October, 2013

Issue #49

Blacksnake
by Sumner Wilson

An anecdote from a wayside tavern.

Innovation turns the wheels of progress and advances civilization. Time just won't stand still. So when the railroad won the transportation war with steamboat service, the gambler, Truck, left the rivers, took his grip and deck of cards and hit the rails. In only a few short years, he became as well known to all those who operated the rails as he'd once been on the rivers. He shrewdly harvested acquaintances with the engineers who ran the mighty engines, the conductors, the brakeman, the station agents, the porters. Always a garrulous type, those who met him found they were unable to resist his charm or the big tips he left.

August 1890, Lyons Beach, Ozora County.

Truck snagged a layover in the tiny burg of Lyon's Beach. At least five hours or so said the station agent. He paid in advance to have his luggage loaded the moment his connecting train hit the station. He just knew that five hours of sheer boredom faced him. He squared up with the agent, and then followed the crowd of stranded passengers—men—toward what he considered the downtown area, which, in truth, was all there was of the town.

He followed the men—like a herd of sheep—into the first gin mill in his path—Shiny Tom's.

Shiny Tom's front door stood wide open. The same held true for the back door. This created a draft, much like a chimney. The draft drew the smoke outside, or that was the intent. However, this proved to be a feeble fable. It did little to rid the gin mill of smoke. When he stepped inside, it stood so thick in the air that even by standing on tiptoe, he still couldn't orient himself to the layout of the interior, which sadly meant he couldn't locate the bar. The joint smelled of stale beer, sweat and urine, whiskey and puke. Not all the urine was human. He saw a pocket-sized jenny against the north wall, alongside a long bench occupied to maximum capacity by topers who were enjoying their Saturday frolic. Truck had seen animals in drinking hells before, and wasn't even close to being shocked. With its eyes closed, the jenny unconsciously munched from what was left of a bale of hay lying on the floor.

The occupants of the bench spoke at full volume. All talked, none listened. Busy, as they were every Saturday in taverns across the country, giving the "boss" hell. Truck had heard every single one of the complaints made by men just like these in his wandering, gambling life.

Men yelled for more beer, for whiskey, for gin, and just for the hell of the yell. Saturdays—and strong drink—always set workingmen up as a special breed. No guff from the boss today. This was their day. If the "man" showed his mug inside Shiny Tom's today, he'd likely wind up with a bad case of the gone-ass straight off. But he wasn't here, wouldn't be here. He'd learned long ago not to attempt to make friends with his "hands." He was too big a chump for that, anyway, or so his workers liked to boast. Shiny Tom's was their grand lodge.

When the tear ducts of his fiery eyes flushed away the burn of pollutants, he saw two men rolling around on the floor beating each other senseless, or trying to do just that. One of them—the man on the bottom—had bitten off the lower half of his opponent's ear. Blood flooded from his mouth, which made him look like an old drunk lady who'd applied her lipstick without the aid of a mirror. The man held the part of the ear he'd just amputated in a firm tooth-grip in the vise of his overpowering, hazardous jaws. He looked to Truck to be a new strain of hominid, yet to be named and studied. No one tried to break them up. What's more, it appeared no one even saw the two men wallowing around on the floor, amid the cigar stubs, tobacco juice, urine, and sawdust strewn about to keep down the dust, which, he noticed, was failing in its duties.

He stepped a few feet deeper into the establishment with great relish, and cased the lovely joint.

"Get the hell out of my way, booby," someone said, as if Truck were still standing in the flow of traffic, which he wasn't, but not because he wasn't trying. However, the lug was drunk. So he decided to overlook him. He'd been drunk a time or so himself, and knew the way the wind blew. His hearing seemed ready to shut down from the roar created by the bursting-at-the-seams house.

The joint smelled good to Truck, like a new book to a book lover. He liked the noise and filth so much—the odor—that he reckoned Shiny Tom's tavern would suit his tastes just fine. In fact, he loved the joint, without even setting eyes on Shiny Tom himself. He figured he'd take to him as well, when he did see him. He had good judgment when it came to determining a man's character. Sure, he'd barked up the wrong tree more than once, although he tried his best not to dwell on his mistakes.

"What a bully fine joint to while away a couple of hours," he said. Already, he'd forgotten that he was supposed to be bored with this layover. He said it, but was unable to hear his own words, for the large rumble of shouted voices, of feet scuffing the floorboards, of the rubber bumpers of pool sticks striking the floor, which was symbolic of a summons for a fresh rack of cue balls.

The rack boys—five of them—were in a dandy run trying with a valiant effort to keep up with the demand commerce placed on them. But it looked to Truck as if they were bailing water from a boat that'd just struck a large stone in a rock-infested shoal and ripped out half the bottom. There was no way to keep up. They tried though. Truck gave them good credit for their courage and stamina. There were eight pool tables and one of billiards. Pretty much a sprawling affair.

He stood for a time attempting to locate the bar, for the smoke still hindered his vision. He tapped the shoulder of a man—one wearing dirty overalls. Truck figured the man hadn't bothered to go home after leaving work at noon—even long enough to change into clean duds. He'd planned to ask the gent where the bar stood, but the man was full into his binge. He whirled around and swung his beer mug at Truck's head. Truck ducked the man's efforts with ease, and stepped into the nearest low bank of clouds out of sight of the foolish and quite fortunate drunk, for Truck was a crack boxing master, among his innumerable talents.

He wasn't one to take advantage of a man on his Saturday spree. So he stepped deeper into the haze, and when he spied an old man—he must've been the local philosopher for he had long white hair, down to his belt that flowed like an Alpine ski run, as well as a beard that fell to his knees—he quick-stepped over to him. Truck took him for the owner of the jenny, for he sat, sipping a drink from a filthy glass, eating peanuts and fondling the side of the placid beast, which seemed a sure sign of ownership.

"Please sir," he said. He removed his swell brown derby. "Is it possible that you'd be kind enough to direct me to the bar? I'm dry as a bone and nigh to dying of thirst"

"Yes, I can" the beard said. "I will too, but under one condition."

Dry, sure enough, but still patient, Truck asked, "What's this one condition?"

"That you fetch me a gin and tonic." He turned then and pointed to the east to indicate where the bar lay hidden in the clouds.

"Will do." He started to skip off, gaining new strength from the promise of a drink, but the old man caught him by the arm with finger knuckles knotty as dresser knobs. "Yes sir?"

"Plus a bottle of red sody pop."

"A bottle of red sody pop?"

"Yes sir. For my jenny here. She's still thirsty even though she's already downed a case of them."

Truck turned and charged full-out into the cloudbank. By and by, he found the bar. To his regret, however, customers stood four deep, awaiting their turn. But after twenty-five minutes—according to the Seth Miller on the wall—he finally fought his way to the bar and placed his order.

Shiny Tom, decked out in a stiff white shirt, black bowtie, and emerald green sleeve garters, stood with elbows propped upon the bar in a shouted conversation with a few men Truck figured were the barkeep's cherished friends. He knew it was Shiny Tom by the high-gloss shine upon the good man's bald head.

Taking time to converse with friends was all right, he figured, for four hired flunkies, with tongues that lapped down to their shirt pockets, battled, with stoic gallantry, to keep up, and the cash register was making proud music, playing a lively Sousa tune that sounded to Truck like The Double Eagle March. Shiny Tom's joint proved to be a moneymaker, or so thought the gambler. A right vigorous bar, it was. And the ambience was really some fine peaches.

He collected his order and took the gin and tonic, a whiskey, and the bottle of red pop back to where the philosopher sat stroking his jenny.

Truck handed over the drinks, and before he even sipped his gin and tonic, the old fellow felt it necessary to attempt to quench the thirst of the jenny. Truck thought this noble of the old man, and stood easy to enjoy his whiskey. He watched the animal swilling the red pop, and this furthered his pleasure.

After he returned from a second bar run, the old man patted a vacant seat right next to him. But, before he could take it, stepping slow, like a gentleman, a fellow in a neat gray worsted suit, standing beneath a 25.0-rated derby hat, which made Trucks's own derby look like rat skin, attempted to beat him to the seat.

It looked bad there for a time, but the philosopher, not one to lose a sponsor, tripped the man with a sudden outthrust leg. Then, while the man tried to scramble to his feet, Truck claimed triumph over the seat with a loud whoop, which perked the ears of the jenny. She then turned his way, broke loud wind, and showed him its yellow teeth in a forged smile.

The man in the worsted suit flashed Truck a mean eye, brushed off both knees and pressed on without further hatefulness. The old man smiled a sly smile, snorted a spiteful snicker, then continued to bottle-feed his animal.

After two hours of hearty quaffing, Truck talked the old man into holding his claim on his seat. He had to go to the toilet.

While inside the foul, rank-smelling room, taking a much needed leak into a metal trough, he saw a long smudge of what he first took to be black ink on the wall. But when the smudge moved, he changed his mind. He learned then that the smudge was nothing less than a huge black rafter snake, racing up the wall. Blacksnakes, Truck knew, were not poisonous but did have sharp, clingy teeth. Finished, he hastened his step back to his bench seat.

Another hour of red pop proved to be too much for the jenny. When the philosopher saw the animal under duress, he patted her side, and spoke sweet-talk to her like a concerned parent to an ill child. Despite the sweet-talk, the suffering animal walked a few feet, turned four rapid circles, and threw up all over the floor. Then, with a relieved stomach, she nuzzled the old man until the philosopher gave her another large swill of pop. Afterward she shook her mousy coat, and flopped down with a solid thump upon the floor at her master's feet not far from where she'd emptied the contents of her stomach. Bits of red vegetable matter lay in the foul mess. Truck thought it likely they were red bell peppers. Some gray sludge that might've been turnips was mixed in there as well, half-digested hay, and, of course, red sody pop.

Truck amused himself for the next thirty minutes by watching topers hurtling the large wash of thrown-up ooze on the floor not far from his seat.

