Pyrite
by Ralph S. Souders

It had been another long, hot journey riding across the high desert beneath the Utah sun, sitting atop my trusted horse, Nickels. We had made this same trek together many times in the past and we knew the route perfectly. Most travelers opted to skirt this corner of the desert by riding along the base of the mountains to the north where shade and water were plentiful. That route was much easier on both horse and rider, but it also added an extra day to the trip. As a much younger man, I had decided to try riding through the desert itself and, completely by luck, I had discovered the ideal route. Because of this, I could cross the desert in two days whereas the average rider needed the better part of three. Through the years, people had asked me to provide them with my desert route, but I had decided to keep this information to myself. I would tell them that this route was very difficult to ride and even more difficult to explain. Until now, I had successfully guarded this secret and I was not yet motivated to share it with anyone.

My travel plan through the desert was really very simple. I would embark on my journey before four o'clock a.m., traveling for two hours in the dark and then six additional hours in the morning daylight. After sunup, the cool morning temperature would increase rapidly and by noon, the desert heat would become overwhelming, and the relentless sun unforgiving. At that point, approximately halfway to our destination, I would need to seek shelter to protect us from the elements. To this day, I am amazed at how fortunate I was to have stumbled upon the ideal place for our mid-desert interlude.

Throughout the barren landscape, among the cacti and the other desert weeds and plants, occasional rock formations including areas of standing boulders, are sporadically located. These formations are typically small, measuring a few hundred square feet or less. Some are larger, encompassing as much as half an acre. It was in one of these larger formations that I had inadvertently discovered water late in the morning of our initial crossing. In seeking shade from the sun within the confines of a rock formation, I was surprised to discover a small pool of fresh spring water standing in the rocky ground. The pool measured approximately thirty square feet in size. It appeared to be quite deep, and the water was clear. No stream flowed from the pool which indicated that the water exited the pool from somewhere underground. Due to the large sizes of the rock formations that surrounded this desert oasis, green vegetation was not visible from the outside. Also, since the small pool was fed from deep underground, the sound of the small spring was muted, and no water sounds could be heard in the area.

That first afternoon, Jericho, my horse at that time, and I had entered the rock formation and halted within the enclosed confines. After removing his saddle and placing it upon a boulder, I led him to the water pool and allowed him to drink. When he was finished, I took him into the shade. By this time, the sun had already passed overhead, and a growing shaded area was developing on the eastern side of the rocks. I checked this area closely to make sure that no snakes, scorpions or other dangerous varmints were present. There were not any. While Jericho ate a small ration of oats that I had carried with us from home, I removed my clothes, jumped into the pool and cooled off in the cold, spring-fed water. While in the water, I drank enough to quench my thirst. Later, I would refill both of my canteens. When I finished swimming, I quickly dried off in the hot sun, got dressed and retreated to the shaded area. There I relaxed with Jericho for the remainder of the afternoon, protected from the sun and the worst of the desert heat. That night, I slept on a bedroll under a blanket on the hard ground. The air had become quite cool. There was no campfire. In the morning, two hours before daylight, I ate some food that I had carried from home. Jericho ate the last of his oats. Then, after resaddling the horse and allowing him a final drink of water, we moved back onto the desert and resumed riding toward our destination. We would arrive there in about eight hours.

Within the confines of the boulder enclosed oasis, there were clear indications that it had been visited by other people in the past. I certainly had not been its discoverer on my first visit in 1878. I was certain that the American Indians had utilized it for generations. There were also remnants of old campfires and some small bits of trash that had been left behind by previous campers. It was easy to see where horses had previously been tied. It appeared that nobody had visited in a while as there were no recent tracks and no fresh debris of any type.

Over the next fifteen years, I continued to travel this desert route several times annually and I always stayed the night at my secret stopover. Sometimes, I would find indications that somebody else had been there since my previous visit, but I never encountered another person. This changed one hot, summer morning as I approached the rock formation, tired and thirsty, looking forward to a refreshing dip in the cold waters of the spring-fed pool. I was sitting atop Nickels as Jericho had long since passed. We rode to within seventy yards of the rock formation. Suddenly, I was startled by a loud voice shouting a command at me. Until then, the only sounds that I had ever heard at this location were the desert wind and water splashing as I bathed in the pool, or as my horse drank. Staring at the rock formation, my eyes located a man standing behind a large boulder with a rifle in his hands. I immediately pulled back on Nickels' reins, stopping the horse. The man had my complete attention, and I awaited his further words.

"Keep movin' and don't stop," ordered the man. "Ya ain't welcome here."

The man appeared to be an older fellow, possibly in his seventies, perhaps even older. He was hatless with thin, white hair and a scraggly beard. He was wearing an old, tan shirt and a blue bandana around his neck. The rest of him was hidden by the boulder behind which he was standing. An older Winchester rifle was in his hands.

"Pardon me, sir," I carefully responded. "My horse and I sleep here throughout the year. We've been traveling many hours and we're hot and tired. We need water. We need to rest."

"Didn't ye hear me?" hollered the man. "Ya ain't welcome here. Keep movin'. Go on, git."

"We can't keep moving," I protested. "I don't know where else to go."

The old man pointed his rifle at me, threatening to shoot. Not knowing the man, I didn't know if he would shoot or not. I was in no position to argue with him. I was in a dangerous predicament.

"Do as I say, stranger," warned the man. "I ain't tellin' ya again."

"Please, sir, I just . . . "

"Leave!" the man shouted angrily. "Now! Git."

I was facing a critical dilemma. Although I had never been more than an average poker player at best, I realized that I was going to have to call the man's bluff. I had no choice. My horse was thirsty, and I was concerned that he wouldn't last another eight hours in the hot desert before we could reach our destination. Realistically, the timeframe would be longer than eight hours, since Nickels would be traveling at a much slower pace as his thirst increased. Leaving here without water was not a viable option.

"Look, we need water," I told the man angrily. "We have no choice. If you're gonna' shoot me, then I guess you need to go ahead and do it. Without water, he and I will both die before we can get where we're goin'. If I'm gonna' die, you might as well shoot me now. If you'd spare the horse, I'd be much obliged."

As the man listened to my words, he became perplexed. He now seemed hesitant. Perhaps he was not so keen on shooting me. I decided to continue talking.

"You know, if you shoot me, you'll need to bury me in this hard, rocky ground. I hope you've got some strong shovels and a strong back. If you don't bury me right quick, the vultures will come and so will the blow flies and the flesh flies. They'll swarm on me for days and they'll be flying around inside your little fortress here, too. They'll be all over the place. You'll be swattin' them away with your hands because they'll be bitin' you as well."

The man was quiet now, contemplating his options. I sensed that he was close to making a decision. Was he going to shoot me or give me water? I realized that he would not necessarily have to bury me in this location. He could transport my dead body on a horse and dump it somewhere out in the desert. Hopefully, he was not going to do that. Nervously, I waited to learn my fate.

"Okay," the man finally agreed reluctantly. "Come get your water and relax your horse a bit. Then ya'll need to be on your way. Understand?"

"Yeah, I understand," I replied in a relieved tone. "Thanks, mister. I appreciate it."

With that said, I rode Nickels the short distance to the opening in the rock formation. There I dismounted and with the reins in my right hand, we walked into the inner confines of the oasis. Once inside, the horse immediately located the pool of water and began to drink. The old man watched us carefully. He had certainly noticed by now that I was not carrying a handgun. He must have also noticed the rifle contained in a leather scabbard attached to my horse.

Standing beside the horse as he drank, I took a short look about the enclosure. I saw that the man had a horse and a mule. The horse was obviously used for riding whereas the mule was a pack animal. I also observed that he possessed mining tools. To my surprise, it appeared that he had been digging throughout the oasis, but I saw no indications that he had found anything. That's certainly weird, I thought to myself. As far as I knew, there were no known deposits of precious metals anywhere near this area. Why would he be wasting his time digging here? The work had to be difficult, and it almost certainly would be unsuccessful.

When Nickels and I finished drinking from the pool, I refilled my two canteens. Once filled, I tied them together and draped them over the back of the horse where they would be within my easy reach. Then, leading the horse to the shaded area, I provided him with a small amount of oats which he readily ate. As he was finishing eating, I saw the old man approaching. I anticipated him telling me that it was now time for us to leave. The idea of leaving this shade and continuing our journey under the hot desert sun was unappealing to me. Nevertheless, the old man had kept his part of our bargain. I felt obligated to honor mine.

"Why not sit and rest a spell," offered the old man. "As long as ya's here, ya might as well. It's hot as blazes out there."

The old man's offer surprised me, but I immediately accepted. I had no desire to go back into the desert that afternoon.

"Whenever we cross the desert, Nickels and I always sleep here," I told him. "We'd sure like to stay here till mornin'. We won't cause you any trouble. You have my promise."

The man contemplated briefly. He was a loner, but that afternoon for whatever reason, he felt open to tolerating company. "Ya, I reckon it's okay," he agreed. "Make yourself comfortable."

Smiling in relief, I thanked him graciously. I then proceeded to remove Nickels' saddle, placing it and the two canteens on a nearby boulder. When this was done, I sat in the shade on the east side of the rock formation and removed my hat. My eight-hour journey that morning had exhausted me. The old man now seemed to be a nice enough fellow. I felt safe and secure in this location. I closed my eyes and quickly fell asleep. A brief nap would reinvigorate me, no doubt.

A couple of hours later, I awoke to the smell of smoke. As I opened my eyes and sat up straight, I noticed a small campfire burning in the ground about twenty feet away. An unrecognizable desert rodent, impaled by a metal spit, was positioned horizontally just slightly above the flames. The fire made hissing sounds as droplets of moisture fell from the cooking meat onto the fire. It did not appear very appetizing. The old man noticed that I had awakened.

"Good morning," said the man facetiously. "Have a good rest? I'd say ya did."

"Yeah," I replied, "I did. I really needed that."

"I'm cookin" me some supper," he informed me, nodding at the campfire. "Ya hungry? I've got enough to share."

"Maybe I can eat a small piece," I replied. "The hot desert tends to kill my appetite. I've got some beans in my saddle bags if you'd like to have some."

The old man smiled pleasantly. "That'd be great," he said. "I'd be much obliged. Let me get my pan for cookin' 'em."

He proceeded to walk to the pack mule and obtained an old, tarnished frying pan from a leather pouch still tied to the animal's back. Once he had it in hand, he carried it back to the fire. Meanwhile, I obtained the beans from my saddle bags and gave them to the man. He proceeded to pour half of them into the frying pan. He placed a small amount of lard into the pan as well.

"Supper'll be ready in fifteen minutes or so," the old man informed me. "If ya wanna' wash up, now's a good time."

Nodding my head in agreement, I went to the pool where I washed my face and hands in the cool, spring water. The water felt wonderful, and it washed away any sleepiness that I was still feeling. I then returned to the campfire. Minutes later, the old man fixed me a serving of the rodent meat and some beans on a metal plate. He ate the remaining meat and some beans from the frying pan. To this day, I do not know what meat I was eating. I never asked. It tasted okay, although I would not be eager to eat it again.

After dinner, I asked the old man if he might like to have a taste of whiskey. He enthusiastically accepted. I retrieved a half pint of whiskey from my saddlebag. There was not enough whiskey in the bottle for us to become intoxicated. Therefore, I was not concerned about the man's ability to hold his liquor or of him becoming a mean drunk. The whiskey did relax the man considerably, causing him to become talkative. He spoke to me as though I was an old friend, feeling no inhibition at all. He informed me that his name was Amos Harting. I told him that I was George Beason.

"Bison?" he asked in a surprised tone. "What kind of name is that? Are ya part buffalo?" Amos laughed heartily at his joke. I smiled friendlily, not offended by his remark. Instead, I called him 'Pyrite'. He didn't understand my humor. He thought that I was calling him a pirate.

As we sat and conversed, mildly feeling the effect of the whiskey, Pyrite confided in me and explained why he was mining the oasis. Several weeks earlier, while napping outside the feed store in Cedar City, he had overheard two men whispering. They had assumed that he was sleeping. They apparently had been involved in a bank robbery in New Mexico a few days earlier where they had stolen over $10,000 in gold coins and hidden them in the desert. They intended to keep them hidden for a few months until the heat from the authorities and the police detectives let up. They were content to be patient as was their accomplice in New Mexico who would notify them when it was safe to retrieve their loot. Pyrite listened as they discussed the location of their hidden stash. He had lived in or near this desert for most of his adult life and based on the outlaws' description of the hiding place in their conversation, he believed that he knew exactly where it was. As soon as the men left, traveling in the direction away from the desert, he immediately got his tools, purchased two months' worth of supplies, and headed to that location. He had been there ever since, but to date had found nothing. He had been working very hard and was becoming increasingly discouraged. He was also afraid that he was quickly running out of time before the outlaws would be returning for their money.

As I looked about the oasis while the miner spoke, I could not immediately identify any places that he might have missed in his search. Most of the ground was rock solid and had obviously never been disturbed. Other places, some very imaginative, had been excavated but nothing had been found. There was one additional place that seemed obvious to me, but I suspected that Pyrite had not searched there. It was the pool of water, of course.

"Have you looked in the pool?" I asked. "Maybe the money's in there."

Pyrite looked at me as though I was crazy. He shook his head dismissively. "All ya have to do his look inta the pool," he replied. "It ain't there. That water's crystal clear. Otherwise, ya'd see the money easy."

