December, 2011

Issue #27

Cottonwood Death
by Mark Hinton

The boy was standing with his head down looking in the creek. He wasn’t looking up at the tree line when the riders came dropping out of the hills. By the time he noticed them, they were working across the meadow towards him. They came in a line. The rider in front wore a tan duster and black Stetson and rode a big blue roan. The second rider was wearing a gray hat and duster and was riding a small appaloosa. The rider in the back wasn’t wearing a hat. His hair was long and brown and blew out behind him. He wore a brown duster and rode a pinto that that was almost as big as the roan. Other riders were making their way down where the first three had descended.

When the first man got to the boy he stopped the roan and sat looking down at the boy. The roan tried to step closer to the creek for a drink but the man stopped it. It was a big horse. But the man was bigger.

The boy lifted his hand up to shade his eyes as he looked up at the rider who was hard to see because his back was toward the sun. The boy said nothing. The man whose eyes were hidden in the shade of his hat turned and watched the two nearest riders catch up. When he turned, the boy could see a scar running down his unshaved cheek. When the others got to where the boy was standing they stopped their horses, too. One horse and one rider on both sides of the big blue roan.

“That’s a nice horse, mister,” the boy said.

The man on the roan reached into his duster and pulled out a thin cigar. He put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it. He just sat there looking at the boy.

“It’s good fishin’ here. Usually when I come I bring my pole. You get some nice brookies in here.” He gave up looking at the man on the roan and turned his attention to the man without a hat. He wasn’t looking at the boy though. He was looking thorough his duster for something. 

The boy looked over at the man on the appaloosa. The man was holding a walnut handled .44. It was pointed at the boy. The boy opened his mouth to say something. Whatever he was about to say was lost in the roar of the pistol going off. The boy’s arms flew wide open and he tumbled over backwards into the creek. 

The man without a hat brought a match out of a pocket deep in his duster and handed it to the man on the roan. The man on the roan took the match, scratched it on his belt buckle and lit his cigar with it. When the cigar was lit he flipped the match towards the creek. It landed in the water next to the boy. The man on the appaloosa opened his pistol, pocketed the spent casing, and put a new shell from his belt into it. He put the .44 back into his holster. 

The big man on the blue roan spurred his mount forward into the creek. If the horse was bothered about stepping over the lifeless body of the boy, it gave no indication. When the horse had gotten upstream of the boy the man stopped and let the horse drink. He sat looking behind him at the line of men coming down the ridge and  through the trees. There were six of them. They brought their horses up to the creek and let them drink.

When the horses had drunk their fill, the riders turned downstream and up the gentle bank on the opposite side. There was a small road, wheel ruts really, that ran on that side of the creek underneath the cottonwoods. The ruts came through trees and around a bend and ended where the men sat on their horses. The man on the roan looked back over his shoulder at the ridge they had just come down. The sky was dark in that direction. 

“Storm might be comin’. Let’s get to town before it begins.” He said. He spurred his roan and the riders started down the road.

Tom Stewart was walking between his small barn and the corral where he kept his team of mules when he saw the line of riders come out of the canyon and hit the main road to town. They were riding fast. He was surprised to see riders coming out of the canyon because he had been working along the creek and the creek road most of the day and had not seen anyone but the Kavanaugh boy go up that direction that day. 

When they hit the main road they turned south, away from Tom Stewart’s place towards town. From where Stewart was standing to the crossroads was a good quarter mile, but he knew he did not recognize any of the men or their mounts.

The road to Cottonwood turned south and dropped deeper into the valley. At the speed they were going the horses and riders were soon gone. Stewart stood looking at the faint trail of dust hanging above the road. After awhile he turned his head towards the creek and the canyon. Above the ridge line the Pintlers rose high and jagged against the darkening sky.

He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and pulled out a watch. He opened it, looked at it, then turned back toward the road. He closed the watch, put it back in his pocket and started towards the corral. He took just a few steps than stopped. He rubbed the back of his neck, looked back over his shoulder at the barn, and then looked back toward the road. The dust still hung in the air. It had been a long, dry summer. 

Stewart had been waiting for the Kavanaugh boy all afternoon. He was going to give him a ride to town. He had business with boy’s father and had a couple of errands in town. 

He headed toward the barn. If he was going to town he wanted the beat the storm that looked like it was coming in over the peaks.

Pat O’Reilly had just finished loading his wagon at Kavanaugh’s General Mercantile when he heard the sound of horses. A group of men were coming across the bridge in a hurry… yelling. The noise grew louder as they got closer. Jack Kavanaugh and his wife Katie stepped out of the store and came and stood next to O’Reilly.

As the riders got closer O’Reilly and the Kavanaughs could hear what the riders were yelling. “Help! Help!” At the sound of the commotion the few other buildings that made up the little town of Cottonwood began to empty. Children running barefoot, men without hats, women walking as quickly as their skirts would allow started gathering around the three mounted men. 

One rider without a hat began to shout, “The priest! Where’s the priest?” As he was calling, the door to last building on the street opened up. A man in a black cassock came running up the street. His head was bare. He was thirtyish with short red hair and sun-burned skin.

“I’m Father Sullivan. What ‘s the problem?” he asked as he came to a stop in front of the big pinto. 

“You’re the problem, Irish.” The man on the pinto said pulling out a gun and pointing it at the priest. The two other men pulled their guns, too. Other riders were now coming hard down the road and across the bridge.

One of the women in the crowd screamed. The man without a hat turned his mount toward her and fired in one movement. The bullet hit her just above her nose and hit a man standing behind her in the shoulder exiting out the back of her head. They both went down.

Before they hit the ground, the other men on the horses started firing, too.

          When Stewart came out of the cottonwoods into the meadow, he was riding a big  dun and trailing a smaller pinto. He saw the boy right away, he was laying on the edge of the stream, his feet were in the sand but his shoulders and head in the water. Stewart dropped off the dun and ran to the boy, even though he knew it was too late. He pulled the boy out of the water and the sand up onto the clean grass. Above the boy’s left eye was an angry hole. Most of the back of his head was gone. Stewart stood for a while looking down at the boy. He went back to the pinto and brought it over to where the boy was lying. He took off the boy’s oversized coat and covered his head and shoulders. Then picked the boy up in his arms and carried him toward the pinto. The pinto shied back so Stewart had to try a couple of times to get the boy’s body draped over the saddle. When the boy was over the saddle Stewart tied him on and began leading the pinto back through the stream towards the dun.

The road into Cottonwood came out of the sage brush hills in a long, straight line until it reached the little bridge that crossed the cottonwooded creek that gave the town it’s name. From the top of the hill, Stewart looked down on what was left of the town. A few of the bigger structures, the general store, the O’Brien house, and the church still burned. Smoke and the smell of smoke hung over the little valley. Even up-wind where Stewart was, the smell was strong. He rode with his Colt in is right hand.

By the time he got to the bridge he could see the bodies laying in the middle of the street, in front of buildings, across the boardwalk. Men, women, children, horses, and even dogs lay where they fell. Moving down the street the smell of smoke was strong. But not strong enough to cover the smell of death. The pinto began pulling at its lead. Stewart got down, took the boy off the horse and laid the body gently down in the street next to the body of his mother. He untied the lead that held the small pinto. Once free it turned and ran back up the street and over the bridge. The dun stayed where its reins were dropped, trembling but not moving.

Stewart moved among the bodies. Looking for signs of life. He moved slowly. Looking at the bodies of children who had had parts of the faces blasted away. Mothers killed holding their dead and dying infants. Men shot in the back.

A dog was laying next to a little boy. The boy was missing part of his arm and nearly all of the right side of his face. The dog had been gut shot and had died slowly next to the boy.

Stewart moved down the street toward the church. As he got closer the bodies were fewer. When he got to the church he stopped. On the lawn in front of the smoldering ruins of the little church was a rough-made cross of fence posts and barbed wire. The lifeless body of the priest was tied to the cross with wire, a bullet hole in his head. His pants were off and someone had cut off his manhood. It was nailed onto the cross above his head with a rough painted sign that said, “Death to Papists”

It took him hours to carry all the bodies up to the graveyard that was on the hill above town. He found an overturned oxcart that he turned right-side up and hooked to the horses. He stacked the broken bodies like cordwood but it still took three trips. At first he tried digging graves, but the ground was hard and the bodies too numerous. Finally he took the cart down and filled it with wood that had not burned. He found kerosene in a root cellar behind one of the smoldering houses. He stacked three loads of wood over the bodies and doused everything with all the kerosene he could find. It was full dark by the time he lit the pyre.

He rode back to his place. The wind had shifted direction and he rode downwind of town and the pyre that flamed like a beacon in the night. He didn’t look back but the smell rode with him. When he got to his place, he took off all his clothes out in the yard and took a bath in the stock tank next to the barn. When he was clean he went up to the   little house and got dressed. 

It took him the rest of the night to pack the horses and supplies. The sun was just coming up over the hills when he swung up onto the dun. The pinto and the mules he had turned out into the pasture. He did not know how long he would be gone, but the meadow was big and there was was plenty of water. He had packed his gear onto a blue roan and brought an appaloosa as a spare. 

He rode back through town and picked up the trail. As best as he could figure there were nine to twelve riders and about two dozen horses, they hadn’t killed many horses. They had taken the best with them.

They were moving fast. He tried not to think of the head start they had on him. He knew that for awhile they would be moving as quickly as they could. But as the miles passed, they would begin to relax the pace. The trail was easy to follow because they were following the road that headed towards the Yellowstone. About mid-morning he came across where they had camped the night. The coals were long cool. 

Late in the afternoon he came to where they had stopped for coffee and something to eat. The coals where still a little warm. They had slowed their pace. 

A mile from where he found the coals the trail split. Most of the horses kept west along the Yellowstone road. But seven riders turned north and towards the mountains. He left the road and followed the tracks up into hills. 

They were not even trying to hide the fire. He had seen glimpses of it dancing and glittering in the night for last hour that he had been working his way through the trees up to the edge of the big box canyon where they had made camp. He had left his horses hidden in some thick firs next to the creek that the riders had been following all day. He had brought with him two pistols, a couple canteens, and his buffalo gun. His pockets were filled with shells.

He had been moving as silently as he could and it had taken him a long time to get where he could see the camp and the canyon. For the last half hour he had heard their voices growing louder as he got closer and closer.  Now that he was close enough to see into the camp, he could see that they were drinking and making so much noise that he could probably have ridden to where he was with cowbells on and they still would not have noticed.

