Moonshoe
by Timothy Herrick

Twenty some odd years ago, after the U.S. Army decimated the Sioux and Blackfoot into manageable populations, gold was discovered in Pleasant Gulch. Not a lot, but a healthy enough strain to start a real town. My father came here chasing that dust, then stayed on after his claim went dry. Got married and raised me and we found ways other than panhandling to make a living.

Two hundred miles away was Sweet Creek. That was the boom town, lots more gold that never ran out, and lots of whores and gambling joints and saloons and gunslingers. Four banks that kept getting robbed. Not here in Pleasant Gulch. Nope, before the gold panned out, the Heffron brothers made sure civilization outlasted our gold rush. The Heffron brothers made a hundred times more money than my dad or any of the other panhandlers. Their mine paid off for a good five years or so. Their cousin, Old Man Chip—well he's old now—studied law out east, and he came out west to help his now-wealthy family. Chip made sure started this here town by setting up a bank, making loans to the ranchers and sodbusters and soon there was a town hall, sheriff's office, a row of dry goods stores, hotel and saloon and a church that doubled as a school. Log cabins dotted the valley.

Sheriff Bob liked to pull a cork, but was mostly sober when working. If someone was a problem, he locked them up and if they were unwilling to be apprehended, he shot them dead. Well, the latter only happened three or four times before it stopped happening. Word got around. The peace was kept. The bank had its own security guards and between them and Sheriff Bob, law and order was the rule not the exception . . . well, order at least.

Little trouble of any kind to speak of here, until the night Moonshoe ripped Dave McCoy's face off his head.

As the years passed, the town grew slowly. At least it didn't fade away like so many after their gold dried up. Most of the other Heffrons eventually moved to California or back to Boston, except Chip and Jeff Heffron, who owned the Lucky Lady, the town's only place where men could relax: gamble, drink whiskey and get the relief only a woman can provide.

Jeff was a son of one of the original Heffron brothers. He wasn't too friendly with his relative, Old Man Chip, who was more interested in building churches and schools and putting in cobblestone streets than profiting from vice. He was the first mayor of the town and had been for years, well before Moonshoe made Pleasant Gulch famous.

See, Moonshoe had taken it in his half-Cherokee, half-Mexican—and all crazy—brain that he loved Dolly. She had a pleasant personality and was a very pretty woman. Her bright blonde hair was long and wavy, and even in a bustle dress, you could see that her body could make a preacher burn his bible. Who could blame him for how he felt about her?

Moonshoe had to be near seven feet tall. I ain't never seen a bigger man. Legs and arms as thick as tree trunks, not an ounce of fat. His body was as solid as chiseled granite, with skin the color of a shiny penny and eyes as black as coal. Spent time in some prison farm down in Texas, where they say he strangled his cell mate. Quiet as a mute monk most of the time, but when he got mad, somebody either died or got hurt so bad they wished they had. He worked for the Smith Family, who owned a ranch and oat and barley fields. He worked hard, did the work of three men they say.

Every Saturday night, he would be at the Lucky Lady, upstairs with Dolly. I don't know how the Saturday routine came about, when exactly Dolly became exclusive property of Moonshoe that night each week. I seem to recall a man named Chester once insisting he was there first and Chester getting his arm broke in two or three places. Chester didn't stay around too long after that, but a lot of people pass through Pleasant Gulch.

The womenfolk in town, the wives and mothers, they started complaining to Old Man Chip about the women Jeff employed at the Lucky Lady to service the men, even though there were never more than four or five, and except for the occasional case of the clap, they were pretty nice gals. It was getting harder and harder to get good whores. Territories become states and most states had already passed anti-whore laws, pandering they called it. The oldest profession known in the world was becoming outlawed in the land of the free.

Preacher Cameron, he came to town with his wife and daughter and he was popular with most of the townsfolk. Old Man Chip gave him a parcel of land where he built a house. People wanted a permanent preacher for the church, and Old Man Chip even got a school house built so the house of worship would be used exclusively for preaching, praying, and singing. Cameron was a rabble rouser when it came to the whore issue. One Sunday, after services and the fried chicken luncheon, the whole dang congregation—more than half the town—marched down to Sheriff Bob and tried to get him to close the Lucky Lady. The sheriff said no, because there was no law against what them gals did in the privacy of the saloon. The Mayor was forced to agree with the Sheriff, but he promised to get the town council to pass an ordinance.

Besides Dolly, there was Nelly, a black girl; them two were the only regular gals, the rest came and went, like the wind. Word was Jeff kept Nelly as his wife; no one else had been with her in years—she served drinks and ran the business side of the whores. Girls kept leaving, there was not much business here, unlike Sweet Creek. Most of the girls were either heading to Sweet Creek for more money or had enough of that town and came to the Lucky Lady for traveling money to get them to California, or back where ever home was. Married men were outnumbering single dudes in Pleasant Glitch anyway. When you have a wife you can't afford whores like single gold miners or farm hands can.

Moonshoe wasn't married of course, but he thought of nothing else but Dolly. He worked like a team of pack horses all week, then every Saturday night, her love was his alone. The sound of their passion echoed way into the mountains. Funny how shrieks of pleasure can sound like pain. She only made noises audible outside the confines of her room with Moonshoe. She had other customers on other nights, but no man was fool enough to be with her on Saturday.

Except Dave McCoy, he was fool enough. He worked as a hand on the same spread as Moonshoe. Why he wanted to risk the rage of a man the size of a Redwood tree is beyond me. What a damn fool.