"If they hid the money in the water, they wouldn't leave it out in the open," I explained. "It would be too easy to see, and it'd be long gone by now. There may be a crevice or a small cave somewhere in the pool. If there is, that's where they'd put it. My guess is that the loot is either somewhere in the pool or it's not here at all."

Pyrite had to agree. He was suddenly very interested in my idea, and he was eager to act on it. Unfortunately, he had never learned to swim. Upon learning that I knew how, he asked if I would be willing to go down in the water to see if I could find the money. I agreed to do so.

Wasting no time, Pyrite and I walked to the water pool and stared down into it. We estimated that it was ten to twelve feet deep. I was confident that I could reach the bottom. Despite feeling awkward, I proceeded to strip to my underwear. I was relieved as the miner paid me scant attention. His total interest was concentrated on the inner depths of the pool. As soon as I was ready, I held my breath and jumped into the water. Holding my arms perpendicular to the sky, I felt myself plunging downward until my feet touched the bottom of the pool. It was rock solid, and I could feel a strong current from the spring as water entered the pool from one side and immediately exited on the other.

Quickly, I examined the stone walls of the pool which were smooth to the touch having been exposed to the water for perhaps thousands of years. The sun provided plenty of light, enabling me to see quite easily. My main concern was air as I knew I could only hold my breath for a minute or so at a time. Fortunately, I found the money almost immediately. It had been placed in a crevice at approximately the eight-foot depth. No tool of any type would be required for me to retrieve it. Carefully, I removed a burlap bag containing coins from the crevice. I held it tightly against my chest with one arm, hoping that the burlap material had not deteriorated in the water. If the bag was to rupture during ascent and the coins were to fall to the bottom of the pool, it would be physically exhausting work trying to collect them. Using my free arm and my legs for propulsion, I ascended to the surface of the pool. When I reached the top, I exhaled forcefully and struggled momentarily to catch my breath. I then handed the bag of coins to Pyrite who accepted it happily while laughing hysterically. He could not believe his good fortune.

Pyrite carried the bag of coins a short distance to a boulder with a flat top. There he carefully emptied the bag and began to count the money. The coins were all twenty-dollar gold pieces. Since he had no formal education and had never learned the multiplication tables, counting the coins was going to be a tedious process. He had never seen this much money in his life. His plan was to organize the coins in stacks of five coins each. He would then count the number of stacks to determine the total value of the money laid out on the boulder top before him.

Meanwhile, with the miner intently counting the money, I climbed out of the pool and walked over to where Nickels was tied. There I stood beside my horse while my body and wet underwear dried in the sun and the wind. Within a few minutes, I was sufficiently dry, and I proceeded to get dressed. Once this was done, I walked over to the flat-topped boulder and watched Pyrite count his money. Although I barely knew the old man, I felt happy for him. He eventually determined that he had 170 gold pieces with a total value of $3,400. Although this was considerably less than the $10,000. he had been expecting, he was ecstatic to have found so much money. He was quite satisfied.

Later that evening as we finished the remaining whiskey, Pyrite and I discussed the money. We decided that he would keep $3,000 for himself and I would take $400 as my fee for retrieving the money out of the well for him. I accepted this agreement for two basic reasons. First, the miner had been working hard digging for this money for several weeks in the hot, desert weather. I had spent only a few minutes looking for it in the cold waters of the spring-fed pool. My only real physical work was carrying the bag of coins to the surface of the water. Second, I really did not know the man very well. Would he consider shooting me tonight as I slept to steal my half of the loot? I did not want to take that chance. The $400 for my services had been his idea. I doubted that he would kill me for the $400, since he was so elated with his $3,000.

We also discussed how having this money was going to impact his life. I warned him to be inconspicuous with the money. Many people would readily take it from him if they realized he had it. Some would be willing to kill him for it. He needed to be smart and careful. Also, I suggested that he not go back to Cedar City. The locals there would figure out quickly that this old miner suddenly had money to spend that he had never had before. Where did he get it? If the outlaws who robbed the bank learned of this, they would track him down to recover their money. Whether they got their money back or not, they would probably kill him. He needed to be aware of this danger and to live accordingly. Pyrite appeared to understand my message.

"Yeah, I know yer right," he said. "I've always been wantin' to see Montana. They say there's gold there." The miner laughed at his joke and patted his bag of coins. "I reckon' that's what I'm gonna do."

"That sounds like a good plan," I said. "If I was you, I head there right from here. It'll be a long trip, but now you've got money and plenty of time. You need to get away from here. Go up there and start enjoying your life some. Life is short."

Pyrite nodded his head in agreement. "That's what I'm gonna' do," he said. "In fact, I think I'll pack-up tonight and head out before sunup. I like to travel before noon, same as ya. Afternoons in the desert heat are too much."

I nodded my head in agreement. "Nickels and I will probably wait here until after sunrise. Then we'll be on our way, too."

Pyrite and I conversed for a few more minutes before he got busy packing up his things. In about an hour, his task was complete, and he decided to lie down and try to get some sleep. A few hours earlier, he'd had no plans to be traveling tomorrow. Now, between his excitement of finding the money and his anticipation of departing on his morning journey, he was full of adrenalin and expecting a restless night. Once he finally lay down, I spread my bedroll on the ground and lay upon it, trying to relax but unable. I slept restlessly, wary that the miner could turn on me during the night, although I doubted that this would happen. Finally, at about three a.m., Pyrite got up and prepared to leave. He lit a small campfire and made some coffee. We shared some left-over beans from the previous evening. He made certain that his canteen was full. Then, anxious to get started, he began leading his horse and his mule toward the exit of the oasis. For the first time, I saw him wearing a hat. I walked beside him until they were outside of the enclosure.

"Goodbye, Pyrite," I told him as he climbed onto his horse. "Be careful, my friend. Travel safely. Try to cover your tracks as best you can. When the outlaws return and find their money gone, they'll probably try tracking us."

"I will," he replied. "Ya be careful, too. Thanks for all yer help. I'm much obliged."

"It was my pleasure," I said. "I'm glad we found your treasure. Enjoy Montana."

"I will," he agreed with a big smile. "I sure will."

Pyrite and I shook hands, and then I watched as he rode away on his horse with the pack mule following behind. He would be traveling slowly. He planned to take a northeasterly route to bypass Cedar City. He was headed toward Colorado and Wyoming through which he would pass enroute to Montana. His exact destination in Montana had not yet been chosen, and he would make this determination as he drew closer to that territory. I continued watching as the silhouettes of the horse, rider and pack mule shrank in size before disappearing into the desert darkness.

Once Pyrite was gone, I obtained some water from the pool and extinguished the campfire. I doubted if anyone was anywhere in the general vicinity of my location, but I did not want to risk having the glow of the fire attract anyone's attention. Although it was unlikely to happen, I was suddenly feeling paranoid that the outlaws might show up to obtain their money while I was still there. That would be a dangerous situation, for sure.

As daylight approached, I fed Nickels the last of his oats and lead him to the water where he drank. We were ready to leave except for my blanket and bedroll that were still on the ground. I checked and made certain that my rifle was loaded. As daylight broke and the sun began to rise in the eastern sky, the sunlight slowly brightened the oasis. By about seven a.m., the sun was high enough to provide me with the adequate amount of light that I needed. At this point, I approached the spring-fed pool and proceeded to strip off my clothes. Naked, I jumped into the pool and descended to the depth of eight feet where the crevice in the stone wall was located. Carefully, I removed another burlap bag of coins, held it against my chest with one arm, and then propelled back to the surface. Once there, I placed the bag on the outside rim of the pool. After resting for a couple of minutes and catching my breath, I descended again into the pool and removed the last bag of coins from the crevice before ascending again to the surface. I placed this bag on the rim of the pool beside the other. I then climbed out of the water.

While my body dried in the cool morning air, I carried the coins to my bedroll. There were a lot of coins, but I had enough room in the bedroll and my saddlebags to pack them all securely. Once they were packaged to my satisfaction, I saddled the horse, folded the bedroll, positioned it behind my saddle next to the scabbard and secured it. I then retrieved my clothes and while standing beside the pool, I got dressed. Then, wasting no further time, I grabbed Nickels' reins and led him to the exit of the rock formation and onto the desert. I climbed into the saddle, and we immediately began riding away. We had an eight-hour ride ahead of us. Since we were leaving more than three hours later than usual, it would be mid-afternoon before reached our destination. We were in for a long, hot ride and I was anxious to get home.

The outlaws would be livid with anger when they discovered that the loot from their bank robbery had been stolen from them. They would certainly try very hard to learn the identity of the thieves. On the way home, I decided to take a circuitous route to confuse any riders who might attempt to follow Nickels' tracks. These tracks would diminish over time and become increasingly difficult to find. Wherever possible, I used more traveled trails and roads where his tracks would be mixed with the tracks of other horses. By the time we reached our destination, I was confident that it would be an impossible task for anyone to successfully track us to my house. I hoped that Pyrite was being equally careful.

Two months later, I learned from a local sheriff's deputy that the bodies of two unidentified men had recently been found in the desert about eight hours to the west. These men appeared to be gunslingers based on their dark clothes and the well-oiled holsters that were attached to their belts. Both of their guns were on the ground nearby, but neither gun had fired a bullet. The deputy surmised that the guns had been drawn, but both men had taken a bullet to the chest before the triggers could be pulled. The killer was unidentified and at large. With no known witnesses to the shooting, it was doubtful if the murders would ever be solved. Based on the location and the timing of the shooting, I surmised that the two dead men might well be the two Utah members of the outlaw gang that had robbed the bank in New Mexico. Their New Mexican colleague had possibly discovered that the loot stashed in the desert pool was missing and had assumed that he was being swindled. He probably had killed his partners believing that they had double crossed him.

With the two Utah outlaws dead and their accomplice unable to locate the money, I was confident that I would never be implicated in the theft of their loot. I would have no problem in keeping that secret to myself, just as I had stubbornly kept my secret route across the desert confidential. Unless Pyrite would someday reveal this information to somebody, I anticipated no future repercussions resulting from our actions. Meanwhile, in counting the coins contained in the second and third burlap bags, I found that both bags contained the exact, same amount of money as the initial bag. Every bag contained 170 twenty-dollar gold pieces. Therefore, the total value of the money in each bag was $3,400 dollars. The grand total of the outlaws' heist was $10,200. Pyrite took $3,000 of this money whereas I kept the remaining $7,200 for myself. Although I felt slightly guilty in cheating the miner out of some of this money, I did not worry too much about it. He was now a wealthy man by his standards. I was a younger man, and my money would have to last me much longer than his would need to last him.

Following the murder of the outlaws, I never heard anything more about the incident. As far as I knew, their killer was never identified. I stashed my share of the stolen money in my house. In the subsequent months and years, I deposited this money in the local bank, a little at a time, to avoid suspicion and to not draw attention to myself in the community. After several years, the bulk of this money was in the bank, and I was in the process of locating a small ranch to purchase. I had quietly become one of the wealthier men in my community. I was courting a good woman who would soon become my wife. We both looked forward to living together on the ranch and starting a family. I never heard of Pyrite again and I hoped that he was alive and well, enjoying his life in Montana. Without a doubt, meeting Pyrite was a golden event in my life. The few hours that we spent together in the Utah desert changed my life forever, more so than he could have ever realized. I think about him often and will fondly remember him always.

Author's note: Pyrite, a mineral known as iron disulfide (FeS2), is also known as Fool's Gold.

The Cur
by Willy Whiskers, Constable of Calliope, NV

Collarless, half starved, dirty, The Cur showed up one morning behind the Peachtree Saloon rolled up in a ball beside an empty slop bucket. Full grown, but young, he would have gone about 60 pounds if well fed, which he wasn't. Brindle coat with a white blaze on his chest that kind of looked like a star. He blended so well with his surroundings Pete the bartender didn't notice him the first few times he passed while getting ready to open for the day. He shooed the dog away and The Cur slinked off, but only went a few yards.

This scenario played out for a few mornings, until one day the dog caught Pete's gaze. The dog had not forgotten the effect of puppy-eyes and cocking his head to one side. The man stood still for a moment and cocked his head to match. Finding a half-eaten steak from the night before he tossed it to The Cur.

It went that way for a while, with the dog getting fed occasionally. Pete even set up an old crate as a makeshift doghouse. One stormy night when the bar was full of cowboys and townies all finding shelter from the rain, someone left the back door ajar. The Cur, seeking shelter himself, slipped inside. It was common for a bar to have a cat or two for the vermin, and some had dogs too, but not the Peachtree.

A bar is full of smells; smoke, vomit, stinking cowboys, stale perfume, but over all this wafted a stench that turned every nose—wet dog.

Cries rose from every corner of the room; "What the hell is that?"," Who let that filthy dog in here?", "Get rid of him."

Savannah Sal, the grand dame, stood on the stairs leading to the rooms above, clutching a sachet to her face and looking straight at Pete. He sped from behind the bar and tried to usher The Cur back outside, but the dog stood his ground. Only after a piece of raw meat was laid on the back step did he relent. Pete then went out and laid an old slicker over the doghouse and put it on a pallet to elevate the crate out of the mud.That seemed to satisfy The Cur, yet, the wet dog smell lingered long after the dog took shelter.

