The Human Rifle
by Ken Newton

We caught up with them around 10:00 that night. There were three of them, like Mama said, by which I mean, like she told Uncle John, because I wasn't allowed in the house at the time. One of the soldiers was young and skinny, one was big, with red hair and a red beard, and one was tall and bald-headed. It was them, all right.

We had hobbled the horses and gone the last half-mile on foot, to the spot where Uncle John said we would probably find them. Now we were lying on our bellies behind a fallen pecan tree, 30 paces or so from their fire. They were passing around a jug, laughing and joking and having a good old time. There was a full moon, and I hoped they couldn't see us as well as I could see them.

"That's Daddy's jug," I said.

"Yes, it is," Uncle John replied.

"What do we do now?"

Uncle John rolled over on his back, cradled the human rifle across his chest, and gazed up at the stars. "Let's rest a while."

Uncle John brought the human rifle with him when he came home from the war and moved in with us. Now, by that I don't mean to say that he stole a government rifle, like a lot of fellas did. The human rifle was Uncle John's own private property.

Everybody thinks of Kentucky as a southern state, which it sort of is, but Kentucky didn't secede from the Union, at least, not whole-hog like the others did. Kentucky was kind of complicated. There were lots of folks that wanted to secede, but just as many that didn't, so some Kentucky men went with the Union, and some went with the rebellion. Sixty-some-odd counties eventually seceded, including ours.

When they talk about brother fighting brother, I guess Kentucky was the place to look if you wanted to see it firsthand. In fact, you might have seen it in our family, except in our case it would have been brother-in-law fighting brother-in-law. My daddy was a solid states' rights man, but he had a wife and two children to take care of, so he didn't intend to go off and fight for either bunch. After Pike County seceded, he got letters from the Union and the Confederacy about a week apart telling him he needed to report for duty. What he did is he sent the Confederate letter to the Union, and the Union letter to the Confederacy, and said, "You're too late. The other bastards already got me. I report on the 1st."

Uncle John didn't have any family besides us, but he had a good horse and he was strong for the Union. He said he didn't rightly give a damn if Pike County went rebel, and he rode over to Midland in Wiley County and signed on with the 46th Kentucky Volunteer Cavalry to fight for the federals. He was assigned to Company F, and once all the other volunteers got to know him, it wasn't long before Uncle John was elected captain. That's how he got the human rifle; the rest of the men chipped in and bought it for him. The brass part is engraved in fancy writing that says, "Capt. John Henry. Company F. 46th Kentucky Vol. Cavalry." Uncle John said cavalrymen normally used shorter guns, because they were easier to handle on horseback, but they didn't usually shoot their rifles until they were dismounted anyway, so it didn't matter that the human rifle had a 24 inch barrel.

One time I asked Uncle John what kind of rifle it was, and he thought about it for a minute, and said, "Well, Pat, it's a human rifle." I accepted that, without wondering why. I guess I figured it was just a funny name for a rifle company. I was 14 at the time, and it took a while before it sank in that it was a human rifle in the same way that a buffalo gun is a buffalo gun, or a squirrel rifle is a squirrel rifle. But of course killing humans wasn't the only thing you could do with it. I know of at least two deer, a bear, and some wild hogs that Uncle John killed with it, so it worked on them, for sure.

I pestered him about shooting it, and one day he let me. Along with the rifle, his men gave him two hundred bullets—cartridges, he called them, and he came home from the war with eighty-four. He let me shoot up five of them. Mama, Sis, me and Uncle John walked around behind the tobacco barn. He showed me how to raise the follower, he called it, up toward the end of the long barrel and turn it to the side so it would stay there. Then he let me put the short little bullets in the tube and lower the follower back down on top of them. There was room in the tube for a lot more, but I knew bullets cost a lot of money, so I was happy to be able to shoot five. He put an empty lard bucket in the pasture, and drew a picture in the dirt of how the sights and bucket were supposed to look before I pulled the trigger. It was one heavy gun, so I knelt down and rested the barrel of the human rifle on the top rail of the split rail fence.

Uncle John levered in the first bullet, so I could see how it worked, and then turned me loose. I missed with the first one, but after that I had that bucket bouncing around pretty good. It made a whole lot of white smoke, and it kicked some, but not too bad. When I looked up to see what Mama and Sis thought about my shooting, they were already on the way back to the house. There's things women don't understand, I guess.

That same day I got to shoot his pistol—revolver, he called it. I didn't do near as much damage to the bucket, but I got it a couple of times out of six. It was heavy, too, smoked like the devil, and kicked a lot. He showed me how to load the pistol after I shot it. He said they made paper cartridges, but he didn't have any, so he showed me how to measure and pour in the gun powder, and push the bullet down on top of the powder with the loading lever. "This is a bullet," he said, holding one of the round lead balls between his thumb and index finger. Then I put the caps on the nipples on the back end of the cylinder, and Uncle John pronounced it ready to go.

I didn't bother asking what kind of pistol it was, but I later found out it was a .44 caliber Dance Brothers Army Model. He told me he didn't buy it, either, and it wasn't given to him by his men. He picked it up off the ground. It was lying next to a Texican rebel who had tried to kill him with it, so he said he figured he had a right to keep it.

"You know how William's shotgun works. So you're qualified on all of the family firearms now, Pat," he said, "just in case it ever comes up." I eventually figured out that the human rifle was a Henry, which was kind of funny since that made it John Henry's Henry, but it'll always be Uncle John's human rifle to me.

I should back up and talk about Daddy. I guess there might be unluckier ways to get killed than getting kicked by a horse, but I think it has to be right up there close to the top. Anyways, one day Daddy finished up his business in town and was getting ready to head home when he stepped off of the boardwalk and into the street. I was already on the wagon seat, ready to go. I turned around to look just as Daddy was walking behind two saddle horses that were tied to the hitching rail, and for some stupid reason one of those horses decided to kick him, and that was pretty much that. His right leg was snapped nearly in two between the knee and ankle, with bones sticking out through the torn up meat. Dr. Johnson said he couldn't fix it, and it needed to be cut off, but Daddy wouldn't let him.

By this time Uncle John was back from his year in the war. "I've seen a lot of shattered bones, William," he said. He was sitting on a stool next to Daddy's cot in Dr. Johnson's little infirmary. He had just got done looking at the leg and covered it back up. "This will never heal. Listen to the doc. It has to come off." By the time Daddy agreed it had turned to gangrene, and the doc took his leg just below the knee. Three days later he took the rest of his leg, right up near the hip, and that night, Daddy died. You don't have to go to war to die young.

Losing Daddy was real hard on Mama and Sis, like you'd expect. Uncle John and I kept growing tobacco, which was no small trick with the war still going on, and Uncle John took care of Mama as best he could, but he was her brother, not her husband. As for Sis, she was 9 at the time, and was a Daddy's girl to the bone, and she didn't want no other Daddy, although she loved Uncle John a lot. I guess I had it easier than them. I loved Daddy too, and missed him, but Uncle John took his place pretty easy in my case. Daddy never had a lot of confidence in me, and didn't give me anything very important to do. When I did something good, he didn't make much of it, like it was just something I was supposed to do in the first place, now go wash up for supper. Uncle John was different. He gave me man's work to do, and trusted me to do it right. When I did, he'd say, "Nice work," or, "Looks good." He made me feel like I was as important around the place as he was—a man, just like him. Don't get me wrong; I knew I wasn't the equal of Uncle John, and most likely never would be. But that's how he made me feel.

You know how some things, like dates, stick in your mind? Anyways, I've got one: 21st May, 1864. Like just about every Saturday, we went into town for supplies and to take care of business, get the mail, and such. Supplies of all kinds were hard to come by because of the war, but we went and looked and did the best we could. Mama used to sometimes make the three-mile trip with Daddy, but she hardly ever went with Uncle John. Usually Sis and I took turns going with him, but on this day he said we could both go. "Take your time," Mama said. "I think I'll have a bath."

