The Dog Fall Road
by Gary Clifton

Dutch Vogt, Pecos, Texas station manager for the Babcock-Smith Express and Freight line, pulled John Bob aside as he walked in from the predawn darkness. Vogt, lean and trail worn, his gray-white beard permanently stained with tobacco spit, had the perilous job of supervising payroll shipments of gold from Pecos, eighty miles north to the Dog Fall mines in the Guadalupe Mountains.

The Pecos to Dog Fall stage ran every three days, weather allowing. As an attempt at security, the gold shipments were irregular. Today was one of the shipment days, supposedly a secret, although a poorly kept one in the small community of Pecos. John Bob had just helped load over two hundred dollars in gold into the so-called secret compartment in the floor of the coach, well aware that others could know of the valuable cargo.

"Another one of them damned saddle bums we been hirin' as guards didn't show this mornin', kid. You thinkin' you and Chief can handle the load . . . or do we wait until . . . ?"

John Bob McBride, barely twenty, listened with characteristic silence. The absence of a second shotgun guard meant the coach would be manned only by himself and the regular driver, Macawi, a Mescalero Apache.

"You talk to the Chief, Dutch? I don't wanna lose the wages myself. He's gotta squaw and kids someplace up around Dog Fall. He's not wantin' to hang around Pecos no longer than necessary."

"He don't speak no 'merkin kid. Yer Spanish good enough to ask him?"

John Bob, big, husky, and always inclined to be helpful, nodded. He'd grown up near Laredo, home schooled son of a part time preacher and full-time vegetable farmer. His Spanish was good enough to carry on a basic conversation. He started back out into the blazing August sun. Dutch grabbed his arm. "They's more . . . prolly worse."

John Bob turned back and raised an eyebrow.

"Boss's daughter . . . uh, Rosetta, comin' in from boarding school in New Orleans arrived on the Ft. Worth Stage last night. She's needin' transport home to Dog Fall," he muttered dolefully. "Guarding gold's damned hard enough."

John Bob waited. Earlier, he'd caught sight of the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen when he'd stopped by the hotel dining room to buy three loaves of bread for his upcoming trip. He made the connection instantly.

"Well?" Dutch continued.

"I'll do what I gotta do, Dutch. I'll ask Macawi, like you said. She gonna ride inside that coach? That might kill her in this heat."

"Naw, hell, no. Telegram from her daddy this morning. They both insist she can ride up top. You gonna hafta saddle up yer' gelding and ride behind. Pay you four bucks extra for use of the horse."

John Bob, without comment, nodded and walked out back. His faithful companion, Luke, was waiting patiently on the porch. Luke, a brown mongrel mix, verified by the feed store scale, was one hundred pounds of loving pup or deadly enemy as circumstances required.

Macawi was just stirring from his normal sleeping place when in Pecos, beneath the rear stoop of the freight station. After a brief protest against carrying the female passenger with one guard missing, he stoically agreed. John Bob saddled Esau, his tan gelding, in the station livery, then hung the sack with three loaves of bread, a sack of grain for Esau, and a nose bag on Esau's saddle. Trail ready, he turned to help Macawi finish hitching the six-horse team to the gayly painted coach.

When he led Esau back around front, Macawi following with the team, his second glance of Rose Babcock reassured him that his initial assessment of her beauty had been correct. With deep, azure- blue eyes and golden tresses, she was the picture of ladies he'd seen in an eastern fashion magazine someone had left at the station. He estimated her to be about his age, and Heavens to Betsy, she smelled of lilac.

"John Bob McBride, meet Rosetta Babcock. Gonna be your passenger a few days." Dutch said.

To John Bob, whose knowledge of interacting with young ladies, particularly the rich, educated daughter of his boss, was limited, doffed his battered Stetson and stammered, "Uh . . . Miss . . . "

Luke had followed John Bob inside the station. She eyed the big dog uneasily. Luke, sensing her concern, moved closer and rubbed his great head under her hand. She smiled and responded with a pat on his head.

"Call me Rose, please. How do you do, Mr. McBride," she offered her hand which John Bob shook clumsily. He envied Macawi who had remained outside with the horses.

Dutch spoke up. "Gonna hafta leave the dog behind, son. I know y'all been lettin' him ride up top."

John Bob said softly, "He can walk further than a horse, Dutch."

Rose interrupted in her proper accent, "I'd feel better if he went along, Mr. Vogt." Her glance caught John Bob's gaze with a glint of support.

John Bob thought it was the most noble comment he'd ever heard. Luke incredibly replied with a soft "arf."

In a half hour they pulled out just as sunlight was teasing the Eastern sky. Macawi, his shotgun jammed in the boot beneath his feet, rode in silence with his precious owner's cargo chatting airily beside him. John Bob, astride Esau, with Luke trotting behind, brought up a distant rear.

The trip ordinarily took three days with a night's layover in Dog Fall before the wagon was used to haul freight and equipment in need of repair back to the main stage line in Pecos. The company had contracted with two ranchers along the route to provide fresh horses and a hot meal for the guards. The security crew was expected to doze while trying not to fall off the wagon which had no springs. In two hours, Rose was sound asleep, slumped against Macawi's shoulder.

By midafternoon, as the terrain steadily gained altitude into the mountains, John Bob spurred Esau through the rough, craggy trail up flush with Macawi and Rose on the wagon box. Macawi nodded and pointed ahead, signifying that he knew the Triple X Ranch, relief station number one, was just ahead. Following routine practice to alert ranch hands of their approach, John Bob drew his Colt and fired a shot into the air.

The sound of John Bob's pistol had barely finished reverberating through the high-country canyons, when a man stepped out from a small outcropping and seized the bridle of one lead horse. Another man followed and dragged the second to a halt. Both men's heads were covered by flower sacks, Stetsons pulled down over the sacks.

From the box, Rose screamed as Macawi lunged for the double-barreled scatter gun beneath his feet. A third hooded man stepped out from the rocks, waving a Winchester. As a round whistled past Macawi's head, the stoic warrior stopped and raised his hands.

"Injun, get down and bring the lady with you." Spotting John Bob, he shouted, "You too, kid. Ride up to us and throw down your Winchester or I'll shoot this girl." When John Bob hesitated, the man fired a second round, this one over Rose's head.

"Luke, stay," John Bob ordered. He spurred Esau, dismounted, and helped Rose down. The bandit waved the Winchester at John Bob's Colt, motioning to throw it on the ground. John Bob tossed the pistol in the dust under the wagon, behind a wheel before he leaned back against the rig, hands raised.

Macawi jumped down, glaring at the three men.

"Well, well," jeered the man holding the first horse. "Who we got here," he walked around the horses and jabbed Rose with his Winchester.

Macawi brushed the rifle aside. "Hijo de puta!"

The gunman deliberately jammed his rifle barrel against the tough Apache's chest and fired a round into his heart. Macawi fell in the mountain dust, dead. Rose screamed. The man pointed the rifle at her, then at John Bob.

Rose blurted, "Sir, my father owns this freight line many, many other things. Leave Mr. McBride alone and daddy will pay you to keep us safe . . . both of us." She looked over at John Bob, the beautiful blue eyes frozen in terror.

"Good enough missy. The kid here can keep breathing and you're comin' with us."

Suddenly, John Bob recognized the man's voice as the guard who hadn't shown up that morning.

The bandit blindsided John Bob with a blow behind his ear with the Winchester butt. One of the horse holders gave Luke the same.

In minutes, John Bob had revived sufficiently to sit upright. Esau stood quietly nearby. Luke struggled groggily to his feet.

"Why didn't they shoot us both, Luke . . . or take Esau? He musta run." Both the gold and Rose were gone. He looked at his empty rifle scabbard on Esau's saddle. He studied the ground beside Macawi's body. They'd taken his Winchester. Then he saw the outlaws had made a serious error. Although they'd taken his gun belt with all his extra cartridges, his Colt lay in the dust under the wagon where he'd tossed it. He retrieved it, still loaded with five live rounds in the cylinder.

He stuffed the pistol in his waistband. "Only five cartridges, boy . . . but only three men to kill. Luke, which way do we go? We hurry, somebody's gonna regret not lettin' the hammer down on the pair of us." John Bob McBride, who'd never uttered a profane word in his life nor pointed a firearm at another human, was about to do what he had to do.

He dug through Rose's suitcases stashed inside the coach until he found a frilly piece which smelled of Lilacs. He rubbed the cloth over Luke's face. "Go find her, partner."

Nose in the dust, Luke trotted off the northwest. John Bob knew he was dealing with amateurs when he retrieved two canteens hanging from the rear boot of the wagon. The three loaves of bread and sack of grain still hung on Esau's saddle horn. As he'd initially thought, the horse had probably shied from the strangers. He mounted Esau and spurred him after Luke. He glanced back. Hands from the way station would take care of the stagecoach and Macawi's body. He figured he had about six hours of daylight.

The trail led constantly upward as they wound into the Guadalupe foothills. At first, John Bob had dismounted often to more closely examine the fugitives' trail, but soon learned that Luke's nose was reliable and relentless. When the trail led past a bubbling mountain spring, he stopped, refilled his canteens and watered and fed a nose bag of grain to Esau. He tossed a half loaf of bread to Luke, downed a couple of chunks himself, and shortly was back ascending the craggy terrain.

As the sun began nearing the western horizon, John Bob's heart began to sink with it. Unsure if Luke could continue in total darkness or if Esau could slip and fall in the darkened ravines, he pondered whether he could catch the fleeing bandits. They hadn't taken Esau because if Rose was mounted separately she was likely to try to escape. She had to be riding double with one of the men which would slow them considerably. If he failed tonight, he vowed to eventually find the missing guard and extract a heavy vengeance.

Then, the sound of a horse nickering softly wafted in. Simultaneously he spotted the flicker of a distant fire showing through the rough brush. A drunken laugh drifted down the trail. The fools had not considered that they might be followed. He tied Esau loosely to a clump of buckbrush and hung the nosebag on him to try to avoid Esau answering the animal who had already sensed his smell. If he was unsuccessful, John Bob knew the big horse would pull free, shake off the nosebag, and make his way back to the way station.

"Okay, Luke, stay quiet," he admonished as he carefully worked his way on foot upward through the rough ground.

From the dim light of a flickering campfire, he could see Rose was tied, sitting against a scrub evergreen tree. From a distance, she seemed unharmed. The three bandits sat around a small fire, passing around a gallon whiskey jug. A rabbit roasted on a makeshift spit. John Bob noted when they tipped up the jug, the angle was extreme. The jug was nearly empty. All three would be drunk or nearly so.

He pulled his Colt and waited, his first impulse to step closer and shoot all three. But John Bob McBride was incapable of shooting a man from ambush without a call. He stepped into the circle of light, raised his Colt and said, "Hands up, men, or I'll shoot."

The first man came out with a Colt. John Bob's shot caught him squarely in the chest. He crumpled where he sat. The second man, who John Bob recognized as the missing guard half stood and fumbled frantically at his Colt. John Bob's round caught him in the throat. He fell into the campfire, a muffled scream filling the cool night air, then silence.

The third bandit stumbled clear, grabbing Winchester from the ground. As he tried frantically to jack a round into the chamber, Luke's one hundred pounds of anger hit him full in the chest. He dropped the rifle and drew a Bowie knife from his waist. John Bob stepped sideways to clear Luke from the line of fire and shot the man in his left ear. Luke and the ground around him were instantly splattered with bloody gore.

John Bob, monitored closely by a growling Luke, checked all three men. All were dead. He picked up the third bandit's knife and cut the rope holding Rose. She dissolved in tears. "Great God, you're the boy from the wagon. How . . . ?"

He gestured to the dog. "Luke followed the trail, ma'am . . . with God's help, I think." Unfamiliar how to properly ask a cultured young lady what the men had done to her he asked, "Are you hurt?"

"My God, they'd all been saying that after they had supper, they were going to have a little fun with me. In the name of heaven, you saved me from a fate worse . . . "

Lacking the correct words, he said, "Yes ma'am. Glad me 'n Luke could help."

She hugged John Bob. "My god, you're a miracle." She released him, then knelt and hugged Luke. Unfamiliar with protocol, Luke gave her a bloody lick across her face.

"Oh Miss Babcock, I'm so sorry," John Shoved Luke away.

"Oh, my Goodness, Luke can lick my face 'til morning." She leaned back down and gave Luke another awkward hug. The dog leaned into her affectionately, his great bulk nearly carrying her off her feet.

The mountain evening chill, plus Rose's harrowing experience caused her to shudder. John Bob's bedroll was still tied behind Esau's saddle. "John Bob pointed his chin back down through the rocks. "Miss, I gotta pair of blankets on my saddle. I'll walk down and get my horse and gear."

She said anxiously, "Are you going to leave me here in the wilderness with three dead men strewn about?"