At length, he heard the loud slam of the toilet door. A man who looked to be insane, scared to death, or both, raced away from the toilet. His trousers were down around his knees. He must've been doing serious business in the john, Truck figured. The wild man raced across the floor as if he were trying out for the local cross-country team, doing so in spite of the clothing wadded now around his ankles, and screaming like Aunt Janey Jones at full voice with every leap.

The burly, bald barman caught up a pistol and gave pursuit. Then when he must've felt he was in range, he fired one off. He was no marksman, Truck saw, but to his good credit he was in a full run, attempting to hit a moving target. So, the roving gambler calculated this allowance.

Truck leaned forward just as the fleeing man squared the corner at the end of the nearby billiards table. Now he saw what'd caused the ruckus. The fleeing man, trousers down around his ankles, wasn't alone. For a blacksnake had attached itself—jaw teeth firm—to his backside. The very snake Truck had encountered on his earlier visit to the jakes. It dragged the floor behind the fleeing man as if the luckless fellow had grown a tail while going about his duties in the john.

A few of the braver chumps along the gauntlet, tried to stomp the man's tail, but each and all missed by a good margin. The snake-man was now circling the pool tables, and trying to take the tight square out of all corners, but with no success. By and by, charging way too fast, he crashed foursquare into the far wall under a full head of steam. Truck thought this would end his part in Shiny Tom's gay circus. But, sad to say, he was only too wrong, which happened to him but infrequently, perhaps once every other year.

The sprinter leapt to his feet, and lit out again. The snake still dragged along behind its host, as is predictable of all tails. Then, just in front of Truck's eyes, its host hurtled the gunk, and the reptile dragged along through it as well. The blacksnake and its engine had little difficulty traversing the slimy terrain, but when Shiny Tom hit the sludge, his feet went skyward, his head floorward. When he struck the floor flat of his back, air burst from Shiny Tom's lungs like a locomotive exhausting a vast quantity of steam.

But the unconquerable barman leapt to his feet, backside covered in swill, further stinking up the joint, and continued his pursuit with no thought to conceding, still touching off his pistol.

"Kapow!"

"Kapow!"

"Kapow!" Again, he fired, with no thought to reloading the device of death he held in his hand. At least it might've been a device of death in the hands of one better suited as a marksman, such as Truck.

Then, in front of the billiards table, the snake fell to the floor of its own devices, or perhaps from the good graces of our lord and savior. It then scampered forth with much haste beneath the nearest pool table.

Shiny Tom had suffered a minor back injury from his short flight and heavy fall, and was unable to bend over the required distance to shoot the limbless, scaly, elongated creature that now lurked about in the dark shadows beneath the table.

"Quick, Slim, run behind the bar. Fetch the broom. See if you can roust this old gentleman from under this here table. I mean to kill this chap. He's had run of this joint far too long."

Truck learned then that this was not the first encounter between these two combatants.

Slim, no median runner himself, returned with the broom in a twinkle of a fair maiden's eye. He set to work then to drive the snake from its stronghold, where it appeared it was about to make its last stand.

Slim poked the grip end of the broom under the table first, and jabbed about for a spell.

"Turn the broom around, idiot," yelled Shiny Tom. He had one of those bugling voices that would've served him well as a ringmaster of the Boggs & Shepherd Circus. "Sweep him out of there. Ain't you never operated no broom?"

It soon became obvious to all the snake had taken up residence beneath the table, and had settled in until the next due date of the tax census.

Slim got down on his knees then, and did swell duty. He shoved and poked and brushed and swept. But, with no good result. The snake knew its rights. It arched its neck in defiance like a work-weary mule.

By and by, the creature decided to run a bluff. It unhinged its jaws, laid its lower mandible far down on its neck. Its upper jaw ran up past the line of sight of its beady, snaky eyes. The insides of its mouth looked as white as salt.

When he saw this, Slim leapt upward so fast he struck his skull on the ledge of the pool table. The table shifted nary an inch, but the hapless Slim? Well, he fell flat on his face, out cold.

A couple of thoughtful gents grabbed him by the ankles. They dragged the poor fellow out of the flow of traffic where he might find safety until he battled back from the thick and wooly darkness that always seems to accompany oblivion.

Another of Shiny Tom's bravo's snatched up the fallen broom, dropped to his knees, and advanced on the snake.

But straightaway, he backed out of danger. Truck watched as he looked up at Shiny Tom, and in his most intrepid voice said, "I don't know 'bout this here, Tom. This mightn't be the creature we think 'tis."

Three of the bystanders bent, peeked beneath the table, and rose as one to agree with the other old boy. One said, "I think we might just have ourselves a cottonmouth on our hands."

Shiny Tom's face turned much redder. The broad eyebrows that hovered above his pale orbs fluttered like birds in flight.

"Egadfrey!" he yelled. "I'm in a room full of complete idiots. That there ain't no such a damn thing as a cottonmouth."

The old boy assaulted by the snake while in the john, now sat upon the floor against the wall. He shook his head and mumbled thankful prayers for his safe delivery. No one there felt they should offer him any sympathy whatsoever, or so it appeared to the gambler.

Truck heard the philosopher laughing heartily, joined occasionally by same from the jenny.

The snake sat in a curl with head reared, and stared shamelessly into Shiny Tom's eyes. Then seeing it couldn't stare down the barman, it struck at him a couple of times, then fled with the intention of exiting on the far side of the table.

The entire fearless troop scampered to the other side. They screamed and yelled at Tom in top lung with each step. They implored him to shoot the snake without further delay. Fortunately, for all there, Shiny Tom was the only man heeled.

Truck saw his friend, the philosopher, behind the bar, building himself a fresh gin and tonic, disinclined to wait for the end of the engagement, evidently. His laughter rattled the rows of glasses behind the bar, and when he reached his bench seat, the jenny commenced laughing along with the old-timer.

Shiny Tom drew a bead on the departing snake.

"Kapow!"

As per average, he missed.

The bedlamites, in pursuit, bounced with glee off one another, off the walls, off of and even over the pool tables, blind to everything, except their manic chase.

After much commotion, they managed to corner the scaly beast again.

"Egadfrey," Shiny Tom yelled. "I've got you now, my bully slithering friend. Lay back, boys. Lay back. I mean to clip his fearsome head from his shoulders with one true shot from this bulldog pistol."

Tom's courageous students stood back, save for a few who were more foolish. Shiny Tom drew a "true" bead. The stouthearted battalion sensed great things in the offing.

The barkeep took his good time. But, at the precise moment he fired one off, the snake decided to move. The movement caused an instinctive leaping foot stomp from one of the men—the same worsted-suit-wearing gent Truck had beaten to the bench seat earlier. The snake-stomper had nearly as poor aim as did Shiny Tom and missed his target. Shiny Tom missed his primary target as well, however, he did manage to hit the brave soldier in the metatarsals, and Truck reckoned by this that his aim had improved. He allowed then the fellow in the worsted suit was a man born to lose.

The snake scurried off like its tail was ablaze and it in search of a cool body of water large enough in which to extinguish the flame. On it fled. In and out, between and through. Round and about the busy stomping feet.

The wounded comrade hobbled along. He grabbed at his foot, and wept with no shame. No one, however, cared at all about the sorry chump's condition, but continued the pursuit, screaming to lift the rafters. It appeared several times they'd trapped the supple creature, but due to their ineptitude, it always managed to make escape without much trouble, suffering absolutely no harm.

The philosopher's laughter ruffled his beard like a stage curtain. His jenny broke bountiful air, and laughed along.

"Shut them doors," screamed Shiny Tom. "Don't let him outside."

Truck stood as close to the action as he dared, enjoying the chase, and had totally forgotten time in a way a man will do during moments of high excitement when the adrenaline flows like an artesian well. So when he looked up to the sound of his friend calling from the bench seat, he saw him waving to attract his attention.

"In station, young sir," he cried. "Your train's in station."

"Ain't this is a piss-poor time for the train to show?" he muttered. Being a powerful runner though, he figured he'd see the jolly performance to its conclusion.

The snake headed for a corner. It seemed to all there it'd made a fatal mistake. There was nowhere for it to go. The wall would stop him.

"Egad, boys. We got him now," the barkeep shouted.

But the snake lunged straight up the wall, and increased its speed as it gained altitude.

Amazed for the moment, all stood and gaped, watching the goal it had in mind. By and by, in spite of the fact the ceiling was covered in pressed tin, it made for a rat hole gnawed in the plaster of the wall just below where it and tin met.

"Shoot, Tom," said Slim. He'd recovered just now and rejoined the posse. "Shoot the damned thing. It's headin' for that hole."

"Shoot."

"Yes, shoot, Tom."

"Egad, sir . . . it's gettin' away."

"Shoot, Tom."

Shiny Tom held his fire. He did have the weapon raised however, and had drawn a bead along its shiny blue barrel.

"Shoot, Tom, if ever you plan to."

Still the august bartender held off, with the pistol held aloft. His balding pate turned the light right fine, even in the murky, smoke-filled room.

The snake now was but a few feet from freedom. Tension swelled the air like biblical hatred.

"Shoot, Tom. Or give me that there gun, and I'll do 'er for you."

"Train, boy," cried the sage."Train's in station. Engine isn't going to the house to be serviced. She's a run-through."

The jenny broke wind again, bared its teeth, and laughed loud and crow-like.

Truck had but little time. Still—well, hell, he wanted to see this adventure to its dramatic end.

"Shoot!"

"Yes, shoot the bugger."

The snake now had its head buried in the hole.

"Shiny Tom!"

"Train, boy, train. You're fixing to get left.

He had to make his move now or spend several further long hours in this burg. He commenced walking backward toward the door.

Just when all looked dire in defeat, Shiny Tom jerked alert. He pulled down again on the snake.

Truck paused at the door, one foot inside, one outside.

A hush like what will probably fall over all creation at the exact moment the cruel comet destined eons ago to strike Earth, thereby ending time, now enveloped that glorious gin mill.

"I daren't leave now even if it means being stranded the night through."