"That's a good idea," Uncle John said. "You'll never get a man smelling like you do." He ducked the hunk of lye soap Mama threw at him and ran out the door. Sis and I ran behind him and we were all laughing as we climbed into the wagon.

Mama came out onto the porch and she was laughing, too. "Don't want no man," she said. "Most of them are too much like you, John Henry."

Uncle John made a show of running the team out of the yard, then slowed to our normal walk. It was all in fun, but it got me wondering if Mama would get married again. Daddy had been dead for six months. I wasn't worldly, for dang sure, but I knew Mama was a pretty woman and made a nice home, she had property, and she was handy with all the woman's work around a farm. She could have had another man if she wanted one. So I figured what she said was true—she didn't want one.

The Yankees had pretty much run the rebels out of Kentucky by that time, but we still saw soldiers from both sides. The rebels were mostly ragged, hungry-looking men who had got their fill of rebelling and were trying to make their way home and hide out until the war was over. Uncle John said that after the big fight in Pennsylvania, everybody with any sense knew the rebels couldn't possibly win. He said all that remained to be seen was how many more boys needed to die before the big shots called it off.

The Yankees that we saw were mostly interested in stealing stuff and lording it over everybody, seeing as how this was a rebel county and we had it coming. It aggravated Uncle John no end to be treated like a rebel by every Yankee patrol that wandered by until he proved different. He had to show his discharge papers twice that I know of, and one time he brought out the human rifle and let the sergeant in charge of a cavalry squad read the engraved words to convince him they shouldn't take our horses and all the tobacco we had hanging in the barn.

But, back to our trip into town. I was past expecting a treat when I went to town, but Sis had just turned 10, and she still looked forward to getting one. On the twenty-first of May, 1864, she wanted griddle cakes at Barkley's Restaurant. We ate breakfast maybe three hours before, so she couldn't have been very hungry. But that was what she wanted, and Uncle John knew Daddy always got her what she wanted, so he did, too, if he could possibly afford it.

We didn't get an early start, and we took our sweet time about everything, so it was around 4:00 when we got back. We were still a good ways from the house when all of a sudden Uncle John reined in the horses and set the brake on the wagon. He just sat there for a little bit, looking at the yard in front of the house. At first it just looked like the yard to me, but then it dawned on me that the dirt was kind of tore up and there was more horse manure than when we left. "You two get in the back and lie down," he said.

I thought it was a joke, and said, "Ah, Mama ain't gonna throw any more soap." Sis laughed, but Uncle John looked me in the eye with a look I hadn't ever seen before.

"Do as I say!" he said. I didn't want any more of that look, so I helped Sis into the back of the wagon and followed her. "Hand me the rifle." The human rifle was wrapped in a blanket in the bed of the wagon, right behind the seat. When he had the rifle, Uncle John got down out of the wagon. He reached into the bed and patted Sis on the butt, then squeezed my shoulder. It felt like his hand was shaking a little bit. "Stay here and keep your heads down."

Needless to say, we both raised up and watched as he walked the rest of the way to the house, kind of off to the side. He mounted the porch from that side. He had taken his boots off, and shinnied on his belly under the window, then stood up by the door. Very slowly and quietly he levered a bullet into the human rifle. Then he took a deep breath, kicked the door in, and ran inside.

It seemed like forever and a day, but it probably wasn't any more than five minutes before he came out and motioned for us to come in. He let Sis run past him and into the house, but he stopped me. "Pat," he said, "un-hitch the horses and saddle them. Get two picks and two shovels and tie them on."

I didn't know what to think. "Shovels? Is Mama…"

Uncle John hugged me. "No, Pat," he said. "No, no. I'm sorry." That look in his eyes was gone, and he was regular old Uncle John again. "Your mother's all right. You just can't go in the house right now. It's women's business. You and I, we've got men's work to do."

I wanted to say Sis ain't no woman, she's a damn kid, but instead I went to saddle the horses and look for shovels and picks. Pretty soon Uncle John came out to the barn. He had a knapsack with some bacon and biscuits in it. He fixed me up with the revolver in a pommel holster on Molly, and tied the human rifle to Jack in a saddle scabbard. We were mounted and on the road before you knew it. As we left the yard, Uncle John said, "We're after three men. They're about four hours ahead."

My head was pretty much swimming around. "What did they do?"

Uncle John looked over at me, but didn't say anything. And the hell of it is, he didn't have to, because I had already figured it out. What I knew about women wouldn't fill a thimble, but I knew some men would take what they wanted and didn't care what the woman thought. It made me sick to my stomach thinking about it. "What are we going to do?" I asked.

"Pat," he said, "you and I both promised William we'd take care of Rosie and Sis. We can't let this go and still keep that promise." He looked back down the road.

"That's not what I meant. I meant, how are we going to do it?"

He looked back at me, and reached over and put his hand on my shoulder again. This time, his hand was steady as a rock "We'll figure it out when we catch up to them. They won't figure on anybody coming after them. They're used to doing whatever they want and getting away with it around here."

I shook my head. "Not this time," I said.

"No," Uncle John agreed. "Not this time."

I looked over at Uncle John from time to time as we laid there behind that tree to see if he had gone to sleep, but he never did. He was just kind of looking up at the stars. At some point we both heard footsteps coming in our direction. Uncle John turned to me and put a finger on his lips, then he cocked the hammer on the human rifle. That didn't make a lot of noise, but when I cocked the revolver the three clicks were pretty loud.

"Who's there?" The man who had walked away from the fire was about ten feet from us. He was in the process of unbuttoning his pants to pee, but he didn't get that far. Uncle John and I both stood up and shot him. That was pretty much it for the young skinny one. He stumbled backwards and fell on his left side.

Uncle John then fired five shots from the human rifle so fast it sounded like five men firing all at once. The big red-haired man was hit in the belly and the shoulder, and fell on his back next to the fire. The tall bald man, who was sitting on his saddle, stood up and was hit in the left thigh as he dove behind a fir tree for cover. Their horses jerked at their tethers, but none got loose, and pretty soon they settled down.

It was quiet for a bit, then the man behind the tree called out, "Tommy! Are you all right, boy?"

Uncle John responded. "There's no point in asking after Tommy."

"You lousy BASTARD," said the man behind the tree. "He was just a kid!"

"Well," Uncle John replied, "there's lots of dead kids around, these days." The human rifle was cocked and on his shoulder, and he swung it slowly between the tree and the man on the ground a couple of times.

"Who are you?" It was the man with the red hair and the red beard, lying next to the fire. He had both hands clasped on his belly. "Why are you doing this? If you're johnny rebs, just go on your way. There's no need for us to kill each other."

"Yankees," said Uncle John. "Yankees that still respect women."

"God DAMN IT!" yelled the man behind the tree. "I told you we should kill the rebel whore!"

Uncle John tilted his head to the left. Speaking softly to me, he said, "I'm going to go over there and circle around so I can get a shot at the man behind the tree. You have five shots left. I want you to count to ten and shoot, and do it again, until I'm over there."

"Shoot at what?" I asked.

"Shoot at the tree. It doesn't matter."

He took off running, and I counted to ten, fired a shot, cocked the hammer, and started counting again. On the count of ten I fired again, and I kept doing it until the gun was empty. I couldn't see Uncle John, and was waiting for him to fire, but he didn't. I guess the man behind the tree figured he had learned the game, because all of a sudden he came around the tree, holding his hurt leg with one hand and firing his revolver with the other as he limped toward me. I ducked down behind the tree, and it wasn't long before I heard the human rifle go to work. It didn't sound anything like a revolver, and after two shots, the revolver went quiet.