The next morning Pete busied himself around the bar when he heard several of the ladies of the establishment giggling out behind the bar. Investigating, he found The Cur standing in a wash tub, covered in suds getting a proper bath from three girls with Sal looking on.

"What's his name?" asked Sal.

"I just call him The Cur." Pete replied.

"Seems a little undignified." Then she addressed the dog. "Well boy, what's your name? Rover, King, Butch?"

The dog did not respond. Pete called out "Cur!". The animal looked up and barked.

The people looked at each other. "I guess that is his name," said Sal. "Seems like we have a dog, but he must be kept clean, and I don't want any trouble with any of the customers." The Cur had found a home.

As the weeks went by, The Cur found his place at the Peachtree. He greeted everyone entering the bar with a sniff. Some would get two or more sniffs and the bar staff learned that meant to watch that individual. His favorite place to lie was under the roulette table from where he could keep an eye on the patrons. If a cowboy got a little rough with one of the girls, The Cur would sidle up to the man and lean on his leg. Should the man try to push the dog away, this would initiate a soft growl. By this distraction, the girl had a chance to move away, and the incident ended.

All in all, The Cur was a quiet dog, which pleased Sal. She ran a tight establishment, and all the patrons knew it. Guns were allowed, but never out of leather. Pete's shotgun came out quickly when there was any kind of disturbance.

Once there was a rowdy poker game underway, with Bib Jones feeling he had been wronged. He reached for his side arm, but in an instant The Cur was there with his nose pressed firmly against the holster. Bib looked down, and slowly returned his hand to the table.

Normally, as the Peachtree closed for the night, The Cur would go out the front door and make his rounds. But, on this night there was a ruckus down the street. Kirt Goodly from the Bar B ranch got crosswise with Jim Hicks and a few of the other cowboys from the KN brand. The situation got out of hand fast, and the gunfire was general. Jim lay dead and another fella was wounded. Kirt knew that Sheriff Billy was on his way, and it was time to skedaddle. His horse was hitched behind the Peachtree, where he had started his binging that night. On his horse he knew he could get away in the darkness and be in the next county before dawn. Bolting down the street as the sheriff and a deputy arrived, Kirt turned the corner into the alley that led to his horse.

Feeling smug at his escape, he leaped into his saddle, and pulled on the reins, when all hell broke loose. The Cur sank his teeth into the horse's rear leg and clamped down hard. The horse kicked and reared. Kirt held on, but the dog continued his attack until the horse flung the cowboy to the ground. Now on his level, The Cur started attacking Kirt. When the sheriff arrived a few moments later they found the dog standing on Kirt's chest barking, Kirt's face bleeding from a bite that nearly split open his nose.

Pete was there and grabbed The Cur and whisked him into the Peachtree. With a wet bar towel, he began to wipe the blood from the dog. A little while later Sheriff Billy walked in the front door.

Fearful, Pete started. "Now Billy, you know The Cur. He's a good dog and has never bitten anybody, any time. Everybody loves him. He just got scared at all the gunfire noise." Pete pulled the dog behind him.

The sheriff stood for a long minute, then knelt and called The Cur over to him. "Come on boy, it's all right." Slowly the dog came out and let the sheriff scratch his ears. The Cur's tail started to wag again.

"You're right Pete. I know The Cur, and he's a good boy. If he hadn't stopped Kirt, we might never have seen him again. Besides, a dog gets one free bite, especially when he knows the guy is an asshole."

After that incident, The Cur became something of a celebrity around Calliope. Even ladies who would not enter the Peachtree on a dare would stop and pet the mutt. He ate well from scraps from the butcher and the hotel. But he knew who he was and his job. If there were patrons in the bar, he was at his post under the roulette table.

It's funny how small things get to be big things in a town. The question of who owned The Cur somehow got started. The obvious answer was Pete or maybe Sal, or the Peachtree. Some wondered if, as he was such a great protector, he should not be recognized as a citizen of the town, the town dog. Of course, there were a few other strays around who might contest that title. Just about everyone had an opinion, it even split the quilting bee ladies.

In the end the consensus was not that anyone owned The Cur, but that he was part and parcel of the Peachtree itself. On the bar stood a tip jar, there for the upkeep of the dog. They found a photographer who took his picture that they sent off to Denver where an artist painted a larger-than-life size painting of The Cur which hung over the bar with a brass plate engraved, "The Cur, Hero". Some made fun of the plate, saying "Biting a horse does not a hero make," but Sal and the Peachtree folks loved him.

Calliope was blessed or cursed to have two industries, ranching and mining, and there was always a health rivalry between the working men. That is until a grand event brought them together. Such was the case when the Lucky Charm mine caved in on nine men. All able-bodied men rushed to the site and started to dig. The cowboys took to the pick and shovel like the best of the swampers, working side by side with miners from the other mines in the area.

The mine collapse was a bad one. After a couple of days of digging, they had not made it to the main shaft. Things looked grip. No one paid much attention to The Cur at this time. If they had, they would have noticed that he was way up on the side of the mountain over the mine, barking himself hoarse. After a few days, men started to drift away from the diggings, having their own lives to attend, until just a handful of miners stayed, hoping against hope that someone would be saved.

Back at the Peachtree, it didn't take long to notice the vacant place under the roulette table. Pete and the rest searched and searched for The Cur, but he was nowhere to be found. A week after the cave in, Muley Sam wandered back into town from his last effort at finding his own gold mine.

Sam got a beer and sat down with a few miners he knew. "You heard about the Lucky Charm?" the miners asked.

"No, just got back. Came over the ridge above the mine and saw a few fellas out there, but I just passed on."

"Cave in!" a miner told him. "We've been at it for a week, but it don't look like we can clear the shaft."

The conversation went on like that, until one of the girls came in from her search for The Cur. "Still can't find him, Pete."

"I'm really worried about him." Pete fretted as he walked back and forth behind the bar.

Sam witnessed this, then turned to his table mates. "What's with The Cur?"

They replied, "Just gone, nobody knows where he is."

"I know where he is. Passed him on the ridge over the Lucky Charm. I even gave him my last chunk of bacon as I was headed here to refill my grub stake."

The bar cleared as all the patrons and staff headed out to find the dog, It was dark by the time they came upon The Cur, wagging his tail, a looking a little worse for wear. They all petted him and fed him. He jumped around and barked at being reunited with his people.

When Pete called him, as they were about to leave, The Cur would not come. He ran to a split in the rocks, wheeled around, looked back at them, bark, bark, bark.

The crowd gathered around the split in the rocks. One of the miners told everyone to hush, then in the quiet, he called down into the space. "Hello, Can you hear me?" He called several more times before a faint sound echoed from below. "We're here, we're here."

Word passed quickly that the men were still alive, and cowboys and miners started digging down between the rocks, opening a shaft to the inner mine. It still took two days to get them out, but they were safe. No one made fun of the plate that said "Hero" after that day.

Though The Cur spent most of his time policing the Peachtree, on occasion he would be seen lounging in his box-doghouse behind the bar. When Pete noticed a dog in the house, he paid no attention, until the dog growled at him. A close look revealed a strange female sprawled out on the old carpet lining the box and she was obviously ready to deliver a litter of puppies.

"Puppies!" The whole bar was abuzz with the new arrivals and The Cur's affectionate reaction to the brood and his gentile manner with Bella, the name given to the mother, left no doubt he was the sire.

Bella delivered 5 healthy puppies: Scout, the bold adventurous one who was often found where he didn't belong; Daisy, the gentle soul prone to sunbathing and rolling over for belly rubs; Buster, the noisy one given to barking at everything and nothing at all; Willow, the curious thoughtful one who observed everything and everyone; Bear, the copy of The Cur in every way even though a bit of a runt, he took no guff from his litter-mates. Things went on calmly for a couple months with the puppies having the run of the Peachtree.

Coyotes were common around the area, stealing chickens, getting into trash, howling at night, but this night they ventured close to the puppies' den.

Bella sent up a barking fit alerting The Cur, who was asleep in the bar, that danger was afoot. Responding to her call, The Cur headed for the back door, but someone had locked it. He went to the front door, but as the bar was closed, that way too was blocked. Frantically he thrashed about the building, as Bella's pleas became more plaintive.

Finally, the ruckus woke the sleeping girls, and one came out into the hall, where upon The Cur darted into her room and launched himself out her second story window. He hit the ground hard. By then two coyotes were menacing Bella who was out of the doghouse protecting her puppies inside, while a third varmint had Willow by the leg and was headed away with her. That was the one The Cur went after.

In an instant the coyote felt the vicious bite of our watchdog ripping into his back leg. At first the culprit didn't want to drop the puppy. However, The Cur's whipping him back and forth forced him to let go and defend himself. The dogs engaged, rolling around in the dirt, ripping at each other until the coyote found an opening and escaped.

By then the bar was awake and opening the back door, several of the girls drove off the animals threatening Bella. One girl got Pete's shotgun and dropped a coyote as it tried to escape. Bella had been bitten several times but was otherwise alright. Willow rejoined her littler-mates and was none the worse for her ordeal. But The Cur was nowhere in sight.

With lanterns, they searched for the dog and found him hard up against the side of the building covered in blood, panting wildly and with a twisted rear leg. When they tried to move him, he snarled and let out a pitiful cry of pain.

There was no vet in town, so they sent for the liveryman while Pete draped a blanket over their friend. With great difficulty and pain to The Cur, and with the help of the liveryman they got a blanket under the dog and carried him into the bar and laid him on a table.

"He's lost a lot of blood, and his leg is broken too." Was the diagnosis from the liveryman. They all stood around looking at each other. "I know how you all feel about The Cur, but if I had a horse like this, I'd put him down."

The assembled all knew this already but were hesitant to act. Then Savanna Sal, who had her own history of dealing with injured animals and who was the final call on anything related to the Peachtree, spoke up. "Set his leg. He's one of us and though he may suffer, he'll be better in the end."

They found some laudanum and dripped it into his mouth. Then they wrapped him in the blanket and had several people hold him down as the liveryman twisted his leg back in place amid the most horrific screeching any one of them had ever remembered.

They set up a cushioned space under the stairs, fed him with a spoon and a baby bottle. The patrons made it a point to reduce their revelry around the injured dog. After a few weeks, The Cur started testing his leg, weak at first, but little by little he could move around the bar and eventually managed to get outside to visit Bella and the few puppies who were left, as some had been adopted by townspeople.

Bear and the rest of the litter had been brought in to see him during his convalescence and once The Cur got to moving around, that pup followed his every move. The Cur still had a hitch-in-his-giddy-up that would never leave, but he eventually returned to duty, greeting guests, and keeping the clientele in line except now, Bear shared in the work.

Even in his debilitated state, he and Bella managed to have a few more litters before he fell asleep behind the piano one winter night and did not rise the next morning.

As an honored member of the community, The Cur was laid out in a specially built satin lined coffin and the Peachtree held a wake for him. Miners came and used picks to break through the frozen ground to dig a grave at the entrance to the cemetery. His funeral procession was the event of the year with everyone in their Sunday best. The town erected a stone engraved, "The Cur, Friend and Protector, 11 years of service."

Epilog: It became a tradition for the town clerk of Calliope Nv. to keep a studbook listing all the dogs in the area who descended from The Cur. To this day, in Nevada and all over the southwest, dog owners brag about having a "Cur" curled up by the fireplace. The grave marker is still there after 139 years and is kept up by a line item in the Parks Department's budget.

The Road to Laramie
by Dick Derham

November, 1886.

Smell.

The acrid stench of horse sweat crushed into his nostrils.

Cold.

His thin flannel shirt fought uselessly against the night mountain air.

Pain.

The sandpaper abrasiveness of the tightly-knotted pegging cord chafed his wrists and cut off circulation. His hands were numb.

Gagging.

The thick snot rag someone had crammed into his mouth brought agony to every breath.

Jolting.

His legs flopped awkwardly in rhythm with the unhurried plodding of the pack horse beneath him.

Minutes passed.

The deep fog that clouded his brain continued to fade, only to intensify his misery.

Sound.

A lilting melody of a familiar tune filled his ears, The Yellow Rose of Texas, a cheerful song from his childhood now clashing with his present agony.

The Jew's Harp ended its joyful music. He heard voices, indistinct at first, but they sounded familiar.

A moment later a hand gave a convivial pat on his buttocks. "Ride comfy, good buddy," a cheerful voice said. "It'll be a couple of hours til we dump you."

His gagged protest went unacknowledged.

April 1886.

Fewer than thirty trips around the sun had been enough for Deputy Sheriff Blake Longworth to see through the deceptive lies his mother had drummed into him. "Hard work and clean living," she had insisted, "those are the secrets to a successful life." He'd tried both, sometimes even together, and where had it got him?

Located astride the old Oregon Trail, the small town of South Pass City—"city" only by courtesy, reflecting more the unquenchable optimism of its denizens than any present reality—was home to a population approaching one hundred fifty on weekdays but swollen to double that on Saturdays as scores of cowhands from nearby ranches cluttered the street and filled the saloon as they sought their pleasures. The settlement consisted of no more than a stage flag stop, a single saloon, a general store, a barber who ran the livery stable, a two-story rooming house flattering itself as "South Pass Hotel" and a smattering of other dismal store fronts. It was large enough to have a two-bunk jail and a room above the cell where the town's sole deputy spread his blankets, but small enough to smother a man's ambition.