Just then, he heard the saddest, sorriest sound of his entire life. Instead of a mighty "boom" a pale puff of smoke rising from the barrel of the gun, and a large blacksnake falling dead from on high, he heard instead a dry, melancholy click.

The hammer had fallen on an empty chamber.

The snake disappeared into the rafters, where it seemed it made its home.

Shiny Tom turned to Slim. "Hell's afire, Slim. I do believe I just run out of ammo."

This then was it. The game was up.

Truck spun about and pulled-foot in full gallop. By the time he reached the middle of the street, still a hundred yards to go, the iron monster shook and quaked like some enormous beast attempting to shed rainwater from its hide.

A long passage of steam issued to the ground from its boiler port. Smoke streamed skyward. Truck ran faster.

Now that he'd witnessed a decisive anti-climax to the late struggle, there was but one goal in mind. He must make the train. He wouldn't be satisfied to stay the night in this burg. He leapt up onto the platform. The train had picked up speed. This'd be touch and go. If only he didn't run out of air.

Off-loaded passengers stood and watched. Some cheered for Truck. The majority, of course, rooted for the train.

He ran as never before. The grab-iron, shiny as steel in the spring sunshine, lured him on. He threw out a hand, felt the grab-iron with the tip of his middle finger. The crowd behind him jeered and cheered at the same time, and in full lung.

He was almost all in. His wind was gone. But, he wasn't man enough to get left. He couldn't face that mob of unruly cutthroats behind him. Besides that, his entire outfit had already been loaded in the baggage car. He saw no other choice.

His middle finger found a friend in the ring finger. Joined soon by his index finger, and then by the pinky as well.

He closed his hand on the iron. He made his leap, lashed out with his left hand toward the far grab-iron, and swung up onto the back platform like a slick, old-head brakeman. By now, the train had increased speed. It fairly clicked and clacked down the rails.

He chanced a peek up at the hog-head on his high engine seat. Even from the distance of six passenger cars, he saw a large smile plastered wide upon his fat mug.

With all due gratitude, Truck swept out his handkerchief, and highballed him.

"Toot-Tootey-Toot-TOOOOOoooooooooooot!" the hogger responded in his signature whistle.

Truck clomped on up the steps, and by the time he entered the car in a scout for the club car or the bar, the engineer already had the throttle in number four position. As he restored his wind and found his way through the first car, they fairly whizzed along. The brave engineman now had the throttle all the way up in number eight, Truck figured. Buried to the maximum.

Feeling vinegary in success, he hailed a plump, luscious and viperous-looking young female. Even though he was well-known on this line, he didn't recognize her, and this whetted his appetite for fresh female companionship.

"Could you tell me where the bar is, miss? I'm dry as a bone, and nigh to dying of thirst."

She cast a bold, exploratory eye at Truck, smiled, pleased by what she saw evidently, and with much pluck and downright sass, said, "I can't tell you where 'tis, but I most assuredly can and will show you the way. Just you follow me, big boy."

Follow her he did, with his eye locked tight on the wonderful undulations of her gorgeous hips, and the grand and firm bounce of her young and stately rump.

Onward, sped the train. Onward toward more, even greater accomplishments and adventures, or so hoped Truck, the tireless roving railroad gambler.

Ephraim's Birthday
by Nancy Hartney

Cowboys jerked horses hard onto their haunches before the hitching rail. Grainy dust billowed over porch chairs as they dismounted and stomped from harsh afternoon sunlight toward the smoke-dingy interior of the Black Dog Saloon.

Curly and Slim grabbed Ephraim around his skinny neck and playfully pulled and pushed him through the swinging doors, raucous noise spilling ahead of them.

"Ease up boys," croaked Ephraim, his peach-fuzz face glowing. "I'm a-coming." Although embarrassed by the fuss, he felt happy. Cold beer and dancing with a gal. What more could a feller want?

"Darn tooting you coming. Birthday man got to buy first round," teased Curley.

They knocked dust from their boots, laughed, and shoved against each other, young colts running free.

"Good Lord almighty, it's the Crooked Creek riders," hollered Thelma pushing herself up from the table as the men streamed into the saloon.

"You boys come on in. I'll get my girls down here before you get to your second beer. Let's get them wages spent." She flashed a toothy smile and slapped her thigh.

"Leave them spitters and that broom work go for now," she called to the swamper. "Git on upstairs and tell Scarlet and Dumpling to hurry down here. We got customers." Wrinkled beyond her years, Thelma had a bass-drum voice and matching size.

Grabbing a stained towel, the rat-faced bartender wiped stray spills and readied mugs. Customers at scattered tables drained their beers, raised glasses, and nodded for refills.

A barrel chested buffalo hunter heaved his bulk down the bar and scowled at the rambunctious jumble. He reeked of unwashed flesh. Hoisting his carbine, he stepped into their boisterous path, shouldering Ephraim against a wooden table. The table wobbled wildly. A chair thudded over, stiff legs pointed out.

"Lordy, mister, you ought to watch were you a-going." Ephraim steadied the table and balanced himself.

"You done been out with them shaggies too long. What's the matter with you anyhow?" He felt irritated with the man's deliberate rudeness.

"You coyote whelp. Watch where yer going. Keep that opinion of yer'n tucked up." The hunter stood wide-legged, his right hand curled around a deer horn knife handle.

"I'd as soon gut you as spit," he continued. "Likes of your kind ruining the plains, dragging them cows 'ever place. Towns popping up worser than prairie dogs."

Ephraim's eyes trailed down to the knife and callused hand, the man's threat vibrating between them.

"Sorry, mister, I don't mean nuthin. Place is big enough for all of us." His face reddened, a sour knot of fear twisted his gut as he shrugged and shuffled around the hunter's savage stink.

Thelma waddled toward the two men and placed her bulk next to Ephraim.

"You men in a respectable saloon. Drop that kinda talk." She turned her back on the hunter and shoved Ephraim toward the bar.

Scarlett and Dumpling minced down the stairs and coyly rubbed among the hooting cowboys.

"Let's liven up this old Saturday," said Thelma. "My girls here now and ready to tear a hole in the night. Git your pocket jingle out." She waved a puffy hand toward the Negro piano player. "Seth, get over yonder and play us a tune."

Laughing, the cowboys pushed on toward the bar, digging in their pockets for beer money.

"Move over fellers," hollered Slim. "Make room for Ephraim. That is, if he finds time to stop jawing with that flea-covered buffalo shooter." He pulled Ephraim away from Thelma and toward the bar.

"Yeah, come on. Leave 'ol Buffer alone. We gotta drink to your birthday. Set 'em up for everyone." Slim, a reed-thin, crossed-eyed cowboy leaned forward and slapped the bar. "We been eating steer dust and howling at the moon nigh on two months," he said, helping slide foam-draped mugs among his fellows.

"You heard the man. No need to call me twice. I ain't shy." Baldy grabbed a brew, drank half, and wiped his mouth on a shirt sleeve. "Boss says we fixing to trail towards Dodge City end of this here month. We gonna need this here beer. Drink up boys."

"Gall-darn worthless cow chasers," growled the buffalo shooter to no one in particular. "Run in here raising up enough dust to choke a grizzly." His slurred words spilled through rotted teeth. A puckered scar speared down his leathery cheek and ended in a filthy beard-nest.

Friends thumped Ephraim on the back, raised glasses, and gulped amber liquid. He blushed as he flipped his grey Stetson back to dangle by a braided stampede string. Despite the altercation, he felt randy.

"Get that piano cranked up and lets us do some dancing," chimed in Baldy as he grabbed a second foam-dripping mug and pranced to the piano.

"I play long as you buy my beer," Seth said, banging enthusiastically on the keys.

The hunter glowered at their gaiety, staggered to the end of the bar, propped his Sharps in a corner, and slapped a rough, grime-ringed hand on the counter.

"Beer. Now."

"Don't you reckon you done had plenty? Maybe you oughtn't to quit?" The bartender glanced at the grizzled old man while he drew a refill for a traveling salesman. He placed a brew before the tenderfoot and turned back to the hunter.

"Why don't you let my Chinaman draw you a bath and give you a shave? You come back clean and I give first whiskey on the house." He spread liver-spotted hands on the wood surface and stared into the hunter's muddy eyes.

"You saying I ain't good enough fer this here slop wallow? Seen you fill up that sissified drummer down at the end quick enough. Noticed you ready to serve them cow nursemaids." He leaned back and pounded a fist on the bar.

"Likes of me that got these here plains open for you tit-suckers, fancy pants, and heel squatters." He hawked, leaned over, and spat on the floor. "Squaws good enough for most men till them sporting women come crowding in."

Bartender shrugged, drew a beer, shoved it toward the man, and turned to other customers.

In the distance, heat lightning lit the late-day sky and fell away into pink and steel-colored clouds. Horses with burr-matted tails stood hip-cocked at the rail and swished flies.

Inside, Thelma laughed and clapped time to the tune. Two sodbusters, in town buying supplies, drifted across the room, and joined the raucous singing. Townsmen, drawn by the rowdy noise, pushed in to watch and drink.

Buffer downed his beer, stepped back from the bar, and slumped into a corner chair. He dozed, his mouth open, head drooped against his chest. Drool, stringing down, wet his shirt front.

Joints knotted from years in a bronc saddle, Baldy lifted his mug and toasted the saloon doves.

"Gals, you gonna dance with us or drink?"

"You boys keep us in beer and we'll dance your hind legs off," challenged Scarlett, flipping her red hair. She swished forward, green taffeta dress rustling, and set her half-filled glass on the piano.

"You not a-waiting on me," Baldy replied as he grabbed her freckled hand, stomped his heel on the floor, and plowed into a lively two-step around the sawdust dance floor.

Curly elbowed Ephraim. "Don't let that old bald coot dance them gals down. Grab a handful for yourself while they fresh."

"Damn right. You take this one." Thelma pushed Dumpling forward. "She's soft and round. She'll cushion them skinny bones of yours." The madam waddled to the piano.

