knew from the Earp days in Tombstone. "Sam, good to see you!" Said Ted. Purdy, smiled and shook Teds hand and asked Ted why he was back in Tombstone? Ted really didn't have a straight answer, perhaps it was the fair weather, or the adrenaline of a good gun fight, or a follow up news story about a post OK corral Tombstone? But then Sam asked Ted, "Are you looking for work?, I could use a good writer like you on the Epitaph right now." Ted. surprised, asked Sam, "Your in charge of the Epitaph? What happened to John Clum?" Sam explained, "John left along with Wyatt and Josie (Sadie), he knew his life wasn't worth a plugged nickel in Tombstone after they attempted to kill him on the stagecoach bound for Benson a few months back." But then without any hesitation, "sure Sam. I sure am interested. " Ted replied. "Well damnation Ted. Lets talk about it" replied Sam.

Sam and Ted sat in the rear of the Epitaph and Sam began to explain the situation about what had happened around Tombstone since October of 81. Things had cooled down for a while, but then rumors about Ringo were swirling around the area, and other rumors about a gang operating in Bisbee were circulating too. Sam had deep suspicions about Ringo being involved, and Ted believed that Sam was probably right. There were other lawman, and Johnny Behan was Sheriff of Cochise county, but everyone knew that old Behan was corrupt as hell, and had a big hand in supporting the Cow-boys crime spree in Tombstone for a long time, though Behan got himself in trouble for taking a bigger piece of the Tombstone pie than he was entitled to. He was still around in Tombstone, but democrat Behan wasn't going to upset the old apple cart. The gambling, prostitution and cattle rustling was still a lucrative business for some people around town. But the ghost of the Earp, Behan and the Cow-boy rivalry still hung heavy in the air. And the grave site of the Clanton's and McLaury's was more a shrine than a grave in Boot Hill cemetery. That fact spoke volumes about people's alliances and feelings around Tombstone.

Sam and Ted walked out of the Epitaph and were about to bid each other farewell, when they heard a group of riders come into town shouting and yelling down the street, they walked closer to see what the commotion was about, and Sam pointed to a man saddled up on a dark horse, and said "Thats Clay Hollister."

Hollister was appointed Sheriff of Tombstone and Cochise County, Arizona after Wyatt and Virgil Earp left Town, and after Behan had been arrested for corruption. Hollister was hand picked by certain Republican politicians in Tombstone after the OK Corral debacle. By all accounts, he was an honest, law-abiding sheriff who unlike other regional lawman, like Johnny Behan, had a different idea of frontier justice. His ideas abided by due process and an attempt to keep the peace. He often confronted Cochise County outlaws. Hollister had also occasionally clashed with the town's Democratic leadership, including Mayor Fred Donolon. He also settled disputes between saloon owners such as J.C. Homer who was a newcomer to Tombstone, who had formed a quick friendships with certain members of the local democrat gentry. In fact, Sam also explained, that Hollister had also rescued his friend Harris Claibourne, his assistant Editor of the Tombstone Epitaph from a duel with the French gambler and gunman Peter de Morence by getting the drop on De Morence before the situation could get out of hand. It was a bright moment in dark times.

Sam approached Hollister, and called "Clay, what in Sam Hill is all the commotion?" Clay nodded . . . Sam. There was a robbery on the stage to Bisbee, three outlaws, shot a man on the stage. One of them was said to be Johnny Ringo. We're getting up a posse to go find them. They got the strong box, and fleeced the passengers. The man who got shot must have disagreed. They got about five thousand in gold from the box, probably headed to the Dragoons, or maybe towards the Mexican border." Hollister mounted up with three other men, Bob Wrangle, Will Johnson and another lawman who had worked with Johnny Behan, Billy Breckinridge. Ted never really trusted Breckinridge, he at one time had mixed alliances with the Cow-boy gang. But in Tombstone, blurred lines were not uncommon. When the posse rode out of Tombstone, It was well past 2:00PM, and that made the first day of the chase short. Ted watched as the posse faded off into the distance just south of Tombstone. The sky clouded up and it began to rain, though in the desert, most of the rain never made it to the ground and the air smelled like a boiling pot as the water cooked off.