"Come on, Pat."

I got up and walked past the dead bodies of the young, skinny one, and the tall, bald one, and pretty soon I was standing next to Uncle John over the big redhead with the red beard. "God damn you, Carson," said Uncle John. "I prayed it wasn't you. I didn't know you'd gone regular army."

The red-haired man's eyes widened. "Captain Henry," he said.

"Shut up," said Uncle John. "The fella that used to call me that was a good soldier and a decent man. That's not you."

The red-haired man was in a lot of pain, but he seemed to want to explain things to Uncle John. "We were told at Regimental that her man was Secesh. We had orders to bring him in for questioning."

"Her man's dead," said Uncle John. "I expect she told you that."

"Yeah, she did, then she sassed us, got our blood up. And truth be told, John, she didn't put up much of a fight. We thought she wanted it."

Uncle John kicked Carson in the side of the face, hard, and when he regained his senses, Carson had blood and snot running out of his nose, and he was spitting out blood. "John, please," he said. "I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry, truly sorry, for what we did."

"I guess you're mostly sorry Pat and I caught up with you."

Carson gagged and spit some more, then took a couple of big breaths. "Not long ago you saved me, John—ran through bullets buzzin' like bees to do it—and you know I would have done the same for you. I'm asking for mercy, John."

Uncle John cradled the barrel of the human rifle in the crook of his left arm. "You're gut-shot. There's nothing I can do for you but end it quick."

Carson recognized the rifle. "Well," he said, "I guess I got my four bits worth."

"Not quite yet," said Uncle John. "If all this talking makes it easier for you, go ahead. But it won't change anything."

I guess Carson decided he was done talking, but I had something to say. "Carson." I moved closer so he could see my face. "Thank you for not letting him kill my mother."

He didn't say anything; he just closed his eyes. There were tears running down his cheeks and into his red side burns as Uncle John stood the human rifle in the middle of his chest and pulled the trigger. Carson's tunic caught fire, and Uncle John tapped it out with the same boot he's used to kick Carson in the face. "Go get the horses, Pat."

By the time I got back he had put out the fire and moved everything away from the road and into a blackberry thicket. He had started digging with their little camp shovel, but was glad to see real shovels and picks and some help. It wasn't long before we had a big enough grave for the men, their gear and their guns, and had them covered up.

Wearing "US" brands like they were, we couldn't just turn the horses loose. They would be found, and that would mean something bad had likely happened to the soldiers, and the army would then move heaven and earth to find someone to blame and punish. But if nothing was ever found, it would just mean the soldiers had probably deserted. So we had to kill the horses, too.

That called for some big holes, but we got them dug. I reloaded the revolver, and we stood the horses next to their graves. I shot them in the ear and Uncle John pushed them in. After they were buried we covered up everything with brush, and headed home just as the sun was coming up.

Around noon it started raining, which wasn't all bad. We were covered with blood and dirt, and the rinsing had to make us look a little better. But even as I was becoming cleaner on the surface, I was feeling pretty dirty inside. "Uncle John," I said. "Are we going to hell?"

He looked over at me and shook his head. "You know, Pat," he said, "I've thought about that a lot. God sent the Israelites to war against their enemies. Do you think He would punish a soldier for doing his duty?"

I wiped the rain off my face. "I hope not."

"I don't think He would. And a man has a duty to more than just country. He has a duty to family. "

We were less than a mile from home when we rounded a bend and came face to face with Pike County Sheriff E. R. Belvin. The rain had stopped, and we had been hiding beside the road to avoid traffic when we could, but E.R. took us by surprise, and we all stopped in the middle of the road.

"Mornin', John," said the sheriff.

"E.R.," said Uncle John.

"You know, John," said the sheriff, "I was just by your place, lookin' to talk to you. But the first thing I had to do was get a 10 gauge long tom out of my face. Rosie was damned upset about somethin', and Sis was shakin' like a cat shittin' peach seeds. Your sister wouldn't tell me what was wrong, but I kind of got the impression they were worried about you two."

"Well," said Uncle John, "we're fine, and we'll be home before you know it."

I wasn't sure what we looked like, but I knew it wasn't fine, with our bloodshot eyes, filthy clothes, and armed for war, not to mention our collection of digging tools. E.R. looked us over and I believe he formed the same opinion.

"John Henry," he said, "you and me go way back, to when we were younger than Sis, let alone Pat, here. I guess I'd put more stock in your say-so than just about any man I know."

"That means a lot to me, Eulys."

Their horses were nose to nose, and the two men were looking each other smack dab in the eye. "That bein' the case," said the sheriff, "I'm not goin' to ask you what you've been doin'. But I do need for you to tell me that whatever it was, it needed doin', and it was the right thing to do."

Uncle John nodded his head. "That's the God's truth of it."

E.R. nodded, too. "I expect if the Provost Marshal got wind of your trip, he might be more inclined to ask questions."

"I expect you're right."

"Well, I guess I'll go home and put on some dry clothes."

"Us, too," said Uncle John. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"It'll keep." The sheriff turned his horse around and spurred it into a splashing, mud-slinging lope. We walked our horses the rest of the way home.

Before we even put away the horses or cleaned ourselves up, Uncle John sat us all down at the table and said more soldiers would come looking for those fellas, and when they did, we should say we never saw them, period. And they did come, three or four times. We stuck to our story, and after a while they quit looking. If there was ever any other discussion about that day in our house, I wasn't in on it. We just all kind of went on from there. It happened, Uncle John and I made it right, and that was that.

It turned out the reason E.R. came out to see Uncle John that day was to try to hire him on as a deputy, which he eventually did. When E.R. married Mama and decided to try his hand at tobacco farming, Uncle John ran for sheriff in November of '64 and won in the biggest landslide in the history of Pike County, which was funny, because in the same election, Honest Abe didn't win a single Kentucky county. And Uncle John, the Yankee cavalryman, made sheriff of a rebel county. During his second four-year term he hired me as a deputy.

In the Spring of '71 Will and Sarah Barkley were killed in a wagon accident, and shortly after that Sis married Willie Barkley and between the two of them, they kept Barkley's Restaurant up and running, and are doing OK, as far as I know. At the very least I bet Sis gets all the griddle cakes she wants.

After eight years, Uncle John had had enough of police work, and I was never all that crazy about it, so we decided to hand in our badges and head out west to make our fortunes. And that, as they say, is a whole 'nother story.

The Capture of Cynthia Adams
by Lela Marie De La Garza

Cynthia's horse sensed danger and began to gallop, but not fast enough, not soon enough. Indians surrounded her. One of them made an unmistakable gesture, meaning she was to dismount. She scrambled from her saddle and stood facing her captors, small and defenseless. The horse, she knew, was a prize to them, but a young white woman could have only one fate. Cynthia hoped only for a chance to take her life before they did.

A rope was thrown around Cynthia's shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides, and the Indians rode off, pulling her after them. Obviously she was meant to walk and stay up. If she fell behind they would think nothing of dragging her all the way to wherever they were going. She did her best, but began to stumble and knew she couldn't go on much longer.

Suddenly a strong arm reached down and scooped her up. Cynthia found herself on a horse, sitting in front of an Indian. Her captor said a few words which she could not understand, but she realized from the tone they were meant to reassure her. They did not. If this Indian was claiming her for his own it meant an unthinkable fate. The knife and gun she always carried with her were in her saddlebags. She tried to squirm around to see if she could find a weapon, but was pinioned by a hard grip.

Finally they pulled up at a small circle of adobe huts. Cynthia was pulled off the horse and taken into one of the dwellings. There she saw a naked baby girl lying on a piece of hide. She couldn't be more than a week old. The Indian pointed to Cynthia, then to the baby, then back to Cynthia. Obviously he meant her to take care of the child. "M-mama?" she stammered.