Like every one of the five hundred sixty days he had worn the tin badge, the morning Longworth's life changed began routinely with a purposeless amble through town from Landry's Livery at the west end, past the Broken Arrow Saloon with its pretentious false front, past Randall's general store, past the diner where the boardwalk ended, and on to the final block and Anderson's Feed Store at the east end where the town disappeared. In ten leisurely minutes Longworth had measured the limits of his world. As usual, he ended his peregrinations ten paces beyond the feed store where he could breathe deeply of unpolluted Wyoming air and gaze out at the expanse of grasslands of the high prairie in its spring lushness, a sight certain to quicken the pulse of any cattleman, even one whose herd grazed only in his dreams, dreams getting further from reality every time the sun sank in the west.

His mother's useless advice reverberated resentfully in his head as Longworth found himself reflecting about his wasted years. Had he not given hard work a fair trial since he first drew wages on the sweaty trail drive up from San Tone, then in fighting frostbite in winters a Texas boy could barely imagine while he drew a cowhand's meager thirty-and-found for the three years he wasted bunkhousing at the Flying M spread or finally, for the two years wrangling with uncooperative teams of horses on the stage line between Lander and Rawlins? Where had it got him? No closer to owning the small ranch of his aspirations than when he first learned to throw a riata. He'd learned some ways not to get rich, like the two boys he rode with on Flying M until they split off to make more money with less work, as they told him. He was still hearing his mama's voice so he passed up the opportunity. It wasn't but six months before he saw them again, kicking the air blue as they stretched an angry rancher's horsehair rope.

After he had his fill of stage-coaching, he let himself be gulled into wearing the badge only to find himself condemned to officiously jiggle door handles every evening with the only break in the monotony coming when he manhandled a drunken cowhand or two to jail, his days spent aimlessly walking the street, or listening to someone like that old biddy of the mayor's wife complaining—three times this month!—that her neighbor's rooster greeted the sun every morning doing what roosters were put on earth to do.

And the failed lives he encountered in South Pass were no better. Tom Landry over at the livery stable would spend the rest of his life smelling like horse manure. Frank Wilson, behind the bar at the Broken Arrow could brush quarters into his apron and think he had a done a good month when he had a silver dollar left over after paying old Mrs. Gilbert at the boardinghouse. Only Silas Randalls at the general store had any hope of escaping his current peonage, and only then if South Pass prospered. And how likely was that? Every time he looked back down the dusty street of the pimple on the prairie that was South Pass City, he felt the juices of life desiccating.

With his newly acquired wisdom that a lifetime of hard work earned a man nothing more than six feet of dirt in the cemetery while he molded into dust, discarded and forgotten, Longworth understood that only by determination, calculation, initiative could a man remove the boulders on the road of his life and grade it into a thoroughfare of easy wealth and importance. Take your hard work to your grave, mama, Longworth resolved. Me, I'll be making up for lost time.

Opportunity knocks most loudly on doors that are already open.

Thus it was that late one night not long after he attained his new wisdom, Longworth eased noiselessly into the cellblock and paused outside of the cell of what had seemed merely a 25-year-old saddle tramp caged for drunk and disorderly until Longworth's afternoon perusal of the newly-delivered stack of wanted posters transformed one more useless derelict into a tool that would serve a man's ambition.

As expected, the man who had given his name as Cass Parker was asleep, lying on top of his bunk, stripped down to his dingy union suit against April's unusually stifling imitation of summer. Longworth turned the greased key in the lock slowly, quietly. He was in the cell bending down over Parker and snapping the handcuffs over one wrist before Parker began to stir. With both wrists secured in the iron cuffs, Longworth jerked his prisoner fully awake.

"On your feet, Parker," Longworth said. "You been lying to me."

Out in the office, Longworth shoved Parker heavily toward the chair facing his desk, showing no more courtesy than the prisoner would expect. The change would come later if the prisoner measured up. Longworth seated himself on his side of the desk and picked up the paper laying there. His eyes flicked from it to the prisoner and back, his silence designed to build the prisoner's apprehension.

The Wells, Fargo wanted poster offered five hundred dollars for delivery of an outlaw it described as twenty-five, 5'10", bulky of build, blond hair, brown eyes, with jowls covered by a light brown beard. It all matched the prisoner. But most important to Longworth, the slack and receding jaw proclaimed someone who could be easily manipulated person to serve the purposes of a man of initiative. Just the kind of useless human fodder who could be harnessed to make Longworth rich.

"Money on the hoof," Longworth muttered, just loud enough for the prisoner to hear. Longworth reached down and slid open the lower drawer to his desk and extracted two shot glasses and a dark brown bottle. As the prisoner watched, he filled both glasses and, surprisingly, passed one across the desk to the man called Parker. "To our health and mutual prosperity."

The prisoner greeted Longworth's unexpected action wordlessly, suspiciously, but he'd been three weeks without whiskey. He drank.

"Two years locked up in Laramie builds a thirst, don't it, Wheeler."

Suddenly the prisoner's eyes hardened and hooded over. "Name's Parker," he said, "you got that written down in your book there."

"Wheeler, Parker." Longworth shrugged. "A man can change his name as easy as he changes his shirt, if he wants." Longworth slid the paper he had been studying across the desk. "Hard to change much else, though."

The prisoner contemptuously tossed the poster back at Longworth without giving it a glance. "Ugly looking fellow," he said. "Don't know nothing about him."

"Let's start with his beard," Longworth began, "covering his cheeks and jowls, while you're clean-shaven except for jailhouse stubble, but your cheeks are ruddy, like they haven't seen much sun until lately. Then you wear your hair short, no longer than the two months from Wheeler's last prison haircut." Longworth looked down at the dodger again. "From Laramie this man went to Medicine Bow then to Rawlins, then swung north to Muddy Gap, fattening his money belt whenever he saw a Wells, Fargo stage and moving at a pace that would get him here at the end of March about the time you got into that saloon fracas that ended up with you as my guest for thirty days."

Parker had turned surly now. "You're not listening to me anyway, law dog," he muttered.

"Prove to me you're Parker," Longworth challenged. "Unbutton your union suit and show me you got no bullet scar where Wheeler took one from the posse." When the prisoner sat sullenly in response, Longworth chuckled loudly. "Seems I'm looking at three months pay. All I need to do is send a wire to Wells, Fargo."

Parker's eyes took on a caged intensity. "You believe that, you just wasted your whiskey."

"What puzzles me, Wheeler, is why you haven't taken a step up." Longworth gave a short laugh. "Smart man like you should know banks are where the money is."

The silence grew between them as Parker grasped for a way out of a quick trip back to the territorial penitentiary at Laramie. "Don't know nothing about that Wheeler fellow," he finally said. "But say a man like that got out of prison and wanted to go into the banking business. Where would he find his partners? Put an ad in the Laramie Record? Walk into a bar and shout 'anyone want to rob a bank, come see me?'"

Longworth made a show of considering the point. "I can see that could be a problem," he conceded. "Unless this man Wheeler met someone who put him in touch with folks who would follow his lead."

Longworth saw Parker's eyes narrow as a glimmer of calculation crept into the dimness of an outlaw's brain. "Suppose this fellow Wheeler would be choosy in picking someone to do his work with."

"Should be easy enough if a fellow knew the town. Someone like Jay Huntley, a local kid, his paw died when he was fourteen, and his ma died before that. Don't know how to do anything except roll drunks. He needs a strong leader to teach him how to be a man."

Parker mulled the suggestion over before replying. "Can't see this Wheeler fellow taking down a bank with nothing more than some green kid as his back-up."

Longworth nodded slowly, letting his prisoner lead him where he intended to go. "Not good for much besides holding the horses while the action is going down," he acknowledged, "but that's an important job if there are several men doing the work."

"Still got to get those other men."

"You'd want—I mean Wheeler would want a couple of dependable workers, men who could be relied on to hold guns on the teller and customers without getting spooked into the trouble that comes from gunfire." Parker's head was bobbing, Longworth noticed with satisfaction, like a trout on the line, nibbling at the bait.

"Maybe a couple of fellows like the Gaddis brothers," Longworth continued. "Friendly young fellows not fussy about the 'Thou Shall Nots' and looking for an easy life. Two-bit rustlers, they are, supplying the local butchers in Lander and Rock Springs. I run them in every now and then just for practice and let them pay me a fine I tell them is for the county. Likely they know better, but they'd fit right in with any group Wheeler was trying to put together."

"I suppose Wheeler would need to pay."

"Putting the gang together, sounds like that would be worth a lot to Wheeler. Especially if Wheeler's contact had something to do with the law, and could make sure he wasn't troubled by wanted posters and such-like. Probably that would be worth a full share, don't you think?"

"Parker" was silent, while Longworth let the lure of replacing a quick trip back to Laramie by a ready-made gang with him running the show percolate through the outlaw's limited intelligence. Presently, the prisoner raised the glass to his lips and emptied it. His handcuffs rattled as he reached across the desk, shook Longworth's hand and the deal was struck.

"You got a week to run on your sentence," Longworth said. "Been a while since I jugged Huntley on anything. In the next day or two I'll pick him and stuff him in the cell with you. Since he don't have an old man, what he needs is a trail boss. Give him someone who don't just consider him a nuisance, he'll latch on like a two-day-old calf suckling his mama's teats. You can let me know what you think."

And that easily, Blake Longworth's rise to riches began.

May, 1886.

"How much I got to fork over to spring my brother this time?"

The lanky tow-headed 21-year-old that braced Longworth in the middle of the street was Jack Gaddis, the older of the no-account brothers. "You mean the Fremont County fine for cow theft, less the standard discount for not making us take you to court?"

"Billy and me know where the money goes, Longworth," Gaddis snarled. "Not saying we like it, but you keep it reasonable, and fattening your poke ain't no worse than facing down some old black-robed judge. "

"Been trying to do you boys a favor," Longworth told Gaddis. "You go on stealing a couple of cows every month, you'll never grow up to be more than saddle trash. It's time you turn yourself into men."

Gaddis sighed noisily. "I heard the lecture before, Deputy. Pretty much know it by heart, but go ahead, fan your lips, then tell me how much."

"Not good enough anymore, Jack," Longworth said. "This time you'll need someone standing up for Billy, and you too, going surety that you won't continue your rustling ways, maybe even apprenticing you for a new line of work."

"You know there ain't no one in this dinky little burg that thinks any more of us than the dust they sweep off their walk."

"Maybe so, maybe not," Longworth replied. "There's a new fellow in town, room seven of the hotel. He tells me he's looking for some workmen for a project he's got. Go see him, Jack. Talk it over and see if he'll stand behind you."

An hour later Jack Gaddis swung open the door of the jail house, interrupting Longworth's afternoon nap. "Got to talk to my brother."

And so, Parker's gang had two more worthless creatures whose destiny was to transform Longworth into a successful man of substance.

July, 1886.

As the fresh spring turned into Wyoming's sweltering summer, the steel strongbox under Longworth's bunk received a meager addition every two or three weeks, following his "suggestion" to Parker of a stage on the road north of Lander, another on the Rollins-Casper stage line, a third on the road between Rock Springs and Pinedale, none of them suggesting a robber gang based in South Pass City.

After the disappointing take from the Pinedale robbery, Longworth counted the stack of greenbacks in his strongbox again and did some discouraging calculations. Like he had told Parker, big money would not be found in stages. His share amounted to only a hundred dollars here, fifty there, and the sum Longworth would need to buy his ranch was accumulating with the galloping speed of a spindly day-old colt. Two years it would take, maybe more before he could toss down the badge, an intolerable delay to a man already seeing himself as a rising member of the Wyoming Stock Growers' Association.

Four men of limited ability and even less ambition were disrupting Longworth's well thought out plan as they settled easily into a comfortable life of indolence, satisfied as long as they had enough in their pockets to buy whiskey and such other pleasures is they inclined to. The time had come to goad Parker into directing his larceny toward the bank up in Casper.

It had been Longworth's suggestion that they take over the Huntley farm house, a two-story frame building five miles out of town and a half mile back from the county road. It kept them from conspicuous mischief around town, and enhanced his control over them, for from the outset he had anticipated the time when his arrangement with them would have served its purpose.

To keep the gaggle of outlaws focused on business, Longworth developed the practice of swinging by each Monday for a game of poker. So it was, on the first Monday of July, Longworth stirrupped down outside the Huntley house, loosened the cinches, and mounted the steps.

The poker game was already in progress when Longworth arrived. While Parker noisily shuffled the cards for the next hand, Longworth let his gaze wander around the table at the card players, worthless dregs of the frontier, all destined to fall before posse guns or shrivel up in the Laramie lock-up but for his initiative in transforming them into tools to serve the driving force of his ambition.

Now they sat self-satisfied in their new prosperity. Look at the crimson silk shirt Jake Huntley sported, replacing the washed out, many times mended, flannel he had worn; or the Gaddis brothers, engaged in a meaningless competition over who could twirl the best sandy-colored mustache or Parker, his trimmed and waxed facial stubble giving a rugged image of strength, never mind how much he had been stinking in jail. Animals still, nothing more than horses to be ridden, cows to be milked, and sheep to be fleeced.

Longworth donned his best "no-tell" poker face as he picked up his hand—a pair of fours—barely worth an opening bid, but he tossed in a white chip. And so, the game began. In their eagerness and inexperience, the Gaddis brothers and Huntley would have been easy pickings for any serious poker player. But more money was to be made by cultivating their outlawry. By the end of the evening he had lost a small amount, enough to maintain the semblance of camaraderie.