Dumpling twisted a coffee-colored curl around a pudgy finger, raised an eyebrow, and rubbed her ample bosom against Ephraim.

His eyes widened as he sucked in a deep breath, exhaled slowly and shifted from foot-to-foot.

"Why, you such a sweet boy and good looking besides," she cooed, rubbed his face with her hand, and smiled. "A birthday feller too."

"Why thank you ma'am. I ain't never had no pretty lady say stuff like that to me." He felt flustered and shy.

"Well, let's us have ourselves a birthday dance, big boy." She threw her head back, brayed out a laugh, grabbed his hand, and twirled across the floor.

A store clerk and two freight drivers drifted in, swelling the noisy party, as they clapped and waited on a turn with the gals.

Night swallowed light as an afternoon sun retreated. Salt-soaked, faded shirts grew damp as men clomped among tables, danced with each other, whirled the two gals, and even swung the draft-horse-hipped madam.

By night, sodbusters, still singing and reeking of brew, stumbled out to patiently-waiting mule teams and started home at a trot toward disapproving wives.

Ephraim, feeling bold with his fourth beer, groped Dumpling's ample curves and shuffled around the dance floor. Lordy but she had huge tits. He swung her wide and grabbed her on the back-swing. She cozied against him then twirled out, dropped his hand, and grabbed her skirt lifting it in a saucy to-and-fro high-step.

I could live all winter in that line cabin if'n I had her there, he thought. He threw his head back, howled, and swung her around again.

Surprised by the raw howling passion and whirled wide, Dumpling lost her balance and stumped her foot against the sleeping hunter's chair. Startled awake, he flung his legs wide and roared to standing. The chair clattered over backwards.

She reeled a few steps, bumped against his hip, and grabbed at his shirt front.

"Oops. I done woke you up. Sorry." She giggled and swayed in front of him. "I was trying to keep from a-falling."

His scarred hand shot out, slammed across her face, and knocked her spinning onto her hands and knees.

She screamed and crawled away, ripping the dress bodice away from her skirt. She pulled herself upright on a table, hollered again, and ran for the second floor steps.

The piano fell silent, the player's hands poised over the keys, his eyes wide, rolling white.

Scarlett let loose with an ear piercing screech.

Others froze, mouths agape.

Ephraim wobbled backwards.

"Hell Mister. You didn't have no call to bust her like that." He blinked hard and tried to swallow the bile rising in his mouth. "We was dancing. Having fun. That's all. "

Killing knife held waist level, the filth-encrusted hunter stepped forward. Unsteady and groggy from beer and sleep, he stumped his toe on a spittoon, upending it. Foul slime spilled across the pine floor boards.

"Gawd-damn it hell." He stared down at the puddle, reared back, and kicked the brass spitter across the room.

"Ah, shit," said the swamper. "Look what you done. You ought to have to clean that up."

Buffer glared at the man, spat in the brown mess, shifted his knife, and stalked forward.

"I'll gut you from stem to stern." Rage flashed across his face as he threw a table aside. His focus shifted to Ephraim.

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Don't be killing me. You got no call to pull a knife." Ephraim shook his head and backed-up, his face drained of color.

Unfazed, the savage sliced at the boy's chest, cutting through skin and muscle. A dark, wet streak spread across the shirt.

Ephraim felt a spasm of pain. His scalp prickled.

"You got no call." Unnerved and panicked, he fumbled with his pistol, yanked it free, and fired twice. Ceiling plaster crumbled down in chunks. Smoke coiled out of the muzzle, blending into the darkness of the room. Still holding the gun high, he twisted and stumbled after Dumpling up the stairs.

In three quick strides, the hunter grabbed Ephraim by the collar and jerked him flat. He gut-kicked the boy, lifted him bow-shaped, and glared as the kid splattered belly-down, nose crushed into rough planks.

Ephraim dropped his pistol. It slid across the floor, careened off an upturned chair, and spun under the bottom step. He scrambled to his knees, spat a white tooth into his hand, and foolishly stared at it, wondering where it came from.

Buffer bent, wound a hand in straw-blond hair, pulled the gasping figure upright, and kneed him against a pole. The boy collapsed forward, arms flung out, legs jerked spastically, the tooth lost in sawdust.

The hunter slung a chair aside, picked up a second one, and savagely slammed it across the boy's back.

Twisting his head sideways, Ephraim stared at his pistol and lizard-crawled toward it.

The hunter snatched up a whiskey bottle and hurled it at the piano. Glass fragments arced down. The pianist abandoned his stool and scuttled away.

Freighters, flattened against the wall, held drinks high and edged toward the swinging doors.

Curly, sweating, ducked behind an upturned table, eyes locked on his friend's bloody face.

Ephraim clawed along the rough boards, his hand groping for the cool curve of his pistol. He coughed, spit blood, and rolled to sitting. Cocking the hammer back, he steadied the Colt with both hands, and fired.

A guttural howl filled the smoky room.

"You dumb sumbitch. You shot my gawd-damn ear off. I'll kill you for sure. I'll pull your backbone out through your belly. I'll peel ever' piece of skin off your worthless butt. I'm gonna rip yer tongue out."

Blood ran down the hunter's weather-wrinkled neck and dripped onto his grease-splotched shirt. For a moment, he cupped his hand around the shredded ear before staring down into his wet palm. Grimacing, he slung red threads across the boy's face.

Ephraim hollered and clambered up the first three steps.

"I ain't meant nothing mister. We was dancing. Oh, gawd, don't kill me. It's my birthday. Didn't mean nuthin." He slobbered and dropped the gun.

The massive man pounced, grabbed one leg, and dragged the kid thumping down the steps.

"Didn't mean nuthin." Ephraim kicked the air with his free foot. Arms and hands helplessly thrashed against the railings.

Holding one booted-foot, the grease-and-dirt man bared his teeth and yanked hard. The boot slipped free. Startled, the two fell apart.

For a moment, they stared at Ephraim's big toe poking through his grimy wool sock.

"Look at that." Scarlett giggled and pointed at the protruding toe.

The hunter stood and flung the empty boot across the room, hitting the barroom mirror. Glass splinters cobwebbed out and reflected the drama in miniature slivers.

"Hold on there," said the barkeeper.

He hauled out a shotgun, held it high, and fired one barrel. Splinters and wood chunks spewed down from the explosion.

"You stinking sonsobitches get the hell out of here. Both of you take your damn fighting outside. You ain't a-gonna tear up my place."

Buffer spun toward the barkeep, threw his body part-way across the bar, and snatched at the double-barreled weapon. Hand wet with blood, he lost his grip and stepped into the slick, viscous brown puddle on the floor. His foot shot straight out.

Heavy and off-balance, he crashed down, hitting his head on the brass foot rail. The sound reverberated, a single dull thud that hung visible in the air, dust shimmering.

A hush settled, broken only by the measured cadence of the ticking clock.

"How come he don't move?" stammered the ashen-face drummer. "You reckon something's wrong?"

"You cowboys brought this on," said a freighter. "Y'all go look."

Floor boards groaned as the cowboys edged closer to the once-raging life.

"Not me. I'm leaving." The dry goods clerk hurried out through the back door.

"He shore is still," said Thelma, craning her head forward. "Bring that wall lantern over here. See what the trouble is."

Curly lifted a kerosene wall sconce. Holding the weak yellow light low, he stepped closer.

"My gawd, he done kilt himself, falling like that there."

"He broke his neck. Lookie there." Baldy pointed to the head, too sharply bent against the shoulder.

Drinkers stared at the huge form and moved careful toward the lump sprawled in spilled beer and spit. A freighter prodded the leather-covered thigh with a mud-caked boot.

Baldy leaned down and tapped the still chest. Sightless, the hunter stared back.

"Why, he sure enough dead."

"Reckon why he was so mad?" Curly shook his head and eyeballed the hulk.

"Said earlier the buffalo all gone. Said nothing left to hunt, what with cows and towns every place. Even the skinners disappeared." Bartender shook his head.

"He can't blame us," said Baldy. "He the one that shot them shaggies and killed off them herds."

"That's the truth," added Curley. "Buffalo gone, Indians gone, plains not what they was."

"Still, he had no call to hit my Dumpling like he done," said Thelma. "She'll have a black eye for sure and maybe even a broke jaw."

"I didn't go to have this happen," said Ephraim shaking his head. "He done busted my nose and cut me. I didn't go to have this happen on my birthday." He felt light-headed and faint.

"Can't be undone, that's for sure. Ain't no place left for his kind anyhow," Curley said.

"Somebody better send for Sheriff." Bartender picked up a rag, started wiping blood off the shotgun.

"Hell, he can't help now." Curley shook his head.

"Fetch him anyway. We got to let the law handle this."

"Here's your tooth. You look a mess." Scarlett stroked Ephraim's hair.

"I didn't go to have this happen."

"I know, honey. None of us did."

Ephraim coughed. He sat on the bottom step and thumped his bootless foot against the banister post. His toe poked farther through his dirty sock. He stared at the tooth a moment, then tossed it away.

Snot, blood, and tears puddled on the floor.

The Laramie Gambler
by RLB Hartmann

There he was. Drunk. I could see that at first glance, as he sprawled on his back on my bed. One arm over his eyes shut out the spring sunshine, while from one hand dangled a nearly empty flat brown bottle.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded, removing my gloves and bonnet and tossing them on the dresser. I'd come from the mercantile, where an argument over rotten sewing thread had left me in no mood for Brewer. He had never been in my house, and to find him here like this was disturbing.

He opened bleary eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning them on me. "I came to visit you."

Inebriety was Brewer's usual state, though I'd never known him to get dog drunk. "Well, you can come back when you're sober."

I went into the kitchen and started clearing away evidence of breakfast still cluttering the table. It was noon now, and I had worked up an appetite in the fight over the thread. I didn't welcome the idea of a second fight, not with Brewer. Throwing the grease-crusted skillet into the dishpan, I regretted the day we had met. It was about six months ago, when he first came to El Paso.