Four days had passed and Ted heard that Sheriff Hollister had returned to Tombstone empty handed. Ted found no surprise in that, as he knew from the Earp days, that desperadoes frequently eluded lawman. And if Johnny Ringo was leading them, then the outlaws surely knew how to elude the current lawman.

Ted was interested in learning more about Hollister. Especially considering the past track record of other Lawmen who had attempted to tame Tombstone and how they had fared. Marshall Ben Sippy had fled Tombstone before the Earp brothers tried, and the Earp's were as tough as they come And even they were eventually murdered out of Tombstone by the democrat-criminal factions of the desert.

Ted had decided to have a good talk with Hollister, he strolled over the Marshalls office, rapped on the door and walked in. Hollister was a handsome man who stood nearly six foot with piercing blue eyes, a mustache and partial beard. He was well dressed and armed with a Colt .44. Clay, upon seeing Ted immediately stood up and extended his hand to Ted, saying "Ted, I've heard a lot about you from Sam and other locals. Its a pleasure to meet you. I've also read your works in the Epitaph too, can I get ya a cup of coffee?" Ted smiled back at Clay, "Sure coffee sound like a daisy!" Said Ted. "So what can I do fer ya asked Clay?" Ted explained. "Well I wanted to get to know you better, especially after being here during the Earp days. I got to know Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan quite well, and I was just wondering how you have fared since being chosen to be the law in this old gun-town?"

Clay unraveled his story for Ted; "Its not that much harder than the war, I was with an Illinois regiment of Infantry from Crawford County, the 54th. My folks came from South Carolina. My father was in the war of 1812. I joined the Union Army in 62, got sent down to Vicksburg for the big siege there, and then down to Arkansas to guard the rail lines down there from the rebels. Then one day in August of 65, Joe Shelby showed up with five thousand screaming rebels and five artillery pieces at a place called DuVall's Bluff's. We were fighting from behind hay bales and logs when Shelby's rebels over ran us. I got shot in the leg by confederate horse soldier and ended up a prisoner of war, and I swear to the all mighty that I've seen some of my former confederate captors here in Tombstone, so compared to the war, I've fared well. What about you Ted? What brought you back to Tombstone?" Ted smiled. And replied; "Hell it wasn't a pretty a lady . . . Call it unfinished business, or maybe boredom? Or maybe New York is too civil?" They both laughed. But Ted had a nagging sense of an unresolved wrongs in his mind. After he left Tombstone he thought of the Earps, Josie and of Wyatt's vendetta ride often. Ted also often wondered what Wyatt must have gone through in his head. Wyatt was a tough man, but even hard men grieve and have regrets. Ted wondered how long he would stay in Tombstone now? And in many ways, he did not even know why he returned. But it wasn't until early July when he was on his way back from a trip to Tucson,when He saw some men gathered in Benson. They looked like rough men. One of them was an Indian that he was pretty sure he recognized. Then he heard one of his comrades call out his name "Chato" . . . Ted knew him. Chato Villareal, a half Apache half Mexican who was a scout for John Clum when he was the Indian Agent at the San Carlos reservation. He was Clum's favorite scout, and Chato was close to Clum. But why was he here?

Ted realized that Chato and his comrades were loading a pack mules, but not for prospecting mission. It looked like guns and food. Had Chato turned outlaw? Three days later, Ted would have a partial answer to his curiosity when he saw Chato briefly in Tombstone. But he and the others with him were riding out of town to the south. No sooner did the suspicious group breach the horizon, when Sherriff Clay rode up to the steps of the place where Ted was staying. "Ted . . . I just got a message from Sherriff Bob Paul over in Tucson, Something is going on. There was three or four men that were in town the last couple of days and . . . Ted interrupted and finished his sentence . . . "And one of them was Chato Villareal." Clay. Surprised. Asked Ted how he knew this? He explained that he had known of Chato from his days as an Apache Scout for John Clum. And a damn good one at that. When other Apache Scouts were stripped of their appointments and remanded to the San Carlos reservation, Chato fled and went on his own. He was half Mexican, the government had no control over him. But Bob Paul's message warned of another problem that had the possibility of creating more hostilities in Cochise county. It seems that someone had a plan to kill Johnny Ringo. How Paul found out is anyone's guess, but Paul also said that Ringo was heading to the Chiricahuas. Clay told Ted he was going to head out of town on his own to track the group. Ted knew that tracking this group alone was a bad idea, and that it might be best if he went with him, just in case. Ted agreed. They saddled up, took extra rations, weapons and ammunition, and headed south to look for their trail.