He counted six men sitting around the fire passing around a bottle, and he counted seven horses staked up about seventy-five feet away along the little creek. He could not find the seventh rider. He wondered if he was guarding the horses.

Stewart started working his way around toward the horses, scanning the trees for  the guard. He moved as slowly as possible from tree to tree and shadow to shadow. Just before he got to the horses he looked again towards the men and the fire. He was above the camp a little and looking at it from a different angle. It took him awhile to understand what he was looking at, but when he did, he knew that there was no guard at the horses.

Lying just at the edge of the firelight was the still and nude form of a girl. She was laying on her side and in the firelight and the light of the moon she looked very white and very dead, her blank eyes staring out from beneath a big hole in her forehead. 

He unpicketed the horses. One of them nickered quietly but when he looked towards the fire he knew that no one had heard anything over the laughter and the loud voices.

It was like shooting fish in a barrel. They were night-blind from fire and three sheets to the wind. His first shot with the big buffalo gun took the head a man who was in the middle of some song that only he knew the words of.

Stewart dropped the big rifle and ran toward camp firing as he moved. Two of the men managed to get shots off but they were shooting blindly and drunkly into the dark. 

When he got to the fire he moved among the wounded, shooting each one in the head, until only one was left alive. He was a big man with a dirty duster who had been shot in his big belly. He was laying on his side, breathing hard through clenched teeth.

Stewart rolled him over with his foot. He had gone back into the night and gotten the buffalo gun and reloaded it. He pointed at the man’s forehead.

“I came across a prospector up above Bannock once. Someone had robbed him, staked him to the ground and shot him in the scrotum with a buffalo gun. It had taken the prospector a couple of days to die. The last thing he saw was a cy’ote eating his manhood,” Stewart said moving the barrel of the gun slowly down until it was pointed between the man’s legs.

“Now, you are gut-shot so you might not last the whole three days....” Stewart smiled slowly, “But then again the coyote’s probably won’t take three days to find you here neither. There is a lot of meat to draw their attention....”

The man’s eyes were huge.

Stewart continued. “The way I see it you got two choices, a bullet in the head or a bullet between your legs. Either one,” he said raising his eyes toward where the girl lay, “is better than you deserve.”

“What do you want...” the man hissed between his clenched teeth.

When the man had told him what he wanted to know, Stewart turned and started to walk away. 

“You said you would kill me,” the man said, grunting as he tried turn onto his side.

“So I did,” Stewart said, turning. He put the gun down and picked up a rock that was next to the fire and started back towards the man, “but a man like you ain’t worth the price of a bullet.”

He left the men lying where they had fallen. But he buried the girl as best he could under some firs far enough from the creek that spring runoff would not disturb where she lay. When he dropped the last stone on her grave he took his hat off and stood for awhile with his head down. He lifted his head and put his hat back on. He followed the creek back to his horses, saddled up, and followed his own trail back to the road and where the riders had split. 

He was dead tired but the road was straight and wide and he knew where the three men were headed, so he he dozed in the saddle and let the horse carry him along the wide, flat road toward Helena.

He rode up to the building and dismounted. He had boarded the other two horses at a livery on the edge of town. He thought he might have a hard time finding the building but it had been easy to find. The Masonic Temple is always easy to find. When Bannock had been the territorial capital, the Masonic Temple had been above the school. Here in the more prosperous and stable state capital it was a big stone building along Last Chance Gulch.

No one asked him for a sign or anything when he went in. He knew they wouldn’t. The temple in Helena was as much supper club and social club as anything else. A place for the rich and powerful to meet and socialize. 

At the first floor bar, he found out that the men he wanted were in a meeting up on the second floor. If the bartender who had gave him the information gave any thought to the long duster he was wearing or the stiff way he was walking, he gave no indication. 

When he got to the door, he unbuttoned the duster and untied the double-barreled 12-guage he had bought yesterday. He opened the door and walked in.

Four men were sitting at a table. There were papers in front of them and it was obvious that they were talking about whatever was in them. They all stopped talking and had their eyes leveled at the shotgun pointed at them. 

Stewart had been in Helena for three days. Two of the men he wanted were sitting at the table. The third, Johnson, was in a latrine behind his house four blocks away. His face had been beaten with the stock of the shotgun so bad that even his wife would not recognize him when she found him the next morning, lying on his back in the muck beneath the latrine 

“Whose armed? he asked. They all shook their heads.

“Jack White and Henry Stone” he said. Two men pointed and two just sat and looked at him. 

“You two, stand up slowly and go to that far wall and sit down on the floor... On your hands with your back to me. I got no business with you that I know of. I got two barrels though and they will tear the hell out of you if you don’t do exactly what I say.” Both barrels stayed on White and Stone.

When the two men were on the floor, Stewart looked at White and Stone. The Kavanugh boy would hardly have recognized the two men that killed him, except for the scar. They were clean and dressed in the fashion of prosperous businessmen. Stewart did not know what they looked like on the day they killed the Kavanaugh boy and the townspeople and priest of Cottonwood, but he knew what they looked like now. Arrogant and and angry.

“What is the meaning of this, sir” said the biggest of the two who had a scar running down his cheek. 

“Cottonwood, Montana.” Stewart said. The expression on the big man with the scar did not change. But the other man grew notably paler.

“What about it?” said the big man.

“Five days ago nine men rode into the town of Cottonwood and killed every man, woman, and child in town but one. The girl they did not kill there they took with them. Six men took her into the mountains and raped and killed her there. Three rode to Helena.”

As Stewart spoke the smaller of the two men got paler and paler and slumped back in his chair. The big man with the scar finally began to sweat. Stewart continued.

“I followed the six men and the girl up into the Big Belts. I was too late to save the girl but I gave her a decent burial. The men I left for the coyotes and the buzzards.”

“The other three I followed into Helena. One of those three men is dead.” Stewart said, looking at the big man with the scar. “He died this afternoon. I killed him. He told me the same story as I heard from one of the men in the Big Belts. But he knew more details.”

The smaller man had his head in his hands and he was crying softly. The big man with the scar was sweating profusely.

“Nobody will believe your story,” he said.

“I don’t care what other’s believe. I believe it.” Stewart said raising the shotgun.

“Are you a papist?” the big man asked, “An irishman?”

“My wife was.” Stewart said looking down the barrel at the two men. “When she died I figgered I had no more use for religion.”

“You think you’re some kind of avenging angel?” the big man said getting angry. “You think your going to Catholic heaven?” he asked his eyes shining and bright.

“I think I’m going to hell just like you, Reverend Stone. But you’re going there first,” Stewart said, smiling. Then he pulled the trigger.

A Freighter's Connection
by Tom Sheehan

Creighton Glastenbury, last of his family, impoverished from birth despite his name and lucky to get to his 16th birthday, found his journey working on a wagon train ending in the small California town of Newbridge. Across seven state borders he had traveled seeking warm weather, safe winters, and a chance to find a cause other than simple survival. He was tired of the eternal scratching for meals, good cover over his head, and silence in the night. The stars of evening, holding sway like magnificent emeralds over wide grass, were his greatest comfort, took him to sleep most nights of the journey though he shared them with coyotes, owls and other creatures of impending darkness. He remembered at odd hours an old Indian, met out on the trail, saying, “Count on the stars. They do not fail.” When one of the stars, loose as a runaway horse, streaked across the pebble-lit sky, he found comfort in it, and once in a while a sign of coming luck.

“Listen, Crate,” the wagon master had said as he just about turned his own wagon around to start back to the beginning of places, “stay with me and earn good keep and you’ll find a place for yourself. It’s in the cards for you. You’ve earned some kind of a good deal coming to you.” He had enjoyed the young man’s company along the long trail, saw how applied himself in harsh situations, had a head for fixing broken wagon parts, and could follow orders to the letter. Skill with a gun hand was also part of his make-up.

“I’ll stay here, Mr. Robichaud. I got a name from a fellow back in Missouri, said to look him up, make a stab at staying. He runs a small freight outfit.”

“What’s that freighter’s name, Crate?”

“’Willie Budroy,’ said the Missouri man.”

“Well, Crate, you’re in luck. I know Willie Bud from way back in the territory. I’ll give you a note to him. We rode a team awhile. Yes, sir, old Willie Bud. Damned good man, too. “

The two parted company, and young Glastenbury, with a note in his pocket and a name on his tongue, went looking for a potential mutual friend.  He rode his own horse and carried two pistols on his gun belt. From his experience on the long trail, from his study of meeting people, he looked the part not of a young teenager, but a seasoned killer, a shooter. Learning to impress people was one lesson he carried off on the road across the country, from Pennsylvania to a spot beside the Pacific Ocean. He thought the place looked to be next to heaven, if that was at all possible.

“How can you explain it, son,” the freighter Budroy said, “that an old pal of mine would write a note for you, but not look me up?” He nodded, smiled and said, clearly from a fond memory, “Robichaud a damned good man. I’d take his word afore anybody’s.”

“He said he was making one more trip and would settle here in Newbridge soon as any place else. Said he likes how the land sits between the mountains and the ocean.”

“And a gent in Missouri gave my name to you? Who was that?”

“Name was Harold Clockson. I helped him out of a problem one time, out on the trail.”

“What kind of trouble, son? You dig right in for him?” Budroy, holding his head at an inquisitive angle and his eyes right on Glastenbury’s eyes as if an answer would be written there in a clear hand. “You do tend to cut things short of the end sometimes.”

Glastenbury, admiring Budroy’s direct way of speaking, said, “Well, sir, he was in a tight bit of trouble from two gents on the road and I rode right into the middle of it coming over a small hill. They had guns drawn on him and said they had no interest in me and I could pass on by.”

“What did you do, son?”

“I said, quick like it would make a difference, ‘This man’s my father and I don’t truck with anyone holding guns on him, not one but two of them, like you’re afraid of him one on one. You ought to be. He’s faster than me with that pistol of his, and I am damned good at it.’” One hand still held the reins, the other, like a loose weed in a soft breeze, hung near his holstered pistol.

“Yeh? And?” Budroy said, his face carrying an expectant look of glee, the smile about to break loose. After all, that brazen kid was right now in front of him and had obviously survived a scary situation.

“One of them robbers laughed and pointed at Mr. Clockson and then was going to point at me and I drew and shot the pistol right out of his hand. The other gent’s horse almost tossed him out of the saddle and I had a gun right directly in his face in a second or two. We let both of them go, but I told them I was good at drawing and was going to give the sheriff a poster make-up on them so they better get out of the territory before they got hung as horse thieves on top of being roadside robbers to boot.”