"Got no choice, ma'am. You look all in . . . too tired to walk down and back. I'll be back in no time. Luke can handle any trouble while I'm gone."

John Bob was pleasantly surprised when she gave him another, enthusiastic hug. "Please hurry."

When John Bob returned, he gathered kindling to build up the smoldering campfire. When he found a slab of salt bacon and a small iron skillet in the outlaw horses' saddlebags, he wondered why they'd shot a rabbit when they had food. "Amateurs," he muttered. With Luke helping, he drug the three outlaws' bodies several feet into the darkness, then joined Rose, wrapped in blankets and basking by the fire.

They enjoyed a meal of roasted rabbit, fried salt bacon, and bread from John Bob's stash. He was initially reluctant when Rose, concerned with him being cold, asked him to join her inside her blanket cubbyhole. When she insisted, he spent the night, dozing next to her, still smelling of lilac despite her ordeal. Luke, after devouring the rabbit carcass, nosed in, providing his natural warmth to the mix.

John Bob was up at daylight. He boiled coffee beans in the skillet he'd used to fry bacon the night before. Rose and he made breakfast from cold bacon and a chunk of his bread, washed down with coffee, still slightly greasy despite John Bob's best effort to wash the skillet in a nearby stream. Rose, laughing off his apologies for the crude meal, ate and drank heartily. After breakfast, he watered the three outlaw horses and Esau. He tied the three dead men across the saddles of their horses and gathered up two fine Winchesters and three handguns in fairly good repair. He bundled the guns into a tote sack the outlaws were carrying and tied them to one of the outlaw horse's saddle horn. With the sack of gold coin hanging from Esau's saddle horn, and with Rose riding double behind him on Esau, he started the grim parade toward the Dog Fall Road.

The route carried hem past the way station where he learned the ranch foreman had already sent men ahead to Dog Fall with Macawi's body. Ranch hands were awed at Rose's tale of the young John Bob dispatching the three and her subsequent rescue. One man raised the three corpse's heads. "Dunno the first one, but by damm, boy you've killed the Salado Kid. He'd gunned a half dozen men. This no good was way overdue for killin'." He was referring to the first man who'd grabbed the lead horses' halter, then murdered Macawi before he cracked John Bob across the head.

By late afternoon, fueled by provisions from the ranch, John Bob had ascended through the Guadalupe range to the outskirts of Dog Fall. Rose's father, Chester Babcock, a rotund man of fifty actually hugged the rugged youth, insisting that John Bob join his daughter and he for dinner at the Babcock mansion.

John Bob, having donned the extra shirt from his saddlebags, sat awkwardly uncomfortably in the huge Babcock dining room. After a grand dinner, Chester poured a glass of red wine which he sat in front of the new hero. John Bob tasted the only drop of liquor he would consume in his life, then sat the glass politely on the table.

Babcock, boisterously drunk and delighted at his daughter's rescue, said, "We could use a young fellow like you in the stage line management. I'll triple your salary and pay to move your things to Dog Fall."

John Bob, whose "things" consisted of a few items of clothing, a horse and a dog, said softly. "No thank you sir. If I could keep my stage drivin' job, I'd be mighty obliged."

Excusing himself politely, he rose to leave. Having found reloads for his Colt and retrieved his Winchester, he intended to sleep on the ground outside of town, surrounded by his animals.

Babcock, not accustomed to rebuke, reacted angrily. "Now see here, boy. Insulting Chester Babcock is bad bidness. I'm likely to slap your pup face." He stormed across the room and looked up into John Bob's face.

At that, John Bob turned back and walked out. Ready to return home to Pecos, which was more of a temporary place to sleep rather than a home, he nonetheless did not intend to stay in Dog Fall. He saw that Mr. Babcock was also not a man to have as an enemy and neighbor at the same time

Although the hour was moving toward late, the summer sun still offered some daylight. He was not alarmed at the fleshy, fiftyish man in a white shirt and tie mounted on a brindle gelding watching his approach. The rider was visible only by a night lantern hanging on the door jamb.

"That your horse in stall three, son?"

"Yessir."

"You the stage driver who gunned the three murderers up in the Guadalupes?"

John Bob slowed, warily studying the man closely in the limited light. "Yessir."

"I'm Hector C. Speed, mayor of Dog Fall. The man they called the 'Salado Kid"  . . . real name William Smith, was wanted for robbing federal mail shipments and murder."

John Bob recognized the mayor's name but didn't reply.

"Federal Government, and the El Paso/Pecos/Western Railway are offering to pay total rewards of just over seven hundred dollars. I also own the Bluefield State Bank of Pecos . We're a certified agent of E.P.&W. Money will be wired to the bank payable to you tomorrow. son."

John Bob said, "Thank you sir. I'll drop by the bank tomorrow." At that, he dismounted and led Esau to his stall, with Luke following, wondering why Speed had bothered to seek him out at night.

Mayor Speed, stunned at the youth's stoic, unemotional reaction at receiving a small fortune, watched the trio disappear into the livery barn.. "I'll be dammed." He spurred his horse toward home.

At just past daybreak the next morning, after eating watery eggs at Mrs. Stafford's Boarding House, he walked over to the Bluefield State Bank.

Mayor/Banker Speed rose from his desk behind the counter. "Good morning, Mr. McBride. Could you do with a cup of coffee?"

Over coffee at his desk, the mayor handed over a printed form bearing the railroad's name and a seal in a lower corner stamped over a typed figure: $543.45.

Speed studied John Bob's youthful features. "How old are you, young man?"

"You gotta be a certain age to get reward money, sir?"

Oh, no. I was jes' thinkin' of your future. You have a small fortune there which, although substantial, will not carry you far. I'd suggest you buy a small spread around Dog Fall . . . maybe start a business and settle down . . . establish roots so to speak."

"Grazin' beef cattle in this area's gonna take more than five hundred dollars' worth of land, sir. But I'm listening. Business, you say?"

"Yes, maybe a saloon?"

"Saloon? No thank you, sir.

"Well, here's my first thought anyway. Saloon is a bad idea. Sheriff Willard's in failing health . . . doc gives him a month. I could slide you into the job today. That'd give you a week or two to learn the territory. "

"Sir, I don't know nothin' 'bout the law."

"Pays forty-two dollars a month and gives you a place to sleep in the sheriff's office. Plano County has a policy, four dollars for an arrest, double if the criminal is an absconder. Ten dollars for fugitives and keep any reward offered . . . like you jes' got. And, young fella, you have certainly proven yourself by gunning them three who kidnapped Ms. Babcock."

John Bob contemplated the situation. Forty-two a month was double what Dutch Vogt made down at the stage line office in Pecos.

John Bob accepted on the spot. Speed pinned a silver badge on his chest and together they walked over to the county jail in the basement of the Plano County Court house. The premises consisted of a tiny table, a wooden bench for sleeping, and a rusty padlock and chain apparently intended to secure the barbed wire cage in a corner which had to be the jail. Two large rats scurried into holes in one wall.

"Beats sleeping in the rain," John Bob thought.

Luke sniffed around. Soon, rats would be wise to move elsewhere.

Speed went back to the bank. John Bob sat on the bench, thumbing through wanted posters. He was dumbfounded when Rose Babcock, carrying a picnic basket walked in.

"Thank goodness you're staying, John Bob."

Events moved rather quicky. Rose showed up for several days afterward. John Bob rented a carriage from the livery barn and they enjoyed several tasty lunches amidst the craggy beauty nearby. From a single kiss early on, to multiple repeats soon afterward, the couple was firmly in love and the whole community knew of it. Rose's irascible father grumpily consented.

For the first month as sheriff, John Bob's days were uneventful. Twice he'd had to arrest drunks in one of the town saloons, but his husky size and reputation as a result of killing three bandits softened the resolve of any drunks to resist. Then, the lovely and loving couple were married in The First Church of the Limb of the Lamb. They moved temporarily into Mrs. Stafford's boarding house, pending locating a suitable house.

Then one cool mountain night, eight or ten bullets fired into the sheriff's office, woke most of the town. Witnesses swore the pair of shooters had ridden north. John Bob, smothered by Rose's pleas to use caution, saddled Esau and followed. Within an hour, the sounds of multiple gunshots wafted down to Dog Fall. Several town men, with Chester Babcock in charge, rode out.

Presently, Rose, who had waited on the courthouse steps, saw and heard a pair of riders coming on the run. To her everlasting horror, one man shouted, "Horrible news, Mrs. McBride, he's dead."

At that. Rose fainted, saved from a bad fall by a nearby drunk. As they shook her awake, she cried, "My God are y'all sure? Did he suffer?"

Mayor Speed said gently, "Well, hard to say, Rose when an old man's heart seizes up, no way of gauging anything like pain. But I don't think your daddy suffered."

"Daddy! It was Daddy that died?"

John Bob knelt over her. "Rose, I got the two men. Both drunk cowhands with nothing better to do. Took both alive."

"My God, John Bob you're alive . . . and Daddy isn't." She leaned closer and whispered, "Do you realize you now own a stage line, the mines you use to haul gold to, and, uh, the Peoples Bank of Pecos, and the Broadway Hotel in downtown Denver, Colorado . . . oh, uh, and that big house on the hill?"

John Bob leaned close and nuzzled her ear poignantly. "Rosie, does this mean Luke can sleep in on the kitchen floor instead of on the porch?"

John Bob remained on his sheriff's job until a suitable replacement was hired. He eventually became the governor of the state.

Whiskey Bend
by Larry Payne

The six duster clad riders appeared at the top of the rise as the stagecoach pulled away from the house. Cade Fallon watched four horses being led toward the barn where another horse was being shod near a small blacksmith forge outside the door. A woman beat a rug draped over a clothesline between the house and the barn and a man with a horse harnessed to a plow worked a field north of the house.

Anson "Pop" Decker stepped his horse beside Fallon and spit a trail of tobacco juice into the grass. "Sodbusters."

Fallon looked over at Decker. "And a way station for the stage line. Got some pretty good horses in that corral."

"Let's go get 'em" said Decker and spit again.

Fallon heeled his horse forward and led the riders single file down the rise. They spread out behind him as they walked their horses into the yard.

The man at the forge dropped the hoof he'd been shoeing and walked toward the riders. "Howdy, what can I do for ya?"

"Horse threw a shoe. Wondered if you could fix him up with another," said Fallon.

"Sure thing." The man gestured for Fallon to follow him to the barn. He pumped the forge bellows twice and then turned back to Fallon who shot him twice in the chest.

The woman beating the rug screamed when she saw the man sink to the ground and then ran into the house. The man from the field ran into the yard and Pop Decker shot him three times. He smiled and spit a tobacco stream when the man slid in the dirt on his face. The four men behind Fallon and Decker dismounted and strode into the house.

The outlaw leader replaced the spent shells in his gun and dropped it into its holster. He turned his horse back toward the house and he and Pop hitched their horses to the rail and followed the men into the house.

Texas Ranger Dusty Nichols took the fixings from his shirt pocket and rolled a quirley. He stuck it in his mouth and searched his pocket for a match. He flicked the match with his thumbnail, lit the quirley and threw the match to the ground. He took a long drag of the quirley and looked over at his partner, Billy Collier, his chin against his chest, bobbing rhythmically with the gait of his horse. Dusty glanced up to see his dog, Toby, scamper back and forth in front of them. Movement from Billy regained his attention.

"Have a good sleep?" Dusty asked his bleary eyed partner and offered him the rest of his smoke.

Billy sucked on the quirley. "I must have dozed a little," he said, leaking smoke as he replied. "How far are we from Sweetwater?"

Before Dusty could answer, gunfire broke out in the distance. Toby raced ahead of them toward the sound.

"Sounds like someone's in trouble," said Billy.

As one, the two companions spurred their mounts to the top of the rise. Toby was already there looking at the scene below when they arrived and looked up at Dusty with an excited whine. Six riders, bandannas covering the bottom half of their faces, sat in front of a stagecoach with their guns drawn. They watched as the guard threw the shotgun to the ground.

"Think those are our boys?" asked Billy.

Dusty pulled his Henry rifle from the saddle boot and levered a shell into the chamber. "Only one way to find out," he said and put the rifle to his shoulder.

He fired as the nearest outlaw was herding the passengers out of the stage. The bullet slammed into the stage above the horse's head causing him to rear, dumping his rider into the dirt. The other outlaws looked up at the rise to see Toby and Billy racing toward them with Dusty following close behind.

"Let's get outta here," said the leader, watching the downed outlaw try to remount his skittish horse. The mounted bandits turned their horses and galloped away in the opposite direction as bullets buzzed around them. Finally getting control of his horse, the last outlaw followed. Toby sprinted on after the outlaws, but soon returned when he realized Dusty and Billy weren't behind him.

"Anybody hurt?" asked Billy when the two lawmen reached the stagecoach.

"We're alright up here," said the driver. The guard nodded in agreement.