Finally, after the last hand, when Parker walked him to the hitching post, Longworth was ready.

"We got us a good operation, and Wells, Fargo don't got a clue on where to send their bloodhounds," Parker bragged as Longworth tightened the cinches on the grulla. "We do our jobs smooth. You putting us together sure worked out fine."

"Buffalo chips," Longworth snorted. "You're playing penny ante poker."

Instantly, Parker became defensive. "I'm working with what you gave me, Mr. Badge Man," he reminded Longworth. "We hit a stage, disappear into the hills and down-saddle back here before anyone thinks to look for us."

"When we had our talk, I sized you up as a bigger man. We agreed banks are where the money is," Longworth said. "Looks like I need to dig out that Wells, Fargo wanted poster."

"No need for that," Parker protested hastily. "But banks are special," he insisted. "Spent some time with a cellmate who'd worked stages like me, but then got the big head and done one bank. After two days of running, he lost his partner to posse guns, and ended up counting the flies on the wall in our 10 x 6 cubicle."

Parker tried to make Longworth see what he had learned. "Like Jessup told me, taking a bank ain't easy. You got no quick way out of town, and a posse'll be on your tail right quick." Parker told Longworth. "So, for now, me and the boys are happy making our living off stages." He shrugged indifferently. "Maybe next year we'll think about it."

And so, Longworth learned he had ridden himself into a box canyon.

August, 1886.

Longworth rested his bulk against the mahogany bar, one boot braced on the brass rail along its base and let the golden liquid flow down his throat. It being mid-week, the central rounder lacked its weekend complement of cowhands testing their poker skills. Landry was at the table by the front window having an after-work moment of conviviality with Randalls before facing his shrewish wife, and there was a stranger settled in at the shadowy back table as far distant from the flickering oil lamp as he could be.

Longworth studied the man in the mirror, and compared him to the drawing on the paper in his hand. Stocky build, dark-haired and mean of face, his eyes hard to study at a distance, but the way they flicked from one patron to another until they locked in on Longworth assured him that he had the right man.

After learning what a washout Parker turned out to be, Longworth had eyeballed any stranger to town, looking for some lone rider who he could use to drive Parker, or maybe push him aside. Most newcomers showed no promise, some vagabonds of the range, with deep calluses on their hands from working cattle and riding the grub line; others, no account drifters, scared of their own footsteps by the way they walked. When a trail-stained man swung down in front of the saloon, a nondescript horseman wearing a faded flannel that once had been plaid over Levi's that had traveled many a mile, and a dirty black Plainsman's hat that had begun to lose its shape, he could have been easily dismissed as another worthless prairie flotsam.

But Longworth saw beyond the superficialities. What set the stranger apart was his self-assurance as he strode down the boardwalk, unaffected, perhaps even unconscious as he deferred to no one. Not short, he was, but under average in height, something that taught most men to mind their manners and accept their place in life, but built in others an ambition to equalize their status with others, men who knew that fists and muscles that powered lesser men were no match for the little pellets spit out by Mr. Colt's marvelous invention. The stranger sported two guns; his normal holster rode tight against his right thigh, but he carried his left gun holstered in an efficient cross-draw rig. Not a cowhand, not a casual drifter, but a man comfortable with the ways of the gun.

Back in his office, Longworth had quickly found the dodger which proclaimed that Luke Addison, prison escapee, had robbed four Wells, Fargo stages since he achieved his freedom, a man not stingy with gunpowder if a stage shotgunner took his job too seriously, just outlaw riffraff, of course, put on this earth only to be used by better men, but his stride on the boardwalk revealed an arrogance that could be manipulated to add rapidly to the stack of greenbacks in Longworth's strongbox. Whatever he was, Wells, Fargo wanted him enough to post a $1000 bounty on him, in whatever condition he was produced. Just the kind of man Longworth needed.

Longworth folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. No need to let Luke Addison know that Longworth would receive a nice bonus if the outlaw didn't measure up to Longworth's needs.

Glass in his left hand, his right hand swinging free, Longworth crossed the room slowly, aware that his deliberate pace had already fixed Addison's attention on him. Addison pretended to ignore Longworth's approach as he casually turned over a card on the solitaire tableau in front of him.

"That's cheating," Longworth said.

"It's called winning, law man." Addison snarled. "I live by my own rules."

Longworth let his badge assert his right to sit uninvited.

"Private table," the outlaw insisted. "Scat!"

"Know what I see when I look at you?" Longworth asked, taking no notice of Addison's hostility. "I see a strong man, a man who wouldn't be satisfied with a twenty dollar take he might get in the local stage stop, so I'm wondering . . . "

"Whiskey's whiskey," Addison replied. "Where I'm riding's my business."

"It's a dinky little town," Longworth said. "A saloon where a man can wet his throat, play some poker on the weekend." Longworth smiled. "But not a bank in sight, and the stage that comes through once a day never carries more than an occasional schoolmarm or drummer. And a man of the world like you will be knowing banks are where the money is."

When Addison made no reply, Longworth continued. "My job is to size up strangers. Keep the town safe." He paused and took a sip of his whiskey before continuing.

"I already got to keep my eye on one group of troublemakers," Longworth said, "based in their farm house five miles west of town. Just good for stages they are. Them and me got a deal. They don't do their work near South Pass City and I ignore any dodgers that come through. What they do out of town concerns Wells, Fargo more than me."

"Makes your life easy, sounds like." Addison said.

"It takes some attention keeping it that way," Longworth replied, "keeping an eye on any newcomer who drifts in, so I don't have rival groups I have to worry about."

Longworth knew how to lead the conversation from there. He had had practice with Parker. "Wyoming banks are lucky this fellow Parker who runs the show don't see their potential," Longworth said. "With Parker's crew behind him, a bold man who knows the business could pile up a stack of greenbacks in no time."

A few minutes later he watched Addison batwing his way back to the street, on his way to the Huntley house, another expendable saddle tramp added to the group serving Longworth's plans.

September, 1886.

"Raking in twenty-one hundred in greenbacks is mighty hefty pay just for riding a lawman's swivel chair," Addison told Longworth while Parker counted out the deputy's share from their visit to the Merchants Bank of Casper. When Parker had swaggered in to the jailhouse carrying the saddlebags with Addison close behind, Longworth had quickly taken the two outlaws to his room above the cell block where they would be secure from the eyes of any busybody who might happen by.

"How you feel wearing a heavy money belt around your belly?" Longworth asked the outlaws as he counted the greenbacks a second time before adding them to his strongbox.

"We ain't hardly started," Addison replied. "Watching some sniveling moneybags brown his trousers facing a real man holding a drawn six-gun shows how the world is run, don't it, Parker?"

Parker took it from there. "Like Luke figures, we got time for two maybe three more jobs before snow starts sprinkling the range and making a trail too easy for them stinking posses to follow."

"Rawlins is your next trip," Longworth said. "The Farmers and Merchants Bank sits on Front Street close to the Union Pacific Depot. It's an easy in-and-out. You'll be halfway to the Green Mountains before the law can even say posse," Longworth told the outlaws. "You have the boys drift in separately. Then you two take turns going to the bank to change a twenty-dollar bank note and then—"

"We know our business, lawman," Addison interrupted. "Parker and me had talked Rawlins. Then on to Laramie and Cheyenne before we mosey down to overwinter in Denver spending the bankers' money."

With a mixture of satisfaction and impatience, Longworth watched the door close behind the two outlaws who would never see Cheyenne. The haul from the bank in Casper had been merely enough to remind him that he was falling behind his plans. Rawlins, then Laramie, would be larger, moving him closer to his ambition, but not near fast enough.

A weak-minded man would wait another season, but Longworth had wasted years listening to his mama. With the arrival of winter, the thrown-together gang would have served his purpose. When the five of useless outlaws came back from filling their saddlebags in the Laramie bank, there would be whiskey celebrations all around, and when they were sleeping it off, a strong man in control of his own destiny would make a quick midnight visit and turn the Laramie haul into a one-way split.

Then South Pass City could find some other patsy to tromp its dusty street.

November, 1886.

With five thousand dollars added to his strongbox, the Rawlins bank had been as generous to his plans as Longworth had hoped. He had spent his recent afternoons perusing his new subscription to the Wyoming Cattlemen's Weekly and considering various notices of ranches for sale.

On a Monday early in November, with the outlaws not planning to slip away for the Laramie job until after midnight when no one would wonder about their destination, Longworth journeyed out to the Huntley house for the regular evening of poker. The game had begun by the time he arrived and cards and poker chips were scattered across the table. He shucked out of his sheepskin and took his normal chair. As usual each player had his own bottle opened in front of him. Longworth's own glass sat at his place already poured and waiting.

As Longworth seated himself in his chair, he raised the glass. "To success in Laramie and bulging saddlebags on the ride back" he toasted the five outlaws making him rich. As he set his glass down, Jack Gaddis reached over and refilled it from the bottle in front of Longworth.

"And to Blake Longworth," Parker said, "the man who saw what we could do together." Longworth emptied his glass as he accepted the tribute. The whiskey had a sharper bite to it than usual, but it was warm going down and Longworth felt relaxed as he let his gaze make the round of the five poker players who had no notion how soon he'd be cashing out their chips.

"And to the Lone Star State that birthed him," Addison added after the men had drunk their toast to Longworth, a patriotic salute certain to get Longworth's enthusiastic participation. "And to the men of the Alamo," Longworth added as he emptied his glass a third time.

Addison passed the stack of shuffled cards to his right, Longworth cut the deck and Addison began to flick cards around the circle of players.

As the deal was completed, Longworth fumbled with his cards. Was that a Queen or a Jack? Why did the cards seem blurry?

After the five-mile ride from town in the cool night air, the warmth of the fire in the corner stove was making him drowsy. He reached for glass to steady himself. Why did he see two bottles in front of him now? The circle of outlaws had stopped paying attention to their cards and were watching him intently, waiting. He shook his head to dispel the dizziness that was suddenly taking hold of him.

"Nee . . . fre . . . shair," Longworth mumbled. He braced his hands on the table. As he struggled to lever himself to his feet, Addison hooked his boot under Longworth's chair leg and twisted it out from under him. Longworth went sprawling, sliding hard across the wooden floor.

"Lash his wrists tight, Parker," Addison ordered. Longworth weakly tried to resist as his arms were yanked behind him. In his failing senses he could hear the poker game resuming.

Saddles creaked as men down-stirupped and began the bustle of making their camp. Horses were picketed, firewood was gathered all while Longworth remained awkwardly draped over the pack horse. Finally, the crunch of boots neared as someone approached and then a knife sliced through the rope that bound Longworth to the horse. He thudded to the ground, hard, like a hundred-pound sack of potatoes, his breath knocked out of him.

Addison grabbed Longworth's shoulder and roughly yanked him to his feet, not minding that he had nearly dislocated the shoulder. Over by the horses, Jack Gaddis was tapping tobacco into a cigarette paper and conspicuously avoiding Longworth while Billy was likely off in the bushes attending to personal business, but bright-eyed and enjoying the show, Huntley's hand snapped up in a crisp mock salute.

"After a long ride, likely a man wants to stretch his legs," Parker told the prisoner. "We'll take a friendly stroll to the overlook where we can admire the view down to the river."

Longworth stumbled awkwardly as Addison began frog-marching him away from camp, while Parker's hand closed on his other shoulder. Longworth tried to protest through the gag, but even he knew that only inarticulate sounds came out.

"Like you taught us, banks can make us a pile of money," Parker was telling Longworth as he yanked him along. "Really made us a good haul at Rawlins," he continued. "When we was counting out the take, Luke here showed us that the Laramie haul will be too big to split with some jasper who don't do none of the work."

After five minutes of stumbling helplessly across the rocky ground, Longworth was jerked to a halt at the edge of a sharp precipice. Far below in the canyon, he could see the ribbon of the Sweetwater River shining in the false dawn. From the cliff, a jumble of rocks and boulders had carved off the cliff face over the centuries. Big, sharp, unforgiving boulders.

"Them rocks are five hundred feet down," Parker said. "You think—"

Addison grunted. "Sorry son'll go splat and be done."

Frantically, Longworth struggled to make his pleas, his promises understood through the gag, but no one was listening.

Addison's hand spread out across Longworth's back impassively. Longworth resisted futilely as the outlaw tilted him forward.

Then Longworth was leaning over the edge of the cliff.

Then he was hurtling downward, screaming through the gag as the sharpest of the boulders accelerated toward him.

Then—

This is My Land
by Calum Robertson

My people been out here since the 1820s, some of the first to appear on this prairie. They never brought no tales of sinister songs with them, least not that I thought. My granny Alice, she came from Irish stock, said the banshee would scream ya dead. But nothing about a beautiful shimmer over the tall grass, such as I am hearing now.

It is sunset and I feel most myself at this hour. Just me and my horse and my rifle, looking more for the creatures that stir when darkness starts to show than for any would be rustlers. The cougar, the bobcat, the coyote, the wolf. The wolverine. They all get mighty hungry come suppertime. So I let my dogs lead the cattle in from pasture, heading home to the paddock. I notice frost in my beard. It is getting late, the creek is loud in my ears, and the singing is really spooking me.