I'd gone down to the livery which I owned, just to check on things, and he was trying to talk my stableman into giving him a job.

"You don't look like the kind of gent who'd take to shoveling out stalls," I observed. "You look like an out-of-luck gambler."

"Man'll do anything, he gets hungry enough."

Brewer's suit was shiny from wear, and the hat he crushed in nervous hands was far from new. He appeared to be about thirty, a bit less than average height, lean without being wiry. His dark brown hair fell straight from the crown and needed a trim. So did his ample mustache. His dark brown eyes held an elusive sparkle which touched some place inside me that I preferred not to acknowledge. Since our meeting, it seemed, everywhere I turned, there was Brewer. He joined me on the street, opened doors for me, carried my packages. He must have had a first name, but I didn't ask what it was. Somehow, he knew mine.

"Rosemary," he called now from the other room, "you're a hellava friend."

Unable to tell from his tone whether he intended to insult or compliment, I continued to tidy up. Afterward, I mixed a pan of cornbread and put it into the oven. A pot of strong coffee already sent its fragrance riding the air currents. Torn between pity and distaste, I wasn't sure whether to risk further involvement by showing compassion, or keep my distance by making him leave. Maybe I could do both. Sober him up so the sheriff wouldn't arrest him, then insist he pull himself together or I would be obliged to fire him. Associating with Brewer was bad for my reputation.

The cups were on the tray, and I'd started to fill them, when his voice behind me almost startled me into dropping the pot.

"You think that no-good cowboy is in love with you, don't you?" he said, lips curving down beneath his thick mustache.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I retorted, though I did know, very well. The cowboy and I had become engaged last year. One day, we were planning our wedding; the next day he was gone, leaving me with a hastily scrawled apology. The pain still flashed through my heart on long sleepless nights.

"You think he's going to come back," Brewer persisted, leaning unsteadily against the door frame. "But he's not. An' you know why?"

"I don't care to discuss it with you," I said, passing him with the tray. In the living room, I sat in my wing chair, sipping hot coffee and perspiring from heat and uneasiness. Brewer was no fool. He had learned something about Raymond that I didn't know. Didn't want to know.

Raymond and I had loved each other. My feelings hadn't changed—:and I didn't believe his had, either. His cryptic note, I'M SORRY, gave no clue as to what had gone wrong. I didn't know where he was, or why, but Brewer was right: I waited for him to return.

"I'll tell you why he ain't ever comin' back," Brewer confided, stumbling over a rag rug and falling loosely onto the sofa. "It's because of that girl."

Girl? There was no other girl when I met Raymond, and he'd never hinted at one.

"You're making it up," I accused. "You're drunk out of your skull. Get out of my house before I yell for the sheriff."

Brewer looked hurt. He stood up, a little too quickly, for he swayed, one hand grabbing his forehead. Instead of leaving, he went into the bedroom. I could hear him rummaging around, like he was down on his knees looking under the bed. He staggered back out with the whiskey bottle raised to his mouth, draining the last dregs. He flung the empty container across the floor.

"Yell if you want to," he challenged.

Suddenly, he laughed softly—mocking, I thought—and sat down, legs extended carelessly in front of him and arms reaching above his head in a stretch. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, crouching as if prepared to spring.

I gathered myself, ready to run for the door if he twitched a muscle. We sat for a minute, separated by eight feet of faded carpet, examining each other. All the time, however, I was thinking of what Brewer had said about Raymond. It couldn't be true.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked at last.

"You got a right to know, don't you? Figure I can do that much, after you hired me, an' all."

His quiet, slurred voice caressed that same spot inside me that his eyes usually touched. I wanted him to shut up and leave, yet I couldn't use force and doubted that persuasion would accomplish much.

"Alice. Name's Alice." The last of the whiskey was taking effect. He lay down on my sofa, his legs draped over the arm, hands clasped on his chest like a corpse, and continued.

"You gotta understan' she wasn' no ordinary girl, Alice. Little thing. Real pretty. Long curly blonde hair. Young, and blonde. That's the way he likes 'em. Same as me."

Clenching my fists, I kept myself from flying into him and beating him even more senseless than he was. I told myself he didn't know what he was saying, but I listened to his addled discourse.

"She was top-notch. I give ol' Ray this much: he knows how to pick 'em. You think I'm jealous? Naaaw. Let her love him. I don' care." He looked up, eyes narrowed. "But you care, don't you."

"Mister Brewer, I want you out of my house right now." My voice trembled a bit, making me even angrier. My back had begun to ache from sitting ramrod stiff, eyes on the cold coffee in my cup.

He gave a brief, mirthless chuckle. "There's comin' a time when you'll be glad to have my company." He looked around for his hat, but must have lost it before he got here because it wasn't to be found.

During the next week, I avoided the stables. I knew if I saw Brewer I would start asking questions, and I determined not to give him that satisfaction. I avoided going to town, too, fearful of his popping up at my elbow in the middle of main street. By the end of the second week, my supplies were exhausted. Either go into town, or starve.

The lonely days and nights had done little to improve my disposition. What if Brewer was right? He knew about Alice. Was he telling the truth about her relationship with Raymond? Brewer's denial of being jealous told me that he loved Alice, and she had rejected him. I had to admit I was curious about that. Where was she now? With Raymond?

My buggy horse, Jake, suddenly broke stride and whuffed, ears alert to something in the road ahead. I felt an instant of fear that it might be a mountain lion, for I owned no gun; but shading my eyes I saw that it was a man, resting on a sizeable rock. Closer, I recognized Brewer.

"Ride into town?" he asked as I stopped. He didn't wait for my reply, but swung himself onto the seat by the rigging and gave me a sly cut of his eyes before staring straight ahead.

"What're you doing out here?" I wanted to know. His rooming house was on the other end of town. He shrugged. I couldn't tell how drunk he was, but his spirits seemed pretty low. He sat hunched over his knees, hands dangling.

We rode for nearly half a mile in silence, sneaking glances that each hoped the other hadn't seen, until I finally inquired, peevishly, "Why aren't you at the stable?" He shrugged again, his answer muffled in the open collar of his shirt. His manner was self-pitying, and I decided that if he started whining more twaddle about Raymond, I would make him get off the buggy and walk.

We drove in silence for another half mile. And the farther we went, the more angry I became. Brewer was a villain, upsetting my comfortable dreams that Raymond would return and explain the dreadful farewell note which had caused me such misery. Unable to keep quiet, I went on: "What is it you want, anyway? Nothing you can tell me will make me stop loving Raymond, if that's what you had in mind."

"What I had in mind is my business."

"Not when you're interfering in MY life."

His sardonic chuckle grew until he roared with laughter.

"Stop that!" I cried, indignant, reining in and attempting to push him out. He teetered on the seat, holding on to the rigging, and his laughter stopped. The glitter in his eyes frightened me. I pushed harder to dislodge him, only half aware that I was standing, the reins slipping through my fingers, and it wasn't until the wheel hit a rock and jounced me into his lap that I realized the horse was running.

Almost in my ear, Brewer shouted, "Whoa! Whoa . . . ." When the buggy rocked to a halt, in the grove of willows at the edge of town, he had a firm hold on both the reins and me. His face brushed mine, beard stubble a couple of days old scratching my cheek.

With detachment, I watched him declare wrathfully, "You could've turned us over!" Trying to twist away from his clasp and regain my dignity, I found that I was crying.

He held me, hissing, "Be still! Be still, will you, I want to say I'm sorry."

Since I wasn't making any progress in escaping, I ducked my face against his shoulder and set up a wail, partly from annoyance at being here at all, mostly from frustration over not knowing whether he was right about Raymond. The idea that Brewer had comforted dozens of women this way distracted me somewhat, so that gradually I stopped and waited to see what he would do next.

The hand not holding the reins was around my shoulders. He grasped my hair so I couldn't turn away from his kiss. There was a faint taste of whiskey, but I suspected he was more sober than he'd let on. I resented his taking advantage of me practically in sight of townspeople, at a time when my emotions were wounded and vulnerable. When he released me, I jerked the lines away from him and slapped Jake's rump.

I drove him straight to the saloon and said, "You'll have to find another ride if you want to go back to wandering the countryside."

He sat looking at me with an expression I failed to understand. "I'm sorry, Rosemary." He jumped down, and walked into the saloon without looking back. But he didn't walk like a drunk man.

When I returned to the buggy after shopping, I saw his knee, clad in pin-striped blue trousers, before I came round enough to see his face. He was working on another brown bottle, and held a large flat box across his lap.

"I told you you're not coming back with me," I said sharply, climbing into the buggy and thinking there was little I could do to prevent it, short of causing a public disturbance.

He must have known that, because he gave the reins a little flip and we started out. I sat as near my end of the seat as I could without falling off, and let him down half the bottle before remarking, "That stuff is going to be the end of you someday."

"What do you care?" He was sullen.

"I don't," I said, but felt guilty. There was something attractive about Brewer, but it was buried under so much trash there was nothing one could point to and say, 'This is why I like him.' There was much about him I didn't like. His weakness, which made me pity him. His taunts about Raymond. The way he'd come into my life and stuck to me like a piece of cholla.

Curious about what was in the box, I made up my mind I wouldn't ask. He probably wouldn't tell me. I hoped it was a new suit. The one he wore was threadbare and far from clean. Sprucing up would improve his looks, if not his disposition.

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked at last, as my house was the only one this far from town. "You're not planning to move in with me, I hope." I tried to laugh as if I'd made a joke.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll get along."

"I'm not driving you back to town, either," I warned. "If you want to sleep under the stars with the rattlesnakes and scorpions, that's fine with me."

"I said, don't worry," he snapped.

I stopped Jake in my yard and Brewer helped me alight. He handed me my package, and took Jake for a rubdown. I carried my purchases inside and started a pot of coffee. Glancing out the front window, I saw him coming up the walk, carrying the flat box. Suddenly I knew what it contained. Not a suit. A dress.