"Dead," the Indian replied. So he knew a little English. With his few words of it, and a great many gestures, Cynthia got him to bring a bowl of water and one of milk and some soft leather skins. The baby was filthy, and she used one of the skins to wash it. The other she dipped into the milk and then into the tiny mouth. The baby sucked greedily, and Cynthia dipped the skin again and again, until, replete, the baby slept.

The Indian had been watching all this with stern eyes. At last, satisfied with Cynthia's ministrations, he said "You stay," turned, and left. Cynthia surmised that this was his baby; that the mother had died in childbirth. She wondered why he didn't get one of the squaws to care for it, but realized that his scanty store of English would not be enough to explain it to her.

Cynthia feared the little creature would die under these conditions, but it thrived on the milk she was able to give it, and she became very fond of the baby as the days passed. It was her only companion. The braves ignored her; the squaws spat at her. She would have been glad to learn the language if anyone had been inclined to teach her, or teach English to anyone who wanted to learn it. No one did.

Cynthia taught herself to sew skins, to cook bits of meat over a fire. The Indian who had brought her provided for her needs and the baby's, but never bothered her otherwise. She supposed that, as the woman who was caring for his child, she was untouchable.

The baby had an Indian name, but Cynthia called her Little Fawn, for the colour of her skin and her large dark eyes. Three months went by, and she loved Little Fawn passionately, walking with her when she cried, rocking her and singing the lullabies she knew. Every smile, every coo delighted her. "Mommy loves you," she would croon. "Mommy will always take care of you." She had resigned herself to staying with the tribe forever, bringing up the baby as her own.

One morning Cynthia heard screaming and shots. She held the baby tightly and did not dare go outside. An Indian raid had been made on several farms in the area. Houses had been burned, people killed and scalped. This tribe had nothing to do with it, but retribution had to be taken. Indians are Indians, the settlers thought. Go after the first settlement you see. And they had.

Little Fawn's father staggered into the hut, blood streaming from his throat, and fell to the ground. He breathed once and not again. A man dressed in some sort of blue uniform followed him and looked closely at Cynthia. "You . . . you're a white woman!"

Cynthia's voice sounded far away in her ears. "Yes. I'm Cynthia Adams."

"Everyone's been scouring the countryside, looking for you. We'll take you home now."

Cynthia showed Little Fawn to him. "This is an innocent baby. You killed her father, and I'm taking her with me."

"No, Miss Adams. You can't do that." The man's voice was not unkind.

"But she's mine!"

"Miss, you can't raise an Indian baby among whites. They'd never accept it, and when she grew up she'd want her own people. Maybe someday it could be done, but not now."

"Then I'll stay here."

The man sighed. "With her father gone you'd have no protection among these savages. They'd likely take the baby away from you and use you . . . use you hard." Knowing he was right Cynthia followed him outside, sobbing and clutching the baby fiercely to her. She covered its tiny face with kisses, wetting it with tears from her own and handed it to a squaw. Little Fawn put out her arms and said her first word: "Mommy!" Cynthia's heart broke as she left and never looked back.

A few years later Cynthia married Robert Trueblood, a homesteader. They had five children. Cynthia had thirteen grandchildren, seventeen great grandchildren and lived long enough to hold her great great granddaughter. She passed away peacefully at the age of ninety-nine, with all her children around her bed. Cynthia's face lit up with her final words: "Mommy's coming!"

The Stranger
by Larry Flewin

The Appaloosa, also known as the spotted horse for its unusual colors, is a big horse, strong-willed and sure-footed. The Stranger rode one, using a firm grip on the reins to negotiate the rough terrain of the draw. He had been following the wagon train for some time, using the heat and the dust as cover. It was long since gone, leaving one last wagon with a broken wheel alone in the draw.

The driver, a young woman in jeans and buckskin, was attempting to fix it, willing but unable to lift up the iron-rimmed wheel. Intent on her task, she didn't hear the soft footfalls of the approaching horse and rider.

"Howdy ma'am," said the Stranger tipping his hat. His smile was warm and friendly.

She whirled around, right hand clutching a Colt Dragoon, her big brown eyes wide in surprise.

"Howdy yourself," she said, shading her eyes with her left hand. "And just who might you be, mister." There was a pause. "Say, you know anything about wheels? This one's bust."

"Some. Let me take a look at it ma'am and see what I can do. Just do me a favor and point that thing somewhere's else."

She looked at him long and hard while he dismounted and tethered his ride to the brake. The Dragoon slid back into a holster she wore slung over her left shoulder.

Didn't take him long to see that the rear axle had partly come off its brace. That in turn had pushed the left rear wheel off its axle.

"Can ya fix it?"

"Yeah I'm pretty sure I can. Lucky thing it's empty otherwise we'd be here a whole lot longer. I'll need that log over there though, see it, the one by the sage? How about you drag it on over here while I get this brace fixed up." He lifted a hammer out of the box under the seat. He almost didn't see the leather bags packed right up tight against the box inside the wagon bed.

A loud scream brought him on the run.

When he found her she was all wrapped up in herself, hand over her mouth. Wordlessly she pointed to a pair of boots sticking out from under the log. A faded red stain on his shirtfront left no doubt as to his fate.

She looked over his shoulder as the stranger knelt down to take a closer look at the body. "Do you know who he is?"

"Yeah I think I do," he said softly. "Been looking for him for some time. Friend of mine named Beau Walton. Last I heard he was riding for Wells Fargo for the mines and such hereabouts."

"That's where we're goin', or at least I was until this here wheel come off. "

"Happens a lot does it?"

"Yeah so they just go on without me 'til they stop and then someone'll come back and help out. We gotta contract to take freight 'n' such 'cross the panhandle to the rail head. That's me and my pa what owns the train. There's a Wells Fargo relay station just up ahead where we stop to get water and fresh horses."

"Well," said the stranger, standing and dusting himself off." There's not much we can do for him right now so let's get you fixed up. Go get your team ready to back up a little. We gotta get the axle back in place or none of us is going anywhere. Once that's done it'll take both of us to get the wheel on."

"Okay. I'm awful sorry 'bout your friend."

"You and me both honey. He was a good man and a good friend. Don't know who did this but I aim to find out. We'll take Beau with us to the station if that's alright with you. This is a matter for the law. I can wire the Sheriff from there."

It was a quiet ride to the Relay station.

Her name was Kansas. And she was right proud of it.

"You don't say! And just who's idea was that," he asked. "Don't seem like much of name for a girl, if you'll pardon my saying so."

"Pa done it. He really wanted a boy so when I come he went outside and howled at the moon. All he kept sayin' was dang blasted Kansas so that's who I am."

They were caught up to the train by now. It had halted at the northern end of the draw, which opened out onto a flat prairie afternoon. Clumps of sagebrush and stands of sycamore dotted a waving sea of short grass. The drivers tended their rigs or watered the mules. Kansas' father rode back to see what was doing.

"Mighty obliged to ya mister. Right sorry about yer friend. Can't say's I knowed him but we'll take him with us, see he's done proper. George is my name."

"Much obliged. He was a good friend."

"Where ya from."

"Oh here and there. Texas mostly, New Mexico a little, Arizona."

"Arizona!" Kansas exclaimed. "You been there? You know Wyatt Earp? I read about him all the time in the paper seems like!"

"Yeah I know him," said the Stranger smiling broadly. "There's three of them down there, brothers, Virgil, Morgan, and Wyatt. Keep the law for the good folks of Tombstone and thereabouts. Matter of fact I rode with Wyatt a while, 'til he took a badge."

"No kiddin'. Where'd ya ride to? All I ever done is ride to town and back with the wagons. Where you been? What's it like way out there?" George shushed her and pointed at the dead man. "Have some respect, honey."