“Marvelous, son, marvelous. How’d you think about all that stuff so fast? Him being your father, the horse thief bit, the whole thing? Can you really draw good pictures?”

“One of them was riding a Circle-T brand and I know they didn’t work for Circle-T. And I can’t draw a straight line with a plumb board to guide me, not if it took me a whole day.”

“Son, I’d want you riding on my rig any day of the week. You are now working for me. You got a place to stay?”

“Not yet.”

“You have one now,” Budroy said, his deep smile coming canyon-wide. “You can have my old shack. Needs a bit of work, but I’m sure you can do it up good.” He pointed over his shoulder, behind his new barn. “That’s it back there.” The smile was wide again on his face.

“You’ll really like my team of horses. They’re Clydesdales, over 17 hands, both of them, and stronger than a herd of buffalo. Come all the way from Scotland, they did, like sailors crossing the whole dang ocean in one trip. We’ll be going off tomorrow or the next day for another delivery. I got to advise you there’s been some trailside activity hereabouts makes me glad you’ll be riding with me.”

“What kind of trailside stuff, Mr. Budroy?”

“They call you Crate, do they? Well, you can call me Willie from now on, Crate. And I heard a couple of stages got robbed and a freighter was relieved of some of his goods just more than a week ago. I’ll be a little bit more comfortable with you sitting in the bucket seat with me.”

Early on the morning of his second day in Newbridge, they were out a half dozen miles on the main trail, when Glastenbury saw at a distance two riders coming toward them. He studied their trail manners for a few minutes and said, “Willie, we got suspicious company up there ahead of us, and I’m going to get comfortable on the load, sort of out of sight.”

He grabbed his rifle and slid up on top of two crates wrapped in canvas, squeezing himself down in between the two crates. The two riders he could see clearly from where he peeked between the canvas shrouds.

From his view, the young shotgun rider saw the two men with hands hanging too close to their side arms for neighborliness. And they looked nervous as they came closer, with the pair splitting up and moving to each side of the wagon, another knock on their neighborliness.

One of the men drew his gun and waved it at Budroy and said in a harsh and demanding voice, “Hold it there, old man. We aim to take something off your hands. Don’t make any trouble and we’ll let you go with most of your freight. We want just the one package going to the Three Circles Ranch. Now you hop down out of there and we’ll all be quiet about this.” He waved the gun again.

Glastenbury, fast as a hawk on the dip, put a single round into the hand carrying a pistol and had the rifle trained on the other man before he could move.

“Take your boots off and throw them up here along with your weapons.” He waved the rifle at both of the robbers. They dismounted, took off their boots and threw boots and weapons up on the top of the wagon, seething all the while, curses and grunts coming loose from the bottoms of their souls. “We’ll get you for this, kid,” the wounded man said.

Glastenbury put a round into the ground near their horses and the two animals went off at a gallop and out of sight over a small hill. The hoof beats could be heard getting fainter and fainter until there was no more sound from them.

“If you go looking for your boots, I got a pretty good idea you’ll know where they are, if you dare come that close. In the meantime, we’re going to find your pal at Three Circles Ranch who gave you information about this load. That sure ain’t going to sit well with those folks over there.”

He put another round right between the two men, making them dive for cover, and then yelled, “Giddy up,” to the wagon team, and the wagon rolled on its way.

“You think they’ll come looking for them boots, Crate?” Budroy said.

“About once at the most,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder at the men going gingerly after their horses, their tender feet making visible statements.

At The Three Circles Ranch, the freight master said to the ranch owner, “This here’s my new hire. Name’s Crate. He’ll tell you what happened on the road here. Real interesting, if I do say so.”

He paused and said, “Go ahead, Crate. This gent, Max Burnham, owns the spread. Tell him what you know.”

Glastenbury, speaking a little louder than necessary, for more of an audience than just the owner, said, “Mr. Burnham, two gents, both husky sorts with battered gray Stetsons like they been trod on in a dirty road, wearing a gray shirt on one fellow and a checkered black and white shirt on the other, riding a gray and a paint both about 14 hands, knew all about the delivery coming to you. They said directly they wanted only one piece, the one we just unloaded for you. Said they would let us move on. So, we want to make sure you know that someone here, we think on your payroll, told them fellows all about it.”

“That’s quite a story, son. Any more to it?”

“Yep,” Glastenbury said, “one of them’s got a bad hand that I quick shot. He must still be hurting. If he ain’t bound to get out of the territory about now, you might be able to find him.” The hesitation in his voice said some other pertinent facts were coming. “The last I saw of them, on the road back there, they had no guns on their belts, no boots on their feet, and no horses under them.”

“Oh, I know who they are, son. I want to welcome you to Newbridge. You’ve made a good start already.” He smiled and looked at the house set back against some tall trees.

As they were leaving The Three Circles, Budroy said, “Crate, you missed something back there you ought to be interested in. I guess you don’t see everything.” He leveled a hard stare at his young employee.

The new hire, smiling, said, “Oh, I saw her, Willie. Ain’t she some kind of a beauty? Looks like a prairie flower all shining by itself on the grass. I saw her the minute we rode into the place, her checking me out from the window at first, then from the doorway, hiding but not hiding, if you know what I mean?”

“Crate,” Budroy said, “I don’t think I could catch up to you if they gave me another 50 years to do the job. The girl’s name is Emily, Burnham’s only kin. A horse killed her mother a few years ago. He sets all his store on her.  She’s your age.”  He realized he had learned a whole lot from his new hire in a short time and laughed almost all the way to their next delivery.

Putting the team away that night, he was still smiling at his good luck, and the luck of Creighton Glastenbury. He had no question about who made the best pairing of the day: his set of Clydesdales, true giants of the road; him and Crate, new pards of a sort in the freight business; or Crate and Emily Burnham, something beautiful about to blossom in Newbridge.

Glastenbury wasn’t right on all accounts, though. The two road agents came calling in the dead of night. They were almost into the house when squawking guinea hens in the trees woke the young striker from a deep sleep in his little cabin behind the barn. He was up and armed in seconds and ran to the house where the two intruders were trying to force open the ranch house door.

He fired off one warning shot, which was ignored by the two men, and he was forced to drop both of them before Budroy was out of bed. It was revealed that Burnham’s men had chased the two robbers off into the grass, and lost track of them in the night. The band of hunters heard the gunfire at Budroy’s place and came to investigate. They found Budroy and his new hire standing over the two wounded road agents bleeding on the ground, Glastenbury’s gun still smoking.

And putting all things together, the way he usually handled his business and all that went on about him, Creighton Glastenbury didn’t waste much time before he went calling at the Three Circles Ranch.

Nature's Weapons
by Bill Van Horn

"How close you figure they are?"

Harrison turned, shielding his eyes from the sun glaring down from the middle of a robin's egg blue sky. "Not more 'n a mile. Most likely less."

"Shit. They must have picked up our trail."

Nodding, Harrison turned away from watching the thin dust cloud. "We can try the creek again. See if it at least slows 'em down."

"Goddamn red bastards. Bet we lose our cache, too."

"Better that than our hair, Drew."

Drew chuckled, wheeling his pony toward the rock-bottomed creek. "Now You ain't talkin' like a tenderfoot any more, Harry. Let's take to the water."

They splashed their ponies into the creek, Harrison reaching down and filling his cap with water. He splashed it back on his head, gasping as the cold water ran through his long brown hair and trickled down the back of his buckskin shirt. "Damn! Wish we could soak our feet for a spell."

"Yeah, but that ain't a good idea with a Blackfeet war party on our trail. Now get to ridin', boy."

Drew was only a handful of years older than Harrison, but this was his third season in the Beavertrap country. For Harrison there was much that was still new. "Six weeks we been working this line, and that's the first we see of them."

"Hope Gus and Tom kept clear of the red bastards."

"I'm sure they did. Gus said they were going to work further west. This bunch looks to have come up from the south."

"Back from raidin' Crow horses most likely. Now keep that pony of yours at a good pace, Harry."

Nodding, Harrison urged the lanky mustang to a fast walk. Water splashed high from its hooves, and he felt the cool droplets touch his face. He kept his long rifle balanced on the fork of his saddle, the lock covered and safe from water. His Crow moccasins soaked up the water, cooling his feet and allowing him to forget for a moment the fear that was balling in his stomach.

They'd been in the Beavertrap Mountain country for close to two months, working the streams flowing down to the Yellowstone. It was rich country, but not commonly worked. It had been Drew's idea for the small company to come this way, and they'd done well. Harrison smiled when he thought of the stacks of beaver pelts they'd cached along the way, to be picked up when they swung back out of the mountains. Now there was a chance that it would all be for nothing.

"Should've known," Drew muttered, his words almost lost in the splashing of the horses. "Every season the damned Blackfeet find me here. Every damned time."

"This their land?"

"No. Crow mostly, but no one tribe claims it. Trouble is the Blackfeet like passin' through here on their way to raid the Crow. Crow will hit you if you look weak, kiss your ass if you look strong. Blackfeet...they just love fightin'. My first year up here we lost three men to the red bastards."

Harrison turned back to look at the faint fan of dust floating into the clear sky. "Looks like they're slowing down."

"Good. See them mountains over yonder? We call them the Antlers 'cause most every deer an' elk in the country shed their antlers in the lower draws. We make it up there, we can lose 'em. Done it twice before. Trick is to get there."

"Looks to be almost a day's ride. And we can't move fast in the water."

They left the creek after an hour, urging their horses up the low bank and onto the dry grassland. "Ground's hard," Drew muttered. "We won't leave too much sign, but we'll kick up dust just like they do if we go over a walk."

Harrison looked over, seeing Drew's matted red hair blaze for a moment as the other trapper swept off his cap to wipe sweat from his forehead.

"Best keep that cap on, Drew. Those Blackfeet could see your topknot from two miles out I bet."

"Least mine ain't turned to straw under the sun. Ain't never seen a brunette go blonde out here before."

"True enough. My mother wouldn't know me now if she saw me." He looked back at the dust and felt that fear turn again. "Cloud looks wider now."

"Ridin' both sides of the creek I'd figure. Don't want to miss where we got out. They must figure we're runnin' for the Antlers."

"Can we outrun them?"

"Not likely. Those war parties always have extra ponies with 'em. They just switch out when one gets tired. Us? We just got these two."

Maybe I should have stayed to home, thought Harry. But I'd have gone mad if I'd had to stare at the ass-end of that mule for one more planting season. "Then we'd best do what we can."

