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.