George headed back to the lead wagon to get the train moving again. Time was money and they didn't get paid if they were late.

Kansas was still eager. "So you were going to tell me the last place you rode to."

"Out west mostly. There's lots of land under those prairie skies, places where a man can live a good and decent life. Raise a family, run a herd or two."

"Wow, wish I could go."

"Well maybe some day you will but you gotta grow a little first. Now why don't you head on up and help out your Pa. I'll be along directly."

No sooner had she ridden off than he climbed back into the wagon. He pulled a badge and wallet out of the dead man's pockets and pocketed those. He'd make sure they got back to his wife Sarah, and any money owing. It was the least he could do for an old friend. That done he pulled the bags out from their hiding place and inspected them.

There was a large leather satchel with Wells Fargo stamped on it, and a similarly large lock keeping it closed. Thought so he murmured, Wells Fargo payroll. It's here alright and looks like nobody's touched it. But where was Beau's he wondered.

The other bag was stamped US Mail and contained maybe a dozen letters addressed to whomever. He put them back in the satchel except for one letter which caught his eye. It was addressed to someone at the Relay station, Bagby, but it was in a Wells Fargo envelope. Company paper and envelopes weren't supposed to be used for ordinary letters. He pocketed that and put the mail bag back.

It didn't take much persuading for the Stranger to be persuaded to join them for the rest of the journey to the Relay station. Pa introduced himself as Daniel MacLean, former owner of a ferry just downriver from Vicksburg. When the bluecoats came he and Kansas lit out south and west. When they stopped running, Daniel took a job with Wells Fargo, leading trains of freight wagons through eastern New Mexico, and across the Texas panhandle.

Turns out Daniel was kin to Kit Carson, a distant cousin of the infamous range rider and Indian agent.

"Don't talk about him much" mumbled Daniel, in between chaws on his tobacco. "People say he was mean to the Navajo, stole their land and food and such like. Don't hardly believe it myself. I ain't seen 'im since sixty-five but the Carson I knew wouldn't have done such things."

"Yeah. All those eastern papers are filled with stories even I don't believe," countered the Stranger, "and I work out here. Listen, if you don't mind my askin' where you headed after we get to the Station."

"Well, we gotta change teams, pick up a coupla extra mounts, and take the whole shebang west to the New Mexico border. There's a new railhead out there. We unloads there, trade the horses for fresh and head on back. Round trip takes us about a week."

"I see ya got some bags in the last wagon, take a little mail do you?"

"Yep. Pony Express doesn't ride this far out no more so we take mail, and run other such like to the mines when we pick up the ore. Take it direct to 'em cuz them miners can be a right ornery bunch iffn it don't come to them on time."

It was the peak of a blazing hot prairie day when the wagon train finally reined at the Relay Station. Walton's body was pulled from the wagon and laid to rest in a stall in the horse barn attached to the station. Once done the Stranger made himself known to the Station Agent, a man named Bagby.

He didn't seem too pleased to meet the Stranger but at Daniel's insistence signed him on as a temporary wagon guard. Muttering under his breath about the expense of hiring nobody's, he shuffled over to the open door and pointed out the corral he could use. Overly large with sweaty palms and slicked back hair, Bagby didn't seem the type to run a station, and that bothered him some.

Putting his horse in the corral along with the other fresh relays, the Stranger noticed a roan at the back that was all sweaty and dusty, like it had been ridden hard recently. Being on his own, it seemed unlikely that Bagby would be riding hard anywhere, so who's horse was that he wondered.

"That be mine", mumbled Bagby. "With all the trouble lately with the payroll, Company wants me to take a ride around some. Figure if I show up once in a while I might scare 'em off."

"Yeah well, it didn't do much. That's my friend in the barn over there. Last I heard he was riding for Wells-Fargo out here. I was riding through and thought I'd pay him a visit. Seems I was a little late."

"Yeah seems that way, don't it. Man can't be too careful around here."

Truer words were never spoken. Less than an hour later a wounded man rode in, or rather staggered in. Kansas saw him first. She was tending to the relay horses they were taking with them to the railhead when he hobbled into sight. And what a sight he was, dusty, hatless, and covered in blood.

"Come on mister, let me give you hand, where are you hurt. HELP! HELP! Wounded man here! HELP!"

The station emptied of every man. Bagby waddled out of his office cradling a shotgun, the Stranger with matching Colts, and the other men a mix of rifles and pistols. They surrounded Kansas and her find in short order and escorted them back to the station.

"Well friend", said the Stranger. "Looks like you ran into a little trouble somewheres. Can you tell us about it? What happened?"

"Ambush, plain and simple. Somebody took a couple shots at me 'bout a mile or so back. Dropped my horse and darn near dropped me. I shot back best I could but I couldn't see where they was acomin' from. Aahh, that hurts missy."

"Yeah well sit still or it'll hurt worse. Looks like it's through and through. Won't be able to shoot for awhile but I reckon you'll do."

"What brings you way out here anyways." asked the Stranger. "Seems a mighty long way from nowhere."

"Name's Nesbitt, Bart. Don't normally do this kind of work, but a problem arose in the last town I was in. I kind of had to leave in a hurry. Right now I'm riding for Wells Fargo. Got the next mine payroll or at least I did until this happened. Would have brought it with me except I couldn't carry it all. Say don't I know you? You look awful…"

"Don't think so," interrupted the Stranger, shaking his head. "We've never met, right?" Nesbitt nodded, in hurried agreement.

"So what do we do now," asked Kansas as she wrapped up Nesbitt's shoulder. "Shouldn't we call the law in or something'?"

"Take too long," replied Bagby. "Sheriff rode through a couple days ago. He's headed south to settle some land dispute or other. Didn't figure on being back any time soon."

"Well that's too bad, but somebody's gotta go out there and look for the bushwhacker. Or at least try to find the payroll. Guess that's gonna be me," said the Stranger. "You okay with that Daniel? Means leaving you short a man."

Before he could reply, Bagby interrupted. "Won't be a problem. How's about I ride along a little ways, as a scout maybe. Ride on ahead and check the trail, make sure it's clear as far as the end of the hills. Once you hit the flatlands you can see for miles, can't see anybody trying to sneak up on you then."

Daniel nodded in agreement and left with Kansas to get the train ready. The Stranger rode out a short time later following the directions given him by Bagby. The wounded man was to stay behind at the Station until he was better able to travel.

The Winchester model 1876 is a lever-action rifle that fits easily into a saddle holster, fires when wet (mostly), and has fewer moving parts than a horse. It was said you could fire a Winchester twice a day for a week and thrice on Sunday before reloading. It made a distinctive sound when fired.

Following Bagby's directions the Stranger soon found himself riding through a rough stretch of territory, all rocks and sage and sand that slowed his progress to a crawl. There wasn't any trail to speak of and he was headed away from the wagons. Didn't take him longer to figure that he'd been sent off on some fool's errand.

Not wanting to be too far from the wagons for too long he figured if he rode southwest a piece he might catch up to the train before it reached the flatlands. After that it would be a hard ride over open ground. There was every chance he could surprise the bushwhacker and maybe even get a look at him.

The rock he was now crouching behind provided more than ample shelter against the 44-40 caliber rounds coming his way. Luckily the first shot had gone wide, giving him time to dismount and take cover. His Appaloosa, no stranger to gunfire, ambled off a ways and began to crop the sparse vegetation.

The bushwhacker was no shootist that was for sure. Shots kicked up sand all around the outcropping and even hit it once, but that was it. After a time the Stranger got up and ran for his horse, not even bothering to slow down when a round whistled past him. Yanking his Sharpe's carbine loose and grabbing a handful of shells, the stranger sprinted back to the safety of the rock. The shooting appeared to have stopped.