Dave thought he could get one over on the Indian/Mex, sneak in a Saturday poke before Moonshoe could ride out from the Smith spread. When Moonshoe came into the Lucky Lady, Dave was buckling his gun belt as the door to Dolly's room closed behind him. Moonshoe halted in his tracks. Everyone and everything—the piano, the chatter, the poker table and faro wheel—froze in time. The Lucky Lady suddenly became as quiet as dawn on Easter Morning.

Moonshoe was up the staircase in two strides. Dave was not a small or weak man, but after Moonshoe grabbed his arm, he flailed like a helpless child. Moonshoe dragged him outside to the muddy street, threw him to the ground, crouched over his body and started punching with both hands. Each blow contained the concentrated force of Moonshoe's immense strength. His fists made a meaty thud as they repeatedly smacked Dave's body and Dave made a piercing groan after each thud. Moonshoe growled like a beast, his mouth pointed at the dark sky. Then the thuds and groans resumed.

Sheriff Bob had been drinking at the Lucky Lady, followed Moonshoe outside. But he wasn't drunk or stupid enough to try and stop Moonshoe.

Everyone from the Lucky lady rushed out the doors, gathering in the street to spectate. They were cheering and guzzling whiskey and enjoying the beating. Moonshoe paused, one fist in the air. He turned his head and saw the crowd watching him. He was genuinely shocked that people other than he and Dave actually existed in the world. At that moment, Dave rolled away and got to his feet and turned around and fumbled his gun from its holster. McCoy was a jackass. If he tried running away, he might have had half a chance.

Like an agile grizzly bear, Moonshoe leapt at Dave, who fired once. The bullet nicked Moonshoe's shoulder, tearing his jacket and shirt, but just breaking the skin. This minor flesh wound only made Moonshoe angrier. The giant clutched Dave's face, jamming his thumb into Dave's whimpering mouth while his index and forefinger pushed into his eyes. The fingers dug deeper and deeper into the sockets, until his palm crushed his nose and was flat against Dave's face. I never heard a man scream so loud. Moonshoe's thick arm made a single, forceful yank. A squishy crack echoed in the night. Moonshoe's grip separated Dave's jowls, nose and upper jaw from the rest of his skull. Horrified awe paralyzed the crowd into silence.

Moonshoe flung the meaty, bloody visage away. Dave emitted a gurgled wail as he toppled to the dirt. He was dead soon enough, well, quiet at least. His body kept twitching a while.

Moonshoe went to Dolly, who was motionless. She must have loved him in some way, but mainly she was stoic. Few have the courage to accept their fate like she did that night. Besides, nobody was going to risk their lives to protect a whore. Moonshoe slung Dolly over his shoulder then got on his horse. He no longer wanted to think about anything else other than his lethal yet eternal love for Dolly. He had proven that love to be all encompassing and he eliminated any doubt about his commitment to that love.

Nobody ever saw Moonshoe or Dolly alive again. He must have went back to the Smith spread, cause his things were gone, but nobody could verify who took them. He didn't have much, the Smith's paid their help slave wages. He barely made in a week what Dolly charged for one night of bliss.

Five months later, some trappers discovered their bodies in a cave in the mountains. They had died during the winter, which was a bad one. They got snowed in, those mountains were impassable until early summer. Moonshoe may have been part Indian, but he was incapable of living in the wilderness. He was born on the reservation. The survival skills he needed he was never taught.

Dolly's hair was as white as a lambs wool, her body frostbitten and emaciated. Moonshoe only had one arm attached to his body. The other he had cut off so he and Dolly would not starve. That's what them trappers surmised when they found the two lovers and a partially eaten limb.

That Sunday morning after Moonshoe killed Dave by making him faceless, the preacher didn't even bother with a sermon or a service or even the fried chicken. Old Man Chip and Preacher Cameron and the entire congregation sang Amazing Graze, holding jugs of kerosene and torches aflame as they formed a circle around the Lucky Lady. The men had buckets of water to contain the blaze. No other buildings in town were damaged. They were removing the tumor of sin they said, so the rest of Pleasant Gulch could live as a healthy Christian town.

Jeff and his negress immediately left town. Nelly had seen this sort of thing growing up in Alabama. She knew white people with torches never came to any good, especially for black folk or the few white people who loved them. Old Man Chip convinced the town council to adopt an anti-prostitution law. He fired Sheriff Bob and hired a Sheriff who swilled coffee instead of rotgut and was eager to enforce the new ordinance, all in the name of furthering progress.

But no matter how much civilization you get, even Pleasant Gulch men need pleasure, and when they do, they come up to the hills, where I live in the house my father built. I make the best moonshine in the territory, sell it to anybody, white, black, Indian. I have some pigs with enough mud for them to wallow in to their heart's content. I have a few women too, rent them a cabin and they take in men visitors and do whatever they want, as long I get paid an honest percentage.

There's talk of more law and more elections and more politicians with the statehood coming next year. People are all excited about a flour mill and a rail road stop being built. Old Man Chip wants to change our town name from Pleasant Gulch to something from the Bible, like Jordan or Silas. The story of Moonshoe spread and people come here to see the place where a man had his face torn off, but townsfolk just want to forget Moonshoe and Dolly and the whole tragedy. That's why changing the name of the town is gaining popularity. People ignore history they don't like.

The new sheriff and deputy accept an affordable bribe and for now, I'm left alone to conduct my business. Business is good, but I ain't no fool. The better my business gets, the more they'll eventually try to stop it. More people are coming to town, and more preachers are on their way too. People love their religion, they love feeling they know what is right for everybody else,

Moonshoe's only religion was his love for Dolly. He cared about something bigger than life. Well, maybe not bigger, but not here, not something real or earthly or solid like money or land or gold. He only cared about Dolly, and not about her, really, only his love for her. The tangible means nothing to men like Moonshoe.