"You folks okay?" said Dusty

"Thanks to you boys," said one of the passengers.

Dusty reached down from his saddle to pick up the shotgun and handed it back to the guard atop the stagecoach. "That the bunch that's been causin' trouble in these parts?"

"Same ones, 'ceptin' they didn't get nothin' this time," said the driver.

"You headed to Sweetwater?" said Billy.

"Sure are, we was s'posed to been there 'bout two hours ago."

"Mind if we ride along?" asked Dusty.

"Be obliged, them boys might come back to try and finish what they started" replied the driver.

When the passengers settled back in the stagecoach, the driver slapped the ribbons and cursed the four-horse team into motion. With a Ranger on either side and Toby perched atop the stagecoach, they headed for the town of Sweetwater.

The visored ticket agent walked out onto the platform as Hunk Wofford halted the stagecoach in front of the depot. Hunk wrapped the reins around the brake lever and climbed down from his seat, slapping the dust from his clothes.

"Any trouble, Hunk?" asked the agent.

"Yeah, there was, Harley, but thanks to these boys you still got a full strongbox," said Hunk as Dusty and Billy rode up to the platform.

Harley Kitchum looked up at the two Rangers. "Much obliged. With all the trouble we've had, the powers that be are looking to post an extry guard in the coach with the passengers."

"Might be a good idea," said Dusty.

"You boys stop by the saloon later and I'll buy you a drink," said Hunk, sending a stream of tobacco juice into the street.

The two Rangers waved at the driver as they turned their horses. "Where to now?" asked Billy.

"A room and a meal. Then we're gonna collect that drink we was promised. After that we got killers to find."

They dismounted in front of the Sweetwater Hotel, hitched their horses and stepped up on the boardwalk into the open double doors. "We'd like a couple of rooms," said Dusty.

The clerk leaned over the desk to look at Toby sitting next to Dusty. "Who's he staying with?"

"He'll be with me," said Dusty.

"It'll cost you extra if he does any damage," said the clerk, looking at Dusty over the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. Dusty signed the register and then handed the pen to Billy.

"That'll be two dollars each. That includes the use of the bath at the end of the hall," said the clerk. The lawmen each put two silver dollars on the desk and the clerk slid two room keys across to them.

"We'll stable the horses and then come back for a bath and a meal," said Dusty. They put the keys in their pockets and stepped out onto the boardwalk. A gathering of riders had begun to assemble across the street.

"What's up, old timer?" Billy asked the old man sitting in a chair outside the hotel.

"Marshal's getting a posse together to go after them jaspers what tried to rob the stage," replied the old man. Billy looked over a Dusty. "Might be the boys we're lookin' for."

"Guess the bath is gonna have to wait," said Dusty. Both men stepped off the boardwalk, unhitched their horses and stepped up into their saddles.

"Good huntin', boys. Wish I could go with you," said the old man. Dusty and Billy touched fingers to their hats and walked their horses across the street to the Marshal's Office.

"Got room for two more?" asked Dusty from the back of the cluster of men.

Hunk Wofford stood on the boardwalk next to Marshal Cooper Smith and pointed at the two Rangers.. "Them's the two boys that saved my bacon today, Coop."

Marshal Smith looked up at Dusty and Billy with a smile. "Always got room on my posse for a couple of Texas Rangers."

The Marshal stepped off the boardwalk, unhitched his sorrel and climbed into the saddle. He turned his horse toward his twelve-man posse. "Stay together, men. They've got a couple hours head start on us, but we'll do what we can." He pointed toward Dusty and Billy. "I want you boys up front with me."

When Dusty, Toby, and Billy maneuvered up beside Cooper Smith, the posse thundered out of Sweetwater leaving a swirling dust cloud settling behind them. They followed the road until they came to the spot of the attempted holdup where Marshal Smith halted his posse.

"We was on the rise when we come up on the holdup," said Dusty, recalling the scenario for Cooper Smith.

"They took off west," said Billy, pointing in the direction the retreating outlaws had fled.

The Marshal dismounted, walking around the still visible tracks of the stagecoach and then walked to where the tracks of the six riders left the road.

"Find 'em, Toby," said Dusty.

The big brown dog started sniffing around the stagecoach tracks and followed the tracks of the six riders when they left the road. Dusty and Billy followed behind Toby and Cooper Smith waved the posse forward behind them. When the tracks disappeared over the rocky ground, Toby lifted his head, looked back at Dusty and sat down.

"He's lost 'em," said Dusty and walked his horse up beside Toby. "Find 'em, boy."

Dusty watched as Toby put his nose to the ground again trying to pick up the trail. After a couple of minutes, the big dog sat down and looked over at Dusty.

"We lost 'em," said Dusty when he rode back to Cooper Smith and the posse.

"We'll end it now," said the Marshal. "We'll head on back to Sweetwater."

It was late afternoon when Cooper Smith halted the posse in front of his office. "I want to thank everyone who rode with me today. Sorry, we didn't have a better result. Go on home to your families."

The members of the posse waved at the Marshal as they dispersed and went their ways. Dusty and Billy rode to the livery, stabled their horses, and then made the short walk across the street to the hotel.

"Let's wash a little of this trail dust down first," said Billy as they walked into the hotel lobby. Half of the lobby served as the hotel bar with a number of tables surrounding a mahogany bar stretched along one wall.

They made their way up the stairs to their rooms, each took their turn taking a bath and then made their way back down the stairs to get their long awaited meal.

Hunk Wofford stood at the bar retelling of the stage holdup and waved at the two lawmen when he spotted Dusty and Billy coming down the stairs.

"Let it be known that Hunk Wofford is a man of his word," he said when the two Rangers reached the bottom of the stairs.. "Charlie," he said to the bartender, "give these two boys a beer on Ol' Hunk."

"You boys should feel fortunate," said Charlie, putting the overflowing mugs of beer on the bar in front of the two lawmen. "Hunk don't usually buy drinks for anybody but himself."

"Now, that ain't rightly so, Charlie," objected Hunk.

Charlie held out his hand, waving his fingers and pointing to the palm of his hand. "Pay up, Hunk." Dusty and Billy chuckled as Hunk reached into his pocket and put two coins into Charlie's palm.

"Zeke, tell Hunk how long it's been since he bought a drink," Charlie said to the man standing next to the stagecoach driver.

Zeke Bronson lifted his old, battered derby hat and scratched his head. "As I recollect, that must have been back when I was married to my second wife."

"And Zeke's been married four times," shouted someone from down the bar. The whole lobby erupted into laughter.

Hunk waved off the banter directed at him. "Don't pay no attention to them jugheads." Hunk turned up his mug and took a long swig until the laughter subsided. "You boys run them outlaws down?"

"Nah, tracks played out on the rocky ground," said Billy.

"That means I'll be seein' 'em again," replied Hunk.

Dusty and Billy finished their beers, waved at Hunk and stepped through the curtain separating the restaurant from the hotel to get their long overdue meal. They found a table against the wall near the door and ordered a plate of beef stew, biscuits and hot coffee.

"Daggone, that was a longtime comin'," said Billy, leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach when he finished his supper. Dusty smiled as he finished what remained in his coffee mug.

"Mind if I join you?"

Dusty looked up at Cooper Smith and smiled. "Have a seat, Marshal. We were just about to have dessert."

They all ordered a slice of apple pie and Cooper ordered coffee while the Rangers got their mugs refilled.

"You goin' after them holdup men?" said Cooper, taking a bite of his pie..

Dusty nodded. "Might be who we're lookin' for."

"Fallon and his bunch?" said Cooper, getting another nod from Dusty. "What if it ain't them?"

"Then, I don't have an interest in them," said Dusty, shrugging his shoulders. "The only interest I have is seeing Farrell, Decker and the rest of his killers lying face down with my lead in 'em."

The look in the Ranger's eyes sent a chill through Cooper Smith. The Marshal suddenly realized Dusty Nichols would follow the outlaws to the ends of the earth to give them what they got coming to them.

"Mind if I tag along?" said Cooper.

"Glad to have ya," said Dusty. "Besides, if it ain't Fallon's bunch, you can bring 'em back to Sweetwater."

"Can I buy you boys a beer?" said Cooper.

"Lead the way," said Dusty.

The three lawmen left the dining room and made their way across the lobby to the bar. Cooper Smith ordered the beers, slapped three coins on the bar and nodded toward a gathered crowd around a corner table. "Let's go see what's so interesting."

They worked their way to the front of the crowd and saw two men sitting across the table from each other with uneven stacks of chips in the center of the table.

"Six of 'em started," whispered the old man next to Billy, "them's the only two left."

Billy recognized the two men at the table. The dapper dressed gambler, Nelson Riddell, sat at one side of the table, stacks of colored chips sitting in front of him and across from him, down to his last few chips, sat gunman Tate McCloud.

"Your play, Tate," said Riddell. He lit a cheroot and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. McCloud fingered the small stack of chips in front of him, finally sliding it to join the mound of chips in the center of the table. "Let's see 'em, Riddell."

Nelson Riddell turned over the cards in front of him. "Three little ladies," he said, spreading three queens out on the table.

Tate McCloud picked up his cards and tossed five hearts, one by one, on top of Riddell's three queens. "Read 'em and weep," he said and raked the mound of chips to his side of the table.

"That's it for me," said McCloud, rising from his seat. He swept the chips into his hat, "You ain't never cleaned me out and I ain't about to let you tonight."

"There'll be another time, Tate," said Riddell, touching his fingers to his hat as the gunman carried his chips to the bar to cash them in.

Billy followed Tate McCloud to the bar. "Ain't you ever gonna git tired of losin' to Riddell?"

"Hello, Billy," said the gunman. "Oh, I've beat him a time or two. It's the competition, like going up against a faster gun."

"Like you really have to worry about that," replied Billy. "Tate, you know Dusty Nichols and Marshal Smith?"

McCloud looked past Billy and nodded at the two lawmen behind him. "We've crossed paths a time or two. Heard you was chasin' Cade Fallon and his bunch."

Dusty nodded. "Then you probably heard why."

"Yeah, I heard," said McCloud. "Bad as they are, I never thought I'd see the day Cade Fallon took to killin' women."

"We intend to put a stop to that," said Dusty.

The bartender cashed in Tate McCloud's chips and the gunman pushed a silver dollar back to the edge of the bar. "I'd like to buy these boys a shot of the good stuff, Charlie, and one for yourself." Charlie put five shot glasses in front of him, reached under the bar, uncorked a bottle and filled the glasses. Tate McCloud held his glass up in front of him, followed by each of the others in turn.

"To our health," said the gunman.

"And may Cade Fallon get what's comin' to him," added Billy Collier. The five men tossed down their drinks.

"If it will help you any," said McCloud, "I hear Fallon and his bunch spend their time in Whiskey Bend when they ain't killin' women."

"Much obliged," said Dusty.

"But, one suggestion," said McCloud, refilling their shot glasses. "Whiskey Bend is a town with very little law to speak of. If you want to be able to get off your horses, I'd get rid of those badges."

"Much obliged again," said Dusty, taking off his badge and slipping it into his pants pocket.

The next morning, Cooper Smith was waiting in the hotel lobby when Toby led Dusty Nichols and Billy Collier down the stairs. They retrieved their horses from the livery and followed Toby out of Sweetwater. They returned to the site of the stagecoach robbery and followed the tracks until they faded out on the rocky ground where Toby had earlier lost them.

"Where to now?" asked Billy.

Dusty pointed toward Toby out ahead of them searching the area ahead with his nose to the ground. After a couple of minutes, Toby lifted his head and barked at them. They heeled their horses and followed after him. "I guess we go that way," said Dusty.

They trotted along behind the big dog the rest of the morning until Toby slipped into a grove of trees. He was searching a campsite, nose to the ground, when the three lawmen reined up. They dismounted and joined in the search of the campsite. Cooper picked up a charred stick and stirred the ashes of the burned out fire.

"Think that's our boys," asked Billy.

"Hard to say," replied Cooper.

"Toby thinks so," said Dusty, pointing at the dog standing at the edge of the campsite wagging his tail and looking back at them. Toby barked and the lawmen remounted their horses.

"Find 'em, boy," said Dusty, sending the big dog loping through the trees. They heeled their horses and followed Toby from the grove.

Gathering storm clouds overhead accompanied the lawmen's arrival in Whiskey Bend. Their horses shied when a man burst through the batwings of the nearest saloon. He stumbled across the boardwalk and sprawled face first in the dusty street. A big, burly man with shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, followed the man to the edge of the boardwalk and threw a battered hat into the street beside him. "And don't come back in here!"

The big man gave the lawmen a frowned look as he lumbered back through the batwings. They looked at each other, smiled and reined their horses around the man in the street struggling to his knees.

They passed a saloon with three woman on its balcony in various stages of undress. One of them leaned over the rail giving them a full view. "You cowboys looking for some fun?"