Following the advice of an old Army friend of his, George Custer, he carried the carbine instead of a rifle. Custer was gone north, part of the governments response to the Indian problems in the badlands of South Dakota. That whole thing didn't feel right somehow but George was determined to make a name for himself.

Meantime the Stranger rested the carbine on an outcropping, took careful aim at what appeared to movement in the distance, and fired off several rounds. The deep boom of the carbine went unchallenged and the movement stopped.

Back in the saddle and riding hard for where the train should be, the Stranger paused briefly by a patch of ground showing recent use by a horse and brass rifle casings. Winchester he noted, and still warm. They were a newer type of rim fire cartridge developed by the Winchester Arms Company and only issued to the US Army and other special agencies, including Wells Fargo.

Just south of the ambush site the land was plain bald prairie, flat as a dusty yellow pancake, dotted with small clumps of sage and cacti. Having picked up six spent rounds, the Stranger made note of two trails that came together just about where he stood. One came from the southeast; a single horse ridden hard, reined in quickly, and then left to wander for a short time. A horse used to occasional rifle fire.

The second trail was just as hurried, leaving the same spot and back southwest in the same direction he was headed. Looked to his experienced eyes to be one rider with a newer Winchester rifle and not too good a shot with it. The casings themselves were an important clue. As for the shots were they intended to slow him down a little, or just scare him off? He didn't know but he intended to find out.

He gave the Appaloosa its head, riding hard and fast following the second trail. It looked to cut across the trail the wagons were using. He urged his big mount on and the Appaloosa responded with a burst of speed even the Stranger didn't know he had. Tail and mane streamed back like cavalry flags.

It wasn't long before the trail came into view, and the wagon train itself. It was lazily plodding along, kicking up little dust. It was Kansas who saw him first. She stood up in the box of the rear wagon, waving furiously. She was all smiles when the Stranger reined up beside her.

"Hey cowboy, that was some ride! You miss me already?" she asked sheepishly.

"No nothing like that I'm afraid," said the Stranger apologetically, "Although I am glad to see you're okay."

"Heard some rifle fire a ways back but didn't see nobody. Musta been a hunter or somethin'. There's no one around here except us and you. The Comanche left for the reservation years ago and the ones we do see come to the post to trade a little."

"Well, I don't suppose it was them but somebody sure wasn't glad to see me. Ran into a little trouble back there and I thought it might be the same way for you. That's why I rode so hard to get here."

She gasped in surprise. "What kinda trouble, you alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Say, what kind of rifles do you and Daniel have. Got anything like this?" and he pulled out his Sharpe's carbine to show her.

"Nah, we don't carry guns, 'cept a couple old Colts to shoot rattlers with. Don't need 'em."

"Anybody else, the driver's maybe?"

"No, just Bagby, he's got one, one of them new Army ones. Showed it to me."

"Does he now. You seen him lately? Any idea where he is? I'd sure like to take a look at that rifle. Kind of a hobby of mine."

"Sure," she exclaimed, pointing to the front of the train. "He's up there, getting some water. Just rode in. Says he didn't see any need for scouting anymore."

"Well we'll see about that," and the Stranger rode off towards the last wagon, and Bagby.

"Afternoon Bagby. You seem awful thirsty. Water any good?"

"Why shouldn't I be, it's a hot day. Can't a man stop for a drink of water?"

"Judging by the way your horse is acting I'd say you two have been out in the sun for some time."

"I'm scouting. I supposed to be ain't I? I came in 'cause I didn't see the need. Besides, my canteen was empty, forgot to fill it back at the Station."

"Same here. Just came in from the northeast. Been tracking some bushwhacker taking a shot or two at me back there a ways. You wouldn't know anything about that would you?"

Bagby paused, canteen at his lips. "No, why."

"That's one of those new Winchesters isn't it?" asked the Stranger. "Mind if I take a look. I've been meaning to get one myself." It slid easily out of Bagby's saddle holster. "Feels nice, good weight to it, good balance. Aims nice." He sniffed the hammer. "Been fired recently too. Seen any rattlers around?"

"Uh no, say gimme that back. You got no right to be snooping around here. Get your water and go."

Oh I'll go alright, but not without you Bagby. You're under arrest!" And with that the Stranger drew his Colt. Bagby raised his hands high.

"Hey," exclaimed Daniel, as he and Kansas rode up, "What gives, what's going on here."

"Mister Bagby here is under arrest. He's coming with me to the railhead where I'll hand him over to the Marshal. He's wanted for Robbery and Murder and I got him for both."

"Robbery? Murder?" gasped Kansas.

"Yes ma'am," said the Stranger. "I've been following those payrolls you were bringing in. Seems Wells Fargo was losing money and they couldn't figure where. They switched to riders and gave you fakes, figuring' you might be the ones. When Jim and Bart went down that put you two in the clear."

"This is preposterous!" spluttered Bagby. "I didn't do anything! You've got nothing on me!"

"Well, we have your half brother in custody, found him through the Army records at Fort Laramie. I'm sure he'll testify against you to avoid a hanging. Seems he changed his name right after the War, so we didn't cotton onto the scheme right away." The Stranger snapped handcuffs onto Bagby.

"I don't figure how," said Kansas. "Them bags always stayed with the wagons."

"Easy enough. His brother put a little extra money in each payroll, which Bagby grabbed when it got here. That's part of his job, taking out his pay and makin' sure you don't take anything yourselves. And he's got the only key to unlock the payroll bags. When Wells Fargo switched to riders his brother started putting letters in the mail with the riding schedules. Got the latest one out of the mail bag myself."

"Once we had him it was just a matter of waiting for you to make a mistake. You made it when you got greedy and took a whole payroll, killed a friend of mine to do it. Then you made it doubly worse by trying to kill Bart and me and turn the trail cold. And you're only one out here with the new style Winchester."

"Mighty nice lookin' but I still prefer my old Sharpe's", said the Stranger, cocking the lever repeatedly, spitting live ammunition all over the ground, "Looks like you're a couple rounds short Bagby. Probably the ones I got in my pocket."

"Well I'll be" gasped Daniel. "Darned if that ain't wildest story I ever heard."

"And it's all true," said the Stranger, smiling. "And I can prove it."

"Just who are you mister," asked an awestruck Kansas. "You never told me your name."

"You never asked."

"Well I'm asking now stranger, who are you."

"Well ma'am you know what they say, no man in the wrong can stand up against a man that's in the right. Leander McNelly's the name; I'm a Ranger ma'am, Texas Ranger."

The Forgiven
by Christopher Davis

Bardwell stood alone in the one dusty street leading through the dry little valley town, the only thing standing in the way of the Bratton Gang, the stage office safe and the payroll for the railroad men working up and down the new Pacific Southern line.

"It's no use Bardwell," A greasy looking Bratton said standing opposite facing the lone gunslinger. "Step aside Dan and no one in this pretty little town gets hurt."

Two old Navy Colt's at his side, the gunslinger knew that he was outgunned. Twelve thirty-six caliber balls would be all that he could muster this afternoon against the guns of five men now planning to take the undefended stage office.

"Yeah," Bardwell said in a low voice the outlaws had to really listen to, "Fuck you Billy."

Dan Bardwell had faced some long odds in his years of Cavalry service and drifting, but never anything quite like these. Bratton knew that the gunslinger standing in his way was no one to take lightly, but he couldn't back down. Hell that would set a precedent that he just couldn't allow. Besides, there was a lot of good green money in those safe boxes just up the street.

"Use a little help this afternoon son?" Luke Fisher, the new Methodist preacher, asked walking up to where Bardwell stood alone in the dusty street.

Bardwell had liked the preacher from the first moment they had met some weeks ago. It wasn't often that a preacher rode into town wearing a brace of Colt's. "A gentleman's got to be able to protect one-self," The preacher had said, "My Daddy did a fine job of teaching me how to handle these things so many years ago. And it's always worked for me brother."