About a half a day from Tombstone, they found a trail. The evidence on the trail told Ted and Clay, that the Trail had turned to the east, and added at least four more riders to the group. Both Ted and Clay suspected that the group was heading towards Galeyville in the Chiricahuas, for it was there that Johnny Ringo could probably be found. They followed the trail for another day when they found that part of the group had split off, but most of the group continued east, they followed the bigger trail. Ted had pondered the situation, who and why would anyone want to track and kill Ringo? The answers were pretty obvious in one sense, but the most obvious one was about the vendetta ride of Wyatt Earp. Everyone else had been killed from the red-sash cow-by gang except Ringo. And Johnny had a big hand in creating Helldorado, and killing and maiming Wyatt's brothers. But the trail now pointed towards Turkey Creek.

The country where Turkey Creek itself leaves the foothills is broken and rocky. The creek has a rocky bottom. The country is relatively open for a few miles, and the creek is bordered by Cottonwoods and Sycamores.

Clay scouted out ahead and returned to where Ted waited on the other side of a large rock outcropping. "They're just over the ridge" Clay said. "Four riders, well armed. I don't recognize any of them, but two of them are dressed like Mexicans, sombreros and ponchos. But I could see that they are white men ." Then Ted and Clay heard a bullet whiz by them, followed by the crack of a rifle. Then a second round followed and both took cover. Clay told Ted," We'd both be dead now if the meant it" They never saw the shooter.But they stayed under cover for a while until they felt safe to emerge from their protection. Both Ted and Clay climbed the ridge to see if the group of riders were still there. they were not. By the marks seen on the trail, the group had obviously knew that they had been spotted, separated into two groups and fled in opposite directions. Clay knew it was a ruse. But also knew that both he and Ted could be in greater danger. Clay was an experienced combat soldier, Ted was a newspaper man. Clay knew it was best to turn back to Tombstone, as he knew that whoever these men were, they had both he and Ted outgunned. They turned back towards Tombstone and headed back. Upon arrival Ted met up with Sam, who was really worried. He said there was talk around Tombstone that both he and Clay had been killed in the desert. Ted told Sam. "Well . . . someone tried, but they didn't try hard enough, or didn't want to. We got shot at, but Clay thought it was a warning, I think it was too." Ted was exhausted, got himself a bite to eat, a bath, found his bed and slept. The following day he saw Clay and some other people outside the Marshalls office. He walked over to the group and Clay looked at Ted and proclaimed that "Johnny Ringo was dead." And it was probably the group of men that we tracked, can't prove it, But if it wasn't, its an awful big coincidence." Ted, wasn't surprised. And spouted the old saying; "He who lives by the sword, shall die by the sword. It was only matter of time." The days of the red-sash Cow-boy gang had officially ended. But strangely, Johnny Ringo's death had been ruled a suicide by a coroners jury. Ted never believed that. A man hell bent on survival like Johnny Ringo killing himself . . . ? ABSURD . . . But it wasn't until some years later when Ted, having a deep desire to know what really happened to Ringo, knew that there was one man who would probably know the answer. And that was Doc Holliday.

DOC HOLLIDAY, WHO KILLED JOHHNY RINGO

After the Tombstone affair, Doc Holliday found a job as a faro dealer in Denver Colorado. So Ted made the trip to talk to Doc. Most gamblers worked late at the tables into the wee hours of the morning, so the dealers usually went in late. This gave Ted some time to spend getting dinner with Doc, and gave them time to talk. When Ted first asked about Ringo's killing, Ted had a suspicion about it, but no real idea who had actually killed him. When he asked Doc directly, Doc denied it. But as time passed, it seemed that Doc wanted to tell Ted more, but Doc then said; "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this. You're going have to promise me that you'll keep in under your hat." Ted promised that he would keep it confidential.