I turn to Jay, on his blue roan next to me, muttering about that sound. He nods, says he'll check it out. Now I feel awful bad sending him, but I ain't scared. Just sure it's nothing, so no use going.

I feel relief when the music starts. Then my body goes real cold, all sudden like, when I hear Jay screaming like a she goat before the slaughter. I gotta leave the cows for now, so I peel off from the herd, towards the creek. Into the creek. I storm down the ridge, splashing into the water. And there's Jay, his chest open and his guts steaming, blood getting in the creek. His hands are muddy, he looks at me and whispers but I can't make out what he says.

"Behind you," he's saying.

I turn. A sasquatch, my first thought. All superstitious now. He stands a head taller than me, covered in mangy furs. Lynx, elk, cow hide, even buffalo and something pink and fleshy that might be human. He stands before me. His hands are covered in blood.

"Looking for me?"

And he begins to sing. Tranquil, sweet nothings, melodies that dance on my ears. I am astounded that so brute a being could sing so beautifully.

Behind me, I hear Jay gasp, dying. That breaks me out of this. I have no gun on me. I turn, breaking the singer's spell, and stagger through the thigh high water to get to Jay. I scoop him up, he weighs nothing to me. I run to my horse on the bank, tossing him over the horse. The singer stops, laughs, and begins wading through the creek towards us.

I grab my rifle from its holster, strung beside my saddle. My horse, calmly, entranced by the residue of song on the breeze, does not even stir.

"Watcha gonna do? You wouldn't hurt me. I'm too beautiful. Listen."

But I can only hear the groans and death rattle song of Jay behind me. His breathing focuses me. Who is this bastard, threatening us? I line up the iron sight with his brow. And still the singer laughs, smiling. I fire.

And smile. Watching him drop, dead, blood dribbling from his forehead, into the creek with a mighty splash.

I turn to Jay, but he has nothing left to say.

That was a year ago. Nobody knew who the singer was, or the murderer as we referred to him. I did not tell anyone of the singing. Didn't want them to think I was going senile or superstitious. I have many years left of living and I intend to do it without rumours of my going crazy. As the prairie is known to do, to the odd mind here and there.

Jay's folks visit every month or so, they're just down the road in Bergen. One town away. We sit on my porch and remember how the boy would smile. How good he served me. Out of respect, or some kind of fear, I have not hired another hand. I get by on my own. Sold all my cattle, took the money and decided hunting was what I'd rather do. Let the pastures go to the wilds. I don't go near Cattle Creek, though.

Until tonight. One year to the day and the frost is so sharp, the air so clean my lungs feel like they're just learning to breathe. I ride out, noticing a cougar in the trees. Her tail bobs down in one languid swish. I don't fear. Only see cougar when she wants you to see her. Feels like an omen.

At the creek, I check my rifle. Tie my horse to a stump that I swear is still stained by Jay's blood. Patches darker than the wood around. I remember his screams. I look to the creek and swear I see sparkles of red. Must just be fish scales.

And then I hear it. I swear on all that is holy and unholy, I hear it. The singing. Same loving melodies, same dancing sounds up and down. I crouch low in the reeds.

And a thin woman, the opposite of that bastard in every way, comes walking down the creekbed, barely making a splash.

I lower my rifle. I've killed women of other species, of course, but I've never killed another man. Or woman. She is sparkling in the sunset. She looks at me, right through the reeds, and sings to me. I want to put my rifle down. It slips, hits the ground.

Fires. And the sky is shaken and I come to my senses. This woman, I see, is covered in the same hides and skins her husband, her brother, her twin was. And I am disgusted. I remember the shimmer of human skin tanned and flickering in the twilight. I grab my rifle, my ears ringing with the sudden scream, and fire. Wildly. Madly.

Still she stands in the center of the creek staring unafraid at me. I do not believe in ghosts but I do not believe I missed. I reload, cock the rifle, and prepare to fire again.

"Now, now, we don't want a repeat of last year, do we?"

But I am not listening. With shaky hands, I fire. The bullet goes wide. I am angry. I drop my rifle, draw my knife. I advance towards her.

"Who are you?" I holler, "What do you mean by coming here?"

She smiles.

This makes my blood congeal, cold and thick, running heavy in my veins.

"I'm here to thank you," she says. With a real warmth that scares me.

My Bowie knife in hand giving me confidence, I say nothing. Seems she is in a talking mood.

"My brother and I, you scared us. But since his death, you've left me alone to hunt."

Squatters. On my land. Land that been my family's for fifty years. And here these squatters snuck in, living feral on the land. On my land. Now I'm really glad that bastard's dead. No respect.

The singing must be an idea of theirs to scare away us good folk. Well, not last year, and not now.

I step towards her. She begins to sing. But I am not listening. I hear only the waves of the creek from when her body hits the water, the roar of my own heartbeat.

And the tear of meat under my knife.

This time, I don't ride into town for a doctor. Or the sheriff. I let her squirm and watch how her guts float in the creek. She tries to sing but only a red mist escapes. I want to feel pity but I cannot. This is my land, my family's, since 1820.

Then I see her. The other her. The cougar. My horse didn't make a sound dying. She feasted, that cat, on my fine blue roan who once was Jay's.

She ripped the throat right out of it, and I didn't hear a damn thing. Now she's eyeing me up, and me with only my knife.

Well. I guess the forest might be hers. But this creek, this land, it is mine. My grandaddy killed for it. I will kill for it. I have killed for it, I think, looking at the cold face of the squatter under the creek surface. She died with her eyes open.

I look back to the bank, but the cat is gone. Only the wrecked carcass of my horse remains. My blood feels thick and cold and sick again. I shake. I vomit into the creek. It will be a long walk back home. This land feels cursed. I am trying not to think of what my grandaddy would say.

I hear singing, on the wind. Wonder who it might be, what ghost is coming to haunt me now. I slosh across the creek, clamber up the back.

This is my land, dammit.

Kid Bullet and the Gainful Ministry
by Tom Sheehan

The voice came from the dark side of the road across from the Busted Leg Saloon, from deep in the shadows. "Hey, Sheriff, hey you, Kid Bullet, you ready to face a real grown-up man with them guns of yours? Come out and find the man daring you. Show your luck, Sheriff, your beginner's luck." A few pedestrians moving along the boardwalk, not seeing the source of the voice, but hearing it clearly in the soft night, ducked into any alley or open doorway they could find.

Trouble was afoot in town.

It was late in the evening in Winslow Hills, in the Wyoming Territory, on the verge of grassland and foothills beginning their long stretches. A middling breeze raised unseen dust on the road in and out of town, and a faint suggestion of a crescent moon hung its lower curve on the high brim of Mount Tobar. But it was too rare to throw much moonlight onto the town buried in shadow and dimness, more than half the places of business dark, and many lamps and candles blown out. A busy day getting ready to fall asleep.

At 21, Travis Henry had become the sheriff in Winslow Hills, a small but likeable town in the territory. The election was a runaway, the one opponent being 50-year-old Gus Lamond, who'd never handle the job, but gave the sagest advice to the new lawman: "Don't be bigger than who you are, so make the smallest target. Don't give away your shadow, but stay in the shadows. If possible, use them; it'll make the job easier."

Lamond had the keenest eye in Winslow Hills, alert to change, circumstance, and accompanying characters that kept the town in motion, but held most of what he saw to himself. Trust was generally hard to impose on people; he had found that out a long time in the learning.

In truth, there was a history already bound up in local talk about the new lawman. That history had been building for more than a decade. He had come into the job because of those stories, for Travis Henry was called, now and forever, Kid Bullet, with inevitable stories attached.

Before he was 12 years old, Travis Henry had three errant bullets enter his slim body, each wound treated quickly so they were not fatal. Twice, the wild bullets had found him on the trail as his family headed west, the wagon train attacked on two occasions, and Travis caught in the thick of it both times. One round ended up in his left thigh, from which he evinced no limp whatsoever, and the other lodged superficially in his upper left arm and was dug out by a woman on the train who had prior experience in retrieving slugs from the human body. It was said in ensuing years that the youngster never cried out during the extraction.

The third bullet, the one that kicked off the Kid Bullet story becoming a legend in jail cells, trail drives and night campfires, railroad gangs, saloons full to the brim on Saturday evenings, happened outside a bank in the Wyoming Territory when robbers began firing randomly to back up their demands. The gang was the Lucky Fursten Gang, which turned out to be not so lucky on that occasion, as they ended up in jail, but had their name forever linked with Travis Henry. One of the Fursten bullets smashed the bank window and found young Travis across the street helping to load supplies onto the family wagon. Travis was in front of his father, when the shot came through the bank window, as if he'd been set in place with his arms angled just so that bullet found his hand and saved his father. That's how stories begin about heroes and what goes with them.

For it was that bank incident that assured early in his adolescence the name Kid Bullet came upon him, like a mantle thrown over his shoulders, and him being bound to wear it.

In school, every boy wished the nickname was his own; they enacted thrills and deeds with it, from play-acting to staged duels where the name leaped from young throats. And the girls, bright and talkative and dreaming themselves onward with shiny eyes, looked upon him with heavy favor; he was a good-looking youngster, no bigger than his classmates, no smarter in the classroom apparently, but equipped with confidence that came earlier than usual to boys his age.

Girls knew it before others, tuned into the message being emitted. One of them, Clarissa Mayes, with a concentration all her own, set her heart on Travis Henry for the long haul. Her father was a large ranch owner in the area and a stubborn man.

Old Lamond thought for a long while that Travis Henry's nickname was a misnomer, but he saw Clarissa's intentions from a distance and kept them in the back of his mind; women, from whatever way they develop, often have most scrutable eyes.

As it was, the accumulation of those three wayward shots also left Travis Henry with a false sense of invincibility. He would live forever, he believed, in God's hands, however many there were, or what name was given them; and he carried no scars of those early wounds as evidence. Both statements carried the eventual tests on validity, from glory-seekers, fast guns, and the inquisitive men used to the old saying, "Seeing is believing."

Albert Henry, Travis's' proud father, was a problem every time he opened his mouth, boasting about his son and how he'd change things around Winslow Hills and in the territory in general. Not once did he consider his son lucky to be alive in hard times, or becoming the sheriff.

"That boy will outlast any sheriff we've ever had. It's a good thing we didn't elect that old man who sits his days out on his porch and in the sun. Some god favors my son. I don't know how far up he is, but he's reached down here and touched Travis like no boy's been touched. Been that way for years. I'll tell you about that time when we were beset by villains and thieves wanting all our goods on the wagon train."

With a flair for the dramatic, with the storyteller's ability to build up momentum, he'd append to a dire pronouncement, "Probably our women too."

Simple words extended the influence of each tale, and those tales grew.

"Travis caught one that time and didn't cry." He looked overhead, at some level of the divinities, tapped his forefinger repetitively on the bar in a declarative manner, before he swallowed his next shot of whiskey in a quick gulp.

Off in a corner, smiling softly to himself, Gus Lamond, long on heavy thought and the human puzzle, quick in his mind and slow on his two feet and with his two guns, found appreciation in the elder Henry's storytelling.

Lamond realized the most important element in the story had never been mentioned by the man, or by any other townsfolk, that being the question of young Henry's ability, with either handgun or rifle. The subject, seemingly innocent at the present time, had never come up, and Lamond assumed that failing arose from "the invincibility of the new sheriff and the hands of the gods on him." Every citizen in the town had bandied the name about as if it was the word of the High and Mighty Himself.

The whole scenario had a ringing charm and hope in its company. But Lamond, half a century of life, experience, and knowledge packed away in his saddle bag, figured some information lingered that he so far could only assume.

He'd wait and see.

He'd keep his eye on young Henry, on the girl who obviously loved him, hoping, like many of the older set wanting to see the young breeds move on in life.

Travis Henry, it was apparent to Lamond, would have to outlive the badge, his father's tall tales, his nickname, a nearly hidden love affair, and threats that are often born and appear in shadows for lawmen all over the west.

And so it was, as we go back to the beginning in the saloon the night of his election, still sipping a beer too warm for enjoyment, knowing a sense of elation moving in him, that the new sheriff heard his name called from outside, and the first openly-declared use of his nickname.

"Hey, Sheriff, hey you, Kid Bullet, you ready to face a real grown-up man with them guns of yours?"

Even before Henry recognized the voice, he assumed correctly it could only be fast gun, big-mouth cowpoke at times, Turkey Trainor, mean, ugly as two buzzards with one piece of meat, but only when he was drunk. Trainor had been, for a good spell of his 30-ish years, the Saturday Drunk, a nickname he enjoyed immensely on that weekend day, but hated otherwise. He was lucid enough this night to compare it with Kid Bullet and the difference sent him into a bad spin.

It was 7 of the evening, early for many men to slide up to the bar, but Henry knew that Trainor had been in town all day, that gruff and thickening voice reaching him several times in the late afternoon, from the livery, the general store as he purchased a supply of bullets, and from the saloon before the supper hour.

As much as an echo, Henry heard Gus Lamond's words search him out of nowhere. "The shadows" of the message came as clear as a new lamp lit in a dark tunnel.

He yelled out to the road, "Hey, mister, I hear you. Wait'll I finish my drink and I'll be out pronto."

He slipped behind the bar, went out a rear door, crossed behind several buildings, heard a horse nicker in the livery, and then another picks up the call, crossed the dusty road in dusky shadows, and came up behind the building where Trainor had secreted himself.