"Nice friendly town," said Billy as they rode by.

They turned their horses in to the hitch rail in front of the hotel, dismounted and stepped across the boardwalk into the small hotel lobby. An attractive woman flipped around the registration book as they neared the desk. "We'd like rooms," said Dusty.

"That's usually why people come to a hotel, ain't it?" said the auburn haired woman. She tapped the register. "Sign the book."

She turned to the board behind her, removed three keys and slid them across the desk. She looked at Toby sitting behind Dusty. "He with you?"

"He won't be any trouble," said Dusty.

She walked around from behind the desk. "He friendly?"

"Friendly enough," said Dusty.

She knelt down beside Toby and scratched him behind the ears. "Haven't seen you in Whiskey Bend before," she said.

"Never been here before," said Dusty.

"Just passin' through?"

"Lookin' for some friends. They been seen now and again in Whiskey Bend."

She looked up at Cooper and Billy and then back at Dusty. "You're lawmen."

"Does it show that much?" said Billy.

She smiled and rose to her feet. "I've had a lot of practice. I been around lawmen my whole life." She held out her hand. "I'm Sally Dixon."

"You any kin to Pete Dixon," said Dusty, shaking hands with Sally.

"Pete was my brother. Shot down in the street of Whiskey Bend by one of Cade Fallon's bunch."

"Surprised you're still here," said Cooper.

A malevolent look crossed Sally's face. "I'll be here until Cade Fallon and all the killers that run with him are face down in the street."

"Is there any law at all in Whiskey Bend?" asked Dusty.

"If you want to call it that," said Sally. "Harold Bradley just sits all day getting drunk in his tight little office until Fallon shows up and then he pulls the shade and slithers out the back door. That's the law we have in Whiskey Bend."

"Maybe, we can change that," said Cooper. He motioned to Dusty and Billy. "Let's go pay our noble sheriff a visit."

They stepped from the hotel and strode down the boardwalk to the Sheriff's Office. Pete Dixon's name was crossed out and Harold Bradley's name was roughly painted under it. The lawmen looked at each other and stepped through the open door. Bradley sat snoring in his chair with his booted feet on the desk and a half bottle of whiskey resting between his legs.

Dusty shook his head and shouted, "Hey!"

Bradley stirred a bit, but was quickly snoring again. Cooper stepped behind the desk and kicked the back legs of the chair, sending Bradley toppling backwards to the floor. Bradley squinted at Cooper Smith when the Marshal bent over and unpinned the sheriff's star from his shirt.

"What're you doin'?" said Bradley, struggling to rise from the floor.

"There's new law in Whiskey Bend," said Dusty as he and Billy helped Bradley to his feet.

"Cade Fallon ain't gonna like this," said Bradley as he walked between the two Rangers toward the door.

"That's what we're countin' on," said Dusty as they pushed Bradley out the door. He stumbled across the boardwalk and sprawled in the street. Billy tossed the half empty whiskey bottle out the door and it landed beside the ex-sheriff.

Sally Dixon leaned against a post at the edge of the hotel boardwalk with her arms folded across her chest. She watched with a smug smile as Harold Bradley struggled to his feet. She uncrossed her arms and stepped back into the hotel. "About time," she whispered.

Billy Collier nailed the last of the signs to a post in front of the Sheriff's Office and stood back to read it. It had been three days since he, Dusty Nichols and Cooper Smith had settled in to the Sheriff's Office of Whiskey Bend.

"Banning guns should start the kettle boiling!" came a familiar voice from behind him.

Billy turned and almost didn't recognize Sally Dixon in her Levi's, cotton shirt and boots. A hat hung down her back by the chin cord and a thonged Colt was strapped around her waist. "That's what we want," said Billy.

"That's what Pete tried to do and it got him killed," said Sally. "You're gonna need some help and I want to offer mine."

Billy looked at Sally for a moment longer. "Let's go talk to Dusty."

Dusty Nichols and Cooper Smith had just finished putting up a long table in a corner of the office when Billy stepped through the door.

"Dusty," said Billy, "there's someone here wants to talk to you."

Dusty sat down on the edge of his desk and looked over at Cooper Smith with raised eyebrows when Sally stepped through the door. "What can I do for you, Sally?"

"You're gonna need some help when Fallon hears what's going on in Whiskey Bend. I want to help."

Dusty looked down at the floor scratching his head. "I don't know, Sally."

She grabbed the coffee mug from Dusty's desk and motioned for them to follow her to the back door of the office. "Follow me."

Sally held the door open for the three lawmen and handed the mug to Billy as he passed her. She pointed down the alley. "Go out about twenty paces and turn around."

Sally was standing facing Billy with her feet spread when he turned around. "Now hold the mug out at waist level and drop it when you're ready."

"Now wait a minute," said Dusty, stepping out between them.

Sally waved the Dusty out of the way. "Drop it, Billy!"

When Dusty back stepped, Billy stretched his arm out at waist level, locked eyes with Sally and released the mug.

In a blur of motion Sally drew her Colt and shattered the mug before it hit the ground. She thumbed out the spent shell and reloaded while the lawmen exchanged surprised looks. She dropped the Colt back in its holster and looked over at Dusty. "I could always move him farther away and shoot one off his head."

Billy waved off Sally's idea. "Dusty, just give her a badge. I'm sure she'll be fine."

Dusty looked at Cooper, sighed and then looked at Sally. "I've done some crazy things in my life and, under the circumstances, I can't help but do another. Come on, I'll get you a badge."

"Don't need it," said Sally, reaching into her pants pocket. She showed a badge to Dusty and pinned it on her shirt. "I'll use Pete's."

"What about the hotel?" said Cooper.

"Hotel's in good hands," said Sally. She pulled on the chin cord of her hat and put it on her head. "Now, are we gonna save Whiskey Bend or ain't we?"

And they wouldn't have to wait long.

The six riders galloped down the middle of Whiskey Bend's street firing their guns in the air, scattering the townspeople from the boardwalks. They turned their horses to the hitch rail in front of the saloon and dismounted.

Anson Decker stepped up on the boardwalk and read the warning poster. He jerked it down, ripped it in half and threw it in the street. They were all laughing as they pushed through the batwings.

"They're here," said Sally standing at the office window. "And it don't look like they're turning in their guns."

Dusty Nichols pulled two scatterguns from the gun rack and tossed one to Cooper. They checked the loads as they stepped to the door next to Sally.

"So, let's go get 'em," said Dusty.

The townspeople gradually reappeared as the foursome stepped off the boardwalk and crossed the street toward the saloon. They looked over the batwings and saw the six men strung out along the bar slopping whiskey in their glasses amid raucous laughter. They lawmen pushed through the batwings and spread out in front of the bar before Dusty fired a round into the ceiling. "Drop your gunbelts, boys."

Cade Fallon was about to take a drink when he stopped, looked toward the lawmen and smiled. "Well, what have we here?"

"New law in Whiskey Bend," said Dusty. "Now, we'll take the guns."

When the gunmen turned to face the lawmen, the bartender removed the large mirror from the wall behind him and ducked down behind the bar. Tables in the saloon overturned amid the rush to the door as the patrons sought cover.

Anson Decker smiled when he spotted Sally standing between the two Rangers. "I see you ain't learned from what happened to your brother, Missy."

"I'm nor worried about you, old man," said Sally, "I'm facing you."

The smile slowly faded from Decker's face and when it was gone he went for his gun. Sally cleared leather first and shot Decker in the chest. A hailstorm of shotgun blasts and gunfire ensued and was over as quick as it started.

The eyes of the bartender peeked over the top of the bar and took a slow look around the gunsmoke filled room. Curious heads peaked around overturned tables and through the parted batwings as the bartender stood up and stepped around the bar. Six men lay motionless on the floor.

Dusty, Sally and Cooper stood in front of him reloading their guns and Billy was cradling the arm of his blood stained left shoulder. "You okay, Billy?" said Dusty.

Billy nodded. "Winged me a little, is all. I been hit worse."

Sally looked over toward Anson Decker when he moaned and stirred. She thumbed back the hammer of her Colt as she stepped over to where the blood soaked outlaw was trying to sit up. "I don't know how you're still alive," she said.

Sally slowly raised her Colt when the semblance of a bloody smile started to appear on the outlaw's face. She looked him in the eyes, shot him in the forehead and calmly holstered her Colt.

"He was going for his gun," she said as she strode past her three companions..

Sally Dixon and Cooper Smith stood at the edge of the boardwalk in front of the Doctor's Office watching the undertaker remove the bodies from the saloon. "You okay?" said Cooper.

Sally gave him a slight smile and a nod. "I will be. I been waitin' a long time to do what I did today."

Cooper smiled and patted her back. "And you got your town back."

"Yeah," said Sally. "Too bad Pete ain't around to see it."

Dusty Nichols and Billy Collier, with his arm in a sling, stepped from the Doctor's Office and walked up on each side of them as the undertaker's wagon pulled away from the saloon.

"How's the arm?" said Cooper.

"Doc said I should be back to normal in a week or two," said Billy.

"We're gonna hang around until Whiskey Bend decides on a new sheriff," said Dusty. "By that time, he oughta be good as new."

"I guess that means I can return to Sweetwater," said Cooper.

"And I can return to my hotel," said Sally.

"We wish you wouldn't, Miss Sally."

Sally spun around to face two men that had walked up behind them. "Excuse, me?"

"What we mean is, Miss Sally, we need a new sheriff. And what we seen you do here today, the town would like you to stay on as sheriff. The badge does look pretty good on you."

A bewildered look appeared on Sally's face when she looked down at her brother's badge pinned to her shirt. She looked back up at the two men and realized there were a number of people standing in front of the saloon watching them. "What does the Mayor say?"

"He 's the one who let the bad things happen to Whiskey Bend. You let us worry about the Mayor. Will you stay on, Miss Sally?" The man extended his hand.

Sally looked at the three lawmen standing beside her. One by one, they nodded at the extended hand. "You'll do a great job," said Cooper.

She looked back at the man and shook his hand. "Okay, I'll do it," said Sally.

Dusty leaned over to Sally and whispered, "Pete would be proud."

Sally smiled and fingered the badge on her shirt.

Last Words
by John Porter

While bullets riddled the walls of the old shack, Buster Willis lay flat on the dirt floor.

If I run, he thought, they'll kill me.

He raised his head.

Bullets splintered the door.

He lay flat again.

If I give up, maybe they won't.

"Come out, you woman killer!" somebody yelled.

Maybe he could make them understand that he'd had his reasons. He was bad, yes. But he wasn't all bad. He'd done some good things in his life. Like . . . what?

Well, he'd helped that old man in Houston, a few years back.

On a cold morning in Houston, Buster rode toward an old man who stood in the road and looked at an old dog that lay at his feet.

The dog licked the old man's boots, then whined, stiffened, and shuddered.

The old man brushed tears from his eyes.

Buster stopped his horse nearby.

"You gotta put 'im down, old-timer," Buster said.

"Yep," the old man said.

"Whatcha waiting for?"

"He's been my best friend for more'n twenty years," the old man said. "I gotta say good-bye."

Buster drew his pistol and shot the dog.

The dog howled, then lay still.

The old man looked at Buster with horror.

"You just said it," Buster said, then laughed and rode on.

I done a good thing for that old man, Buster thought, lying on the ground in the old shack. I had a little fun, too, but I done a good thing.

Bullets tore through the walls of the shack.

Buster cringed.

Maybe if he talked to them, he could make them understand that he really hadn't had a choice with that woman. She'd laughed at him, so he'd shot her like any other self-respecting man would've done.

More bullets.

Maybe they wouldn't understand, but maybe they'd let him talk. Yeah, if they thought he was giving up. He could shout at them and come out real slow.

Buster closed his eyes and imagined himself standing in the shack, pushing open the door, and raising his hands above his head.

"I'm coming out, boys!"

He would move through the doorway.

"Don't shoot, and I won't, neither!"

He would take another step forward.

"Trust me, now," he would shout. "Trust me!"

He would pull his pistol, drop to a knee, empty all six cylinders.

He would stand, turn toward his horse.

Bullets would tear through his legs, chest, arms, and head.

He opened his eyes in the shack.

He'd think of something else.

He'd think of what could happen next.

He could somehow get away. No, he'd already seen that he couldn't get away.

What else could happen?

Someone could rescue him. Who? He didn't have a friend in the world. Not even a dog.

The men outside could get tired and fall asleep or go home.

Unlikely.

What was more likely . . . in fact, what was certain was that they would kill him.

Well, he thought, if I'm gonna die, I should think up some last words.

What did it matter? Maybe it didn't, but it was something to think about.

"I wished I wasn't here," he said out loud. "I wished you'd let me go. I'm sorry."

And he was sorry. If he'd just ridden north, not south, they might never have caught up with him.