"Wyatt Earp killed Ringo," said Doc.

Ted was shocked, and Doc must have known by the look on Teds face. Doc was hesitant to say more, but he downed another shot of whiskey and leaned towards the table and told Ted the whole story. "We didn't get to Colorado until May, after we pulled out of Arizona. We went from Gila to Globe, sold our nags in Silver City and took the stage to Deming and caught the train to Albuquerque. We stayed a couple of weeks, then headed to Trinidad. Bat Masterson was Marshall there. Wyatt hung around there, but I never liked Masterson and I don't think he liked me either. I had some trouble in Denver over the Tombstone thing and that son of a bitch Behan tried to get me and Wyatt extradited. But Masterson got us off the hook. He only did it for Wyatt, not me. Wyatt wrote me from Gunnison and said he had a big thing planned in Colorado, bigger than Tombstone, so I went there to meet him, But he was camped west of town. I asked why he was camped out here where it was colder that a well digger ass at night? But he had his reasons.

He told me that he wanted to be away from town where no one would suspect anything if he was gone for a while, because he had some travelling in mind. You see, Ringo had got to be the kingpin of the gang in Tombstone after Curly Bill and Old Man Clanton got knocked off and there were some people who wanted Johnny out of the way to finally put an end to the organization. Ringo was the only one left who could hold the remainder of the gang together. And those people knew it. Wyatt said there was a good piece of change for anyone that went back with him to finish what was started. And Wyatt said that if old corrupt Johnny Behan got in the way, he too was expendable. We figured we could just take the train back to Tombstone. But we'd have problems with being recognized. So we both grew beards, and considered dressing like Texicans. We ended up at Hookers ranch, and the whole country was filled with spies, so we mostly traveled at night, though we knew we were being tracked by that new sheriff Hollister and one other man. Ted didn't tell Doc that the other man was him, probably out of embarrassment of being detected by Doc and Wyatt. Doc continued; "We wanted to get a good bead on Ringo. We knew he moved around a lot between Tombstone and the Chiricahua's. We also knew he was in Tombstone right as we got into the territory. So we waited for him. We wanted to get him in town like they did Morg, but it was too risky. And our messenger came in (Ted was sure he was referring to Chato Villareal, and that made sense.) we found Johnny's trail. We had our man alright. Our messenger tracked Johnny to where he was camped and came back and told us where to find him. He may have been hung over from too much fire water the night before. It was pretty late when we got there. Ringo had started a pot of coffee, we could smell the smoke from his fire. We left our horses a ways off so he wouldn't hear us coming. We left one man with the horses, split up and did our best to surround him in the canyon where he was camped. Wyatt would have liked to have hung him along the road, but he knew that Ringo would never surrender to us. And Wyatt said, "we'll have to shoot him." I hoped I'd get the honor of cutting him down, but I didn't. Something tipped Johnny off because he tried to run for it out of his camp. Wyatt said that he was running for a while, I can tell you that we were sneaking along quiet like Indians, Someone shot . . . A pistol. All was quiet for a while, then I heard another a shot, this time a heavy rifle. After a while, Wyatt gave a whistle, he used his personal signal out in the country. Then yelled, come on in! It was right then, I knew that he got the son of a bitch. Wyatt drilled him in the head with his Winchester when he busted out of the brush. That was the end of Johnny Ringo. We sat around for a bit drinking Johnny's coffee and waited till it was good and dark before we moved his dead ass down below Smith's place and dumped it where somebody was sure to find it.

The Waystation Incident
by Aitch Enfield

John and Frank, the company hunters, faced the empty desk, waiting for the Northern Pacific's construction foreman. He pushed aside the flaps of the tent, strode to the table, and tossed two pouches onto it. The coins inside clinked as the bags landed with a thud. John and Frank exchanged glances, as they knew payday wasn't until next week.