That's how I differ, from him and the people in Pleasant Gulch. I only care about what I have now and what I can touch, taste or see.

Mitchell at Brown's Park
by Dick Derham

"Set 'em up for the house."

Jed Fowler swaggered into Jarvie's Saloon and General Store trailed by three of his men, the ones who made it back from the Greeley debacle. Jed Fowler, bane of lawmen, bankers and stage lines in three states.

An uninformed horseman on the trail from Craig, Colorado to Fort Du Chesne on the banks of the Uintah who paused for a beer and the sound of human voices would know before the door banged shut behind him that he had entered a different world, a world of men more familiar with the aroma of burning cordite than the fragrance of dripping sweat. Perhaps he would guzzle his beer in three gulps and be back in the saddle before drawing unwelcome attention. But for a man like Dave Mitchell, the denizens of Jarvie's exuded the strength of will, if not of character, he had sought to emulate when he spurned the life of a sweat-and-dirt cowhand at the end of the long trail drive from Texas to Arizona, the hardest work the fifteen-year-old boy pretending to manhood had ever done, the travail he had condemned himself to when he had naively traded his father's never-ending list of farm chores for the false lure of Devil-may-care freedom cowhands exuded, only to find that sweat had followed him, the discovery that had propelled him into a life where a man knew no boss.

Since then, his only sustained physical labor had been the muscle-building rhythm of swinging the pick-axe on the Yuma rock pile, five years that took him out of the stage business, five years that had totally failed if its purpose was to make him "penitent," but it did make him hard; it built a nineteen-year-old youth far short of his manly bulk into a hard-muscled, self-assured twenty-four-year-old man ready to make his way in the world, a man determined to yield to the claims of no one. It had led him to Jarvie's Store.

Since 1880, John Jarvie had served the basic needs of Brown's Park settlers with wares ranging from dry goods to work clothes to hardware of all kind, the kind a farmer might need, the kind a man taking respite from his working life with banks and stagecoaches might need. The store building was crowded, a small round table where five men could huddle over poker, a small side table, and shelves and counter space crammed with anything Jarvie could sell to a profit. What Jarvie's store didn't stock required a trip to Vernal, forty miles there and forty miles back. So John Jarvie's store became the social center of the community of the settlers, the ranch hands and the "visitors," men like Jed Fowler who paid premium rates to drink their whiskey where lawmen seldom visited.

Located just south of the Wyoming-Colorado state line and stretching into Utah, with the Cold Spring Mountains to the north and the Diamond Mountains to the South, the long six-mile-wide valley had a mixture of canyons and caves that provided ideal secluded campsites for men on the dodge as well as pockets with natural boundaries for small ranchers seeking advantage from the good grass and reliable water and who welcomed its remoteness from brand-checking range detectives. Men could rest secure from pursuit, enjoy the fruits of their industry, and scout for like-minded men to partner with in upcoming venture, a place where enterprising men of a certain line of work could spend their money and drink their whiskey without unwanted attention from predators stinking themselves up with a hunk of metal on their chest. Should the need arise, from Brown's Park, a fast horse could outdistance the jurisdiction of any interfering posse that ventured the seventy-five miles from the county seat at Craig, reaching the remoteness of Northern Utah or Western Wyoming where the writ of a Colorado posse held no sway. Jarvie's customers were Mitchell's kind of men; Brown's Park was his kind of place. So he had told himself the day the iron gates clanged shut behind him and he'd smelled free air for the first time in five years.

Three weeks had passed since Mitchell left the heat of Arizona, following back trails where he could, traveling through Raton Pass at night, avoiding Denver, where the lawmen kept track of out-of-state dodgers, especially those from Wells Fargo, crossing the Rockies, descending into Leadville, and finally finding his way to a place where a man could relax, not relax his guard, no man in a certain line of work ever did that, but at least drink his whiskey without worrying that the man at the next table was a lawman. Most important, Brown's Park was a place where he hoped to find someone he could do business with. He'd hoped to find Jed Fowler.

Now Fowler had returned. The question remained whether Mitchell could maneuver his way into Fowler's next operation.

Mitchell accepted the whiskey and raised the glass toward Fowler across the room. "Obliged," he said.

Mitchell's first days at John Jarvie's Saloon had been solitary, drinking beer at the side table, his back to the wall, watching the comings and goings with suspicion, but that did not set him apart in an establishment that caters to a certain type of man. He was clad in typical long-rider range garb, flannel shirt softened to shapelessness by endless washing, the faint outlines of the bloodstains from Wilcox discernible only on close scrutiny, the shirt tucked into saddle-worn whipcord pants, the yellow duster rolled up behind his saddle. The dressing, still tightly wrapped around chest and shoulder from the Willcox fracas, stayed hidden as long as he kept his shirt buttoned. Mitchell tried not to let the stiffness show. A man on the dodge needed to hide his weakness, though any sharp-eyed watcher who looked for such things would notice the slight bulge over the shoulder, the tendency to favor his left arm. To the men who needed to know, the wound it bespoke, and Mitchell's efforts to conceal it, could serve as a job reference.

Mitchell made himself predictable, arriving every afternoon, bending his elbow a few hours, then riding back to his campsite three miles away, located two miles off the road in a stand of scrub pine up an untraveled side canyon. For those whose job in Brown's Park included eyeballing strangers, he showed himself a wary man, a man concerned about his safety, a man on the dodge.