Bardwell nodded, "Sure you're up to this father?" Continuing on, the gunslinger explained, "These Bratton boys will play for keeps."

Spur rowels rang out from behind, Bardwell dared a glance to the side and nodded. "Thanks for coming gentlemen, didn't think you would make it," The gunslinger said to teamsters Ira Stoudt and the young Negro boy Franklin Curtis.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world Dan," Stoudt said in a low monotone voice, cigar clinched in his teeth.

"N-no sir," Franklin Curtis, the one-time orphaned Negro boy stuttered.

In a matter of moments, the odds out here in the street had changed considerably in the contest for the stage line office. Bratton and his men paused to think the situation over some. Bardwell, the drifter, was a known gunslinger and one time Texas Cavalryman. Ira Stoudt was part owner of the town's drayage business and a deadly shot with balls to boot. The Negro boy, Franklin Curtis, stood like a rock next to his mentor, his trusty coach gun over his shoulder and Terrance Gentry's old Peacemakers at his side. Stoudt and the boy had held off a band of Mexican's late last year inflicting a terrible toll on the would-be bandits.

Three known gunfighters stood in the way of the stage line treasure, but it was the preacher who intrigued Bratton the most. Standing in the road, his tall frame, black coat and white collar sent a shiver through the outlaw. Looking to be that of a Dandy with his long flowing yellow hair and oversized walrus mustache, Bratton knew the type very well. It takes one to know one, he would have told if asked. This afternoon, the preacher man didn't carry the bible of a minister, only those two single action Colt pistols of a well-seasoned gunfighter.

"Was it you who gunned down those Mexicans in the hills preacher man?" Bratton yelled out, he and his boys still standing in opposition. "Rumor has it that it got mighty ugly up there in the mountains?"

Fisher winked, "Might have been son, I don't rightly remember." The preacher threw back the tails of his long black coat exposing the blued Navy Colt's at his side. "I don't rightly remember."

Turning to smile at the men backing him in the fight, Bratton said laughing, "I told you boys it was the preacher man that did those poor bastards in."

The odds now stacking in his favor, Bardwell announced, "Billy, you and your boys don't have to do this." The gunslinger searched the face of his adversary for any sign, "Just turn around, walk back to your horses and ride out of town. Nobody gets hurt."

Bardwell and Stoudt tossed back their coats exposing now four more weapons. Sticking half out of Stoudt's front pocket was a couple of long red sticks their fuses starting off in different directions.

"Give us the money Dan," Bratton answered exposing his firearms. "It's just that easy."

"Ain't going to happen that way Billy and you know it," Bardwell said. It was his job now to protect the stage office property until the railroad asked for their money. Not one of the gunfighters flinched standing under a warm summer sky.

Expecting a fight to erupt at any moment, none of the residents of the little river town stirred. Sensing the tension in the warm afternoon breeze, even the prairie songbirds had settled for the time.

"Times wasting out here Dan," Bratton said, his men laughing, "Why don't you and the preacher man step aside and let us have what we rode in for?" Not waiting for an answer this time, Bratton sealed his fate and the fate of his men by going for his weapon.

Bardwell got the drop on the outlaw and fired first striking Bratton in the arm, but only serving to provide a grazing wound. It was on now, Ordained Minister Luke Fisher, grabbed for both Colts and began to fire the single action pistols with deadly accuracy. One of the outlaws went down for a moment with a ball to his leg.

Dragging his now wounded leg, the outlaw slid in behind a nearby wagon for cover, one of his partners joining for some shelter from the flying lead now coming in their direction. Stoudt held the fuse of one of those red sticks to the cigar clenched in his teeth before tossing it to the boys behind the wagon. The dynamite blast turned the wagon on its side taking those two of the Bratton's out of the picture for a time.

The boy smiled at his mentor as he held the remaining red stick to his cigar, "You g-going to throw that thing?" Franklin stuttered just before dropping both hammers on the coach gun. Buck and ball tore through the ranks of those in opposition still standing in the street as that one red stick bounced once then exploded behind the remaining outlaws.

Stoudt grabbed for both of his little Colt's and began to provide cover for the boy as Franklin reloaded the shotgun. One of the Bratton's made for an alleyway between the Nine to Five and the unfinished boarding house. Curtis stepped off in that direction to cut the outlaw off, "I g-got him boss." The boy was running now around the opposite corner of the saloon.

"It's over son," Fisher said, yelling to be heard over the sporadic gunfire. "There's no need for anyone else to get hurt here today."

Looking around at the condition of his men, Bratton yelled back, "Fuck you preacher man, I ain't leaving 'til I get that money."

Fisher sighted down the blued barrel of his Navy pistol and dropped the hammer the bullet found its mark right in Bratton's stomach. "Like I said it's all over son. Now let's call this whole thing off. Nothing lost, nothing gained. All will be forgiven, what do you say son?"

The shotgun barked from somewhere out behind the boarding house. Bratton down in front of Wilson's Livery, fumbled as he reloaded his pistol coughing blood. "Like I said preacher man, I ain't leaving." Bratton drew a bead on the preacher standing in the dusty street.

"Well then I've had just about enough of this," Fisher said as he fired three shots into Bratton, alternating between the revolver in his left and the revolver in his right hand. "Forgive me son, but it was either going to be you or me and yes I did gun down those men who took the life of my brother up there in the hills."

Bratton's eyes glazed as he looked up at the tall preacher standing over him his guns now holstered. "Our Father that be in Heaven…" Fisher started as he prayed for the dying outlaw breathing his least breath.

Stunned from the blast, two of the outlaws behind the overturned wagon gave Stoudt a close call as he closed in on the covered board walk. One of the gentlemen pointed his barrel in Stoudt's direction. The gunslinger made quick work of him just as the other elevated both of his weapons. Stoudt cycled the single action pistol in his right hand, nothing. The second pistol in his left was empty also.

From between the saloon and boarding house across the street, Franklin Curtis fired Gentry's forty-fours for the first time today. It was the least that he could do. Stoudt had kept his bacon out of the fire on many occasions over their years of running together.

Stoudt nodded thanks to the boy as he fumbled to load the converted Colts. Things had looked kind of bleak there for a moment as far as the teamster was concerned.

"No more." The remaining outlaw said throwing down his gun in the street and raising his hands, "No more."

Now, after the three minute scene had played itself out, here and there the proprietor of the river town business poked his head out to look things over.

"Mister Richardson," Bardwell asked, "Want to have some of your boys ride over and fetch the Sheriff?"

"Already did Dan. Sent 'em out when those Bratton's rode in," Richardson said in reply. "Sure would be good to have a lawman around here close wouldn't it?"

Black powder smoke drifted away from the gunfight on a gentle southerly breeze. In the quiet of the warm afternoon the grassland birds had returned to their cheerful songs as things returned to normal, just another day in the little river town of Whitmore's Ferry. Billy Bratton lay dead in the street where he fell. Three more of his boys lay across the dusty street a product of Bratton's stubbornness.

As businessmen up and down the one dusty lane ventured out, some began to move the dead outlaws to the porch of the stage office to await the arrival of the Sherriff from nearby Tulare. It would be several hours before the lawman could ride out to the lawless little town. Beginning to stiffen under a hot California sun, the dead men would have to wait there in the shade before burial in the town's new cemetery just across the dry river.

Picking up the pieces, Bardwell said in his dry monotone voice, looking into the eyes of each of the gunslingers standing in that same dusty road where it had all started earlier, "I want to thank you gentlemen for coming out to day."

Ira Stoudt smiled back, "Like I said Dan, we wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Franklin Curtis swung the coach gun up to his shoulder and nodded agreement, "N-no sir."