The foreman sat at the desk, filled out some forms, and held them out to John and Frank. "Sorry, boys, the crew drove the last spike on this line a few days ago. The directors are looking to cut costs, and you two are it. I'll give you some time to pack your gear, then we're breaking camp. Good luck to you." John and Frank stared at the bags and their final pay slips as the foreman left.

Frank picked up a bag and bounced it in his hand. "Seems a bit light."

John shrugged. "It's better than nothin'."

"Maybe." Frank stuffed the pouch into his belt, hidden by his paunch. "What are you gonna do now, Johnny-boy?"

"I'm thinkin' about heading back down Arizona way. I grew up there, might as well look into getting a stake or punchin'. You?"

"Well, I ain't particular where I lay down, so I might ride along with you, if'n you don't mind."

"Nope, glad for the company."

They left the tent and walked to the bunkhouse the two had called home. As they packed their bedrolls, John wrinkled his nose and pinched it. "Frank, when did you last wash your clothes? They stink!"

"Last week. There ain't nothing wrong with 'em."

John shook his head as he watched Frank roll up his offal-stained butchering outfit. He stared at his own, held them to his nose, and took a deep breath. John shivered and tossed his rotting duds into the bunkhouse trash barrel. He finished gathering his gear and rifle and headed to the corral. Frank completed his packing and followed behind.

As John cinched his saddle, he called to Frank. "Let's stop at the sutler before he closes down and stock up. It's a long ride to Arizona."

Their mounts stood outside while the hunters filled their lists. John finished first and tied two sacks to the rear of his saddle. Frank followed soon after, carrying five.

"Looks like a lot there, Frank. Sure you need that much?"

Frank rubbed his ample belly. "I'm sure of it." He looked at John's meager purchase. "You sure you have enough? You're thin as a rail. Am I gonna have to tie you to your saddle to keep you from bein' blowed away?"

John laughed. "It'll do. Besides, it's a long way from here to Arizona. Don't want empty pockets to keep me from something I might fancy later down the trail."

"Johnny-boy, too much pocket money on the trail can lead to trouble. I learned that lesson when we stopped at Miss Kat's in Bozeman last winter. Now, I'd rather have food to keep me company."

John shifted in his saddle as he remembered the last time he had contact with Miss Kat. He also remembered the tincture of mercury afterward.

"What's the matter, Johnny-boy? Something bothering you?" Frank grinned.

"Nah, not anymore." John spurred his horse, leaving Frank in the dust.

While relaxing at their campfire that night, the pair watched as an object streaked across the desert sky. John followed its path with his finger.

"Look at that, a shooting star! It's headed down south, same as us. Gotta be a good omen."

Frank frowned. "Maybe. I don't put much stock in omens."

After a brief stay in Denver, they hit the trail. Their path meandered through New Mexico Territory, finally arriving at the Arizona border. As they rested, Frank pulled the stopper on his canteen and took a long drink. He shaded his eyes from the glare.

"I'm about out of food, Johnny-boy. Gonna have to hunt up something."

"You ain't gonna find much out here, a jackrabbit at most. You shouldn't have eaten so much."

"Yeah, but I'm a big man, Johnny-boy. I need to eat. I'm getting hungry."

John was about to say something, but a wave of his companion's hand silenced him. Frank stared intently into the distance.

"Shh, I see food." He slowly drew his rifle and let fly a shot at a distant animal. The jackrabbit exploded into a cloud of fur and flesh, eliciting laughter from John. Frank exploded. "Ah, I forgot to buy a new rifle before we left Montana!"

"Yeah, our buff guns are a might powerful for what we'd find here. Maybe trade for some '73s in Tucson."

John removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. A slight breeze offered little relief from the desert sun. He wiped his face and neck with his kerchief, then replaced his hat on his head. "Getting hot, Frank. Let's move on, find some shade."

"Suits me just fine." Frank nudged his horse, then jerked the reins, halting his advance. He fell silent and sniffed the air.

A tingle ran down John's back at the sudden stop. "What is it, Frank?"

"I smell food. Someone's a-cooking some fine smelling food." Frank took a deep breath. "It's coming from down that trail to the right. Let's head that way. I'm gonna follow my belly."