By the third day, he started putting names to some of the regulars. Occasionally he would lift a finger from the table in acknowledgment if one looked his direction. In the second week, the day Mitchell had waited for came, a day when the poker crowd dropped to three. He took his beer over. "Private game? Or open to travelers?"

"Fresh money's always welcome."

Mitchell played a cautious game, careful to leave some of his money behind, not a lot, but enough to assure his continuing welcome. "Dave," he told them to call him, a careful man who saw no reason to spread around a last name that might be true and might not, and no one cared to ask. By the time Fowler returned, Dave was accepted by the regulars; not trusted, no one in Brown's Park trusted another man, but accepted to sit with and to bend an elbow with.

None of them talked much about his life. "Done most of my work in Arizona," Mitchell confided once when he had been drinking more whiskey than was wise. "I can deal with the heat if I have to, but I figured maybe I'd try Colorado."

"Going back in winter?" The comment only seemed like idle conversation.

"Not that kind of heat," Mitchell replied.

Fowler's gang had been back two weeks. Fowler accepted him as one of the Brown's Park hard cases, a second-rater, a kid of course, but someone who could fill a saddle when a stage needed stopping. They'd slapped cards at each other over poker once or twice, and Mitchell knew they were playing at more than cards. "Badge stink" smells up a man and earns him a hot bean behind the ear. Mitchell also knew better than to show much interest in Fowler, that was not the way to play a big, savvy barracuda you wanted on your line. "Never let your fish suspect how eager you for his nibble," his Pa had taught him. Play too forward and the fish would get suspicious and snap the line. No one would notice if a no-account twenty-five-year old ex-con on the dodge went missing and for a man like Fowler the question "should we take the chance?" had only one answer.

One afternoon, the weather being tolerable, Mitchell took his beer outside and planted himself on a bench on the shady side, a pleasant enough place to wet his tonsils and listen to the Green River flowingat summer speed. And a place for friendly conversation of a private sort if anyone had an interest.

In five minutes, a fish swum by, young Jimmy Tanner, one of Fowler's men not yet ground to reticence by experience, just a small minnow, but sent out to do a job, Mitchell suspected. "He clean you out at poker?"

"Thought I'd take me my ease in the fresh air. You mind if I share the bench?"

With a gesture, Mitchell invited Tanner to set. Not much was said, not at first. Mitchell knew he was being sniffed, gently, hardly noticeably, but it was there. To show he knew the game, he sniffed a bit back. He told a little about himself, little enough so Tanner knew he was holding back. The word "Yuma" escaped his lips once, but Mitchell moved on quickly, as though hoping the slip was not noticed. No such luck. The next day Fowler's Segundo, Grady Hughes, slid into the chair across the table. "Done my time in Yuma," he said. "That spindle-chested bastard Williams still honchoing the cesspit in your day?"

It was a test, of course. Anyone who ever had been braced before the Warden's desk knew Saxton had bossed the hellhole for years. "Man who gave me my days in the Hole could have planked any of the guards with one fist," Mitchell said. "Maybe you was somewhere else."

Hughes grinned at Mitchell's turning the test back on him. "Yeah, you were there all right. Your beefy arms show your time swinging the pick."

"Always been a Wells Fargo man," Mitchell told him. "When I started working my trade again after I got out, they took it personal and put out paper. I don't need ever to go back."

Hughes said little, but Mitchell continued to be welcome at the Fowler gang's poker table and the sniffing went on.

Then one day Mitchell confided in Tanner. "I got to get back to work," he said, "my money belt's getting hungry. I only know Arizona. I need someone in the business who knows his way around Colorado."

"Or Wyoming."

"Wyoming?" Mitchell gave that some thought. "They got more up there than Custer's angry Sioux wanting a man's hair?" He hadn't made an offer, not anything to put a man on the spot, but he'd made his cast and his fly was floating in the water, waiting for a prime barracuda to give it a nibble.

As twilight fell, Mitchell turned aside from the main trail, into the narrow pine-covered draw in the Cold Springs Mountains and up the trace to his campsite, secluded from unwanted visitors, as befits a man on the dodge. No random traveler would stumble across his campsite, only someone on business, friendly or unfriendly.

His mare gave one flick of the ears as they followed the narrow animal trace, sniffing animal; no nervousness, though, not a cougar then, just another horse. And a horse meant a man who had ridden the horse.

The clearing was as empty as he had left it, but eyes could be—were—watching from the trees. He was most vulnerable when he swung his leg back over his horse's rump, but he expected no trouble, even if the visitor was not who he expected. Mitchell down-saddled normally, letting the hidden eyes see only the actions of a man with nothing to hide. Horse care always comes before man care. Only after he had removed all tack, picketed the horse and curried it gently did he let himself think again about the watching man.

Mitchell dumped his saddle, his nightly pillow, in his tent. Then he let himself stretch out his back muscles, twisting side to side, relaxed and giving no sign he knew he had company. It had been fifteen minutes. His back trail remained empty; no one had tracked him. They were alone. He started working the buttons of his fly as he casually stepped toward the woods, a man about normal business.

He had been expecting a visitor, but the stakes were too high to risk a mistake. He waited until he was inside the protective cover of the tree line.

"Show yourself."

In a moment, he and the visitor faced each other, As his hand closed firmly around Collins', that one handshake with the man who saw life as bigger than a predatory competition surged a glow of masculine assurance through Mitchell, the days among the slime of Brown's Park almost wiped out by the knowledge he had somehow gained Chet Collins' respect.

"Fowler's back," Mitchell reported once they had the campfire going, the water boiling and the Arbuckle's measured out. "Three men with him. Thought he had more."