More bullets.

"Let's rush the shack!" someone shouted.

"Naw," someone else shouted, "let's just let him starve."

Buster realized how hungry he was. And thirsty. And tired. He wanted a smoke.

Would they give him a smoke if he walked out with his hands up?

They were going to shoot him or hang him or kill him in some other way. But would they give him a smoke first? Maybe a drink of whiskey? Maybe a steak and a patatah?

He shook his head.

Probably not a patatah.

Would they let him take a piss?

They wouldn't deny him a piss, would they?

So, they were going to kill him, but maybe they'd give him a smoke and let him take a piss and maybe give him steak.

They wouldn't give him a steak.

They wouldn't give him a woman, either.

Would he want a woman before the Judgement?

Why not? He was going to hell anyway. Why not have a woman one more time?

But they wouldn't give him a woman.

But the smoke . . . there was a chance of that. And the piss. Not the patatah. And not the steak. And not the whiskey.

But the last words. They'd let him say some last words if he gave himself up.

If he ran, they'd shoot him, and he wouldn't have the chance to say nothing.

If he had the chance, what would he say?

"I . . . I . . . I . . . "

He should say something about the good things he'd done in his life.

Had he ever done any good things aside from shooting that dog?

If he could think up some more, he would put them into his last words. He might not say them as pretty as the speechifiers he'd heard on election night in that saloon in Austin a couple months back. But at least he would say them.

Maybe if he waited till dark, he could sneak out.

If he couldn't get away, he could take some of them with him to hell.

I don't wanna go to hell, he thought.

But he knew he didn't have any chance at all of going to heaven.

"Let's burn 'im out!" someone shouted.

Buster hadn't thought about fire. God, he didn't want to go that way. Get shot, get hung, get stabbed, get starved. But don't get burned. Even though he was going to hell and ought to get used to fire, he didn't want to get burned to death.

He would try and tell them about the old man and the dog. They might not listen. They might shoot him dead. Or wound him, then hang him or stab him or beat him or strangle him. But they wouldn't burn him.

He got to his knees.

He got to his feet.

He reached for the door.

"I'll try and tell 'em about the old man and the dog," he whispered, then grimaced. "Wished I could think up another good thing."

He opened the door, felt a piercing pain in his chest, and fell forward.

Three men walked toward him, their pistols pointed at the back of his head.

One of the men stuck his boot under Buster's shoulder and flipped his body.

Buster lay on his back, his eyes open and empty.

"Musta been his heart," the man said.

"Think he had one?" another man asked.

"Sure," the third said. "Everybody's done some good things in their life."

Straw
by Kevin McEvoy

You can't always tell who's who. Anybody can wear a white hat. Don't make 'em good, just look good. Some wear black hats, growl, spit, drink, cuss, and sound nasty. But when the chips are down they come through.

I was riding into a nowhere town on a hot, dusty afternoon. I had left Tombstone, my job there done and now in-between contracts, more or less driftin' south. Means unemployed. The sun was blazing down and it looked like no rain for months. I rode past some farms with no sign of any crops growin'. Why farmers stay in places like this I'll never know. Sometimes I feel sorry for them.

A travelling gun for hire ain't as glamourous as it sounds. I hate the term gunfighter. Makes it sound like all we do all day long is shoot people. Well, sometimes we do, but there's always a good reason. Mostly it's cleanin' up other people's messes  . . .  for cash. I prefer gold, but I hardly ever get it. I get paper and live with it. Besides, when you get gold its usually dust and hard to carry if you get enough. Which you never do.

The town saloon is where you'll find unemployed guns lookin' for work, drinking, playing cards, and waiting. You need to wait more than drink, because if you drink more than wait, when what you're waiting for comes, you're too drunk to do anything about it. Better to play some cards with whoever's in there. Just keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth shut, and always sit facin' the door. Soon enough you'll hear a shot, a scream, or someone calling your name if they know it. Or just calling you out. You always gotta be ready and be good enough to stay alive. That's the job you picked. Sometimes it picks you.

I was waiting for something to happen in this dusty wasteland town when a young lady ran into the saloon. There's only three reasons a woman runs into a saloon. She works there—usually upstairs if you get my meaning—or she's lookin' for trouble, or she's in trouble. Working there or looking for trouble are often the same thing. By this gal's farmer's overalls, thick dusty coat and worn out hat I figured number three. She was scared as a cow about to be branded. As a gun for hire you notice things quick. And when trouble starts, you move fast and talk slow. No misunderstandings. I shot up to my feet.

"Little lady, what's botherin' you?"

She wheezed, "They said that since the farmland is no good for growing, they're gonna run their cattle all over it for grazing. Everybody's farm. Everybody's!"

"Who's they?" I looked around the saloon but already guessed. Ranchers against farmers. It's always land for growing or grazing, or water rights. Old story, I've seen it a hundred times. They're now right outside.

"They already started," she was screaming. "And they've come back."

I stepped around her out of the saloon onto the wooden porch to find three wagons in front of the saloon, each with a backboard covered with a canvas tarp. I wondered covering what. Taking another step I pulled my long riding coat back round the Colt holster on my right hip. It's a steady six shooter, expensive—a full $20 in Abilene, and I keep it well-oiled, especially out here in this dust bowl. It's not always who's the fastest draw, its accuracy, too. No matter how fast, you gotta hit what you're aimin' at. And, like I said, always be ready.

Eight men stepped off the wagons. Eight would be too many to take on at once with a six shot Colt, so I quickly scanned around and noticed a large wooden water barrel a few steps away on the right end of the porch. I could fire, duck behind it, and reload. The first one steppin' off a wagon was a big fella, reading my eyes, like a trail boss would do. He waved his hands side to side. I figured that meant "no" but I kept my right hand ready.

He stared straight into my eyes, "Not here for trouble, friend. We're ranch hands out past the north end of town."

"Where the farms are I passed ridin' in," I told him. A number of townspeople on the porch near the salon door, and in the street, started stepping back, looking very nervous, but afraid to run. And no sheriff in sight.

"That's right, friend. Except there's no farms there now, just empty fields of burnt grass. Straw. No good for farmin', no good for anything but grazin'. That's where we've been."

"I heard. Grazing on land that's not yours. With lots of cattle, too."

"Yep. Lots of cattle means lots of beef. Lots of steaks."

He started to move towards a wagon backboard. My hand twitched slightly near my holster, but not enough to hint I might be drawing. Lots of gun fights happen when mistakes like that are made. Lot of burials, too. I've seen and caused both.

The trail boss pulled back the tarp revealing a mat of straw keeping the flies off large sides of beef. The townspeople peered into the wagons, looking dumfounded.

"We know it ain't our land, and right now it's no good to the farmers. Just a waste for growin'. We know what it's like when a herd dies off. Out there right now the farmers' herd died off. All straw like I said. Here's some beef for the town. Free of charge. Farmers ain't got no money anyhow."

People anxiously descended into the wagons while the ranchers headed into the saloon. I followed them in and bought the first round.

 . . . And His Name Was Death
by Peter Bertlessen

The warm orange hue from the sun liquefied into the midst of the purple sky as dusk was upon night in the desert highlands of California, half a day's ride out from the Arizona border. The clattering of iron clanging against the rock-embedded soil was the only sound to be heard for miles. The noise persisted as a stagecoach barreled around a steep, winding ledge, skidding along the jagged pathway. The man atop the driver's box looked out ahead, with no clear path in sight, he continued along its ever-decreasing elevation. Fretful for his one faithful steed that pulled the entire load, he stayed steadfast, if he was to make it to a ravine before nightfall, he could set up camp thus giving her the much-needed rest.

As he embarked on the precipice of the plateau, he saw the shrewd terrain ahead and tugged back on her reins. A crackling sound on one of the loose spokes swiftly arose. It crescendoed when the hobbled spoke splintered and fractured into two causing the wagon wheel to jump violently. Jarring loose the iron band, the hub gyrated vehemently until it sheared off the axle and smattered into pieces on the nearby rocks. The coach toppled, gnashing into the course gravel, sending the driver flying through the air. He landed several feet away when it flipped on its front end slamming not only his horse down on her side but landing on top of him.

The coach's contents spewed out across the ridgeline. The driver's right leg was pinned under the coach and severely mangled. He winced in pain as he tried to wedge his hand between the wreckage in an attempt to free himself. His horse lay up on her side bucking frantically, he swallowed hard trying to calm her down as she squirmed incessantly. He reached for the reins to free her, they were just outside of arm's reach, still tied along the front of the coach seats.

As dusk turned to night, his cries for help were all but a faint whisper dissipating apace under the vast desert sky. He took to conserving his strength for the following day, internalizing his cries for help into prayers. He laid his hand upon his horse's rear leg petting her softly, letting her know that he was there with her. It was important for him to comfort her, to keep her calm, as her cries into the night would only bring along the unwanted company of the vicious hungry coyotes. This was of course assuming he could make it through the night. The chill from a long winter's night in the desolate desert was a brutal one, the kind of cold that sets inside your bones and congeals the blood to a marmalade state.

"Betsy, Ol' girl it's gonna be alright now, you hear me. Gonna get help, then I'll get you free," he whispered gently.

The sun rose puncturing through the gloomy morning haze, a light beaming straight from the heavens woke him from his slumber. The pain in his right leg had almost ceased to exist, as the trauma to his right leg was almost assuredly causing his body to go into shock. It wasn't until he tried to sit up and reposition himself that he felt a sharp, fierce pain rise from his shin up his spine. He finagled his hand into his left pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, spared from damage, he held it dear to his chest. He summoned enough strength in his voice to carry on with his cry for help. After hours of enduring the fruitless endeavor, he heard rustling in the sagebrush several yards off.

A man appeared, slashing through the dry brush with a large buck knife along his way. The gaunt, lanky man had certain sickly qualities about him, his skin was a certain shade of pale and glistened as if entombed with sweat. The good Samaritan ushered over quickly, assessing the situation. He knelt beside the damage and tried to lift the coach from its side, it was too heavy for any one man to do so on his own. He looked about the scattered debris to find a pry that would give him the leverage to free the pinned man.

"Lord almighty, let me tell you I prayed all night for someone to come along and help me, and here you are. Thought I'd fallen on deaf ears. Thank you, Mister," The stagecoach driver said excitedly.

The good Samaritan scoured through the coaches' scattered belongings when he came across a satchel under a pile of clothes. He rifled through its contents, removed several large bill folds, and rolled up wanted posters. He looked precariously at the injured man.

"Say, you some kind of Marshall? Are these rewards for bounties on these men's heads?" The Samaritan asked.

"Whatever you find, you can have, I promise it to ye'. Just get me out from under this damned heaping pile first, it's all I ask," the man said as he continued pushing on the coach to no avail.

The Samaritan stuffed the wadded-up bill folds securely into the satchel and threw it over his shoulder. He walked briskly back to the man and drew his pistol.

"Yous' were the one praying, but it looks as if it's my prayers that have been answered," the Samaritan said dawning a fiendishly malicious grin, while slowly cocking back the hammer on his standard Army issue Colt .45 revolver.

As the pinned man began his nervous plea, he saw the revolver drawn upon him and shouted, "You rotten, slumguzzlin'—"

The Samaritan fired off a shot into his belly. The blood oozed up, pumping slowly to the cusp of his skin, cascading over and soaking his worn canvas shirt. The Samaritan continued rummaging through his belongings, while he lay bleeding out.

"Is this your hat?" he asked, as he picked up the driver's soiled leather hat, that lay several feet from him. "Sure, is a mighty fine hat," he continued as he dusted off the brim.

He placed the hat firmly on his head, fitting it snugly and continued to dig through the waste. He came upon a canteen, opened it, placed his nose about the brim, and took a whiff. He took a large swig, then walked over to where the horse lay and dumped the remains of the canteen near the horse's gaping mouth, she began to lap it up.

"Drink up girl, going to need your strength."

He slowly made his way back around the coach, standing before the driver who lay gargling blood while cursing obscenities in his direction. He noticed the pocket watch and tried to grab it from his tightly clenched fist, for a dying man, his grip remained fierce. He snatched the man's wrist with his right hand and pried away his fingers with his, one by one.

The bloodied man in angst, spat up the mouth full of blood towards the Samaritan. The blood spewed out like a small crimson geyser, yet never reached the Samaritan as he stood back upright. The volcanic rise splattered back down on the man's face and the Samaritan's boot. The Samaritan chuckled, dragging the tip of his boot in the dirt to wipe the blood from it. When he turned back to look down at the driver, he saw only the gun barrel the man had drawn upon him.

The gun wavering hither and thither, as the frail man mustered his last bit of strength to steady his shot. He squeezed the trigger and the bullet ripped through the pit on the inside of the Samaritan's left arm. Tearing through muscle and flesh and shattering bone along the way. He drew back grimacing in pain, before the adrenaline set in, and he retaliated with a fusillade of assertive kicks to the man's skull.