They alternated between a walk and a trot, staying close to the creek.

"Leads right where we need t' go, it does," Drew explained with a chuckle. "That and we can keep the ponies watered."

Harrison wasn't at all sure about Drew's logic but he held his tongue. Man's been up here for three seasons now. He knows his stuff. Me? I'm so wet behind the ears I slosh when I shake my head.

The stream rolled and twisted its way through sprawling grasslands, always climbing higher toward the dark green mountains. As they rode, Harrison kept turning in the saddle, watching the progress of that thin dust cloud. Each time he looked it seemed to be drawing a bit closer, becoming better defined against the deep blue of the sky.

"Should be a park up here about half a mile ahead." Drew shaded his eyes with his hand, looking up the stream's course. "Flat and open as your ma's dinner table. We can make the run across it, but they'll get a hell of a lot closer, too. They still back there?"

"Yes. And getting closer."

"Damn! Must have found where we left the creek." Drew kicked at his pony's flanks. "Let's keep movin', Harry. All we can do now. Blackfeet hate anyone in what they consider their range. White, red, it don't make a damn bit of difference to them. Crow, we could buy our way out. Give up some pelts for our skins. But not with that bunch."

"Are...are you sure they're Blackfeet?"

"Crow would have given up by now. They like their plunder easy. Blackfeet, they take this as a challenge."

The ground fell away so suddenly in front of them that it took Harrison's breath away. He could see where the stream snaked a blue line through the swaying grass of the park, bigger than the biggest wheat field he'd seen back home, but that wasn't all of it. The park was dark brown instead of a deep green.

Drew sucked air through his teeth. "Buffalo! Now if that don't beat all. Late in the season for 'em to be up here."

"We going through them?"

"Got to. No time to skirt that herd. Just keep tight hold on your pony and don't spook 'em. They're dumb critters on the best days, and it's good odds they'll ignore us. Just don't get between a mama an' her calf. And be damned glad it ain't ruttin' season for the bastards."

Harrison's pony snorted, and he hauled the reins in close. "Easy there, boy," he muttered, patting its sweaty neck. The heavy musk of the herd stung his nose and eyes, and he did his best to stay close to Drew as they moved through the herd. He tried counting them, but gave up after the first hundred. They just seemed to go on and on, munching at the grass and snuffling at each other like the oxen his father kept to haul the hay wagons. But there was a glitter in their eyes that he'd never seen in the oxen, and their horns gleamed yellow and white in the afternoon sun.

As they moved through the herd, the big animals shifted grudgingly out of their way or stood immobile, forcing the men to go around, an idea starting spinning itself in the corner of Harrison's mind. His stomach churned with fear, both from the Blackfeet and the huge shaggy creatures that looked at him like he was an annoying horsefly needing to be swatted. But his mind kept working. They were almost through when he found his voice again. "Drew? How easy is it to spook these bastards?"

"Depends." Drew looked back, his gaze shifting past Harrison to the dust cloud. "Damn! They're movin' fast now. Too damned fast. No way we'll make the Antlers now. Goddamned buffalo anyhow. We'd best find some rocks, boy. Make our stand."

"Wait!" Harrison noticed some buffalo shift away at the sound of his voice. Good. Halfway there. "Drew, there's gotta be at least three hundred of these critters here. What happens if we spook 'em back toward the Blackfeet?"

The older trapper's eyes fixed on Harrison, and the scowl on his face changed to a smile. " I knew that head was there for somethin' other than keepin' your hat off your shoulders! That would scatter them red bastards proper. Might even have 'em thinking that chasing us is bad medicine, which I ain't opposed to in the least bit. Wait till we get through the herd and we'll get down to business."

Once they reached the edge of the herd, Harrison drew a deep breath of air. "Damn! Didn't realize buffalo smelled that bad."

"Almost as bad as we do." Drew chuckled. " Get your blanket out, boy. Stay on that pony and start wavin' the blanket like a damned madman. Might spook the pony, but that ain't a bad thing, either. Gets the buffalo more excited. You ever herded oxen?"

"More times than I care to count."

"This ain't much different. I'll take the right side, you go left. Get 'em movin' and then come back here by that red rock."

Harrison turned his pony and shook his red and blue blanket at a cow close by. "Hi! You big bastard! Move on there! Go on! Git!" The cow raised her head and looked at him, her dim eyes trying to comprehend this thing that had appeared out of nowhere. Snorting, she turned and lumbered back toward the main herd.

"That's a start," he muttered, kicking his pony in the flanks and waving his blanket. "Git on there! Move, you bastards!"

It started slow. One or two buffalo trotting back into the main herd, bunching the back ranks against the rest. Looking over, Harrison could see Drew making similar progress with his side of the herd. Compacting it and pressuring it down to the narrow end of the park. Soon the big animals started drifting at a walk, gathering speed as the far edge shifted to keep away from the buffalo fleeing the things waving blankets.

Harrison wasn't ready when it broke. The slow trot turned into a low thunder as the far edge of the herd took off at a run, trying to escape the buffalo pressing in on them from the higher end of the park. Glad for the room, the others went from a trot to a run as well, following the lead bulls as they fanned out over the rolling ground to the south.

The air filled with dust, and his ears rang from the thunder of hooves and the bellows of hundreds of buffalo calling for each other as they ran. The ground shook as he fought to keep his horse from running with the buffalo. Hauling at the reins, he managed to turn them in a tight circle, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as the rumbling and snorting washed over him. Blocking the image in his mind of what would happen if his pony went down. Seeing himself torn to little bits of red flesh and splintered bone under those hundreds of sharp hooves. The hair on his arms stood on end as the air vibrated with the noise of the herd. Its stink gripped his nostrils, wrenching the air from them and making him gag. Got to get out. Got to...

Over the rumbling he heard Drew shouting. "That's got 'em, boy. Goddamn! Ain't never been on this end of a buffalo stampede before! Now let's get the hell out!"

It was hard to imagine that minutes before, the entire park had been covered with grazing buffalo. Harrison looked at the ground, churned and battered by hundreds of hooves. Dust hung in the air like the smoke from burning fields, and he could just make out the big red rock at the far end of the park. The ground still vibrated with the herd's passing, and his pony snorted and flinched, its eyes rolling with a fear he shared.

He hacked dust from his throat and found his voice again. "How long you think they'll run like that?"

"At least a couple of miles. We got 'em riled up good. Should blow through them Blackfeet like a dose of salts!" Drew laughed, his eyes shining. "Wish I could be there to see it, but we'd best get well clear of here. Take to the creek again. That herd'll also cover our tracks damned well in case they decide to follow us again."

Harrison nodded, feeling bitter bile in the back of his throat. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

"See!" Many Stars looked up from the stream bank, his eyes bright. "They leave the water here. And their horses are tired."

"These white eyes are stubborn." Two Bulls chuckled, looking at the rest of the war party. "It will be good to have their hair on my war club. We ride, my brothers!"

It had been a long chase, but now they were close. The horses of the two white men were fading fast, while the Blackfeet had changed ponies and rode on. Soon it would end.

Two Bulls smiled as he thought of the fear he knew those trappers would be feeling. But they will fight. They always do. And in the end we have new scalps and rifles. He reached down, touching the hide-wrapped stock of the long rifle he'd taken from the dying hands of a French trapper two seasons gone now.

"Two Bulls! Someone comes!"

The big warrior snorted, looking at the dust cloud. "Perhaps they have decided to die like men and come to do battle with us."

Many Stars shook his head. "There is too much dust for two white eyes. I..."

"Look!" The youngest warrior in the party, Counts Twice pointed at the rise just to their front. "Buffalo!"

Two Bulls could feel it now through the sides of his pony. The ground shook under the mighty hooves of buffalo. Many buffalo. For a moment he held his pony steady, staring with wide eyes at the herd as it crested the rise and gained speed. So many! But how... "They come! We must flee, my brothers!"

How can two breaths last so long? Two Bulls hauled at the rawhide reins, kicking at the flanks of his pony. A high scream reached his ears over the drumming hooves, and he saw Counts Twice's pony knocked from its feet by the lead bull. The dust turned red for one horrible moment and then he was gone, crushed into the hard earth by the herd.

He could see the others, higher than the herd and marked through the dust by red and white feathers or blotches of paint, fighting their ponies through the buffalo. His own pony, veteran of many hunts, worked its way through the herd, shifting and almost dancing to avoid those wicked horns and lowered heads. Two Bulls gave the mare her head, trusting her to get him through this in a way he'd never trust another man. The fear twisted cold in his belly, threatening to work its way to his bladder. Dying in battle is one thing, but this...

It was almost dark before the Blackfeet found each other again. Counts Twice and Deep Water were dead, and others bore the scrapes and cuts of falls or close encounters with the big buffalo. Many Stars was the first to raise his voice. "We must go after the white eyes and make them pay!"

"No." Two Bulls spoke quietly, his mind still seeing the herd as it came over the rise. His ears still hearing the death cry of Counts Twice.

"Can you track them through the buffalo, Many Stars? I know I cannot. And why did our friend buffalo attack us? This cannot be a good sign."

"Two Bulls is right." The oldest warrior in the party, the words of Four Fingers carried much weight. "This is a bad sign, my brothers. The Everywhere Spirits are warning us not to go into the mountains of the beaver. We have the furs they tried to hide from us. We should not ask for more so soon."

They kept talking, but Two Bulls no longer listened. He stood, stroking the sweaty neck of his pony and watching as stars blinked to life in the clear sky overhead. Praying to his spirit guide for the stink of the herd to leave his nostrils and the cries of Counts Twice to leave his ears.

Running From Trouble
by William Brewer

Sitting on the steps of a mercantile store on the outskirts of Dodge City, with the worst hangover of my life, I decided to quit the free-wheelin’ cowboy life forever.

My head was braced in my hands in hopes nothing from the neck up would fall off. To make matters worse, the putrid odor emanating from the cattle-holding pens down the street wasn’t exactly a balm for my sick stomach. I was contemplating my ugly, worn out, old boots and thinking it was a good thing I’d left half my pay with Wilson Stringer, the owner of the herd we’d sold. At least I’d be able to buy new boots before I headed home. I needed ‘em, bad.

Head down, thinking about those ol’ boots, I didn’t see the woman until she stood over me asking a question. I tried to jump to my feet, but all I could manage was a slow get-up made possible only by using the porch railing.

“Sorry ma’am,” I muttered, as I tried to brush the dust off my clothes. “I didn’t see you coming, could you say that again?”