It had taken him no more than three minutes, and he was mere feet from Trainor who impatiently gave away his place of recess, standing behind two boxes of burlap bags waiting for pick-up. The sheriff made no assessment of the man's selection of a stand, or his intentions, or the state of his character, other than he was drunk and most likely would live to regret any harm he caused.

Travis Henry, silent as a housebreaker, slipped in behind Trainor, slammed the handle of his own revolver on Trainor's wrist, heard the man grunt with pain and his gun fall to the boardwalk, whipped his own gun up at Trainor's chin, heard the thud, and shoved the collapsing drunk over the two boxes.

Both guns were holstered, Trainor draped over his shoulder. With the potential bushwhacker thus arrested, Henry walked out of the deep shadows and went directly to the jail.

In the morning, under a bright sun, Henry gave his prisoner the first cup of hot coffee when he woke up. With two gestures, one heavy and one light, he had gained a friend, and a slew of admiration from some of Winslow Hills' citizens.

One such citizen was Clarissa Mayes, her love growing deeper by the day, who told the story over and over again in the presence of her parents, her kid brothers, and any ranch hand who listened. She was coming on 18 years of age, wanted marriage before anything else, and let her parents know it. And there was a continuing sense of beauty and desirability emerging about her person that made it a good possibility of marriage, maybe sooner than later.

Her father announced on several occasions, "Not without a churchman, whenever the time comes, and hopefully that will be well down the line from now. There'll be a churchman or no wedding in this family." He spoke with vaunted assurance, as there was no church in Winslow Hills, one not seen in the near future, and a rare visit by any man of the cloth.

She never told her father or mother that she had been seeing Travis Henry on occasion, though her mother sensed a change in her daughter. She too withheld her intuitive feeling.

When one of Clarissa Mayes' younger friends was caught stealing from the general store, Henry covered for her, pulling the "taken" money from his own pocket. To cover the loss, he told her. Only Gus Lamond was aware of the exchange, and then Clarissa when her friend told her the story. Now, without doubt, Travis Henry had to become her husband. He was precious, kind, understanding, and entirely suitable for her; life would be a charm with him.

No more than a week after the Trainor incident, a shot rang out in the dawn flash. Henry, fitfully trying to sleep on a cot in the jail, and not having much luck, coffee not even on yet, leaped from a deep sleep, heard yelling, grabbed his hat and gun belt and ran toward the livery, where he thought the shot had come from.

Efram Hornbelt, the livery man, was yelling in the road. "I don't know where he went. I don't know who he is. I don't think I ever saw him before, but he tried to steal one of my horses and I shot at him. I don't know where he ducked out. He could have run out the back of the livery. He could still be in there. I don't know, but he didn't get my horse, that's for damned sure. He wanted the big black."

With caution, and trying to get what sleep evidence there was out of his eyes, Henry went into the livery, gun drawn, separating where he could shadow from substance, shade from reality. He heard nothing, not even the mice at work or play, or the owl high in the peak of the structure where he could see all below him.

It was a single strand of straw, floating from above like a forlorn leaf, that grabbed Henry's attention, and held it in place; he realized someone might be directly overhead in the loft, gun in hand, fear working his veins.

He wondered what the supposed horse stealer was thinking. It came fast on what he had thought but a minute earlier.

He was less than two weeks onto his new job, the badge a shiny button on his vest, and his guns still holstered; he had yet to fire a shot as sheriff of Winslow Hills. Some thought it a strange thing, a sign of a coming time, an omen to be found in the sheriff's make-up, in his abilities.

In the middle of the livery, in the faint shadows in some spots, a lamp lit outside the door, he thought of Clarissa, the way he always did, in a hurry, in some measurement, in a way he thought of no one else in Winslow Hills. He'd do nothing foolish, he said to himself, looking forward to seeing her again, thinking of the life with her in the coming happy years.

He knew he could get caught up in such thoughts, for here he was with a thief or a horse stealer who might be on hand, who might be right above him.

As quick as Clarissa had come upon him, she departed with the strand of straw floating like a needle of light down beside him. With a shot up into the floor of the loft, he might shake the man loose and might draw the man into a shoot-out. But nothing was stolen, not as yet. He thought seriously on that point.

Loudly, he yelled to the livery man, saying very clearly, "Efrem, I think he got away out the back, so close that door after you and fix it so he can't get back in here if he's the tricky sort. I'm going out the back door and see if I can get an idea where he went. He can't have gone far. Now lock that door good, Efrem. I'll be out back."

Henry made enough noise to influence the man overhead he was leaving by the back door of the livery, slammed it tight, and stood still in the spot. He breathed slowly, lightly, not moving a muscle. He heard the mice moving.

Outside an owl made comment. A carriage went down the main road in town and he could picture it stopping at the general store rather than at the saloon.

For a good 10 minutes he stayed that way, his muscles itching to move, trying to exert themselves, rebelling against his silent, motionless stance.

His eyes almost became accustomed to the deepest shadows where he could identify bridle and harness and assorted equipage, and two saddles sitting over a stall wall.

Lamond, having heard the shot as well, went out on his front porch, but no further; his legs making the determination, his guns hanging inside where they'd apparently be for the rest of his life. But he was again the eagle looker, and stayed in place on the porch.

He had kept all things to himself, while watching the young sheriff at his work. The times, he knew, were changing; they were not like the wild gun-shooting days of trail drive finishes, of personal confrontations that drove men to shoot-outs, those stupid quick draw circuses that saw death as the only result and no other decision coming forth. Even though there was greed and avarice about land and grass and fences and no fences, and the introduction of sheep to the wide grass, the advances of one element served only to change the times in a permanent manner.

He wondered what the sheriff was up to.

When a soft movement gave off a sound overhead, Henry froze still again against the back wall, right near the door. He waited.

The man overhead moved slowly, came to the ladder leading down from the loft, managed to carelessly kick loose a few more strands of straw, and started down the ladder, his searching boots making the most sound so far.

He was stealth itself when he came to the bottom of the ladder, and began taking soft steps across the floor toward the back door. With one hand out in front of him to push the door open, his handgun in his hand right near the sheriff, he pushed the empty hand slowly forward, and Henry slammed his gun hand with his revolver.

The grunt of pain was loud, as was the immediate whack on his head from Henry, dropping him to his knees, his gun already gone from his hand.

In 10 minutes, the man was behind bars, screaming about a cowardly sheriff afraid to face him.

Henry, relaxed, looking up as Gus Lamond entered the jail, said to the prisoner, "Just like the coward you are, trying to steal a horse from an old man. Wait'll they hear that about you in court, because you'll be facing the judge soon enough. You're lucky you're not facing a real theft or that you shot somebody. There'd be a long time before anybody would see you."

He nodded at Gus Lamond who walked right to the cell and said to the prisoner, "You're mighty lucky, is right, son. Mighty lucky."

He figured it was time to spring the news to the whole town through one man.

"Let me tell you how lucky you are, son. Sheriff Henry here is the fastest gun I have ever seen in all my years. I have watched him long before he became sheriff. He was making hay all the time with his gun. So fast at times he made me dizzy watching him from long range."

Then the wisest man in all of Winslow Hills took Sheriff Henry into one corner of the office and, in a low voice, said, "Is it true that Clarissa's father won't let her get married without a man of the cloth?"

Surprised at first, then realizing the man in front of him knew more than any other man in the town, he said, "That's right, Gus. He's said that to Clarissa until he's red in the face and she's gone into tears. I don't know what we'll do. And she wants marriage more than I wanted this badge."

"Well," said Gus Lamond, "I hope things work out for both of you before something ungainly happens." He smiled, nodded as if he had made a deal with himself, shook hands with the sheriff, said to the prisoner, "Luck may not be enough for you, son. And guns ain't ever going to do it for you, not in this town."

He left the sheriff's office and headed for the livery.

It was a quiet week later, the prisoner sentenced to two months in jail by the judge, that a handsome black stallion rode up to the Mayes ranch house, and the rider said to Mrs. Mayes who was sitting on her porch, "Ma'am, may I water my horse. I believe he is thirsty and would abide a moment's rest here in this pleasant shade."

"Of course," she said, having noted the rider's black jacket, white shirt, a black string tie in place, the reins in one hand, and a black book in the other hand. "Where are you bound, stranger?"

Her heart was telling her something. She just knew it. "Would you care for some lunch, sir? I'm sure I can rustle something up, or my daughter can. She's in the kitchen. Would you tell me your name so I can introduce you to her and my husband who is due here shortly?" She looked out across the grass and said, "Why, here he comes, and right on time."

"You are most hospitable, Ma'am. Most hospitable. I am Reverend Justin Dockery of the Gainful Ministry and we are looking for a place to settle into, possibly to build a church hereabouts in the future. We are not sure where."

The wedding took place in a week's time, Clarissa's father amazed by the speed and organizational capabilities of both his wife and daughter.

Clarissa Mayes was married on the porch of her home, to the new sheriff of Winslow Hills, Travis Henry, whom she had been in love with for several years. Her mother said she was the most beautiful and happiest bride she had ever seen.

Over a hundred people attended the affair and a great time was had by all of them.

And later in the evening, after Reverend Justin Dockery said he had an appointment down the road and must depart, he and Gus Lamond spoke quietly near the barn.

"You did well, Jake," Lamond said. "You really carried it off. It's worth the hundred dollars. You did great. You don't have any bad feelings, do you?"

"Not with the way that girl looked, Gus. She was a beautiful bride. I haven't seen one that beautiful in a long time. Besides, I made an oath to the Big Man Upstairs on the way in here. I promised I won't mess around again. We're okay on this."

"Well," Lamond said, "I guess you haven't been to too many weddings, have you?"

"No," said Gus Lamond's nephew. "I won't be in a hurry to do any more either. I had a hard time finding the book. The jacket and shirt and string tie were easy." He let out a soft laugh.

Lamond closed the night for the both of them, saying, "He's one of the new breeds, Jake. I've watched him all the way. I guess you know that."

They both looked at Kid Bullet and his bride riding off to who knows where, the full moon in place, as well as love and a most welcome bit of connivance.

Daniel Boone & The Wilderness Road
by W.Wm.Mee

In the early days of the 13 colonies a hundred or so miles inland from the eastern coast of North America the Appalachian Mountains form a natural barrier to all east-west travel. In March of 1775 Daniel Boone, along with 35 axmen, had been hired to cut what came to be known as The Wilderness Trail from Kingsport, Tennessee through the forests, mountains and the Cumberland Gap into to the new colony of Kentucky.

Back then 'Kain-Tuck' (The Dark & Bloody Land) was the hunting grounds of three warring Native tribes; the Cherokee, Mingo and the Shawnee— none of whom were overly happy to see the hated white men encroaching on their land!

Daniel Boone was a well known 'longhunter' from Pennsylvania who hunted and trapped among the Amerindians along the wild, western frontiers of Virginia. These tough, solitary men were called 'longhunters' because of the long time they spent away from home on their hunts in the wilderness. Boone would sometimes be gone for months and even years before returning to his farm, wife and children.

Boone often joked that a longhunter needed a number of essentials things: 'A good gun, a good horse, a good dog and a very good wife at home.' He'd then add: a 'strong body, a sharp ax and more than a fair amount of good luck wouldn't hurt neither!'

Another essential that all pioneers needed was salt.

Before 1776, salt had to be shipped into the Thirteen Colonies from the West Indies at great expense. It was the only meat preservative available at the time and Kentucky had an abundance of large salt brine lakes near what is today the community of Boonesborough, Kentucky. Animals, especially deer and buffalo, travelled in herds from one of these 'salt licks' to another, making trails or 'traces' that the natives and later explorers like Boone could easily follow on horseback. Salt gathered from these natural 'licks' would not only be used for their own preservation of meat, but could be traded or sold at other settlements and trading posts.

On March 24, 1775 Boone and his work party of axmen were only 15 miles (24 km) from their final destination of the Kentucky River when they camped for the night. Just before daybreak a group of following Shawnee attacked the sleeping men.

Several of Boone's party were killed outright and a few others wounded, but Boone and most of the others were able to escape into the woods. In the early light of dawn Boone quickly regrouped his men. Of the thirty five in his party he gathered over half. The others were either dead, captured or hiding in the woods. His younger brother Squire was with him, as was Abraham Sweeny, his best friend and business partner.

"The bloody bastards are Shawnee, Dan'l!" Sweeny growled. "I saw one bugger in the firelight just before he bashed in Ned Cutter's brains!"

"Who else did they get?!" Daniel asked as he checked the priming on his rifle. After a quick roll-call was taken the men, ranging in age from a few beardless boys to tough old greybeards, Daniel formed them into two groups. Most men had either a rifle or a pistol with them. The few that didn't had either a knife or a tomahawk or both.

Daniel looked hard-eyed at his small band of survivors. "Abe, you n' your boys hit 'em from the right. My brother Squire n' me'll come at them from the left. Don't shoot till I do, then everyone empty their guns and rush in! No time for reloading! Use a knife or 'hawk 'n don't stop till the bastards are either dead or running!"

As the two groups moved off into the still shadow filled forest, Daniel took his younger brother by the arm. "I want you n' old Tome to hold back. Don't fire when the rest of us do. Hold back n' watch. You see one of us in trouble, that's your target!"