"Ain't nothing new about that, Frank."

Frank glared at John as he started off down the trail. "I tell ya, there's food ahead. My belly tells me so, and my belly's never wrong."

"Never?" John grinned. "Remember a couple days ago in the New Mex Territory at that old cantina . . . "

"You had to bring that up, didn't you?"

John smiled, recalling the night of his friend's gastric discomfort. "Your wind was howling so much that night I couldn't breathe."

"How was I to know there were extra beans and hot peppers in it? I don't speak Spanish." Frank snapped the reins.

As the two followed the trail, a signpost with strange writing appeared in the distance.

"That ain't English, ain't Spanish either." John pushed back his hat and scratched his head.

Frank shook his head. "Nothing I ever did see, Johnny-boy."

The remains of a burned out building lay just beyond the sign. Further away, a few buildings dotted the landscape. John looked at the debris. "Huh, animal tracks." He followed the trail with his eyes until the tracks faded, mingled with the normal traffic of a well-traveled trail. "Something strange about these tracks." He turned to Frank. "Don't rightly know, but they look funny."

Frank stared at the ground and shook his head. "I'm after food, Johnny-boy. I don't care about no tracks. My belly's growling." Frank gave the spurs to his horse.

John stared at the tracks for a few seconds, then caught up to Frank. The pair rode through the town up its only street. On one side, they saw a sheriff's office with a general store a few feet past it. The store had tools stacked outside. Every other building was a false front or incomplete. Construction on the other side of the street looked to be abandoned. The only other complete building was a saloon with a stable behind it. The sign read Your Trail's End. John and Frank saw a woman sweeping up in front. An older woman, big-boned, tanned, looking like she could take on any man who might try to challenge her.

She looked up from her sweeping and greeted them in a booming voice. "Howdy buckaroos! How are you this hot afternoon?"

The two replied, "Howdy. Just fine, thanks!"

She waved them over. "I'm Mrs. Phipps. This here's my saloon. Why not come in and rest a spell? You two look awful parched and trail worn! I'll fix you some drinks and vittles. Just put your hasses in the stable and come on back for some good eating."

"Thankee, ma'am." Frank tipped his hat and headed towards the stable as John followed behind.

Her welcoming smile faded as they passed.

"Hasses?" John looked at Frank.

"Maybe she's Dutch?"

John smiled. "Could be."

John and Frank put their mounts into the stalls, then stowed their tack, leaning their rifles against the wall.

Frank took a deep breath and sighed. "I sure hope the food's as good as it smells."

"I hope you're right. Knock on wood!" As John rapped his knuckles on a post, it rang with a metallic sound. He looked at the post. "What the . . . ? It doesn't seem to be wood!"

Frank snickered. "What's the matter, Johnny-boy? Ain't you ever heard of ironwood before?"

John stared at Frank for a few seconds. "Yeah, but this ain't wood. It's some kind of metal."

"So? You're a-keeping me from the food."

John looked around the corral as Frank brushed by. He shrugged, then followed his partner's lead back to the saloon.

The interior was dark as they pushed through the doors. A saloon girl and a bartender were talking as they saw John and Frank enter. Once inside, the patrons watched from the shadows as the two found the table Mrs. Phipps had set for them. The townsfolk smiled as they took their seats.

"They seem friendly." John returned the smiles as the people turned back to their conversations. He noticed them casting glances their way, smiling more and more among themselves. "Not the usual greeting strangers get when they ride into a town. Sort of makes me uneasy."

"Better than being shot at, Johnny-boy."

"Yeah, I guess so." John stirred the bowl containing what looked like stew. He raised a spoonful to his nose. "Sure smells good."

"Tastes good, too." Frank put down his spoon. "Johnny-boy, I'm ready for a second helping."

John ate a spoonful and thought for a few seconds. "Interesting taste. I wonder what's in it?" He then devoured the bowl.

The saloon girl sauntered over to Frank, moved in close, and started patting his belly. "Ooh, I love me a big man for supper! You sure are a healthy-looking fella. I could just eat you up!" She winked at Frank.

Frank blushed. "Ah, shucks ma'am."