“I asked what you’d do if your mother suddenly appeared and could see what you’ve allowed demon rum to do to you.”

The questioner was an imposing looking woman peering at me through a pair of librarian’s glasses. Her hair-do was severe, pulled back from her face in a bun. She was wearing a long black dress that looked too hot for the day we were about to have. One of her shoes peeked out from under her skirt. It had little buttons on the side. I had never seen shoes with buttons before.

Startled by the directness of her question, I hesitated before answering. “Well Ma’am, I reckon I’d ask her to bring a pistol and put me out of my misery.”

A noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh came from behind the woman in black. Another woman stepped into view. There was a strong family resemblance, but she appeared to be a bit younger than my interrogator.

“Now Blaire,” the older woman said, “don’t encourage him by laughing. It’s not amusing, to see a man his age trying to act up with young cowboys at the end of a cattle-drive.”

I was just beginning to appreciate how good Blaire looked when a vital part of the older gal’s caution speech struck home. A man ‘my age’? What the hell did that mean? I’ll admit there were a few years on my back-trail. Quite a few actually, but like a good saddle, older leather looked better and was easier to sit. I figured old cowboys were the same.

“Ella, you mustn’t be too harsh with him,” Blaire said. “I’ve heard that liquor is harder on older men.”

If I hadn’t seen the twinkle in her blue eyes, I’d have taken offense.

Blair’s dress was white with little lace frills around the collar and down over her bodice. Her light-brown hair was tied back from her face with a rainbow of colored ribbons. She made a pretty picture with her hat and parasol.

On the other hand, I looked like something a cat would try to cover, and smelled worse. Even so, I hoped she was a ‘Miss’. Of course, I never for a minute thought I’d have a chance with a beauty like her. Besides she’d most likely want me to settle down.

Settle down? Hell, I must still be drunk.

This damned temperance crusader was making my hangover worse with her unrelenting questions. And a certain young miss, with eyes so blue they were almost violet, was having a good laugh at my expense.

Before I could gather what was left of my wits and defend myself, there was the sound of a gunshot from the saloon where I had spent most of the night and most all my money.

“Somebody get Jim Flood, Mr. Stringer’s been shot.” A puncher named Barrett came piling out through the front door of the bar shouting at the top of his voice.

There’s nothing like a gunshot to cure a hangover. Before I knew it I was on my feet headed for the saloon.

So much for running away from trouble.

“Barrett,” I called, “What happened?”

“Mr. Stringer caught that card shark in there cheating one of his hands and called him on it. The gambler shot the old man graveyard dead.”

“Flood left last night by rail going to Kansas City where he was planning to catch another train back to Texas,” I said.

When we looked up the gambler and a couple of his bootlickers were fogging it out of town on their horses.

Me and a few of the cowpunchers buried Mr. Stringer two days after the shooting. We talked to local law about the shooting. He told us the gambler would stay away from town until we’d left town, then come back. With all the witnesses back in Texas he’d be cheating cowboys and anyone else crazy enough to play his game.

We were a sad lot. None of the punchers were gun hands enough to go against the stacked deck in this town. There was some angry talk, but eventually the others departed for Texas. I knew I didn’t want to go back to Texas without old man Stringer. Maybe I’d head to Wyoming and punch a few winter-hardened cows up there. But thinking about Blaire and her blue eyes, I decided that this was my new home, took a job at the local stable, and laid low. I had my own history with the law to think about.

Fifteen years before, I had occasion to leave my Florida home where I had punched cattle from the age of ten. It was hard, dirty work and in those days, the only socializing was done evenings on the porch in front of the ranch kitchen.

That’s where I was celebrating my twentieth birthday. An old hand named Bristo, who never liked me much, marched up to the porch where I was standing. He looked straight at me and announced I wasn’t a teenager anymore and it was time to take my first ass-whipping from a grown man. From the day my uncle brought me to his Central Florida cattle ranch, Bristo had teased, taunted, and threatened me.

Being a person who didn’t waste words even then, I stepped through the door into the kitchen, Bristo following right behind. Probably thought I’d try to make a run for the back door. Might have too, but the old place didn’t have a back door. I admit it, I was scared. Bristo was built like a bull and outweighed me by thirty pounds or more. On top of that, he had at least one fight every payday. I’d never had trouble with anyone except him, so I wasn’t going to whip him with experience.

I got scared, then mad. A gallon bucket of cane syrup sat thinning by the cast-iron cook-stove. With Bristo closing in with that big ham of a fist drawn back, I picked the bucket up by the handle, swung it over-hand, and hit him just over the right eye-brow. That syrup must’ve weighed ten pounds because it surely caved his head in on that side.

One of the ranch-hands I worked with put me on his saddle-horse and told me to pay him when I got back.

Never went back and fifteen years later I still had that horse.

It was a non-eventful meander across the Florida panhandle for me, learning all the things critical to a young cowboy’s upbringing. Mainly how to drink, play cards, and fire a sidearm with some proficiency.

I got into serious scrape outside of Mobile. I didn't kill anyone that time. I did discover that a sheriff with a newly acquired limp held an unusually strong grudge. That was the end of the meandering for this child. I saddled up and proceeded to put some hasty miles behind me.

There had been a few more little dust-ups on the road to Texas but I was a reformed man. A month later I found myself a job brush-popping steers for an old time cattleman named Wilson T. Stringer. I decided to stay with the new job for a while and hope Florida, or Alabama law, didn’t reach as far as Texas. My only ambition was to be a real cowboy, what the locals called a ‘top-hand’. And to always run from trouble.

Summer heat turned to fall coolness and I was still in town. The stable owner had confidently turned the whole livery operation over to me to run. Shortly after that, he gave me the option to work for a salary, or we would split the profits from the livery. He would retire back east to his sister’s and in five years the business would be all mine.

Worked for me. In addition to the livery, I started selling special feed to the cattle lots and some new fangled crop-seed to the farmers outside of town. I was doing okay and was calling on the widow, Mrs. Blaire Pearson, twice a week. We were getting to know each other and I was kind of hoping it might go somewhere. Blaire shared this optimism. Ella had even warmed to me a trifle, despite the fact that she still didn’t think much of a man who would drink whiskey.

One night, after a couple of drinks, I decided to sleep in the livery stable. Must have been about midnight when someone rattled the stable doors. I opened them and there in the light from a full moon, was Wilson Stringer’s ranch foreman, Jim Flood. He looked taller sitting astride his horse. It was a little too dark to see his expression, but I knew at once why he had returned to Dodge.

“Cracker,” he said, “where might I get a bite to eat this late?”

The first time I laid eyes on Jim, I knew this cowboy was nobody to mess with. He was a rock-hard cowpuncher, and he looked hard. His eyes were as black as coal and squinty from years in the sun and wind. The muscles in his jaws were prominent and he wore a waxed black mustachio like the Mexican punchers on the ranch. The weathered features of his face made him look like he was carved from oak.

“What’re you doing here, Jim?” I asked, sliding on my boots and trying to come full awake.

“Don’t you know?”

“Well, I’d guess you’re figuring on killing a gambling man.”

The tall man dismounted and I walked his pinto mare to the back of the livery. After putting her in a stall by the back door, I gave her some fresh water and a bait of grain.

“What about some supper, partner?” he asked, ignoring my last statement.

“Unless you’re up for going to the saloon, about the best I can do for you is a cold beef sandwich and a cup of coffee.”

“Nothing wrong with cold beef sandwiches, Cracker,” he said, in his low whispery voice. He untied his bedroll and brought out a pistol wrapped in a well-oiled leather holster. “But I’m a lot hungrier than that. Come on down to the saloon with me and I’ll buy you a cold beer.”

I was staring at that pistol he was draggin’ out. I had known Jim Flood almost five years and I’d never seen that gun before. The handgun he carried while working cattle was a long-barreled .44 caliber Colt, with a cap and ball firing mechanism. This was a different kind of gun. It looked a little strange with its short barrel and blue-black finish. This wasn’t a tool, it was a precision piece of equipment. A thing made for a deadlier purpose than just shooting rattlesnakes.

“That’s a good lookin’ sidearm, Jim,” I said. “Where’s a man get a gun such as that?”

“Back East I’d think,” he said. “Not many of them in these parts.”

I could smell the gun oil, the deadly looking gun purring like a kitten as he rolled the cylinder on his sleeve.

“I’ve had this one about five years, bought it from a firearms drummer in Abilene.”

Turning to look out of the livery door I could see a world highlighted in white from the moonlight. I could smell the rich aroma of the fresh hay in the stalls. I looked out and thought about gunfights.

Since arriving in Texas, I’d watched one gunfight that involved a draw-down between two men in the street. It was nothing like the gunfights described in the Penny Dreadfuls about the “Wild West” that had become so popular back East. The two men in this gunfight were walking down the sidewalks on opposite sides of the street. One man drew his pistol and fired in the general direction of the other. He missed. His opponent pulled his own weapon and returned fire. He missed. They both emptied their guns and only killed two plate glass windows, one in the Chinese laundry and one in the barbershop.

If a man decided to settle a quarrel with a pistol in the real West, the other party was lucky if someone told him he was in a gunfight before it happened to him.

“I’ll go down to the saloon with you, Jim,” I finally said, answering his earlier question. “But you may as well know that I’m not as good with a pistol as I am with a long gun. I’ve got a cousin can shoot the eyes out of a squirrel with a pistol but that ain’t me.

For a long moment, he stood beside me smoking a thin cheroot. “I figured it was unlikely you’d ever been in a gunfight, so I’m just askin’ you to come along for the company. I’ll take care of anything else that comes up.”

I never said I hadn’t been in a gunfight, just that I preferred a rifle over a pistol. Oh well, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

“Jim, that gamblin’ man’s gonna know you haven’t come back just to visit an old friend.”

“Cracker, I don’t give a damn what he knows.”

I rooted around in my saddle bags for some bullets for my old rifle. I guess if you come across trouble you can’t avoid, go ‘all in’ as the poker players say. Hell, I felt pretty good now that I had made the decision. The only regret I had was that I knew it would bring my past to the attention of the law, and ultimately, the end of a fine romance.

A rooster crowed in a distant part of town and a few dogs answered his noisy challenge. It was well past midnight and nearly every window was dark except for the saloon. A rinky-dink piano tinkled out a tune I didn’t recognize. A woman’s laugh rang out, a hooting kind of bark that made me wonder what made her so happy.