"He lost two at Greeley. One of them had half the take in his saddlebags. It could work out well."

"He'll need to ride out again soon," Mitchell concluded.

"And he'll want another man or two in his crew."

Mitchell said nothing. Riding with slime, that was his job, the tribute he paid to Wells Fargo for ignoring the Tombstone robbery and the sentence back to Yuma it had earned him. A man pays his debts.

Tombstone, three months back and a lifetime away, the event that changed his life—no, what changed his life had been the day before the robbery, the encounter with a man who stood tall, facing death without a whimper, the man who exposed Mitchell's fellow robbers as weak, venal men, however willing they were to take and to kill, men like himself, like he had been learning to become.

He'd been given a second chance at life, a second start down the trail. Had he earned it? Or was it an inexplicable gift? Crandall, the Wells Fargo "suit" from San Francisco, thought he had been working with them all along, setting up to bring down Runnels. The man who would have died—Chet Collins—would say he proved what he carried inside himself, but Mitchell knew better. He had acted impulsively, without thought, stupidly perhaps, had gone ahead with the robbery and planned to take his full share. But here he was, drinking coffee in a camp with a man who carried a badge and feeling cleaner than he could remember in all his life.

The afternoon carried the smell of expected rain in the air as Mitchell downsaddled and turned his grulla into Jarvie's corral. "How 'bout a dash of oats, 'Pache?" he inquired as he measured a scoop into the feed bag for Apache, the best animal for miles around. Sure better than the two-legged ones inside.

As he started down the path to Jarvis's, Hughes waited for him.

"Word is your money belt's getting thin."

"I been thinking about finding a bank I could visit," Mitchell acknowledged. "I know Arizona. But I don't know Colorado."

"Jed's scout just reported in. Looks like we got some good work lined up. Jed says you can come with us if you want."

"I'm in. Where to? There was talk of Wyoming."

Hughes flashed him a sharp look. "Jed don't tell us what we don't need to know. You still in?"

"All I need to know is Jed's leading and you're along." The two men shook on it and Mitchell followed Hughes into Jarvie's.

"Got a friend of yours, Mitchell," Fowler called from his table.

The bearded face barely concealed the scowl of a man who had never been a friend of Mitchell, an ugly face he had last seen at Parson's Den, the Chiracagua outlaw hole where he had hidden out for a spell and made the link-up with the Runnels gang before the Tombstone robbery, a den much like Jarvie's where he had tried to belong, back before he met Chet Collins. "McCullough," he acknowledged. "Long way from Arizona."

"Me and Mac have worked before," Fowler said. "Good man to scout a job."

McCullough was studying Mitchell, making no attempt to conceal his hostility. "Always thought there was something that smelled about the Tombstone job. Someone busted you out and left Forsyth and Loney to sweat their time in Yuma.

"Prove yourself true, and you get some friends, McCullough. Try it sometime."

"It stinks. I'm telling Jed there's one way to be sure of you."

"You want to sell my hide to Wells Fargo?" Mitchell shifted so his weight was evenly balanced, his gun arm hanging free. All his work building himself up before Fowler was on the line. In his arrogance, Fowler respected guts more than anything else. Back down before McCullough and he might as well swallow his own gun barrel and make it easy for the outlaw leader. "Let's see how much hair you got on that scrawny chest of yours."

But McCullough was still the same sneak he had been in Arizona. He spread his hands on the table and opened his mouth, probably to wheedle.

Fowler saved McCullough from speaking. Mitchell could see him pocket the two men's barely-concealed animosity for some future use. Fowler liked it when each man was loyal to him, not to each other.

"Can your personal stuff until we get back. Mac's finished his scout for me. You want in, Mitchell, be saddled and out front at first light."

The chatter of the Army guns behind them, they pounded leather deep into the night, Fowler and the three other men who had made it out. They rode past Jarvie's without a pause, crossed the state line into Colorado but finally Fowler signaled a halt. "State lines don't matter to the Cavalry, but the horses need a breather," he said. "Jimmy, start us a fire for some Arbuckle's."

The horses were picketed, the cinches loosened, and each man tossed an airtight into the small fire Tanner soon had smoldering.

The Army payroll had been as lightly guarded as McCullough had reported. The flankers had unavoidably closed in on the wagon as it entered the canyon, bunching up to make a good target, the dynamite had brought down an avalanche of boulders to block the road and the first volley stretched one trooper out on the ground and left another grasping his saddle for balance. The remaining eight hands grabbed for sky before echoes had stopped.

While the gold was being transferred, Mitchell took it on himself to check the downed man "You there, Private," he summoned one of the prisoners, "pressure bandage this wound." He saw Fowler watching. "He makes it and we don't have Army ropes waiting for us," Mitchell explained.

"They'd have to catch us first." Fowler turned back to watch Hughes supervise dividing the gold among the saddlebags.

The transferring was nearly finished, Mitchell and Fowler mounted and ready to leave when a distant bugle blared "Charge" and the back-up detachment thundered over the rise two hundred yards down the road. Mitchell did his job and spurred in behind Fowler, heard Tanner and McCullough galloping behind him. The others? No one needed to ask what army men thought of folks who tried for their payroll. They rode hard, while the gunshots behind them dwindled and finally came to an end.

Across the cook fire, McCullough's arm hung slack as he tied his kerchief around the wound. Fowler looked at him. "Supposed to be an escort of six men," Fowler said with a mildness of voice unexpected from an outlaw leader who had just seen three of his men shot down. "No one told me nothing about a back-up squad."

"Last three times that's what it had, Jed, I swear. The Sergeant I paid off told me everything was the same. I done my best."