Unrelenting, even when the pistol in his right hand dropped, even as the man's fractured skull began to cave. He finally gave way, when a buzzard approached, perching along the top of the wreckage. He picked up the man's gun, took heed of the empty cylinder, and tossed it to the side.

"There's a hell of a lot of horrible ways to go in this world, but I can't think of none worse than a buzzard plucking out your eyes to be the last thing you see. I ought to put a bullet straight between them eyes, I gots the right, I do. Except I reckon I'll just leave you here, for the death you deserve," the Samaritan said, tipping his cap.

He languished over to the driver's box, his left arm dangling at his side, he grabbed the reins from where the horse had been tied and cut away at them with his buck knife. He stood her up, talking to her, calming her nerves as the last gunshot had her rattled. She had a slight limp as he paced her back and forth positioning her to mount up and ride off. He felt the warm blood that began leaking down the inside of his arm as he struggled to climb up on her.

He pulled her close to the toppled stagecoach, stepping on top of the brake beam to better position himself. He swung his left leg over while pulling on her bridle tightly. He slid atop her back, snatched the reins, and gave her a firm kick with the heel of his boot into her side, she obliged but did so begrudgingly. She trudged along with a noticeable hitch in her giddy-up, breaking stride to favor her front left hoof every few hundred paces.

He had just laid to rest his own dastardly steed days before, a beautiful mare, he had come upon while working as a ranch hand in New Mexico. The sack of bones he now set up on was an old nag. When she finally pulled up lame a few miles later, he took her reins and tried to push forward. She reared back, snarling, bucking, no longer being able to put weight on her front hoof. Knowing that she had gone just about as far as she possibly could he laid her down. He removed his pistol and placed it firmly between her eyes.

He took count of the last four bullets that he had in the cylinder. His finger squeezed the trigger firmly, and the shot rang out, a loud percussive blast reverberating off the nearby canyon walls. The beast's head sank, her pain ceased, and the glint of life that was fleeting in her pupils flickered out thereafter. As he holstered the still-smoking pistol, his left arm began throbbing.

Heart palpitating, the adrenaline had waned, an intense noxious sensation of pain crippled him momentarily. The blood that had been trickling down his wrist now poured uncontrollably. He tore away his bloody sleeve to fully expose the wound. A gaping hole with fragments of lead and bone lined the opening of torn flesh. He pulled his buck knife from its leather sheathing and began to cut away at the old nag's bridle and reins to fashion himself a tourniquet. He bit down on one end of the leather binding, sneering while he wrapped his arm tightly tying off a knot, cutting off the blood flow.

The midday sun began to bare down on him as he ambled on, en route along the nearest canyon wall, seeking refuge in the shadow it cast. No signs of vegetation, water, or any other pertinent resources. The ground was hardened and cracked along its surface; it looked as if shards of clay-colored glass were sprinkled about as far as the eye could see. He found solace along the jagged face of the canyon wall; the course limestone was cold to the touch.

As he pondered his next move he heard the pitter-patter of horse hooves off in the distance, couldn't have been more than a few hundred paces. He lurched forward, towards a nearby alcove to take cover. The clatter of the horse's hooves was thundering straight towards him. He took a deep breath and unholstered his weapon, slowly drawing back the hammer, to not make a sound. As the horse drew near, she neighed several paces away as her rider peeled back on the steed, snatching the reins, she snarled something fierce. The rider whispered in her ear, gently patted her head, then rode off.

He cautiously slipped out of the small cave he had hidden inside, he could hear the horse's hooves faintly, although, to his surprise, there was no sight of the rider or his horse. Only a small cloud of dust that dissipated a few feet from where he stood, remained. The pain in his arm swelled and sank, it arose in droves and left as quickly as it came. This continued as he carried along the canyon face for several hours.

He came across a dried-up creek bed, its soft sandy footing, was greatly welcomed as it gave the necessary leisure to his battered feet. The leather soles of his boots were worn thin, and his heels mirrored the desert floor he traversed for the last few days. He carried along the creek bed in hopes of finding the remnants of the water it once carried in abundance. He plucked dried thistle and snapped off twigs from the sagebrush he passed along his way, he gathered them for the kindling he would later use to start his fire. Tying off the bundle with bits of string that he removed from his tattered sleeve.

He looked over the exposed wound on his shoulder, a translucent fluid brimmed along the edges and leaked down the backside of his arm. He wiped the dirt from his fingers on his chest as he pulled out larger pieces of bone shards that sat embedded in the mashed pulp of flesh, muscle, and tendon. He winced in anticipation of an incomprehensible pain; however, on the contrary, he felt no pain at all.

The blood atop the wound had set up, baking in the sun, crusting over, and turning black along the perimeter. He removed the top from his canteen and carefully poured small increments of water into the open wound. His pace dragged along slowly, barely lifting his feet, when he decided this was as good a place as any to set up camp.

He gazed longingly at the sun, as it set its pathway onto the horizon. He knew the heat it gave off during the day while beating down on the ground below was cruel, but nowhere near as cruel as the grueling chill of the winter nights. Keeping warm by the side of a fire tonight would fare on the side of necessity. He laid out his bundled kindling and pulled out his flint and tinderbox. After several attempts, the tinder caught a spark, and he cultivated the flame. He needed to find something to sustain the fire throughout the night, there was no driftwood or any other incendiary brush.

He perused about, climbing along the escarpment, when a walloping ballyhoo swelled as a cloud of dust emerged upon the ridgeline, across from the valley below him. He awaited the herd of stampeding cattle to show themselves, he thought if he could snare one, that would hold him over the next few days until he could get into the nearest town. A lone rider materialized amongst the voluminous dust cloud, then disappeared again back down the other side of the hill. It wasn't a herd of buffalo or cattle being wrangled; it was just one man. He thought to himself, was this the same rider, that rode up on him hours before, then seemingly disappeared from sight in mere moments.

The steed, the rider rode upon had such a thundering clatter that it sounded like a posse of men riding out on the plains. The dust swelled again as the rumbling sound was getting louder. He crouched down behind a rock, pulled his pistol, and took aim, propping his arm up on the rock awaiting the rider to show himself along the ridge. He held his breath for his aim to be true, a white horse with a flowing long mane peeped her head above the ridge line, galivanting fast in his direction. Just as the top of the rider's hat brimmed on the cusp, a glint off the valiant steeds' steel bridle beamed into his sight line.

He peeled back; the blinding light caused a momentary myopia. He slunk down hiding behind the rock, not trying to divulge his position. His heart beat fast, and his sight came back slowly, seeing only blurry shadows. The sound of the hooves pounding the ground swelled. He cocked the hammer on his pistol and peered out over the rock maintaining his cover. The hazy cloud of dust moved swiftly towards him.

He fired off a shot, hoping to get the rider to pull back, revealing himself long enough for a clean shot. If he could saddle up on that horse, he could make it to town by morning and he may even be able to salvage his arm. The horse snorted as he popped up above the rock, his vision still askew. He fired off a second shot at the silhouette of the hellacious beast. The rider steadied her, dug his spurs into her side, and rode off.

His left eye clenched tight, and the caked-on dried mud that was spackled on his forehead flaked and fell from his face as he squint. Drew a bead on the shadow that moved swiftly across the land, and he squeezed the trigger when he lost his footing. The sandy soil gave way, and he slid down the face of the hillside. His unforeseen tumble landed him into a bed of cacti. He lay there for a moment, basking in the pain from a thousand pricks to his skin. He listened solemnly as the steed rode off towards the setting sun.

The embers of the fire he started gave light, guiding him back down the hillside. He slouched against a large rock, sliding down slowly as he began plucking away at the barbs of cactus that embedded his skin. He rubbed his bare left arm, the skin had no sensation, yet felt as cold to the touch. The infection in the wound spread throughout his arm. He removed the bandage from the wound and massaged the edges, he poked and prodded the swollen area, it was the only part of his arm that emanated heat. He squeezed it, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, cracking the dried blood, and a thick curdled pus oozed out. The smell was foul, he gagged as the putrid stench clung to the inside of his nostrils. He wiped away the pus, dragging his fingers along the inseam of his pants to clean them before placing back the bandage.

He took off his satchel and laid his head upon it. He tore away at the twigs from the last sagebrush, tossing them into his bed of embers. The frost from his breath lingered heavily like a fog engulfing his face. He sat up against the rock, the cold night had reached its peak and he was fresh out of kindling. He removed his buck knife and jostled the bed of embers to keep the fire from going out. He looked down at the satchel, and snatched it up, removed the wanted posters he had found inside of it earlier. He unrolled them, tore away at sections, and tossed them in, fanning the flames with the remaining bits.

He huddled close to keep warm, after an hour or so he had tossed in his last remnants of paper. The anemia, caused by blood loss, made him feel colder than it was. He was rattled with the fear of death by hypothermia, causing him to waive his hand frantically through the flame. He opened the satchel to rummage through what could be used to keep the fire going. He removed the wadded-up billfolds, unwound the bindings, and began to toss the bills in, one at a time.

With each bill he placed in the fire, it flamed up, a molasses like explosion and albeit brief it gave him the warmth needed to stave off the inevitable death. An hour or so after midnight, with a few dollars left in his hand. He sat there shivering, his teeth chattering, he took in deep and measured breaths, for they may be his last. He was weak, starvation, the loss of blood, the infection that ensued, the blistering cold, and sleep deprivation had finally corralled him and got the better of him.

The only thing keeping him around was hallucinations, he heard the voices of the men he killed calling to him. His mind wasn't totally absent, he knew the dead couldn't speak, it was all in his head or his conscience finally speaking to him after thirty-odd years of depravity, figments of his own convoluted imagination. He knew there was one way to rid himself of the voices that called to him. He pulled his pistol, took heed of the last round in the cylinder, spun it to the chamber, and cocked back the hammer, just as he heard the monstrous beast off in the distance, once again.

He felt the hot gusts of air that came with her, the wind blew past the fire stoking the flames to new heights. He was mesmerized by the beautiful flicker of the flame and the awesome heat it gave off, providing the needed warmth to his entire body. He sat up fully erect against the rock, the sound of the beast, as she was a mere fifty paces off, sounded like a locomotive arriving at a train station. Her hooves pounded the soft sandy creek bed, and he could feel the vibrations underneath his body.

The rider gave the command and pulled back on the reins. She snarled, rustling and jostling amongst the brush, as she acquiesced. Her hellacious snorts gave off steam from her nostrils. The rider unmounted and began walking towards the fire, his spurs jangled as he came forward.

Laying against the rock, all he could see was the heat waves coming off the fire, he cried out, "Who goes there?"

"Samuel Tarr, you're wanted for murder in three states. I'm here to see your victims get the justice they deserve," the Rider called out.

"I am Samuel Tarr, so, if you know who I am, you best tread lightly now Mister, while I still got one left in the chamber," Samuel shouted. He grinned as this was the death he always dreamt of. To die in a gunfight, with one's boots on was the only acceptable entrance to the American Valhalla.

"Do ye now, best not miss. Take aim and hold steady," the Rider said continuing forward, taunting him.

Samuel raised his steel Colt .45; his hand began to quiver and shake. The sheer weight of the piece was insurmountable for the frail shadow of a man, his arm fell limp to his side. Samuel failed to see beyond the heat waves drifting over the flames, in an attempt to face his accuser, before he hung his head in defeat.

"I ain't got no fight left in me."

"Samuel Tarr, wanted on multiple counts of murder in Texas, Arizona, and two counts of larceny, theft, and murder in New Mexico. How do you plea?"

"Hogwarsh, good for nothing malarkey."

"Samuel, it was my understanding that you were more of a man of honor, than that of a petulant child. I asked you how you plea. I ain't fixin' to hear the nonsense that dribble out of your mouth. Guilty or not guilty need to be the next words that I hear from you."

"I ought to kill you, you son of a bitch!" Samuel shouted as he coughed up a mouthful of blood that sat perched at the corner of his lips.

"Trying my patience, you must," he sighed heavily, unholstering his pistol before calling to him once more. "I admire your sand, I truly do, but seeing how times a wasting, best be on with it. I'm here to see that you stand trial. Nothing more, nothing less. So once again I ask you, how does one plea?"

"Guilty, I reckon I've done all the things they say I've done," Samuel stated with a moral sense of ambiguity.

"Warms the cockles of my heart, to hear such honesty from a man so morally askew," he said holstering his pistol.

"I may be guilty, but you ain't ever going to see me hang," Samuel sneered a haunting cackle while choking up more blood that built up in the back of his throat and trickled down his cheek.

"And why's that?"

"It's at least a night's ride to the next town over. And I ain't got that much time left in me, Mister."

"Well, now that is a quandary."