I unwound the oil-cloth from around the Winchester, fed cartridges into the feeding tube, and threw the rest of the bullets back in the box. Figured if sixteen bullets weren’t enough, there was no use toting the rest. Then I picked up my pistol. It wasn’t in the class with Jim Flood’s fancy piece but it was still a serviceable firearm. It was a short barreled .44 caliber Colt with the sights filed off, bequeathed to me by a short-sighted rustler I had caught with some of Mr. Stringer’s stock last year. I stuck it in my belt, reconsidered and strapped on my well-used old gun belt.

“You ease in by the side door and keep an eye on the bartender and those other boys,” Jim said, as we walked towards the saloon. “If they draw down on me, you give a yell and then light out back to the stable.”

I still had doubts about this whole thing, recognizing the sort of situation that was the very reason I ended up so far from home. I had sworn never to find myself making these kinds of decisions again.

But, what the hell, I’d come this far.

I slipped along the side of the building and peered inside. I could see the gambler, sitting at his usual place at the Faro table. He looked surprised to see Jim push through the batwings. Surprised and pleased. Pleased, I suppose, thinking he would get to kill another cowpuncher.

Flood stood at the bar, cool as the other side of your pillow. His eyes were fixed on the gambler.

I was standing back from the door so the light inside wouldn’t expose me, watching as much of the room as I could, when shots rang out in front of the hotel down the street.

Bang …bang, bang. Another pause, then two more shots, close together…bang, bang.

Every man in the saloon, including Jim Flood, turned as one and started for the street. Everyone except the gambler.

My old trail-boss turned his attention and took a first step away from the bar. The gambler shook a hide-out derringer out of his sleeve and shot Flood in the back.

I fired a bullet that center-punched the huge mirror behind the bar bringing the whole thing down with a crash. The startled gambler threw another shot over his shoulder at me and ran for the back door.

The bar-keep pulled a sawed-off shotgun from under the bar and swung it in my direction. I let him have one at the belt line. The force of the .44 caliber bullet pushed him over backward and out of sight. I put two more shots into the back-bar to make sure he stayed there and made a beeline for Flood. He was breathing and conscious, but barely. I needed to get him over to Blaire’s. She’d had some nursing training before moving West and could at least keep Flood from bleeding to death while we sent for a doctor.

On the way to Blaire’s I ducked back into the saloon to pick up Flood’s pistol. Even hit as hard as he’d been, he’d drawn the deadly little gun and fired. Put two rounds into the piano player who was sneaking a shot from his own derringer. Flood was fast, but if he survived this time, it would be more luck than skill that got him through.

Never heard what the shooting out in the street was.

Sitting in Blaire’s parlor, I wondered if my life here was done. I was tired of running but it was highly possible the law would become interested in the shooting. Maybe find out about my back-trail. Not good. Blaire had shown flashes of being a lot more than a quiet widow lady. But I was pretty sure she wouldn’t approve of my past, or my part in the gunplay at the saloon.

I was still sitting there fiddling with Flood’s gun when Blaire came in from the back room where the doc was working on Flood.

“How’s he doing,” I said, “is he gonna make it?”

“Doc says it’s a good bet he’ll be okay if infection doesn’t set in. Looks like he’ll be working on him for a while yet.”

“How’re you doing with all this?”

“I don’t approve of using guns to settle disputes but at the same time I understand the need to defend one’s self,” Blaire said. She looked tired and a little unsettled.

Wasn’t much to say to that so I stood up. “Since there’s going to be some time before doc is through, I guess I’ll go over to the livery and make sure everything is locked up. Will you be okay here with doc and Ella?”

“Oh, I think so, it is Ella, remember.” A brief smile crossed her face.

“Yeah,” I said, “who’d want to tangle with Ella?"

As I stepped out of the door, I looked back at Blaire and wondered if things with her would ever be the same.

I turned to leave and there they stood; Jack Kincaid, the gambler; Bernie, one of Kincaid’s stooges from the bar, and two men I’d never seen before.

Bernie had his pistol out and pointed at my chest.

“Where’s Flood?” the gambler asked softly, “I know you pulled him out of the saloon and I want him.”

“He’s got him here in the house, Jack.” Bernie said.

Nothing slow about ol’ Bernie.

“Boys, don’t you think there’s been enough shooting for one night?” I said, turning slightly so that the hand holding Flood’s weapon was hidden behind my leg.

The gambler pulled his own pistol, and held it down by his side, “Might as well tell us where he is, Cracker. You shot my bartender back at the saloon. I know you’re still mad about me shooting your boss, but you shot and killed a man who worked for me. You don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that, do you?”

I thought about the way he’d callously gunned down Mr. Stringer and shot Jim Flood in the back. It all flashed through my mind but I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just raised that fancy pistol of Flood’s and set her to barkin’.

The gambler took the first one just below his right eye. I was already taking a step to my left as I fired twice more into Bernie, just below the breast bone. A bullet whipped past my face whispering its death song out into the night. Another gunshot rang out from behind me and one of the other two gunslingers dropped like a sack of grain. I pointed the gun at the last man but he already had his hands in the air.

“Whoa there, Cracker,” the man said with a stutter to his voice, “I’m not part of this, I just came to watch.”

Blaire stepped from behind me and pointed an old Colt Dragoon at him and said, “What do you think Cracker, shoot him or let him off this time?”

The hole in the end of that Colt must have looked the size of a water jug.

I stood there a long minute with my heart pounding in my throat before I let the hammer down softly and dropped my gun to my side. “Mister, you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. You go along and tell the sheriff what happened here. Listen to me now, it better be the right version of things, or I’ll be coming to read to you from Mr. Colt’s Bible.”

He turned and started walking real fast toward the center of town. After a few steps he broke into a full run and never looked back.

Blaire handed me the Dragoon and stood wiping her hands on her apron, “What happened?” she asked.

“You saw it all, Blaire. They came to get Flood and me too, apparently.”

She reached and took the Colt back and stuck it in her apron pocket, “Looks like they got more than they were looking for.”

“That they did, Blaire Pearson. Tell me where did you learn to use a gun?”

“Too long a story for tonight but I’m sure we’ll get to it,” she said, snuggling into my arms and looking up at me. “It looks as though we both have a few secrets to share.”

While I was trying to get my head around the new Blaire it occurred to me to ask, “Is Flood going to be alright?”

“The doctor said he was lucky but it’ll be some time before he can ride again. The question is, are you okay?”

“Yep, I’m fine and I don’t think we’ll have anything else to worry about tonight.”

The door opened and Ella walked out on the porch and damned if she wasn’t carrying a Dragoon the twin of Blaire’s. I knew from her expression she could see the bodies.

“Blaire, now what have you done?” she asked, shaking her head.

“These men came here to kill Mr. Flood and Cracker. What would you have me do?”

”There is that.” Ella answered. “Did you shoot these men, Blaire?”

“Just one. Cracker shot the other two.”

“Couple of lucky shots,” I quickly interjected.

“Not for them,” Ella said, giving me a long searching look.

Turning away from the bodies Ella took us both by the arms to lead us inside. “I understand the two of you trying to help a friend who’s in trouble,” her voice was soft but earnest, “but I want you to promise me that from now on you’ll leave the gunplay to the gunfighters. Cracker, you’re a good man but you’re just not like them. And you, Blaire, well . . .” She stopped and turned us to face her. “Will you just promise?”

I hesitated a long moment, afraid to look over at Blaire thinking that if I did I might bust out laughing. I glanced up into the star-lit Kansas sky and decided I was staying right here. No more running for me.

The law could take care of itself. “Ella, I promise I’ll try my best to live a peaceful life.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Blaire said softly, “If someone tries to shoot my Cracker, I’m going to do what I have to.” Then she kissed me on the cheek.

I glanced at the bodies as I turned and headed back to the livery. Maybe I should have felt some remorse for ending those lives but all I could think was, There’s nothing quite as peaceful as a dead trouble-maker.

Stoddard's Gold, Part 3
by John Putnam

After an hour of hard riding we passed the last miners working the river below. That night we made a cold camp with no fire and only leftover beans and biscuits to eat. Well before sunup we were on our way again and by midmorning we’d come to the southern edge of a huge valley covered with sagebrush, dotted with bright, sweet scented wildflowers and ringed by snow capped peaks that loomed thousands of feet above us. Except for the marshes fed by melt water from the winter snows, the whole place resembled the high deserts Anderson and I had crossed on the way to California.

Again we stayed in the saddle until the last of the daylight had faded, but as we prepared for another cold camp all of us noticed a red glow that spread wide across the horizon from somewhere along our back trail.

“Campfires,” said Bird. “Looks like a whole army’s behind us, don’t it?”

“Mount up,” yelled Stoddard. “It’s Raush. We gotta ride all night.”

“No!” countered Anderson. “We’re all dog tired. We need rest.”

Stoddard started in again. “But Raush—“

“Raush ain’t gonna catch us just yet,” Bird interjected as calm as ever. “I got a little trick in store for him, if you fellers can stand more hard mountain ridin’, but it’ll save us three, maybe four days at least.”

Bird’s idea cheered us all and well before the next sunrise we rode out of our camp heading slightly east of due north so we would give the impression that we were going to follow the valley as far as the flat land would take us. Then, when we came to a marshy area fed by snow run off flowing from a gap in the mountains, we turned and rode northwest through the stream, thereby leaving no tracks for Raush and his followers to find. But to add to his ruse, Bird took all our mules with him and continued on in the same direction we’d been going. He seemed sure there would be yet another stream coming in from the west that he could take so as to rendezvous with us later.

And sure as shooting by midday he’d caught us. Together we climbed steadily up a ravine that drained the melt water of two peaks, one to our right and the other to our left, the flanks of both covered with the same sugar pine and red fir we’d seen all along the way. There was no trail and our progress was slower than it had been.

That night we all camped together in a narrow canyon sheltered from the view of the valley. Somehow, while he led our mules off in the wrong direction, Bird had managed to bag two prairie hens and we enjoyed a hot meal of fresh meat for the first time in days. Our spirits were high, even Stoddard seemed to think that Raush and the men with him might have been fooled by Bird’s clever ploy.

We started out again just after sunup and soon crossed a flat saddle on the high pass we traveled and began to descend. By mid afternoon we came to another valley, long and narrow and vastly smaller than the first, but covered in the same sagebrush and wildflowers and fed by a meandering stream that often jumped its banks and flooded the ground around it.

Stoddard, his two mules in tow, rode up beside me as I led our string of four along easily. The animals walked willingly now, like they were grateful for the flat, soft earth of the valley after the hard rock of the mountains we’d just been through. But Stoddard seemed unusually nervous and continually looked around in all directions.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Stoddard?” I asked.