"You're not paid to do your best. You're paid to get it right." Fowler looked to Mitchell. "You got unfinished business with him. Go ahead."

Mitchell stepped around the fire across from Fowler and Tanner and faced McCullough, his gun arm hanging loose and ready. "My wrists broke, Mitchell," McCullough cried. "I can't draw against you."

"You don't have to draw to die," Fowler reminded him.

"Please, Mitchell," McCullough appealed. "I'll tell everyone I was wrong. I got a trashy mouth, but I ain't got nothing against you. Tell me what I need to do to make it right. Anything."

The sniveling disgraced any man who rode with a tough kill-prone crowd. Disgraced the leader as well. But that wasn't Mitchell's concern. "You're not worth my time, Mac." He looked at Fowler. "You got the big beef with him. I'm not getting paid to stomp your snakes."

"Jed, please—"

Fowler's smooth draw delivered three shots from ten feet away. Fowler reholstered.

"Now is a good time to unhitch Jed. You too, Jimmy." This time, Mitchell's hand was filled with businesslike iron.

"What's the idea, Mitchell?"

"I signed on because my money belt needed fattening. It still does. You screwed up so I can't get my money the clean way. Now I'll do it the dirty way."

"Mac was right about you."

"Not all the way, but he wasn't all wrong either. I'm not much into killing, but your bounty's the same either way. Defang yourself or fall down."

Tanner was already fumbling with his buckle. "I'm not worth nothing dead Mitchell," he said as his gun belt fell away.

"Jed, you're out of time." Mitchell thumb-cocked. Fowler unbuckled.

Three hours later, Mitchell trailed his two prisoners as they rode west. In the early light, he saw several dark-skinned riders coming toward them. "Hold up," he ordered his prisoners.

"Them's Buffalo Soldiers, Mitchell," Fowler said. "Looks like you go down with us."

The detail approached abreast, professionally alert, carbines at the ready. The corporal in charge halted twenty feet in front of the three men. "Make a run for it," he invited. "We'd like that."

Mitchell eased his gun into its holster. At least there'd be no shooting by mistake. "I'm claiming the bounties on these two, Corporal."

A man moved out from behind the soldiers. "Wells Fargo has rewards offered on each of them," Collins said. "You take in your prisoners, Corporal Washington; I'll take charge of getting this man his pay."

As the Army detail started leading their prisoners away, Fowler twisted in his saddle. "I'll kill you, Mitchell. No matter how long I'm in Leavenworth, I'll find you and I'll kill you slow."

"Forgetting McCullough are you, Jed? You threw down on a disabled man. You're going to hang."

Mitchell and Collins watched the soldiers ride out.

"When you didn't give me the "all normal" signal with your campfire, I got into my overlook over Jarvie's and watched Fowler and the rest of you ride west. It's the time of the month for Army pay, so I suggested they increase the guard."

So the job was over, it had gone smooth. The Fowler gang would trouble Wells Fargo no more. Mitchell knew he should feel the satisfaction of a job well done, of Collins' approval. But his gut churned.

"Working undercover's a dirty job," he muttered. "Fowler's getting what he needs. But I shared drinks with Jimmy and the others. They're no different than me."

"They are, Dave. You think about it, you'll know." Collins flicked his reins. "There's a friendly little saloon down in Vernal where we can talk it over while I write our report."

Horses
by Dave Harcourt

Lieutenant "Pick" Pickert squatted next to the three Indian scouts as they talked conspiratorially. "I get separated tomorrow," said Pick.

"We get paid off too," said Buffalo Killer, 'Buff' to his friends.

Pick, Buff, Lance and Red Hawk had been through hell a few times, with Major Reno at Little Big Horn and before that scouting all over the Dakota territory trying to get a handle on the Sioux uprising. Pick was assigned as scout officer. He was a totally green, wet behind the ears, shave tail when they started out over four years ago.

Pick resigned his commission and the contract for the three Lipan Apaches was not renewed. General Miles was not happy with Reno's whole unit. The Apaches had gathered up horses from both sides in Montana after the Custer Massacre. They had nearly two hundred Indian horses hidden plus almost a hundred army horses.

The three Lipan previously told Pick they had no home as the Comanches had killed their whole band. They did not think highly of Comanches, they were not fond of the Sioux either. They all spoke excellent English and liked white men's ways plus they understood that there were rotten white people but that did not sour them on all.

"This plan only works if we find a ready market for horses. That means to me that we have to get them in better shape than the Sioux keep them," said Pick. "We cannot sell horses branded U S. I believe they will pay a small recovery fee, we may have to settle for that, or . . . we can eat them." Pick grinned.

"We can take the army horses to Omaha, there is a post there and they don't know us," said Red Hawk, called simply Hawk by everyone.

War Lance was the youngest by far. He was a bit reckless. He suggested taking all the horses to Mexico selling these and stealing others before coming back. They had talked it over as a group and decided against that move. In the end they all agreed on Omaha.

The plan was for Lance and Pick to take the U.S. Army horses to Omaha and find someone to fatten and get the Indian ponies ready for sale. Buff and Hawk would take the Indian herd to southern Dakota Territory and they would all meet at a spot on the Missouri River that they all knew. Pick thought it might take a month before he and Lance caught up.

The next morning Pick and Lance rigged a light pack on one horse and took half of the group's meager food supply. They cut out the army horses put their pack horse in the herd. They headed southwest figuring to cut east when just north of the Black Hills and ride directly across Sioux lands only avoiding large encampments. They rode at a high lope. The horses needed to run.