He stepped up on the porch, and there was no denying him entrance as the door was wide open and he could see me standing in the hallway. He knocked perfunctorily and brought the box through the front room and put it into my hands. Helplessly I held it while he removed the lid and rustled the white paper, fumbling but extracting a light blue silk dress like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a top hat.

"I can't accept this," I said, the words coming out choked.

"Why not?" His frown accentuated the puzzled look in his intense brown eyes. "It's new."

"It's a bribe," I blurted, hating myself for hurting him. Hating him for making me hurt him. Why didn't he leave me alone?

He didn't seem to be making any move to leave. In fact, he tossed the dress on the sofa and sat down. He drew the whiskey bottle from his coat pocket and took a drink. "Try it on," he suggested, gesturing toward the dress.

"No. You have to return it."

"Can't. It was on sale. No returns."

I started folding the dress, but he stopped me. His warm hand on my cold wrist made me aware of his strength. "I told you about Alice, didn't I? How pretty she is. I gave her a dress once, back in Laramie. We were goin' to get married. Then she met Raymond. They were in love, they said."

I was confused. "If he knew her before he came here, and they were so in love, why didn't he stay with her?"

Brewer's sodden grin made me wonder what I would do if he passed out here in my house.

"Quarrel. They fought all the time. But they liked to fight. That's why she sent for him."

I heard the coffee begin to boil over and hurried to snatch it off the stove. My hands shook as I arranged things on the tray. She sent for him. That would explain his hasty departure. I no longer mattered. Alice wanted him back. Well, she could have him.

When I returned to where Brewer sat, I decided he needed that coffee more than I did. His eyes seemed vague and unfocused. He began searching the floor, the sofa cushions, the dress box, his pockets, for the bottle he had forgotten was empty. It had rolled under the sofa. I could see the neck of it sticking out.

"Here." I thrust a cup at him.

He took a few sips before it slipped from his hand, and he slumped forward. I caught him in time to keep his chin from hitting the low table next to the sofa. Pushing him onto the cushion, I straightened his legs into a comfortable position, knocking the dress to the floor in the process.

Standing back with my hands on my hips, I sighed. What now? Brewer would sleep off his stupor in a few hours. Meanwhile, I might as well try on the dress. It was an attractive color, and well made. Income from the livery didn't allow for unnecessary purchases.

I was wearing Brewer's gift when his eyes flickered open and he sat up. "You're still here," he observed.

"I live here," I reminded him.

He stared at me, then rapidly rubbed his face as if to clear his brain, and stared some more. "You're keeping it."

"Yes. Thank you." We were self-consciously silent while my hall clock ticked two dozen times. "How did you know it would fit?"

He grinned. "Gamblers take chances."

"I'm not a gambler," I warned him.

"Maybe you need to learn."

"I like El Paso. I might not like Laramie." I'd heard it was cold and snowy there in winter, and I was used to desert heat.

"The world is a big place."

"It's full of liquor. You'd have to give that up."

He was quiet for a long moment before he said, "I wouldn't need red-eye, if I had a woman who loved me."

"What makes you think I love you?"

He grinned again, and I could feel my defenses melting. "If you didn't, you'd've had me put in jail long before now."

Crossing Waters
by Tom Sheehan

The people who journeyed west in the early days of the continent came from many countries, many customs, many cultures, and brought much of that mix with them. Nothing is more intriguing and interesting to me than their pursuits, their dreams, and the harsh life they entered as they gathered here in their search for new footholds, new visions, new adventures. They came from nations all over the globe, carrying all kinds of visions that drove them onward; and in these pursuits they rose, they fell, they faulted, they were often exalted or saluted, they served, and many survived the harshest rigors. Their stories, fact or fiction, where we rarely know the complete details of any act, should be carried on.

This is the first of five pieces of such journeys over water: oceans, lakes, rivers, frozen wastes of the Far North; with arrivals coming from Russia, Denmark, Sweden, France and Italy, from the world around us and becoming us.



Two Fathoms Down

"Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now, lest you . . . ."



Anton Chalkov thought he chased only a dream out of Siberia, a dream and nothing more. He boated across the Bering Strait, with divine intervention on few occasions, and into Alaskan waters. Once ashore in Alaska it was obvious he had not gone far enough and set out, overland for a portion of his journey and then back on coastal waters in the company of fishermen, for the New World of America. All this travel in pursuit of the dream. He passed down through Alaska, taking a year to complete the journey, fighting the cold one time and the huge mosquitoes another time. He lived with Eskimos for a while, fishing and hunting and sharing an igloo, learning much from them in the ways of survival.

The dogs he bought for the overland portions of his trip were masterful, they too having good blood in them, born for the snow and the task. The dogs got him all the way through a few of Canada's territories before he swapped them for one horse in Montana territory of America, where he had been headed all the time.

He'd been a Cossack, now he wanted to be a cowboy.

In Montana, once again in the saddle, his blood began to rollick, ride and stride, the blood of a true horseman in the rhythm of the saddle, a Cossack on the move.

Though far from home, he was closer to his dream, even as he recalled the words of his grandfather: Wherever you go, look for messages in your own language. The words will direct you. People of your blood have gone where you dream of going, though many years ago. Their history lies along the way.

Chalkov was twenty-two years old, a Cossack with rebel Tatar blood in his veins, and all the men before him in his family were Cossack horsemen, of the Siberian Host. He wore the mark of a Cossack Host, a Cossack Voisko. In several villages, where the Host was quartered after battles, he had heard tales about the American west, and the horses that the Spaniards had brought centuries ago from the other end of Europe. He could feel the ride in his seat. Animals like that could run with the wind, turn like a mountain goat out of the Urals or the Ukraine range, bear on one like a wave from the wild Pacific.

If any person of authority on the way asked him where he was from, he would think I am descended from Mazepa and Petro, great Cossack leaders, and probably from the Tsar himself, for he too rode the horses of the steppes. The horsemen of the central Plains ran with fear as their frontal attack, setting opponents back on their heels.

It was simple. "I am a Cossack," he would be proud to say.

He eventually landed in a high Montana village, the mountains wild and savage in their looks. It was the dead of winter, but he had been through three harsh years in his journey, much of it under extreme winter conditions. The horses still called on him, the grasslands he had heard about, spring flowers bouncing across the grass as fast as rabbits. He could hardly wait for it to all come true . . . the cowboys and the Indians and the huge herds of cattle he had heard about. Also filtering through to him were stories of gunfights and duels in the main street of little towns and big cities, the shoot-outs among rival forces, like Cossacks loose in America.

In the village, an old Indian he befriended asked his pardon to make a suggestion. "The new land you have entered is a strange one. It is made up of people who came from elsewhere, all of them, and they look back with disdain at those who came also from distant places. My people were here before all of them, for centuries they were here. What I am saying to you is that before we came here, we were there, where you come from. We made the same voyage you did, but many centuries ago and made the journey by walking and not on boats or canoes."

He looked back over his shoulder as if he was seeing all of it again, all the trials, all the troubles, all the history. "What else I am saying is to change your name, merge with the landscape, settle in as though you were born here, give no one an edge on you, or the chance to slight you."

"I am Cossack," Chalkov said, "a Cossack from the Siberian Host. Take me as I am. Take me as what I do. Take me as the man that I am. Why should I change my name?"

The old Indian, putting on the face of a god or a chieftain, said, "They call me John Bush now, even as I fail at holding onto life. It is the only reason I am the last of my tribe that lived here in this mountain range and can live here now. I was 'Wind in the Bush' before. I was saved by a mountain man, Tall John, who gave me a name and I should give you a name. You shall be called Andy Chalk from now on. It will save enough of your energy to go where you want to go and do what you want to do … ride the horses in the new land, and find the dream that dances at your feet and in your eye. I will make the way clearer for you in the white man's way."

Came then a significant pause, things being measured, parceled out, and shared singly. "You will be granted a formidable gain," John Bush said. "I only want to make the way to that gain as clear as I can. I am the last of my tribe. I am the keeper of secrets. I know that you come here among us as the new hope, for you come here with a new air about you, the freshness of a spring breeze the saplings have found, but more than all things measured, we share the same roots of the soul."

"What is this gain I should be looking for? How will I find it?"

John Bush, ailing as he had for a long while, sat straight in his place. "It will find you. Be aware, for the line you follow comes from behind you. That is less mystery than you can imagine."

Because Anton Chalkov deeply respected the old Indian, he became Andy Chalk and said his new name a hundred times before he went off to sleep that night. "Andy Chalk" sounded, at length, like a rider of horses might say his name to a friend, just a cowboy named Andy Chalk, but—underneath—a Cossack.

"Who has gathered all this information?" he had asked John Bush, who replied, "The Assiniboine of the Meadows, of the village of Pasquayah. My people cooked great meals over heated stones. Pasquayah was in the land of the Sioux, of whom we were brothers. They told the stories of the Great Crossing in past centuries."

Andy Chalk, Cossack forever, but also now with a new name, was a good and patient listener, as John Bush continued what he knew of the history of his people and the new connection with Chalk. In truth, he felt his end was near, and he was bound to pass on the word of his people. It was his legacy.

"My people," John Bush continued, "the Assiniboine were not different from the other Sioux in the land. Men wore their hair in many ways; it was not cut very often, and when it got really long it was twirled in locks. They often wore false hair to make the twirl longer. Sometimes it reached down to their feet, but usually wound up in a coil on top of their heads. Their customs were much like our Cree cousins of the Plains. Traders liked to visit them, for they made pemmican, a good barter for liquor and tobacco, among other goods, and, of course, for gunpowder, lead and knives, for warfare and for hunting. "

During much of the night he carried on with history, tales, legends all about his people who had made the same trip that Andy Chalk had, and Chalk waited for the specific information that John Bush was going to give him for a clear start in the new world. "You will need a hand in the new land," he had said.