“It’s the Injuns,” he asserted, fear in his voice. “They’re out there watching us.”

“Have you seen them,” I wondered as my hand grabbed the handle of my Colt.

“No, you never see ‘em, not till it’s too late,” he claimed. “But they’re out there.”

Anderson rode up beside me. It was plain he’d heard what we were talking about. “The Indians here in California are pretty friendly, Stoddard. If we stay peaceable we shouldn’t have any trouble with them,” he divulged.

“They killed my partner,” Stoddard responded. “Never gave him a chance.”

“Did he shoot first?” Anderson inquired and I knew it was a good question.

Stoddard’s head jerked around, his eyes pinched. He was still edgy and ill at ease. “They jumped him, sudden like. They didn’t have no guns,” he said, and then swept his arm across the ridges that rose on both sides of us. “They could be watching us from anywhere out there, we got to keep a sharp eye out, all of us,” he urged.

“I’ll keep looking, don’t worry,” I promised, just as scared of Indians as he was.

“See to it,” he declared then yanked on the reins to his mules and loped off toward Bird who rode alone in front of everyone.

When Stoddard had gotten out of earshot I turned to Anderson. “Is he right about the Indians?” I asked.

Anderson smiled reassuringly. “I don’t know if he’s right or not, but I think our biggest concern if we do meet Indians is that Stoddard just might do something dumb, like shoot at them. Maybe we should keep an eye on him,” he said.

“Do you think Stoddard’s partner shot first?” I mused.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he answered.

The rest of the afternoon my head swiveled from side to side just like Stoddard’s had, searching the mountainsides for any sign of an Indian. At dusk we camped in a small copse of oak trees and I kept my Colt revolver ready, just in case they snuck up on us in the twilight. Then, when I bedded down, I carefully placed the pistol under the saddle that I used as a pillow where I knew I could get to it quickly if I needed to.

Still, the idea that Indians could be anywhere around us had me so fretful that I couldn’t sleep. Eventually, perhaps in an effort to escape my fears, my mind returned to the Bella Union and I could see again the soft curls of Michelle Reynard’s hair as it bounced about her neck while she passed out cards at the gaming table. The red glow from the lanterns brought a warm, comfortable hue to her soft skin and cast a dazzling fire into her beautiful blue eyes.

I could even see her long, thin fingers as she shuffled the cards then dealt one to each player in turn, and still hear her voice, so heavily accented yet incredibly lyrical, as she asked the simple questions of a twenty-one dealer to the players. And I’ll never forget her cozy, almost gleeful smile as she raked in her winnings at the end of each play.

Somewhere amidst my musings I must have drifted into sleep for the next thing I remember was a loud voice that woke me to the grunts of men scuffling. Immediately I grabbed my Colt and rolled out from under my blankets and hid behind a tree. The Indians were here, I was sure. Then a light blazed into the moonless night. Someone had lit a twig from the embers of the fire. I could see Stoddard’s face in the glow.

“Yeah, this is him. Get your rope ready, Grimes,” a man ordered in a rough bass voice. I didn’t recognize it but it wasn’t an Indian, that’s for sure, so it must be Raush. My hands were shaking. I knew if I tried to shoot I couldn’t hit anyone.

Then somebody threw a rope over a limb of the oak tree I hid behind and I could see shadowy figures coming closer. One was a big man who pushed Stoddard toward me while holding a pistol to his head. The same man who’d thrown the rope put a noose over Stoddard’s head. They were going to hang Stoddard right here, right now and right in front of me. Where were Anderson and Bird, I wondered? Were they all right?

“There’s an empty bed roll here, Raush,” the one called Grimes said in a shrill, nasal kind of voice and I knew he was talking about my blankets.

“Get him,” the low voice of Raush ordered.

Grimes would find me soon. Then they would hang Stoddard. I knew I couldn’t let that happen. Raush was only five feet away, tightening the rope around Stoddard’s neck. I stepped out from behind the tree and cocked the Colt. “Let him go, Raush, or I’ll shoot,” I yelled in the bravest tone I could muster.

“What?” he barked. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just let Stoddard go. I mean it,” I ordered.

“Hah,” he laughed. “It’s the boy,” he said to Grimes and then looked to me. “You got the guts to pull that trigger, boy? You brave enough to kill a man in cold blood?”

“You’re planning on killing Stoddard aren’t you?” I yelled back.

“He killed my brother!” Raush bellowed.

“He says Indians killed your brother,” I retorted.

“He’s a damn liar!” A burning rage spewed from the big man’s mouth.

Then I felt cold steel against my temple, and heard the incredibly loud click of another Colt cocking close by my ear. It was Grimes. Somehow he’d managed to sneak up beside me without me having any idea he was coming.

“Put the gun down, boy,” he said in his reedy, whiney voice.

“No! If you shoot me I’ll still shoot Raush,” I cried, and regretted it at once.

A wave of terror washed over me and I was ready to fall to my knees and beg Grimes for mercy when I heard another gun hammer clicking loud and sounding all too familiar. “Ever seen what a big bore bear gun’ll do to a man’s head, Grimes?” said Bird, who must’ve had the drop on Grimes, and so welcome relief flooded back into my heart.

But then came another loud, big bore bear gun hammer click, “But, mon ami, you know well what such a gun will do, oui?” And the dread washed over me again. Someone had a gun trained on Bird, I was sure, someone who had an accent like Michelle Reynard, and it bothered me no end that anyone whose voice reminded me so much of her could be threatening my friend Bird, and then, I guess, me too.

“Frenchy Chabot, as I live a breathe,” Bird said, still sounding as calm as he always did. “I thought the Piutes south of the Truckee did you in two years ago,”

“Mon Dieu, they came very close, monsieur, but Chabot, he knows the trick with the melt water too,” Frenchy Chabot said with a smug chuckle.

“That’s too bad,” Bird groused. “I should’ve known Raush would dig up a skunk like you.”

“It is too bad for you, mon ami,” Frenchy went on.

“Maybe not, my friend.” It was Anderson and he’d stressed the words my friend real loud just as his own Colt revolver cocked.

Then he added, “I take it you’re the last of this little party of murdering swine, Frenchy, and that makes me the only man here without a gun aimed at his head. Am I right, Raush?” Anderson yelled out the last few words.

Then came a silence that seemed to go on forever.

“I ain’t saying,” Raush finally growled.

“Oh, so you’re not saying, Raush,” Anderson reflected. “How about you, Frenchy? Are you the last one of this little party of pigs?” There was an edge in his tone that I hadn’t heard before, a fierceness he’d never shown in the year we’d been together.

“Mon Dieu,” was all Frenchy could say.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. There’s only the three of you. It seems we have situation here, gentlemen.” Anderson continued. “Well, I got nothing to worry about, so how about I just shoot you, Frenchy?”

“Sacrebleu!” Frenchy exclaimed.

I’d never heard Anderson talk like he just had. Sure that he’d lost his mind and that the fat would soon hit the fire, I though about Michelle Reynard once more, convinced I’d never see her again. The hand that held my Colt shook harder than ever.

Then Raush yelled out. “I don’t care what ya do to the damn Frenchman. I paid him to find my brother’s killer and he’s done it. Now I’m gonna hang Stoddard,”

“And all those men following you will be real happy that you killed the only man here who knows where the lake of gold is, right Raush?” Anderson replied.

“They can find their own gold,” Raush hollered back.

“Maybe they will,” Anderson agreed. “But maybe some of them might be mad enough at you to string you up beside Stoddard. What do you think, Frenchy?” Anderson asked and at once I realized his plan. Maybe I would see Michelle one more time after all.

“Mon ami,” said the Frenchman quietly, like he was talking directly to Anderson. “I think I will shoot Raush myself, s'il vous plait.”

“Oh yeah, Frenchy, you go ahead. Shoot away,” Anderson sang out, loud.

“I’ll still kill the boy,” yelled Grimes and pushed the pistol hard up against my temple. My newfound hope instantly drained away.

“Before I blow your fat head into little tiny pieces, Grimes,” Bird chirped in. “What axe you got to grind here?”

“It’s family,” answered Grimes. “Raush is my cousin.”

“Wait up!” barked Raush suddenly. “Don’t nobody shoot. How about we sit tight till sunup. Then we can settle this right.”

“What do you think about that, Stoddard?” Anderson asked.

“Yeah, anything, anything, just don’t let him hang me,” Stoddard whimpered. He sounded like a young schoolboy who’d been pounded on by the class bully.

“All right, Raush,” Anderson hollered out. “Let Stoddard go. We won’t shoot.”

Raush looked around warily, but pulled the noose from Stoddard’s neck then gave him a hard shove toward me. Stoddard tumbled to his hands and knees and started blubbering like a two-year-old baby that hadn’t been fed all day.

“There’s your killer,” Raush growled. “Grimes, you and Frenchy get over here.”

I felt the hard steel of Grimes’ Colt leave my temple. “Be careful, boy. I still got my eye on you,” he whispered in my ear before he slithered away.

“Frenchy, you comin’?” Raush snarled.

“I stay here, s'il vous plait,” Frenchy said real calm like.

“To hell with ya,” Raush snapped back. “We’ll string you up too. Come on, Grimes.” And both men disappeared into the darkness.

In spite of my own fear I ran the few feet to Stoddard and knelt in front of him. His eyes were wild and unfocused, spit dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He mumbled over and over again, “Don’t let him hang me, mama. I’m a good boy. I am. Don’t let him hang me.” And for the second time on this journey I felt pity for Stoddard.

“Sacrebleu,” whispered Frenchy and I realized he stood beside me. I looked up into a round, frowning face with a bushy moustache that drooped below the chin. “This Stoddard, he knows. There are more of the Grimeses,” Frenchy held up four fingers, “and more of the Raushes,” three fingers now. “They will be here after the sunrise.”

“No,” I blurted. “I won’t let that happen. I can’t.” I turned back to Stoddard. “Can you ride?” I asked in a soft voice.

“I can ride, Mama,” he said. “I can ride real good.”

Oh, Lord, I thought, he’s lost his mind but he still deserved a chance at least. I found his horse and in no time had him saddled and ready. Then I filled the saddlebags with as much food as I could cram into them and led the horse back to Stoddard.

Anderson grabbed my arm. “But the lake, Micah?” he whispered.

“I can’t let him hang,” I protested

Then in a hushed, confident tone Bird told Anderson, “We’ll find the gold.”

I pulled my arm free. “Here’s your horse, sir,” I said to Stoddard, and helped him into the saddle.