The Rider walked around the large fire that sat between the two men, he was cloaked in all black, a stark contrast to his pale white horse. Long shadows cast over him as he continued to walk forward with the moonlight behind him. The flickering light from the campfire lit up Samuel's face, yet didn't seem to light up the riders, giving off the haunting presence of a large silhouette that loomed over Samuel.

"Do you smell that?" the Rider asked.

Samuel took in a large breath through his nose, odor of the burnt sagebrush wafted up, covering the foul putrid stench of gangrene that enflamed his arm. "What's that you say? I don't smell anything more than this here fire."

"No, this is the kind of smell you can't just wash off, it clings to ya,'" he said sniffing like a Bassett hound. "It's you, you got the stench of death on you."

"Maybe, but you ain't never gonna' see me hang, best shoot me dead, right where I sit."

"I never said I was here to see you hang. I'm here to see you stand trial and claim what's mine. I'm here for your soul, I seek retribution for your sins," the Rider exclaimed, pulling out his pistol while crouching down to look Samuel eye to eye.

"Shoot me now!"

"Waste my precious ammo on a corpse, never," the Rider said sheepishly.

"Well then, what do you want from me?" Samuel asked, feeling too weak to combat wits with the Rider any further. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the rock.

"Hell son, haven't I been brutally honest with you to this point?" he asked.

Samuel slumped downwards from his prone position. He slid down the rock and onto his back, his eyes closed as even the feat of opening them felt daunting at this point. He struggled to speak, "Say, Mister, you got a drink on you? A whiskey perhaps?"

"Samuel, stay with me now, don't drift off to sleep, that's rude. I'm talking to you, son. Samuel!" he shouted several inches away from Samuel's face.

Samuel opened his eyes, wrought in fear he shouted, "Damn my eyes!"

The Rider slowly removed his hat, his scalp was pale, too pale even for the moonlight overhead. It was that of bone, with the horns of a steer protruding out of each side. Samuel was frozen in horror, perplexed as to what he was seeing. The rider's nose looked as if it was sawn off, yet even worse were his eye sockets, which looked sunken, blackened, and sullied. The flames from the fire grew menacingly, climbing over the rock basin and towards the two of them. Samuel remained immobilized, and fear-stricken and began to repent all the sins he committed against his fellow man. Tears rolled down his cheeks and singed as they trickled off his face and fell into the fire beside them.

A shuffling of one's boot near his head caught his attention. The man who stood directly above him was none other than the stagecoach driver, he left to die earlier that morning. Samuel thought to himself, That bastard has got to be one tough son of a bitch. How the hell did he ever get out of there alive?

As he wrestled to gain his composure, he noticed they weren't the only two men present with him, he looked about to see that there were eight other men standing in near proximity. As he leered out across the blaze he saw the faces of the other men, men whose lives he had taken, some years prior. As the fire continued to rage, it crept up his right arm like a molten lava, eviscerating everything in its path. He had hoped this all may just be some bad dream of sorts, a nightmare, he was surely to awaken from.

The effluvium of rapturous flame poured onto his chest continuing to make its way towards his face. His skin crackled and sizzled like chard stew meat skidding across an iron skillet. At about the point it reached his eyes, just before they began to liquefy in their ocular cavities, is when he saw his body, still sitting upright against the rock. With death now in tow, the Rider shushed him in jest, sneering a hellacious smile across his coarse visage as Samuel's screams fell in silence.

All Around Us
by RD Pietsch

The snow was silent as it fell. Large puffy flakes floating down in the still air to alight on meadow flower and grass. Most melted as they landed but far more replaced them and soon the colors of the meadow could only wink from beneath the building snow. Within the span of ten minutes, the sky was filled with flakes. The ground took on a cleansing white mantle. Nearby trees were merely dusted right now but the increase of the weather would soon bend boughs and break limbs. Tree dwellers sought their nests. Ground creatures sought out burrows and dens to wait out the storm. All across the wide meadow right down to the meandering creek, a quiet purity fell from the sky, blanketing everyplace. Everyplace except around a single, canvas topped wagon, stopped some fifty yards from the creek.

A cook fire for the evening meal burned in a ring of stones near the wagon. A frying pan of pork was still sizzling on the fire and and burnt coffee pot sat near it. Three men were sitting around the fire eating, using their hands to pull pieces of meat from the pan. A basket of biscuits lay turned over on the ground. One picked up a biscuit out of the dirt, blew on it and took a bite. They drank coffee from tin cups carelessly. Spilling it as they talked and joked. All three were dressed in range clothes. Dusty pants with dustier coats and hats. One had a pair of well wore chaps over his pants and was bundled in a red and white striped coat. Another wore a long grey duster which hung to his feet when he stood. The third one had a colorful serape covering him. His wide Mexican sombrero kept the snow off his face. The other two had to swat their hat from time to time as the flakes built up. All three had pistols at their sides in holsters tied down with rawhide laces.

"Hey Merle," the man in the duster said. "Pass me that bottle you found. Ain't drunk it all have you?"

"Hell no Marty," the serape man said and passed a half filled bottle of whiskey over. "Could use some more  . . .  looks like it's gonna be a cold one." Then he laughed. "But we always got the woman to keep us warm and cozy like."

The other two men joined in his laughter and agreed that the night could be enjoyable even if it was snowing, even if they drank all the whisky, they still had the woman.

Marty took a long pull from the bottle and looked around. The wagon was an old Illinois farm wagon that had been converted to a canvas prairie schooner. A heavy wooden box some ten feet long and around five and a half foot wide. Bit wider than most Marty thought probably started as a hay wagon. The sides had been built up stoutly with thick oak. A dozen wooden bows arched over and carried the canvas, drooping inward with the weight of the snowfall. Inside the wagon, boxes, baskets and bundles were opened and scattered. Four mules, released of their picket ropes had wandered a good distance away seemingly intended to keep going. Three tired saddle mounts stood with reins tied to a wheel. His companions warmed themselves beside the fire, passing the bottle. The figure of a man lay motionless fifteen feet away, slowly being covered with a shroud of white. "Hey," he suddenly called out. "Them two kids tied up?"

"They ain't going nowhere. They's sitting nice and snug up by the front wheel tied back to back." the man in chaps said standing. "Hell, I even threw a blanket over 'em so's they wouldn't catch their death of cold." He laughed. The other two laughed along.

"Well ain't you the compassionate one Bodie," Marty said. "That was real kind of you." He stood closer to the fire and looked at Merle and Bodie. Hard faces with hard eyes. He had rode with them for several months having met up in a Kansas saloon. A saloon where they got too drunk, too loud, too annoying. Some local men took offense at their poor manners. It was far more than poor manners that left three men dead, four others wounded and a Kansas saloon filled with broken tables, chairs, bottles, windows and one very large shattered mirror. Marty, Merle and Bodie had been saddle pals since then. Brothers of the open range. Night riders. Regular, honest work just didn't appeal to any of them and people were just an obstacle, a nuisance to life.

"Getting chilled," Bodie said looking over at a lean-to nestled up to a couple of willows. It was made of a two tree limbs and a blanket. Underneath was a small table and some over turned stools. Kitchen stuff lay tossed about. Another person lay unmoving under the lean-to out of the snow.

"She moved yet?" Merle asked.

"Don't look like it." Bodie replied. "Hell Marty, you dun hit her too hard. Probably killed her  . . .  she looks half dead."

Marty smiled a wicked grin. "Half dead is better than all dead." The whiskey beckoning them on.

Lois Wigans lay motionless even though she was shivering with fear inside. She kept her eyes closed tight even as her tears came. Her hands were clasp together and bound in front of her with own apron. Her dress was ripped, torn down the back. Shoes and stockings cast aside. Purple bruises had grown on her face, her arms, her legs. The pain in her thighs and abdomen were worse than any she had felt with the births of Harry or Dannie. She was bleeding from a cut above a swollen eye. She knew she was bleeding down lower too. She cursed the men then prayed they would just move on. She prayed to God for deliverance. She refused to move. To give those men any more reason to abuse her further. She also heard every word the men were saying.

She jumped at the mention of her two kids and hoped it wasn't noticed. They were still alive! Thank you God they had been spared. Her life would be totally empty without them. Then she thought of Rollie, her husband who in his ever neighborly way welcomed the three strangers into their camp. Always looking for the good in people, Rollie Wigans was just too open, too friendly. After five weeks of traveling west from Independence, Missouri the Wigans found themselves on the south side of the Arkansas River, some 300 miles from Santa Fe and a bit over 100 miles from Bents Fort in the far west of the Kansas Territory. They had started out in August which was late in the season but they had been told that the Santa Fe route would be better as they weren't trying to cross the Rockies in winter. It would be easy traveling. It was until today.

Lois had been baking biscuits, frying ham and preparing the evening dinner. Her two children, Harry and Dannie were gathering wood for the fire. A small family table was set under the lean-to. Rollie was tethering the mules to a picket line. The three men hailed the camp in a friendly way and Rollie invited them in. They rode in slowly on tired mounts.

"Hello neighbor," a man who wore a long duster said. "Ain't seen another soul for two days now. You folks are a welcome sight."

The Wigans had met up with other people along the way. Most were like them, plodding westward with a dream. For some, the wreck and ruin of the war drove them west. There were very few settlements west of the Mississippi in 1866 and those were spread a good distance from each other. In between was a vast land with few white folk, a lot of Indians and unknown dangers and difficulties. Several bands of Pawnee had watched the wagon inch along. They watched all the wagons that crossed their land but kept their distance. The greatest difficulty and danger they had incurred so far had been the weather, cantankerous mules and a very wet and exciting fording of the Arkansas. Rollie should have been a bit more reserved and cautious with the strangers.

"Santa Fe?" One of the riders asked.

"That's where we're headed for. Looking to set up a mercantile there."

"Mercantile huh? Well you'll probably do okay. Santa Fe is a growing town. Ain't that right Merle?"

The man with the sombrero said, "Sí . . . it grow very fast."

"I'd guess you have some wares you're hauling to help set you up . . . get you going? A little stock? Some resources?" the one in the duster asked.

That question caught Rollie off guard. Most folk they met up with talked about where they were from and where they were going, not what was in their wagons. Harry, 12 and precious little Dannie, 8 stopped with armloads of wood and just looked at the three mounted men. Lois stood wiping flour from her hands on a towel. Rollie stopped with the mules and looked at the man in the duster. "Well," he started in a guarded tone, "We have some . . . "

He didn't get the chance to finish. The man in the duster pulled his pistol and changed the Wigans family forever. The bullet caught Rollie high in his chest and with a look of utter disbelief fell to his knees and then down as the light of life fled from his eyes. The mules bolted at the gunshot. Lois screamed and started towards Rollie. The man in chaps leapt off his horse and threw strong arms around Lois, holding her as she fought against him. Harry and Dannie were stunned and stood staring until the sombrero man snapped a riding quirt across Harry's face and told them through yellow, chipped teeth to sit down and keep quiet.

"Damn Marty, that didn't take long at all. And look, they's fixed dinner for us," Merle said.

Marty holstered his pistol and stepped off his horse. "Tie them kids up," he ordered. Then let's see what we got here."

Lois was screaming at the top of her lungs as tears for Rollie and Harry and Dannie flowed. She fought. She kicked. She tried to turn and claw her captor but his grip was too strong.

"Let her go," he ordered Bodie. "Go deal with them kids like I told you."

Bodie released his grip on Lois and she immediately spun around and beat his face with her fists. Marty stepped in. "No, no, no now. None of that from you. That's my job." With a wicked grin he hit Lois hard on her face with his hand and then backhanded her. She stumbled back and fell as Marty advanced. "It has been a long time . . . " he said. The other two gathered around the fallen woman and agreed with the man in the duster. After tying up Harry and Dannie, the men bound Lois' hands and tore at her clothes abusing her one at a time as she screamed in pain . . . in rage. While each waited his turn, they tore apart the wagon looking for money and valuables. Then it began to snow.

Lois lay there with her hands bound trying not to move. The last horrible hour replaying in her mind. She wanted to pray for death but the faces of her children drove that prayer away. She prayed for deliverance, a miracle. She prayed another group . . . someone would come along and put an end to this nightmare. She got no answers.

Bodie walked over to her and nudged her with his boot. "Hey! Woman. You get yourself back to life or this is gonna be a long cold night. I know you're awake."

Lois rolled her head over and looked Bodie in his eyes. "Go to hell!" She screamed. Bodie didn't like that response and took another step towards her. He never reached her. As he was bending down towards Lois, he was suddenly flung backwards grunting with pain. The rifle shot brought Marty and Merle to their feet, swinging around hands filling with pistols. "What the . . . " Merle started as the rife cracked again. Merle clutched his side spinning around, blood dripping through his fingers. Marty was crouching his pistol extended trying to see where the rife shot came from. The snow increased and visibility closed in.

"I can't see a thing!" Marty hollered. "You okay Merle?"