Squire, though he'd been in several short, fierce exchanges with the natives before, they'd always been simply shooting at distant targets, and he'd never really sure if he hit or missed. This fight however was going to be up close and nasty and Daniel wasn't sure Squire was up to it. Not that the younger Boone wasn't brave, but he was rail-thin and the least aggressive of Daniel's other two older brothers. Squire also was nursing a sore foot from when a horse stepped on it the day before, and running in for hand to hand combat was dangerous enough for an experienced fighter with two good feet—and no place for a limping lightweight.

"But I want to go with you, Dan'l! Not hand back with Ol' Tom Greybeard!" Squire was clearly insulted by his big brother—who he idolized and tried to be like—yet he always seemed to fail at miserably!

"I know you do, lad," Daniel said. "But with your stomped foot you can't move fast, but you're a damn fine shot! So is Ol' Tom. I need the two of you to guard our backs. I'm counting on you, Squire."

After a deep breath a reluctant nod followed.

Daniel nodded back then added. "Keep Billy Crookshank with you as well. He's only thirteen n' not a hundred pounds soaking wet! He can load for you if needs be."

Yet another nod from Squire; he then gripped his big brother's thick shoulder and then went off to gather Ol' Tom and Billy.

Sam Henley came up to Daniel. "The men are all in place, Dan'l—just waitin' on ya."

The tall longhunter smiled and strode past Sam. "Then Samuel, let's get it done!"

Patwata had been appointed the Shawnee war-chief of this 'three-hand' group of warriors. Fifteen Shawnee braves had come across the narrow buffalo 'trace' (path) that had been cleared and widened by the sweat and axes of the invading Yang-Gees who call themselves 'Americans'. They had easily followed the new 'road' and, finding the hated Yang-Gees's camp, had waited till just before dawn to strike.

'It was a good fight,' Patwata thought to himself as he looked around at the bodies of the invaders. His braves were finishing off the wounded and taking scalps. 'The elders of the tribe will be pleased that we drove the Yang-Gees away like frightened rabbits!' Patwata's only regret was that so many of them had escaped into the lingering shadows of the forest, but he consoled himself with the thought that 'It will be good sport hunting them down!'

Though a part of him knew that the Yang-Gees were still armed and dangerous—and cunning enough to set up an ambush if he and his braves raced after them like noisy children. 'Perhaps it would be wiser,' he reasoned' "to take the few scalps and prisoners we have back to our people and let the rabbits run back to their holes?'The decision however was suddenly taken out of his hands when the remaining 'rabbits' opened fire on him and his startled war-band.

From the shadows of the forest Daniel and his group watched as the Shawnees looted both the bodies and the camp itself. Several braves had four captives hands tied behind their back and strung together with ropes around their necks. Others were gathering the horses. Daniel glanced around at the dozen men close by. Sam Henley nodded that all was ready. On the far side of the clearing Abraham Sweeny's group would also be anxiously waiting. Daniel glanced behind him and saw his brother Squire standing rigid and ready in the shadows; Ol' Tom and young Billy beside him.

"Make ready!" Daniel hissed as he cocked his flintlock and aimed at a native holding the 'leash' of one of the captives. "Fire!"

Patwata looked on stunned as the early dawn shadows exploded first on one side of the clearing and then the other. The Shawnee knew what guns were and actually had been using themselves in a limited way for some years now—but only for hunting and the odd two or three shot skirmish with either their traditional enemies from another tribe or to ambush a lone Yang-Gee foolishly working alone in his field. Bow and arrow, knife and warclub were still the most prevalent weapons, though many braves coveted the much sought after steel headed tomahawks the Yang-Gee traders had—though the price in furs for one always seemed to go up! Patwata was please with the price he had paid for his— nothing, since he got it for free when he killed a foolish Yang-Gee who came to their camp to trade.

He was holding his prized and highly decorated weapon when Daniel's group opened fire and the lead bullets began to fly. He was still clutching it tightly after Samuel Henley's group had opened fire . Now many of his war-band were either dead or rolling around wounded on the ground.

Patwata tore his gaze from his wounded brethren and saw a number of hated Yang-Gees running towards him from both sides! Yelling and screaming, their bearded faces were twisted with a mixture of fear, hate and battle lust!

One came at him using his rifle as a club. Without thinking Patwata ducked under the man's swing, stepped in closer, with his left hand trapped the man's rifle against his side—and with his right buried the tomahawk's blade in his attacker's forehead.

It was while attempting to pull his blade clear of its grizzly sheath that Daniel slammed into him from the side. Both men went down in a tangle of arms and legs, Daniel with his long rifleman's knife and Patwata with his gore dripping tomahawk. Both men instantly gained their feet, both looking for an opening or better yet, a weakness.

Neither one found either!

Each man cautiously eyed the other, the hurly-burly of the fighting all around them was pushed aside—their gaze, their mind and their entire being was focused on the movements of the 'other'.

Slowly they circled, one cautious foot placed carefully before lifting the other. Weapon held high and ready—waiting for their opponent to move first. Hearts pounding, blood racing, eyes seeing all and nothing at the same time!

Then Patwata sprang. His tomahawk swung down and across, but Daniel stepped back, then lunged forward, his knife blade catching the rising sun. The sharp edge sliced across the back of Patwata's right shoulder. The war-chief however ignored the pain and, continuing to swing himself completely around, he aimed another killing blow at Daniel's head. Just in time the rifleman's knife blocked the descending blow and the two men stood face to face in a growling, snarling, shoving dance of death.

Then a wounded brave came up behind Daniel, his left hand hanging limp due to a bullet having shattered his shoulder. His right hand however still clutched a vicious ball headed warclub—which he swung at Daniel's back.

Luckily for the longhunter, the effort sent shards of pain into the brave's shattered shoulder, throwing his aim off, so that the heavy, antler tipped ball of the club missed the back of Daniel's head and merely glanced off the side of his neck. No serious damage done—other than knocking him to his knees.

Now, kneeling helpless before Patwata, his right arm numb from the blow, Daniel could only glare up at the Shawnee war-chief that was about to take his life.

Suddenly a shot rang out and the wounded native behind Daniel was hit in the chest and punched backwards into the smouldering fire. Daniel glanced over to where the shot had come from and saw Old Tom handing his now empty rifle to young Billy and quickly taking the lad's so he could make a second shot.

Patwata growled something in Shawnee and raised his fancy stolen tomahawk for the killing blow. With his left hand Daniel snatched his knife out of his numb right fist and attempted to fend on the blow—but another shot rang out and Patwata was struck in the back of the head—killing him instantly as blood, brains and bits of bone exploded out of his forehead. Pitching forward, Daniel, now covered in dripping gore, caught the dead war-chief like one might an overlarge puppet whose stings had suddenly been cut.

Still holding Patwata's limp body, Daniel glance over at the second shooter—and saw his younger brother Squire grinning back at him, smoke still coming out of the long barrel of his rifle.

Despite the native 'hostility' from three different tribes, the next year Daniel and his brother Squire led nearly a dozen families westward into Kain-Tuck and built Fort Boone, later named Boonesborough. The Shawnee to the north were especially unhappy about American expansion into Kentucky. They wanted revenge for the killing of Patwata and his war-band and they repeatedly attacked the small frontier settlement. Rather than an all out frontal attack—which the few times they had tried it had proven very costly, small groups would watch and wait in the nearby woods to ambush any settlers that came out of the fort.

Despite the constant danger of attack, Boone and the other settlers continued to clear the land, plant crops, hunt for food and build a new life for themselves in the savage western wilderness.

Meanwhile in 1777 the American Revolutionary War had begun back in the east. While war between England and her Thirteen Colonies rage up and down the east coast, the wily British opened a new inland front in the war with the American colonists by recruiting and arming Native war parties to raid the Kentucky settlements. Henry Hamilton, the British Lieutenant Governor of Canada at Fort Detroit, found willing allies in leaders such as Chief Blackfish of the Shawnees, who hoped to drive the Americans out of Kentucky and reclaim their ancestral hunting grounds.

As the raids intensified, Boone and any other Americans who strayed from fortified settlements like Boonesborough were in danger of being either killed or captured. In 1777, Natives brought 129 scalps and 77 prisoners to Governor Hamilton in Fort Detroit to trade for guns and other British made supplies.

Unable to dislodge the Kentuckians from their stockade settlements, Chief Cornstalk and other Native leaders had their war bands destroy crops, steal horses and kill the settler's cattle and other livestock, hoping that food shortages would force the Kentucky settlers to leave. With the food supply at Boonesborough running low, the settlers needed salt to preserve what little meat they had.

In late January 1778, Daniel Boone led a party of thirty men to the salt springs on the Licking River. On February 7, 1778, when Boone was out hunting meat for the expedition, he was surprised and captured by warriors led by Chief Blackfish. Because Boone's party was greatly outnumbered, he convinced his men to surrender rather than fight to the death.

Boone and his men were taken as prisoners to Blackfish's town of Chillicothe. By Shawnee custom, some of the prisoners were 'adopted' into the tribe to replace fallen warriors. The remainder were taken to Detroit, where Indians received a bounty from Governor Hamilton for each prisoner or scalp taken. Boone himself was adopted into a Shawnee family at Chillicothe, perhaps even into the family of Chief Blackfish himself. He was given the name Sheltowee, meaning 'Big Turtle'. Like most of the other adoptees, Boone was watched closely, but he eventually escaped on June 16, 1778 when he learned that Blackfish was preparing to attack Boonesborough with a large force. Boone managed to elude his captors and raced home, covering the 160 miles (260 km) to Boonesborough in just five days!

Upon his return, some of the men were unsure about Boone's loyalty, since after surrendering the salt making party he had apparently lived 'quite happily' among the Shawnees for months. Boone responded by leading a raid against the Shawnee village of Paint Lick Town on the other side of the Ohio River. This accomplished little however because all the braves were gone to meet with Blackfish. Boone and the raiding party hurried back to Boonesborough and prepared for a full scale attack.

Blackfish's force arrived outside Boonesborough on September 7, 1778. Boone counted well over four hundred Natives and twelve white men. They were mostly Shawnees, with a number of Cherokees, Wyandots, Miamis, Delawares, and Mingos. The dozen whites were French-Canadian militiamen from Detroit, former French subjects now fighting on behalf of the British Crown. Although this was the largest force yet sent against the Kentucky settlements, taking a well fortified position like Boonesborough without artillery to reduce the log stronghold would be very difficult and costly in human lives.

Blackfish called Boone out of the fort for a parley and presented letters from the British Governor Hamilton stating that if the settlers surrendered they would be well treated and taken north to Detroit. If they did not surrender, however, there were no guarantees of how many lives would be lost.

Boone told Blackfish that he would present the offer to the others and let him know their answer in the morning. Back in the fort, Boone outlined the situation but the consensus was to fight rather than surrender. The decision was made to 'prolong the negotiations' with Blackfish as long as possible, since reinforcements from Virginia were expected any day now.

Based on faulty intelligence received from Hamilton in Detroit, Blackfish believed that there were at least two hundred militiamen in the fort, when in fact there were far fewer than a hundred effective gunmen inside. The Kentuckians reinforced the illusion of a greater number of men by having some of the women in the fort carry weapons while dressed in men's clothing. On the evening of September 8, Blackfish and Boone met again. Boone told a surprised Blackfish that the fort would not surrender. Blackfish proposed that a 'formal treaty conference' with all of the leaders be held on the next day.

The treaty session began on September 9, with leaders from the two sides sharing a meal outside the fort. Afterwards, the council began. In case of trouble, both sides had gunmen covering the meeting from a distance. Unfortunately a scuffle broke out, and marksmen from both sides opened fire. Despite a few injuries, the Americans managed to scramble back into the fort. The Indians rushed the gate but were driven back by heavy gunfire. Negotiations were over and the formal siege had begun!

Gunfire was exchanged over the next several days. After the initial flurry of shooting, Boone— who re-emerged as the natural leader even though as a captain he was outranked by Major Smith and Colonel Richard Callaway—urged the Kentuckians to conserve their gunpowder. At night, Natives ran up to the walls and attempted to throw burning torches over the stockade onto the roofs of the houses within. This proved very costly because the warriors made easy targets for the Kentucky marksmen.

The Frenchmen from the Detroit militia then convinced the Indians to begin digging a tunnel from the bank of the river towards the fort. The goal was to place barrels of gunpowder in the tunnel under a section of the fort's walls and blow them up, collapsing part of the wall. Luckily for the defenders, heavy rains caused the Indians' tunnel to collapse before it reached the fort. Boone's brother, Squire, fashioned a makeshift wooden cannon, reinforced with iron bands, which was fired several times at groups of Indians before it cracked. The Shawnees launched their final assault on September 17, again trying to set fire to the fort. They were beaten back, and a heavy rain once again helped the Americans to put out the fires.

The Shawnees lost more men killed in this attack than on all other previous days. The next morning they gradually broke off the siege. The various tribes separated into scattered war parties and went off to raid other settlements, inflicting far more damage by this traditional method of warfare than they had done during the costly and prolonged siege. Incredibly, though there were a fair number wounded, there were only two fatalities among the defenders of Boonesborough.

Once again the American Dream to advance westward at all costs proved to be alive, well, and showing no signs of diminishing. If anything, more and more people were falling under its spell—but at what terrible cost to the continent's original inhabitants?