During much of his sleep, Chalk was visited by visions of his journey at every phase, including the times when his life was threatened or nearly taken away, when danger came from many sources, and signs of odd meanings were visible around him. Some he could read and some he could not.

In the morning John Bush was dead beside the dwindling campfire. In one hand he held a map laid out on a leather skin. It directed the seeker to a mountain tarn where fish birds dare not light. The tarn, according to the map, was not too distant from where Chalk was standing, the map in his hands. Landmarks on the map were obvious to him, and a legend at the bottom was in his own tongue which said, "Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now . . . ." The statement, he understood for some vague reason, was incomplete.

Chalk knew that too was a sign . . . and a challenge.

On a magnificent red stallion, Chalk started his short journey as directed by the map. The destination, he figured, was about two days away in the mountains. The horse that he named Pavlo was stronger than an ox and climbed the hills as steady as a current. Chalk was happy and proud as he rode the stallion, a mingled sense of might and confidence filling him.

He carried a single revolver on his belt and a rifle sheathed on his saddle. But those were not his only arms. Back in Russia he had promised he'd not be without his sword in the new land, his Cossack sword. He now carried it also in the sheath with his rifle. Even if he did not say so, some people would know he was a Cossack by that sword.

Preparation, and readiness, had long been needed by him as a Cossack and he had heard many stories of the new land, of its robbers, brigands and road agents. It wasn't that they did not have them in Russia, but in Russia such scum stayed clear of any Cossack, and the Host that Cossack could bring down on a new enemy. Chalk was rigid with that confidence.

He'd be prepared, he vowed as he set out. Steep, precipitous trails met him right at the start, as the first part of the route was a climbing one. He was but a few hours on the trail, on a very steep incline, when a robber on foot stepped in front of him with a rifle in his hands.

"Hold it right there, old pal," the robber said. "All I want is the money you're cartin', your horse 'ats bigger 'n a mountain, and thet saddle you're asittin'." He was young but bearded, carried a scar right across his nose as if he had been wounded in the war, and carried a pistol on his hip. Chalk had measured him from the outset.

The young, scarred youngster waved the rifle in a threat.

But that poor, lonely misguided road agent, that youngster at a new trade, raw as a colt in the business, had never faced off with a Cossack of the blood.

Chalk drove his spurs into the flanks of Pavlo with such a quick thrust that the huge animal leaped forward, knocking the robber on his backside, his rifle falling down the side of the mountain. Before he was aware of anything, he was under the sword hanging over his head, with a slant of sunlight shining off the sharpened edge.

"Take your side arm," Chalk said, "and throw it over the side of the trail. Throw it downhill so it will take you time to get it, but don't throw it so far you can't recover it. You may need it up here. If I ever see you again, I will drop this sword across your neck. That is a promise as dear to me as life. Now go!"

Chalk simply twisted the sword so that the sunlight glanced off it clean as a mirror shot. The young road agent leaped away and ran downhill to retrieve his weapons.

Chalk, climbing uphill on Pavlo, went out of sight. The hoof beats went silent just as quickly.

John Bush had told him that obstacles would appear in the quest for his "clear gain" in the new world that he had promised would come to him. Chalk believed John Bush was a prophet of the new world. That belief was cemented firmly with Chalk for he faced three more robbers or brigands in his own quest. The next one came in a small village at a mountain crossroads, and in its usual saloon.

He entered, ordered a drink, and was assessed by another patron as a "complete stranger from a weird source"

"You ain't from around here, are you, bud?" Here was another young cowpoke stepping out beyond his territory. Of course, the arrogance came with the questions, the stance, the hard look fashioned under his sombrero brim. "You sure ain't from around here, are you, bud? I saw a sword in your saddle out there. What the hell is that? Where are you from? You one o' them strange foreigners keep comin' in on top of us? You a Swede or a Brit or a Harp or a Russkie clammerin' for new freedoms? You one o' them Germans from thet far place? Them's funny lookin' boots you're awearin'. Them dancin' boots? You feel like dancin' for us, mister?"

Everybody in the saloon thought the young bigmouth was about to draw his gun, but Chalk, fast as a loose pig, snapped a fist in the face of the young upstart. Blood spurted from his nose and he leaned over the bar wondering what had hit him so fast.

Chalk, alert to the whole room, said loud enough for all to hear him, "I am a Cossack. Nobody touches my sword. Nobody makes me dance when I don't want to dance. I can ride better than anybody here. Shoot better than anybody here. Use that sword in a way that none of you can imagine. I am going on my way now and if anybody follows me, tries any tricks on me, the sword of this Cossack will fall on his neck."

As he moved to the door, his eyes on the young bigmouth still bleeding on the bar, he said, "That is a vow of utmost honor I place on myself." He went out the door, mounted Pavlo and rode out of the village.

A mile out on the trail he knew nobody from the saloon would follow him.

In two days he was as high in the mountains as he could get without giving up his horse. Up here in the rarified clime, the sweet air came at him as if he were in the Urals, and the quick turns it had as it whistled within winds off rock walls and pillars of stone and sharp corners. All the while he kept looking for the signs that John Bush said would come to him. Many things caught his eye, but nothing said more than what appeared to him.

And then, as he rode around a sudden tarn in a quick valley off the trail his eye caught signs on a sheer face of stone rising above the tarn. First he saw a fish cut into the stone, then he saw a horse and then a bow. A tipi was next on the rock face and a small boat, maybe a canoe. John Bush's voice came back, saying "It will find you."

Chalk believed he had arrived at "the place of advantage" that John Bush had promised. He searched all over that wall, as high as he could scale and down to the edge of the tarn's water. He saw nothing that said more. No message delivered.

As he was sitting on the trail, alone in all this mountainous world, him and his Pavlo, he noticed that there was no way to ride to the other side of the tarn. The water shone bright blue in the sunlight, and sat like a clear reflection of all light. When he cast a stone across the surface, skipping off the water a half dozen times, the ripples ran all the way to the other side . . . where he could not ride.

As he mused, he believed that was the first sign of this place in the mountains. Clearly it said he had to go to the other side and check the steep wall over there.

He hid his weapons, including the sword, in a crevice, took off his clothes and swam to the other side. The water was cool but not cold, as if the sun warmed it with direct rays. He swam easily, quickly, and was at the other side in a short time.

A ledge appeared as a thin line and he climbed out of the water and up to the ledge, which ran for dozens of feet in each direction. At one point he saw the scratching on the wall, deep scratches as if an artist had made the cuts.

Chalk rubbed the words that seemed to appear. More words came visible, and then he saw words that he had seen before, and saw them to a conclusion. "Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now, lest you find yourself two fathoms down."

Chalk felt the excitement leap up through his body, like finishing a ride on a horse never ridden before. He thought about lightning striking across the sky, or a big fish on the end of his fishing line or the first time he wore his Cossack uniform.

A mere 12 feet down he found a shelf and on the shelf a small crevice in which objects of gold came to his hand, a grand clutch of objects, enough for one man in this life, and much of them solid pieces that took him at least a dozen trips to bring to the surface. One tree stood on the other side, and with his sword he cut limbs from it to make a small, clumsy, but serviceable raft to move what he would take with him. On the second day, he had brought what he wanted to the other side, and left much in place. "If ever . . . ." he said. "If ever."

When Chalk left the tarn on Pavlo, his saddlebag sufficient for a start at ranching, for having his own herd and driving them on a long trail to market, he thought he was halfway to where he wanted to go.

He wondered what the other half would bring.

Unfinished Business
by Nancy Peacock

Jack reined his horse at the edge of the clearing. He had veered off the trail to ride through the woods as a faint whiff of wood smoke had alerted him to the presence of people. He was too tired to get careless now. No sense riding directly into a mess if he could help it. He stretched a little taller in the stirrups to see over the scrub cedar that concealed him. Below was a cabin surrounded by oak trees, a barn, corral, kitchen garden and a field with the stubble of a corn crop. A good three acres were plowed, ready for a spring crop. His first thought was that someone had put in many hours of work to create such a place. Rock walls spoke of hard labor clearing the fields. There were a few boulders jutting out in awkward places. He remembered his father saying that some rocks might be the tips of mountains and should be left alone. He had plowed around a few of those in his youth.

A movement in front of the house caught his eye. A figure was leading a bay horse along. A tree blocked his view for a moment. When the figure emerged into the open, he saw that the horse was dragging something he couldn't identify. He exited the cover of the woods and let his horse amble toward the cabin. His rifle was loose in the scabbard; his revolver was in his hand. As he neared the barn, he saw three horses with saddles on them in the corral. He pulled up short and stared. These were the horses he had followed across miles of rugged terrain to arrest their owners for murder and arson. Why would any rider let his horse loose in a corral and leave the saddle on? Why not just tie it to the rail in front of the cabin? Were the men he wanted inside?

The only way to find out was to press on. Something was definitely wrong. He spurred his horse closer to the cabin, which caught the attention of the small woman leading the bay. She held a rifle awkwardly in one hand and the reins of the bay in the other. She looped the reins around her arm to free her hands, raised the rifle and held a steady bead on him.

He called, "Ma'am, I mean you no harm." He slipped the revolver into his pocket and held his hands high to show he had no firearm aimed at her. She never wavered. He took his eyes off her for a second and recoiled at the sight of what she was dragging. A man, face down, tied by the feet to a long rope. His shirt was bloody on the back.

Jack stepped down from his horse and stared. Without considering what the consequences might be, he said, "What on earth are you doing?"

The woman kept the rifle aimed at him, but seemed to relax a little. He went over to the dead man and rolled him over with the toe of his boot. Arnold Mayer stared sightlessly toward the sky. One less crook to trail.

"Ma'am, I'm a U.S. Marshall. I've been hunting this man and two of his partners for weeks." He took a wallet with his badge and identification in it and tried to hand it to her. She glanced at it, but didn't take it. It took two hands to aim the heavy rifle and she wasn't letting her guard down for a minute.

He tried again. "Are the other men here? Are they in the house? I know their horses are in the corral. Why didn't they take their saddles off?"