The panic flashed in his eyes again. “But the Injuns are out there,” he cried.

“Don’t worry about the Indians,” I said, thinking fast. “They’re on our side. They like you but they don’t like Raush and Grimes. Just remember not to shoot at them.”

“I won’t shoot at anybody, mama, I promise,” he muttered.

Then Bird walked up and pointed into the distance. “Do ya see the bright star just above that dark mountain peak?” he asked and Stoddard nodded. “Just ride towards it till ya get to the river then turn downstream. You’ll be fine.” And he whacked the horse’s rump so hard that Stoddard near tumbled off as he galloped into the night.

“It’ll be light soon enough. Best we get an early start,” Bird said as he tossed a pile of kindling onto the smoldering embers of our campfire and stuck a large pot of leftover beans close by to warm. The small fingers of flame quickly grew bright.

“I hear horses coming,” I announced, pointing to the direction we’d come from.

“Sacrebleu!” Frenchy exclaimed. “Raush has heard Monsieur Stoddard leave, I think. We’d best stay out of the light. He will shoot if he can.”

“Good thinking, Frenchy,” Bird said and we all moved away from the fire.

I hid behind the same oak tree as before and watched as Raush slowed from a gallop to a walk along the dim shadows across from the flames.

“Frenchy,” he yelled. “Was that Stoddard who rode outta here?”

“That was Monsieur Bird, mon ami,” Frenchy called back, lying through his teeth.

“Like hell!” Raush roared. “Come on Grimes, let’s ride,” he yelled back and spurred his mount just as Grimes rode up. In no time they’d disappeared into the dark.

After a quick meal of leftover beans, and in the dim twilight before the sun rose over the mountains, we also rode out of camp, following the prints of three horses pressed deep into the soft earth. Not long afterwards we heard a gunshot from somewhere ahead of us, then came frightened shouts and another shot. Soon terrible screams began, chilling my blood to the very bone. But I couldn’t tell who it was. None of us could.

Then Frenchy stopped. “Mes amis,” he began with a somber look on his face. “I think maybe the Indians have killed Raush and Stoddard. So I am safe now. I will go back and tell the men behind you that Stoddard is dead. They will not follow you then.”

Bird nodded. “Much obliged,” was all he said as Frenchy turned and rode off.

Soon more tracks came from the west. Bird said they were from unshod Indian ponies. It looked like they followed the same path as had Stoddard, Raush and Grimes, but there were so many that they covered the marks of the shod horses. Then the prints got all muddled together like everyone had stopped and milled around some. There was a lot of blood on the ground, and two sets of tracks led off, one to the west and the other on up the valley in the direction we were going, like the Indians had split up. We all figured that somebody had given up the ghost here, but had no idea who.

We’d all heard the terrible screams earlier this morning, and now we were sure some Indians were ahead of us so my hand never got far from the handle of my Colt and my head whirled constantly from side to side. No wild, savage Indian would sneak up on me, not if I could help it. Yet Bird and Anderson rode along as cool as could be, totally unruffled by what I knew to be our impending doom. By late afternoon the soft ground gave way to hard rock again and the tracks vanished.

Soon we rode northwest atop a deep, steep chasm thick with red fir, with a river at the bottom that ran a calm deep blue in some spots but mostly roared along spewing white foam across the many rocks in its path. The country here struck me as even more rugged than what we’d encountered around Downieville, and we were certainly much farther from any hint of civilization. Yet, in spite of keeping as close an eye out as I could, I’d still seen no sign of Indians, Raush, or Stoddard.

After two more days we came to a narrow valley, a half a mile long by thirty paces wide, at the bottom of a gorge hemmed in by near perpendicular hills thick with fir where the river plunged past a bar of gravel that even from the height at which we rode seemed to sparkle with the luster of gold. Unable to believe my eyes I stopped and stared. But I’d mined gold for a whole year now and never had any mining site I’d ever seen shown as many signs of wealth as this one, in spite of it sitting so far down the bluff.

The others had ridden on, like they hadn’t noticed. “Anderson, Bird,” I cried. “There’s gold down there. I’m sure.”

They stopped and looked into the gorge. Suddenly Bird grinned like he’d just gotten a plate of the best beefsteak in California cooked by the prettiest girl around. “This might be the spot Stoddard found, son,” he said more excited than he’d ever been.

“But this isn’t a lake, sir,” I replied.

“Naw,” he said. “Stoddard lied about the lake. He had to say something to throw folks off his trail.”

Then Anderson added, “I think you’re right, Micah. It sure looks like there’s gold in that gravel. Why don’t we find out?”

Leading his mule and the two Stoddard left with us, Bird began to work his way down the cliff face to the river. I followed Anderson, each of us with two mules, something we’d decided to do because of the incident with Lem and Jedidiah. This way, if anything happened to one of us as we snaked our way along the steep descent, the other would still have supplies.

Then, as I neared the bottom, I noticed both of them had stopped alongside the river. They stared up into an ancient dead fir tree that had grown stunted in rocky ground, with two twin trunks splitting from a single base about eight feet up, the tops of each long since broken off, one at fifteen feet and the other a little higher.

I reined up behind them and followed their eyes. There I saw a well-worn felt hat tied down tight over a tattered black coat and a pair of ragged wool trousers, and all wedged between the trunks with a lot of feathers and the rear end rattles of sidewinders hanging in front. Then I realized that bones were inside the clothes. I could see the lower part of a skull under the hat and a shinbone stuck out from one torn pant leg. I started to shake. This had been a person, and whatever happened hadn’t been pleasant.

“It’s Raushes’ brother isn’t it?” I asked to no one in particular.

“Likely,” said Bird.

“How did he . . .” I mumbled, unable to finish.

“Injuns,” Bird answered. “They caught him then tied him up there. The snake rattles kept the buzzards off. That way he’d die real slow after they’d had their fun.”

“Fun?” I moaned, not understanding Bird’s sarcasm at all.

Anderson dropped to the ground. “Let’s give him a proper burial,” he suggested. Bird went with him but I couldn’t bring myself to help with such a gruesome task. Still, I aimed to do my share so I pulled out a pick and shovel and began to dig. When we were done Anderson quoted some bible passages from memory and said a short prayer.

I wanted to get away from the gravesite as quick as I could. The whole thing had my mind bouncing around like a kid’s rubber ball. I didn’t know what the Indians had done to Raushes’ brother exactly, but it had to be downright horrible and I felt sure now that Stoddard had seen the whole thing, but here we were right on top of the place where he’d found those huge nuggets and I was determined to get what we came for.

So right off I rode toward the gravel bar I’d seen from above. After pulling the packs from both mules I left them to water in the river and walked over toward a likely looking spot and sank my shovel into the sand, slopped it into my gold pan and squatted at the edge of the river and began to wash out all the lighter sand and dirt and pick out the rocks with my hands. It didn’t take that long until I realized I had gotten rid of everything but the gold and I still had a whole pan brimming with stuff, all of it gold.

“Anderson,” I screamed. “Look here!”

He was beside me in no time. “My God,” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Most men feel real good to find an ounce of color in their pan. You must have nine or ten here. That’s a hundred and fifty dollars at least, in one shovel full of ore.” Then he turned and pointed to the gold for the benefit of Bird who’d just rushed up beside us. “Take a gander at this, Bird!” he crowed.

A look I knew well swept instantly across Bird’s face, just like I’d seen in so many men when they got that first sight of pure gold that came from the bare earth around them and the idea instantly started to percolate inside their head about how much more gold could be buried in the gravel of the very bar where they stood. It’s called gold fever and like all the others that glint of gold gleamed bright in Bird’s eyes, eyes that grew as big as the very pan they stared into. He’d had caught the fever all right, hooked like a trout in a mountain stream.

We started panning with the single-minded zeal that the fever metes out in large doses to its victims, and in what seemed like no time Bird yelled out, “Here they are, Stoddard’s nuggets. Look at ‘em! Look at ‘em!”

Both Anderson and I dropped our shovels to rush over by Bird. He’d only run a splash of water across his ore, enough to clean the dust away, and the whole pan gleamed of gold in huge lumps just like the ones Stoddard flashed that day in Nevada City.

I pulled one out and held in front of my eyes, lost in its special lure, my heart pounding like a racehorse. “That pan full must weigh five pounds,” I said.

“More,” added Anderson. “Stoddard was right. This place is loaded with gold.”

“Just in case the Indians didn’t get him, shouldn’t we put a quarter of what we find aside for Stoddard?” I said. “We wouldn’t be here except that he told us about this.” It came over me quick. My mother had called it the goodness of my soul.

Bird and Anderson both nodded. “Done,” said Anderson. ”There’s plenty here for everyone. We’ll save a share for him until we know for sure.” 

We worked the bar all summer, and though a lot more men showed up, many who were with Raush, we never said a word about finding the body, or let on that this was the spot Stoddard had found and that there was no lake of gold. Then, that fall, we loaded our mules with all we’d mined and made our way down the North Feather River to where it joined the Yuba. There we came to a new town, Marysville, growing rapidly by supplying miners in places just like where we’d been and so we decided to stay.

The three of us, with Stoddard as a silent partner, built a wildly profitable business bringing up mining supplies on a steamer then hauling them by mule train to the remote camps strewn along the Yuba and Feather rivers. And now, after these three years, here was Stoddard, ranting on madly about his lake of gold until even the drunkest of his listeners left, and he began to mutter much as he had the last time I’d seen him.

“Stoddard,” I called. “I’m Micah Poole. Don’t you remember me?”

He gazed back through unfocused eyes, clothes in rags, hair and beard unkempt and littered with the straw he must’ve slept in last night. “I’ve got nuggets,” he mumbled and frantically searched through the pockets of a well-worn frock coat.

“Are you hungry,” I continued, knowing he must be.

His head bobbed up and his eyes finally found me, but he said nothing.

“My wife is an excellent cook and you’re more than welcome,” I added.

Then he shook his head, almost in fear, “ No, no, I can’t. I’m not dressed—“

“You’re fine I’m sure. Michelle would love to see you.”

“Michelle Reynard?” he blurted, sounding as sober as a judge.

“Well, yes, before we were married, she’s Michelle Poole now.”

“A beautiful woman! It would be an honor, sir,” he said and began to straighten his hair. “Have we met before?” he suddenly asked of me.

“Come along, Stoddard. We have a lot to talk about.” I replied then walked off toward my home. He followed like a puppy, appearing by any measure as the most down and out man in California, while, in truth, he was now among the richest.

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