The long black coat of the preacher now concealing the deadly tools at his side, Luke Fisher, the town's newest resident and Minister, smiled at his gun-slinging peers, "Well gentlemen, it has become rather hot this afternoon."

No one disagreed with the Minister.

"Why don't we take a walk over to the saloon and get ourselves a cool drink?" Fisher continued, looking over the gentlemen standing in the street and the tiny town, "In time, as they say, all will be forgiven."

A Lesson
by David Henrie

Robbie Kellerman sat on the top step of the back porch. He watched the silent, unsmiling man who leaned against the porch railing.

"When I'm a man", the boy boasted, "I'll wear a gun, like you."

The man swung his lean body away from the hardness of the railing and asked,

"When is that, sonny?"

"Well," replied the boy, "You're a man, Mr. Tucker."

"Yeah, I'm over twenty-one," he said, and stepped down from porch onto the ranch yard. "How old are you?"

"Ten, almost."

Tucker moved out of the shadows into the waning, but still warm October sunlight. He withdrew a sack of tobacco and papers from the pocket of his soiled, white shirt. And while surveying the rock-rimmed approaches to the Kellerman ranch for what seemed to Robbie as the fiftieth time, Tucker rolled a neat, brown cigarette with his left hand.

That makes me bout' fifteen years older. An' if living in places like that beauty across the ridge makes a man then I'm one. But," he shrugged, "who really knows?"

Robbie hunched forward, eager for Mr. Tucker to continue.

That did it! Tucker stamped his unlit cigarette into the dry ranch yard dust which spurted upward. He watched the fine, red particles settle on his boots. The dust particles fluttered like the memory of unscheduled meeting yesterday with Pratt and some of his crew. After an angry accusation, Pratt's 'top hand', Tip O'Donnell started the action.

Then, the crash of gunfire and cries of hurt followed by quiet. Two men down. Tip with a smashed shoulder and another of Pratt's riders bled from a .44 slug in his belly.

And afterward, the long, fast ride over Sangre ridge into the Kellerman ranch late last night. Then, with the kid watching as Tucker wearily asked for a place to rest over night. And the kid, watching him unsaddle his tired pony. And the kid, watching him un-strap and stow his gun belt and holster—just like the kid watched him now.

Maybe, thought Tucker, there's a way to "straighten" out this kid so he'll have an idea about the real meaning of a tied-down Colt, night riding and always watching back trails.

"Before you get any more wrong ideas, sonny, let me tell you a few things."

Tucker reached for his Colt .44 only to remember he'd left in his saddle bag to please the Kellermans. He asked Robbie to fetch it. The boy ran to the barn. He knew exactly where to find it. Last night he risked his father's anger by hovering around the late arrival like a prospector on the trail of a mother lode. Robbie had never been this close to anyone like Mr. Tucker. He was fascinated by the easy, yet precise manner Mr. Tucker unbuckled and stowed his Colt. Rummaging among the scant contents of the saddle bag the boy found the Colt holstered and wrapped in its wide, oiled leather belt.

As he emerged from the barn, tie-down thong dangling from his tightly clutched burden, Robbie saw his mother had come out of the kitchen. She and Mr. Tucker were talking.

"Remember, Mr. Tucker, if that is your name, our bargain. Jim, my husband, and I don't approve of guns—"

Genuinely amused, Tucker laughed. "An' the likes of me? Is that what you want to say, Ma'm?"

Embarrassed, she nevertheless replied coolly, "You know exactly what I mean. He'll learn," she glanced toward her approaching son, "all too soon about your so-called man's world. She lowered her voice, asked him to be careful and added, "Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour. When Jim comes home."

Tucker took off his hat, bowed from the waist and assured her, "When I am through he won't never want to look at a gun again Ma'm."

As if he momentarily expected the gun to shoot by itself, Robbie carefully handed it to Mr. Tucker who deftly restored it to its accustomed place low on his right hip. He questioned the boy, "Ever see anyone get gunned down?"

"Last year when Pa and I were in town, the sheriff shot somebody. But," and he halfway apologized, "I didn't see it happen."

Tucker stood in a classic gunfighter crouch and concentrated upon the plan he rapidly formulated and proceeded to tell his eager listener more. "Imagine you are that man you talked about. An' you're wearing a gun," he paused to tighten his gun belt, "know you'll use it!"

Unexpectedly, Tucker drew his .44. The swift, blur of movement ended when the huge black gun muzzle pointed at the boy's stomach. Robbie drew back from his "teacher's" softly spoken warning, "This is DEATH boy. Anythin' you shoot will be destroyed!"

Robbie almost stumbled as he stepped away from the now sinister gunman who, without warning, turned and "fanned" five shots into a nearby sapling. Robbie clapped his hands over his ears and watched, disbelieving. The sapling, shredded to pulp some four feet above ground level, tottered and slowly fell over, raising a small plume of dust where it hit the ground.

The rhythmic click of ejecting shell cases punctuated Tucker's footsteps over to the well. His offer of a drink of water passed unnoticed. Robbie exclaimed, instead, "There's Pa coming in."

Instantly alerted, Tucker demanded, "How can you tell, in such bad light?" Robbie's face brightened. He welcomed the change of subject. "That's his horse and I know the color of his hat. Besides," he added with importance, "he always comes home from the mine aroun' this time of day."

As if caught up in the urgency of the moment, Tucker accepted the explanation, reloaded his Colt and continued, "There's more to handlin' a gun than quick hands. It's hard to explain but once you begin your play somethin' holds you to it."

Tucker positioned himself about ten paces from the boy and cautioned him, "We're goin' to settle this the only way we know!"

By now Robbie didn't know if Mr. Tucker was play actin' or not. He nervously looked over at his mother who had hurried out onto the porch. In the awful silence following the reverberating gunfire she understood what Mr. Tucker meant when he said, "he won't never want to look at a gun again!"

Robbie desperately wanted to run but that "something" wouldn't let him. Tucker's unsympathetic command, "Don't move." stilled the boy's impulse to wipe his sweaty palms. Tucker's final admonition, "Watch my eyes an' you'll know when I make my move," contrasting harshly with the quiet of the ranch yard.

Robbie's mother wanted to stop "the lesson" before it went any further. She started to run down the steps to her son. Instead, she stopped, overcome with relief when she caught sight of Jim's horse which stood ground-hitched by the barn. Strange, she thought. Jim always puts his horse in the barn when he comes home.

Instantly she realized it was not her husband. Whoever wore Jim's hat was stalking through the shadows toward Mr. Tucker.

Mother and son stood motionless. They watched the stranger walk toward them in the vague twilight

There is not another sound identical to the "snick" when a gun is cocked. This ominous sound prefaced the stranger's calm, evenly spaced words.

"That's good advice. But some better is never let anyone get the drop on you from behind. Now Tuck," he continued, "take off your rig and turn around real slow, with your hands high!"

Robbie watched Mr. Tucker's eyes. They were expressionless and somehow reminded the boy of two patches of blue showing through a cloud. Then Mr. Tucker, with a slight nod of his head, motioned the boy away from him and began to turn and draw his Colt.

The stranger waited a fraction of second and triggered two shots into Tucker's whirling body. Timed to find their mark in the side rather than the back, the impact of the tearing slugs struck an area no larger than a small boy's hand and slammed Tucker onto the ground on his side. Tucker somehow retained a tight grip on the .44 he'd been able to draw. He squeezed off two shots. One, as he struggled to his knees, droned off into the evening shadows. The other "whammed" into the ground, sending up a column of dust which began to settle on him as he pitched forward, inches from Robbie.

Mother and son stood motionless. They watched the stranger walk toward them, methodically reloading his weapon. In the vague light from the fading sun they saw the burnished, silver-like outline of a five-pointed star pinned high on the left side of his shirt.