They rode eighty miles that day by Pick's reckoning as they had changed horses twice. They rode quite late as they thought they were near a Cheyenne encampment and did not want any trouble with them. Cheyenne Dog Soldiers, their warrior society, were the meanest bastards on earth.

They ate jerky and slept on the ground that night, taking turn about watching the herd.

They left at first light and rode away from the Belle Fourche River hoping to avoid other Indians. Then they turned south.

They made it to Rapid Creek and camped there. Pick shot a deer and they roasted the whole back and rib section. They both ate until their bellies were distended. The rule of the western plains was eat well when you can, the next meal might be a long time coming. The horses were tired and hungry too so both men slept all night.

So it went. The terrible incidents started when crossing the Missouri River the first time. It was a long swim and they lost three horses. Their pack horse was one. They went hungry that night.

Pick told Lance that he would ride in to a nearby tiny town and buy something to eat. Lance stayed with the horses and Pick rode in to the town. Pick found a general store and bought foodstuffs and got a flour sack to put it in. There were no questions, Pick would not have answered anyway. He headed back to the herd.

Pick saw the fire and rode to it. Lance was in the fire and two grubby white men were watching him burn. Pick quickly dismounted and grabbed Lance's leg and dragged him out of the fire. Lance was clearly dead. He was mutilated and cut all over.

Pick turned on the two and saw one had a pistol aimed at him. "What happened here?" Pick asked.

"Renegade injun here stole a bunch of army horses. We took 'em away from him," said the tall one holding the pistol. "Now soldier boy hand me your hog leg, back end first."

"Didn't you talk to him first about the horses? He could have told you where he got them and where he was taking them," said Pick.

"Well he said something funny like that but you know how they lie," said the gunman and the other gave a heehaw laugh like an idiot.

Pick stood and took a step toward him and said, "LOOK!" The pistol holder looked. Pick grabbed his wrist holding the gun. He stooped in case the man fired then pushed the his elbow up hard with the other hand. The man turned around very quickly and screamed in pain. His arm was behind him held by Pick, who was trying to push his elbow over his head, thus dislocating his shoulder. He dropped the pistol and complained loudly. Pick pulled his pistol and shot the second man in the bridge of his nose. He dropped in his tracks.

Pick reared back with his pistol and brought it down hard on the antagonist man's head. As the man lay there unconscious Pick stomped and broke both of his arms. He then took the mans own knife and cut his belly open. A long intestine popped out and Pick pulled it out farther with his boot.

Lance had died a slow death at the hands of these two, they would pay with their lives but that did not help.

Pick gathered some tree branches and built a bier tying it together with one man's rope. He tied Lance's body to the bier and dragged the assembly to a cottonwood with a big low branch. He threw the other end of the rope over a branch above and then tied it on the saddle horn of his horse. He walked the horse forward and thus pulled Lance and his burial platform up. Backing the horse down he poised it over the branch he wanted and climbed the tree. Realizing his mistake he crawled out of the tree and backed the horse until the bier was entangled in the branch's hanging precariously. He untied the rope from the horse, crawled back up the tree and tied the assembly securely to the big branch using the remainder of the rope. "Rest well my brother, we will meet in the next life," said Pick choking and crawled down.

He walked back to the man he had tortured and saw his eyes flutter. The man looked at Pick and said, "Please mister, please kill me. Don't leave me like this."

"The man you tortured and killed was my brother. He died slow so you will die slow. He was not shot, you will not be shot. I will burn your body like you did his. When you meet in purgatory you can apologize for you shall know his suffering." Pick finished his speech and started gathering dry branches. He stacked them next to the man then leaned over and said, "These are for your fire." The man was dead.

"Damn," said Pick.

It took a long time to gather all the horses. Pick and the herd headed for Omaha.

He saw no one for two days. When almost there two riders approached and Pick milled the herd. He was ready to fight.

"Howdy, looks like you have your hands full," said a sunburned cowhand. "What happened to your help?"

"Two thieves tried to steal the herd and killed my helper," said Pick.

"Where you going maybe we can help," said the other cowhand.

"Truth be told I'm not sure. I looking for a place to leave these critters until I can contact the army and take them back to them," explained Pick.

"The army remount corrals are about five miles. We can help out Lieutenant," said the first one. They apparently took turns talking.

"I'm not in the army any more, you see I'm trying to collect the recovery fee on these horses," said Pick. He still wore his uniform. He did not have any other clothes.

"I'm sure Mr. Hansen will help, let's go to the main house," said number two right on cue.

Burl Hansen's place was the ranch Pick was looking for. Hansen, before the ban on Texas cattle bought young herds and grazed them and sold them for slaughter the following spring. He not only got premium price because he sold ahead of the coming Texas herds, the cattle gained weight and brought more money as cattle were sold by the pound. (Texas herds at railheads usually sold by the animal for a lot less than their per pound price.)

Hansen and Pick talked into late evening and reached a deal for horses. Hansen got excited when he asked pick how many horses he was talking about. Pick told him three or four thousand.

Hansen would shoe them, trim them up, feed them grain and have his men ride them. The better horses if unbranded he would sell to the army. The rest he would supply every ranch for a hundred miles. Hansen would keep a quarter leaving Pick and 'his brothers' three quarters. Hansen estimated the cost of doing all this and how a typical transaction would split out. Hansen offered to have a lawyer draft it all up into a contract. Pick agreed.

Pick talked of the dichotomy of being blood brother to Indians, stealing horses from or killing other Indians. He wanted Hansen to completely understand where the horses came from and who his partners were. There were savages and regular people Indians he explained. He wondered to himself if he was a savage, he certainly was a few days ago.