While the saloon girl fawned over Frank, the bartender came over bringing a bottle. "Would you fellas like more of Mrs. Phipps' special stew?" They nodded, and the bartender returned at once with two more bowls.

John dropped his spoon after finishing the next bowl. "I don't know about you, Frank, but I need more."

Frank scooped another spoonful and waved John away. "Well, git to it! I'm about ready for another bowl myself."

John rose from his seat and loosened his belt as he headed to the bar. I feel like I've put on ten pounds. He saw Mrs. Phipps near a stove behind the bar with two pots, speaking into a strange-looking device. It was a small box with blinking lights and a horn protruding from the top. He only heard snatches of her conversation as she spoke in hushed tones.

"Visitors . . . an ample supply . . . enough . . . a waystation here."

Mrs. Phipps walked away from the device, went to the stove, and turned her attention to the pots. She picked up a carcass laying on the counter and took a cleaver to it, chopping it into chunks and tossing them into the pot.

As he moved closer to Mrs. Phipps, John staggered, overcome by a strong odor. He covered his nose and mouth, coughed and wiped his watering eyes. The source of his distress appeared to be coming from the pots on the stove.

"This isn't what we're eating, is it, Mrs. Phipps?" John croaked between coughs.

Surprised, Mrs. Phipps whirled around to face John. A smile replaced her shocked look as she regained her composure. "Oh no honey, this ain't for you! It's for the others out there." She flicked her hand towards the townsfolk. "They're particular about what they eat." Mrs. Phipps winked at John. "If you two want more, the storeroom's in the stable."

John wobbled back to the table and called Frank to help with the task. Frank stood, loosened his belt as well, and went outside with John. Back in the stable, the two found no storeroom, just some large piles in the corner covered by a cloth. John scratched his head and started his search.

"I heard Mrs. Phipps talking to a box about a food supply, but I've found nothing. This certainly ain't a butcher's shop."

Frank looked at John and cocked his head. "Talkin'? To a box?"

"Well, not a box." He rubbed his chin. "You remember that fancy hotel we stayed at in Denver a couple of weeks ago?"

Frank sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. "The one with the sweet-smelling ladies walking around?"

"Yep, that's the one. The hotel had . . . what was it, again? A telephone. It was on the wall in the lobby. You can talk to far away people with it."

"I don't remember no telophone," Frank barked. "All I recall is those sweet-smelling ladies didn't cotton to me, and I don't know why."

"Well, you were a bit gamey after the last hunt. Maybe . . . "

Frank glared at John. "That can't be it! I took a bath in Lake Granby a week before we got there!"

John stifled a laugh as he returned to his search. "Now, where's that meat?"

"Maybe the food's under those sheets?" Frank pointed to the piles.

John went over, uncovered one pile, and found nothing but bones. "What on earth?" He picked a few up and examined them. "These bones look gnawed on!" He continued to look through the pile and found ribs and neck bones. All appeared to be chopped.

"Look at the cleaver marks on these bones. Someone definitely butchered these animals. Nothing else could have made those marks. I don't know what they are, they don't look like deer, or elk." He lifted another group of bones, and as it came out of the pile, he saw a human head connected to it. He quickly dropped it. "Human bones!" A wave of nausea flooded over John. "Mrs. Phipps has been butchering people!"

"Is that what we've been eating?" Frank turned and vomited in the corner.

As the two tried to recover from the shock, Mrs. Phipps appeared outside the stable and slammed the door. She ran away shouting, "Now you two can stay there until I need you!"

The pair rushed to the door and found it barred from the outside. John ran to the other side of the stable, searching for another way out. Frank pressed his face to the planks of the door, looking through the gaps at the outside latch as John continued to search.

"Johnny-boy, look here." Frank took out his knife and slipped it between the doors and raised the latch, flipping it open. "Ain't no lock on it. How did she expect to keep us here?" Frank flung open the door.

"I don't know, Frank, but we need to stop her before she kills someone else. You look for the sheriff while I warn the townsfolk."

Frank hurried to the sheriff's office as John ran to the saloon. The place was full of townspeople eating. The foul smelling odor from the pots filled the place. John covered his nose as he rushed in and placed his hand on the shoulder of a patron.