He never took his eyes off her face. Suddenly she gave a big sigh, shrugged and lowered the gun.

"Let's see your badge."

He handed her the wallet. She took a good look before handing it back. As if a dam broke, she began to talk. "They came up and threatened me. They wanted me to feed them and let them hide out here. My husband is . . . gone. I went into the bedroom to . . .  to . .  and got the gun and shot them while they sat at the table. I don't think they expected me to be able to shoot or be armed at all."

"Wait. You shot all of them. Where are they? What are you doing with Mayer here?"

She turned, took her horse's reins again and began to drag the grisly burden toward a huge boulder that edged the clearing. He followed, leading his horse behind the body. On the far side of the boulder was a shallow grave with two bodies already in it. She led the shying horse beside the grave until the body was close to the opening.

Jack said, "Wait. Let me see who they are. I need some identification if they have any." He carefully stepped into the hole and looked at the dead men. Before he could check their pockets, she said, "I took what they had in their pockets. It's up at the house. I'll give it to you when I'm through."

He helped her roll the third man into the hole, took the shovel she had leaning against the boulder and filled in the loose soil. The grave wasn't deep enough to keep predators out, so he carried loose rocks from the slope above and covered the grave site. She helped find rocks though he could tell she was exhausted.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jack Delancey. Who are you?"

"I'm Lily Reynolds. I thank you for your help. I knew I had to get these bodies underground soon. I wanted them . . . out of sight."

"I understand." He took the reins of her horse and his and let her lead the way back to the cabin. "Why are the horses in the corral saddled?"

"They tied them to the rail. I didn't take time to unsaddle them after I shot the men. I couldn't just turn them loose."

"Let's go inside. We can talk about this after you rest. May I put my horse in your corral now? He's as tired as I am."

She must have realized how weary she was. She blinked as she considered his request. She could hardly turn him away after all his help.

"That's fine. There's hay for him. I'll . . . be inside."

Jack led both horses to the barn, unsaddled his, rubbed him down a bit and forked some hay into a manger. He didn't turn him out into the corral with the other horses. He might need to catch him quickly. He hoped not. He unclipped the bridle from her horse and put a halter on it. As he turned to the hay mow, he stumbled over a saddle thrown down in the middle of the barn. Automatically he picked it up and positioned it over the gate to a stall. Who would throw a saddle down like that? He took an armload of hay to the corral. The saddled horses came to the treat. He grabbed their trailing reins as they bent to eat and relieved them of their saddles and bridles. No rubdown for these beasts.

He staggered wearily as he walked to the cabin carrying his bedroll and pack. His quest was over at last. What an unexpected way for it to end. What should he do now? As he stepped up on the porch he knew for sure he had to rest before he made any decisions. He dropped the bedroll and pack on the porch.

Lily had made a pot of coffee and put a loaf of bread and a jar of preserves on a counter beside the stove. She was sitting in a rocker with her back to him when he knocked gently and entered. He gasped as she stood and faced him. She held a tiny baby in her arms. Her look dared him to comment.

"Careful where you walk or sit. I didn't take time to clean up the mess. I doubt that blood will come up easy in any case. There's bread and jelly there. Help yourself if you're hungry." She felt with one hand for the rocker and lowered herself in it. She put the baby on her shoulder and gently patted its back.

Jack stood in the doorway, hat and rifle in hand, trying to take all this in. He eased over to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. He cut a slice of bread, found a spoon in a holder in the middle of the table and put a little jam on the bread. Leaning against the counter he ate hungrily. Lily took the baby into the other room. He moved so he could see where she went. A cradle was beside the bed and she was rocking it a little to ease the tiny baby back to sleep.

"Ma'am, I'll help you clean up after awhile. Why don't you rest now? That blood is as dry as it's likely to get."

Lily stared at him, gave him a tiny smile and lay back on the bed. "Good idea. I couldn't scrub now if my life depended on it." She was asleep before he could answer.

The blood on the table disgusted him. He found a scrubbing rag and quickly removed all he could from the table top. He would deal with the floor later. He sat down at the table with his cup of coffee in his hand. His head drooped lower, rested on his arm and he slept.

It was long after dark when the whimpering baby woke Lily and Jack. He sat up and tried to figure where he was. She felt her way from the bedroom and lit a lamp. She went back for the baby. Again she sat in the rocker and fed it. She frowned at him, "Never seen anyone nurse an infant?"

"Not since my wife nursed our son. Sorry if I offend you." He stood and found the wood box, added a few sticks to the stove and pushed the coffeepot onto an eye. His gaze kept returning to the little figure humming to her baby. "Tell me again how you managed to shoot three men. Weren't they armed?"

"Of course they were armed. I guess they were too surprised to shoot back. By the time they figured out where the shots were coming from they were dead. I'm a good shot." Now the words just tumbled out. "I thought about just wounding them, but then what? I could scarcely herd them to town, carrying my baby. They made it plain what they had in mind for me. I knew my child would die and I would, too. I saw the extra horse they brought with them."

"What do you mean? Is there another horse around here loose?"

"No. We only have the one saddle horse. I was using her to drag the bodies. I reckon they met my husband somewhere along the trail to town." With a strangled sob she said, "I don't expect him to come back." Jack stared at her. So it was her husband he had buried. No papers on him, no horse in sight, a single gunshot wound to the back. She read his face like he had spoken. "You found him, didn't you? Do I need to go bury him now?" She suddenly crumpled up and sobbed. "I dared hope . . . What a fool I am!"

He had never felt so useless. "I buried him under a big oak off the trail. I'm sorry. I'll take you there if you want. I put a cross to mark the spot and piled rocks like we did for the others."

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she stood, handed him the baby and began to assemble a meal. He was amazed. He hadn't held a baby in years, but old skills weren't forgotten. He looked down into a beautiful little face framed with wisps of dark hair. The baby gazed back at him and sucked its fist.

"What's his name?"

"Margaret's his name. You don't think a boy would be that pretty, do you?"

He chuckled. "Margaret, you have an extraordinary mother. I hope you grow up knowing she saved your life."

"Jack, why are you here? How long have you been chasing these men?"

"Seems like forever. They were murderers and arsonists. There's a big bounty on their heads. When you can ride, we need to go to town and wire the proper people to collect the money."

"You think I want money for what I did?" She turned to him, rubbing the tears off her cheeks. "You think I'd accept money for killing those monsters?"

Jack looked her straight in the eye. "You'd be a fool to refuse it. You could hire someone to help you here. I can see how much work you and your husband have put into this place. The money is yours."

Jack waited a week before riding with Lily and Margaret to town. In the intervening time, he helped scrub the blood stains off the floor, shot a few squirrels for meals and generally made himself useful. He slept on a pallet in the barn. The week gave him time to come to some painful decisions. His quest was over. He could go on with his life.

"What do you want to do with the crooks' horses, Lily? They're yours, I guess."

"Do you think I might sell them? I don't need three more horses eating me out of house and home."

"Sure, let's try to sell them. We can lead them to town when we go next week."

"Then what?"

He played dumb. "What do you mean?"

"What am I supposed to do after next week? You know I can't keep this place going by myself. I lay awake nights wondering what I'm going to do. Joe and I have no family back East. I'm sure you have family to get back to. And your job. Where will you go next?"

"Is Margaret asleep? Let's sit out here on the porch and I'll tell you a story."

They sat on the edge of the porch, legs dangling, eyes on the hills in the distance. "I was after those men as part of my job, but I took the job for a different reason. You see, Lily, they killed my wife and child and set my house on fire while I was away for the day. I came home to smoking rubble.

"Neighbors had seen the smoke. They could name the men responsible. I went to the Marshall's office in Denver and took a job on the understanding I would try to track these men down first. They'd left a wide swath of misery on their way, so following them wasn't all that hard. I was just hours from them when I came here. You had done my job for me. I'm sorry you had to kill three men, yet I'm pleased they're gone." He looked down at his hands. "I had no intention of arresting them."

Lily sat listening, shivering a little at the implications of his words. So that was why he was comfortable with a baby, why he was so handy around her farm.

She said, "We can go to town soon. I'll decide what to do before I get there."

They made a strange sight as they rode down the dusty street. Townspeople stopped in their tracks and gaped. He rode in front, carrying a baby, leading a saddled horse. She rode behind, leading two more saddled horses. The entourage stopped in front of the sheriff's office and tied all the horses to the rail. He handed her the baby and together they went into the office.

The sheriff said, "Your papers look real, Mr. Delancey. These other papers are for three wanted men. Tell me where you got them."

It took an hour to get the story told. The sheriff was skeptical at first. "I talked to your husband when he was in town over a week ago. You say he's dead? Did this man kill him?"

They took him through the story again. He just sat and shook his head. Jack stood finally and said he had some telegrams to send. He handed the baby to Lily and went to the railway station. When he returned he found Lily just exiting the sheriff's office.

"Did you find the telegraph office?"

"Sure. Now what?"

"Let's go eat and I'll feed Margaret. The sheriff finally believed I killed those men. I'm surprised he didn't arrest me for murder."

"Now, calm down. The sheriff will probably send a few wires himself and check out my credentials. He had wanted posters on his wall for all three men. When he settles down I'll go talk to him again. In the meantime, I'm going to put the horses in the livery stable and tell anyone who'll listen that they're for sale with all their tack. I should hear about the rewards by tomorrow. The papers we took off the men identify them, so that should be no problem. By day after tomorrow you can go back to your home, knowing you have a nest egg in the bank."

"What will you do, Jack? Will we ever see you again?"

"First I'll find someone who'll help you keep your place going. Then I'll go back home and settle my estate—what there's left of it. I should be back here in less than a year. If you haven't had any better offers, I'll talk you into marrying me and we'll raise Margaret together. How does that sound?"

Lily raised a tearful face to meet his eyes. "That sounds like a long time to wait, but it would be best, I guess. God go with you, Jack. Come back to me. Our grieving time will be over by then and we can make a good life together."