"Hell no I'm not alright! I been shot!"

I small tinge of fear rose in Marty. Most of the time he was fearless. Wading into anything he could see. This was different. The camp, the wagon, the men were shadowed in a curtain of falling snow. Merle grimaced holding his side but still had his pistol out searching for a target. Marty attempted to see something but the snow was a wall he could not see past. A noise over at the rear of the wagon drew both men's attention and they unleashed several shots in that direction. When the echo of their gunshots died away, they heard nothing for several moments. Lois screamed and both men spun towards her. She was still bound and laying under the lean-to. Turning back, Marty saw a shape, a dark figure standing just past the front of the wagon. "There!" Marty yelled and emptied his pistol at the shape. Aiming at something you can't see is always an iffy situation and Marty's shots went wild.

Merle turned with his own pistol. "Where?" He asked. He never found out. The dark shape fired two quick rounds from a rifle and Merle fell dying with three holes in his body. Marty popped open his pistol's loading gate, ejecting spent cartridges. He was reaching for more in his shell belt when the rifle fired again two more times. Marty never finished loading his gun. A shocked look crossed his face as the two bullets slammed into his chest and then he slipped to the ground. The shadow, the shape came forward and stood over him. Questions Marty would have liked to ask were never voiced.

Echos around the little meadow died away. Lois was still whimpering and crying. The snow storm which had come upon them so quickly, now lessened just as quickly. The silence and peace that followed could have been a scene from a winter wonderland if not for the bodies lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath them and the tears and sobbing of Lois Wigans.

"Momma!" She heard and from around the wagon Dannie and Harry rushed to their mother's side. Harry was bleeding from a slash across his cheek from the quirt. He fumbled with the knotted apron and freed his mother's hands. All three of them hugging and holding onto each other. Tears of relief flowed from all their eyes. "Papa?" Harry asked. Lois burst into more tears and wrapped her arms around her children tighter. "No," was all she could utter.

As battered and bruised as Lois was, she could not sit well let alone stand. Her children supported her as the shadow, the shape that had saved their lives resolved into a man. Though the lessening snowfall made clarity difficult, she saw the man limping towards them in a long coat carrying a rifle. Snow dusted his shoulders and wide brimmed hat. She thought she saw a smile and caring eyes beyond his dark beard but the other men had been smiling also. He stopped in front of her, pinched the brim of his hat and said, "Ma'am." He extended his hand to help her up. "You folks okay now?" he asked. His voice was pleasant and soft. No anger. No danger.

Lois nodded her thanks, took his offered hand and tried to stand. Pain stopped her and she fell back, bright red blood soaking her dress.

The man, with some air of experience, stood and made decisions. He looked at Harry and asked, "Think you can round up them mules right quick?" The four mules were a good distance away and not looking like they wanted to return. Harry shook his head. "No sir . . . I don't think I can."

"Son, your Mama is hurt pretty bad. You all need to get going. There's a small town about twelve miles further along." He looked up at Harry and told him. "Strip saddles off two of them horses and hitch them up. They'll do just as well as mules."

Harry looked at his mother and she nodded. He got up and led two horses to the front of the wagon. Dannie looked up at the stranger. He smiled and said, "You stay right here darling. Hold on to your Mama."

"But Papa," Dannie cried.

"Your Papa is being looked after. You gotta look after your Ma right now. You can do that, can't you?" The man's smile caused Dannie to smile and shake her head yes.

While Harry was hitching the horses up and Dannie clung to Lois, the stranger stood and took note of the last few minutes. Bodie lay on his back. The blood leaking from his chest making new patterns on his red and white striped coat. Merle lay curled up like a baby. A pistol in his lifeless hand. Marty lay with his dead eyes wide open in disbelief. An empty pistol in one hand and a few cartridges in the other. The stranger shook his head and picked a blanket off the ground. He carried it over to where Rollie Wigans lay and carefully covered the man's remains. He stood there for a moment looking down at the fallen man. Lois thought he looked like he was praying.

The quick snow had stopped and left about three inches in accumulation. Harry had the team harnessed and came back around to help the stranger and Dannie get his mother into the wagon bed. When she was inside and somewhat comfortable, Harry started to gather their scattered gear. "No time for that son. Your ma's bleeding and you gotta get her to some help. I told you. Twelve miles further you'll come to a town called Haven. There ain't no doctor there but there are folk there that will help you. Go on. Get along. It's getting dark."

Harry nodded and climbed up on the box and took the reins. Dannie sat in the back crying and holding Lois for dear life."

"My husband  . . . ?" Lois asked.

The stranger plucked a shovel from the wagon side and said, "I'll tend to him ma'am."

"Who are you?"

"Lock," was all he answered as Harry snapped reins on the horses rumps and the wagon jolted and then moved off slowly. It was just under four hours later that Harry saw lights. "There's the town Mama," he cried and lashed the horses some more.

Haven was a cobbled together settlement on the banks of the Cimarron River made up of a few dozen wood sided shops and houses. It was a water stop for travelers but it had hope for growth. Harry guided the wagon along the dark streets. Most of the buildings were dark, a few showing weakly lit windows. At the end of the street was a large building. A church with a tall steeple and windows lit bright with light. Harry urged the horses on stopping in front of the church. He ran up the steps and pounded on the door. "Help!" he called. "We need help! Anybody?!" A few moments later the door squeaked open. A white haired man with big sideburns stood looking into the night and then at Harry. "What's all this now?" he asked.

"My Ma's hurt real bad," Harry explained running back to the wagon. The white haired man followed and when he saw Lois in the back with Dannie crying, he called out. "Martha! Martha! Get some blankets and help me get this poor woman inside."

The following morning under a bright, blue sky the tiny hamlet of Haven on the banks of the Cimarron came alive. Of the sixty some odd people in Haven, only a couple had not heard about the incident of wagon parked in front of the Haven Presbyterian Church. Some shook their heads at the lawlessness of the country. Others talked about the crime and why the government wasn't protecting citizens and travelers. Still others could have cared less and went on about their business.

Inside the church in small clutch of rooms at the back where Martha and the Reverend Micah Stiffson made their home, Lois Wigans lay in a bed covered in blankets with Harry and Dannie just a arms length away. Her tears had dried but threatened to flow again when she thought of Rollie. Martha and another woman tended to Lois's injuries and bleeding. Reverend Stiffson understood cuts, bruises, broken bones and even bullet holes but women's issues were beyond him. He was thankful Martha knew what to do.

"Those men used her badly," she said and the added, "but I think she'll be just fine with a bit of rest."

The Reverend breathed a sigh of relief and turned towards Tom Nutly who stood hat in hand by the open bedroom door. Tom owned the livery stable at the other end of town. He was also the unofficial mayor of Haven and the one folk came to with problems. Outlaws and brigands were an unfortunate norm for the frontier. Let alone Indian problems, Tom didn't understand the violence perpetrated by man against their own. It was also why nearly every man in Haven . . . every man in the west, wore a pistol or carried a rifle.

"She say anymore about what happened?" Tom asked the Reverend.

"No more than what you heard her say Tom. She's still a bit confused but I think her memory will clear up given some time."

Tom shook his head in understanding. Shortly after hearing from the Reverend about the family, he had saddled a horse and rode east to find the small meadow. He found the site without a problem. The lean-to had been taken down and piled carefully with the Wigans' other goods. A rock covered grave with a cross made of two sturdy sticks lay close by a stand of willows. The bodies of the three outlaws had been rolled into a small ditch where they sprawled in death. Tom didn't feel any remorse. Coyotes gotta eat too.

When he got back to Haven just before noon, he called again on Lois Wigans and her children. She was sitting up in bed sipping some broth that Martha Stiffson had brought her.

"You feeling a bit better now ma'am?" He asked.

She nodded and said yes.

"You were very fortunate that someone came along and helped you. Could have been a lot worse . . . " Then he remembered the grave and hung his head. "My apologies ma'am. Too bad he couldn't have gotten there a might quicker."

Lois teared up again.

Proper decorum should have made Tom leave at that moment but there was still a mystery that nagged at him, so he asked as politely as he could if she knew anything about the man who came to their aid.

"No," she said. "It was difficult to see anything through the snow. Just glimpses. But,"she added in remembrance, "he said his name was Lock."

Tom, Micah and Martha looked at each other. "Did you say 'Lock,' ma'am?" Tom asked.

"I'm pretty sure that's what he said his name was. Why?"

"What did this fella look like?" Tom asked.

"It was difficult to see much and I wasn't very alert. He was very considerate to all of us. I suppose he was average with a dark beard." She thought for a moment. "He limped a bit and carried a rifle . . . a repeating rifle I believe."

"It was a Henry." Harry stated.

"A Henry you say," Tom said surprised that the boy was so positive about the weapon. "Not many out this way. Only been a half dozen years since it came out. US Army had quite a few during the war . . . " He recalled the last four years as being the most violent time this country ever lived through. Brother against brother . . . neighbors driven to kill their neighbors. Thousands dead and many more maimed for life over the immoral right to own another human being. Such a waste. "You're sure that's what you saw, son?"

"Yes sir. My Pa and me seen one in Missouri before we left."

"Is that important?" Lois asked.

Tom cleared his throat. "Ma'am, I'm sure glad you and your children are safe now and I'm real sorry about your husband, but the man you are describing just can't be." Seeing the confusion in Lois' eye, he sat on a stool and told her a story.

"There used to be a fella in Haven by that name, Lock . . . Robert Lock. He, his wife and two boys lived here in town. He was the doctor . . . the only one around for a hundred miles. Quiet, happy family. Church going and generous. Always friendly, always caring . . . he never walked away from a patient without trying to help them. Even the stupid ones that got themselves shot.

"Haven is a small town. We don't have a lot of money and people work hard for the money they do have. We live quiet and try to make Haven a place for families. There's a bit of trouble time to time . . . nothing real serious. All towns have 'em. Well, some four years ago, some rowdies rode into town. They drank Ben Mortenson's saloon dry and then decided to bust it up. We don't have a sheriff here and it was Lock who stepped up to appeal to those men that Haven wasn't their town and they should be moving along. The men weren't of a mood to do that and decided that taking on the town and busting a few heads would improve their mood. They waded into Lock and a few others with arms flailing away. Them boys had been drinking so much they couldn't get organized and it weren't long before all six of them lay moaning in the dirt. Townsmen loaded them on their horses and shooed them out of town. Figured that would be the last we saw of them."

"But it wasn't?" Lois asked.

"No ma'am it was not. Not a night latter that same bunch rode back into town, right up to the doctor's house whooping and a hollering. Lock came out onto his porch with all the racket and one of them no-goods put a bullet in his leg. Angie, his wife rushed out to him along with his two boys. Without an ounce of remorse but with a ton of hate, they shot Angie and the two boys to death and rode out of town."

"Robert Lock was a good man," Reverend Stiffson said. "A good caring Christian who knew God was sovereign and God would avenge. But, I fear, he felt that God was taking a bit too long with His retribution, so when he was able to ride, he rode out of town with a Henry rifle lying across his saddle. He was a healer. A doctor who saved men's lives. A man who prayed for the souls of men and women. But he'd changed seeing how his entire family had been ripped away from him. I guess he figured he'd help out and hurry a few souls along to The Almighty."

"Yeah, some three weeks later we heard news that a that a fella with a Henry had walked into a saloon over in Fort Kearney and shot six men dead. Federal marshal helped him. Those six men all had wanted papers on them so it wasn't a great loss to society. Turns out, it was the same bunch that killed Lock's wife and boys here in Haven."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I would so love to meet the man who saved my family. To thank him."

"That would be a real fine thing if you could Mrs. Wigans, but you can't," Tom Nutly said. "Robert Lock was killed himself in that shoot out. The marshals thought kindly and sent him back here to be buried with his family." He paused. "That was four years ago ma'am."

Silence filled the room as Lois tried to comprehend what she was hearing. "Then who . . . ?" she asked.

Tom Nutly stood and gave Lois, Harry and Dannie his best genuine smile. "I truly can't answer that question. We might never know Mrs. Wigans. But we do know you and your young'ins are safe now. I am truly sorry for what has happened to you folks but am overjoyed that The Lord had his hand on you three." He turned and left leaving the Reverend, Martha and the Wigans in deep thought.

The Reverend Micah Stiffson wasn't one to always take advantage of a situation and turn it into a sermon, but he did recognize minor miracles when they happened. The attack on the family, the wanton killing of Rollie Wigans and the brutal treatment of Lois was from the devil, no doubt about it, but their salvation was through the hands of gracious God who worked in the most mysterious ways at times. Times like this.

"Angels," Martha Stiffson said smiling, picking up a tray. "His Angels were watching over you . . . they are all around us, you know." She left with the Reverend close behind.

"Angels," he whispered in the peaceful knowledge of grace, of truth, "Avenging angels."