"Hey friend, we need your . . . " As the person turned his head, John no longer saw the friendly faces who greeted the pair when they arrived. The townsfolk had transformed. Their faces resembled animals, with a mouth full of sharp teeth. The creature hissed at John. He bolted back through the doors into the street.

"Frank! Where are you?" John's eyes darted from building to building.

"Over here." Frank ran across the street from the general store. "There ain't nobody in this town, Johnny-boy. Ain't nothing behind the walls. The buildings are empty."

John gasped for air as Frank grabbed his arm to steady him. "I know. There aren't any people here. They're not people, they're . . . I don't know what they are, but they aren't people."

"What are you talking about? Are you trying to be funny again?"

"I ain't funnin' you. It was awful, they're not people. I swear they aren't."

The creatures pushed through the doors of the saloon. They slithered into the street. They had sloughed off their former appearance. No longer did they look like men and women. They now resembled large, bloated snakes. Their bodies had leathery, armored skin. John and Frank both recoiled at the sight. They drew their pistols, emptying them into the advancing pack. The creatures fell, squealing and thrashing around, then coiling their bodies, righted themselves, and advanced once more.

"Our six guns won't kill them!" Frank cried.

"The rifles! See if you can keep them busy, Frank."

John ran towards the stables as Frank rushed to the general store and grabbed a ladder. He swung it around, knocking the creatures to the ground again and again. John entered the stable and rushed to the rifles leaning against the wall. Mrs. Phipps emerged from the shadows behind him.

"You're ruining our plans! Now I'll have to kill you before you're fattened up!"

As she lunged at him with a cleaver, John stepped back and fired his rifle. The buffalo load knocked her to the ground. She writhed, squealed like the creatures outside, then stopped moving. With his attacker finished, John ran back out to the street to aid Frank.

He reached the street and saw Frank engaged in battle with the creatures. Frank leveled the attackers once more before tossing aside the ladder. He caught his rifle in mid-air as John tossed it to him. They worked the levers, sending the cartridges on their deadly mission. The heavy loads ripped apart flesh as an orange liquid sprayed out onto the ground. The creatures fell, squealed once again, then died.

"Is that all of 'em, Johnny-boy?" Frank looked around, wide-eyed.

John stopped to catch his breath. "I think so. I shot Mrs. Phipps, or whatever she is, in the stable. She tried to butcher me!"

Frank cast a wary eye toward the creatures, assuring himself they were dead, then headed to the stables. John followed, and as they entered, they saw the bloodied Mrs. Phipps in the corner next to the pile of bones, at a device similar to the one in the saloon. She struggled to speak to whomever was listening. She squeaked and squealed in harsh, guttural sounds, the same nonhuman language used by the townsfolk when in their true form. Mrs. Phipps squealed once more, then fell silent.

Frank and John looked at each other.

"What just happened, Johnny-boy?"

"I don't know. I reckon she was talking to someone on that telephone."

"That don't look like no telophone to me. But whatever it is, I hope she told that someone to stay away."

"Yeah, me too. Let's get out of here, Frank. I don't think I like this place."

It was near dusk as the two led their horses from the stable. Frank turned to John. "I figured out for you what was funny about those tracks leading into town."

"What was it?"

"Well, use your buff hunting skills, Johnny-boy."

John gave it a few seconds of thought. "All the tracks were entering the town. This place was a trap. Once someone rode in, they never rode out."

"Yep, sounds like a solid explanation."

"These creatures, whatever they were, ate whoever came into town. They must have been the ones to make the strange tracks at the crater." John shuddered at the thought of what would have been their demise. "And we were next on the menu. I wonder where they came from?"

"Don't know, Johnny-boy. Don't care, either. They're dead and we're not. That's all that matters to me."

As the pair returned to the street, they saw the remains of the creatures had turned to ashes. The buildings themselves decayed, falling down in front of them. They stared as the town crumbled to dust before their eyes. Nothing remained but the desert. Above them, an object streaked across the darkening desert sky. It hovered over John and Frank, then changed direction and disappeared among the stars.