Hansen said he could collect the recovery fee so Pick left the following morning taking the two horses and saddles of Lance's killers.

He made it to the meeting spot in two days. The herd of Indian horses was not there but Pick knew he was a week early. He waited.

They came right on time but there were 430 horses not the 200 they started with.

They milled the horses and rode to Pick's camp. They dismounted and Pick signaled for quiet. Hawk quickly l ooked around and his face fell.

Pick looked solemn and said, "Our brother has gone to his place of spirits. He was killed by horse thieves." One did not ever say the deceased persons name aloud.

Hawk spoke, "Did our brother suffer?"

Pick was very troubled and said, "Yes he suffered very much. His killers were white, but they were cruel. They in turn died with more suffering in the manner of a Cheyenne Dog Soldier."

Hawk and Buff understood as they had seen what happened when Dog Soldiers caught a U.S. army soldier.

"How did you leave our brother," asked Hawk?

"On an Apache platform in a cottonwood tree," said Pick.

"Good, good I am not a traditionalist but getting buried in the ground seems barbaric to me," said Hawk.

Buff walked away from camp and said nothing. He went out about fifty yards and sat down cross legged.

The stilted conversion was over.

Later Hawk explained that the Sioux are very careless with their horses, he laughed. He and Buff had picked up a few as they came along.

They took the horses to Hansen who went to work on them immediately. He brought in two more blacksmiths and had all hands trimming manes, tails and riding the horses, gentling some. They went for the younger horses first with the intent to sell them to the army. In a few days they were selling horses all over.

Then Hawk and Buff wanted to go to where their brother was in the tree, so they all three left telling Hansen they would be back with more.

In almost two years they recovered/stole almost 6000 horses. Hansen was shipping them out by the train load. Each of them had twenty thousand dollars in banks. They decided to quit. It became more dangerous each day. Indians and Pinkerton's hired by the army were looking for them.

Hansen was buying shorthorn cows anyplace he could find them. He taught the boys how to make money in the cattle business.

The work began.

Fool's Gold
by William S. Hubbartt

"Here come de gimp,…here come de gimp."

The key ring rattled, the lock clicked its release and the jail door squeaked open. The guard walked with a limp, injured from an inmate melee years ago. The words of one now became a chorus.

"HERE COME DE GIMP,…HERE COME DE GIMP."

"QUIET!" yelled the guard, as he banged a chain against jail bars. "Jerrod Conners, git up! You're outta here. Now!"

The inmates at the prison in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, quieted quickly. Jerrod Conners rolled over in his bunk and winced as pain stabbed in the old wound in his shoulder. He looked up in disbelief. There were six more years on his sentence for killing an express agent during a train robbery in 1870. The men cheered as Jerrod was manacled and led from his prison cell out the locked doors towards the warden's office.

"Mr. Conners, it is not my decision; I believe your deeds deserve full term. However the Governor has seen fit to issue an order of clemency," said Warden Tibbetts. A small balding man of pale complexion and dour expression, the Warden explained, " Your term is reduced and the remaining 6 years are forgiven. You are hereby released. Sergeant, take this man for release processing."

Jerrod stepped through the opened gate onto the street in front of the Leavenworth prison, free for the first time in nine years. He squinted as the bright sun glared into his face, holding his hand to shade his eyes. Government issued shoes were tight, and the shirt and pants were baggy and loose. But, on the free side of those walls, the sun shown brighter and the morning air was clearer, cooler. Jerrod wandered idly, and then found himself stepping through the batwing doors of a saloon.

"Whiskey," he said as he stepped up to the bar.

Conversation stopped. Others looked on knowingly, a con, just out of the pen. The bartender poured slowly, and gestured for money first before sliding the drink across the bar. The first one burned his throat, but ooh, that felt good. By the second, a plan was set. He thought, "I'm the only one who survived the shoot-out. Piece of lead still in my shoulder, but I know where the stash was hidden." Jerrod needed to catch a stage up to Lincoln, then, take a train on to Cheyenne.

The stage for Lincoln left at One PM. A woman with a young boy boarded at the last minute, and the boy kept staring at Jerrod.

"Johnny, stop staring. It's not polite."

"Yes'm."

"G'd afternoon ma'am, son. It's no problem ma'am," said Jerrod.

"He's a prisoner, just released, ma'am, Best leave'm be," said the other passenger, a man with a pin striped suit, white shirt and string tie.

Damn, thought Jerrod, as he glared hard at the man. It's like I got brand on my forehead. I gotta get me that gold, and get some decent duds, get a little respect!

In Lincoln, Jerrod bought his ticket for the trip to Cheyenne, but the train didn't leave till the next day. With a couple of dollars left in his pocket, he found a saloon to slack his thirst. Come midnight, as the saloon cleared out and his money was gone, he realized that he had no place to stay. A drunken cowboy stumbled past Jerrod, and bumped his sore shoulder. Jerrod started to swing, but held back as he saw the six shooter dangling from the cowboy's belt.

The cowboy stumbled down one street and then cut through a back alley stopping behind the livery stable to take a leak. When the cowboy was done, Jerrod stepped from behind a nearby tree, and swung a broken tree limb like it was an axe, knocking the drunk out cold.

"I'll just borrow these," said Jerrod as he unhooked the drunk's gun belt and colt. He found a few coins in the man's pocket. "And by the way, thanks for the drinks you bought tonight."

Jerrod made his way to the edge of town, and slumped down next to a spreading oak tree to rest his weary body. The next thing he knew, sparrows twittered excitedly in a nearby juniper, and the sun was rising in the east. His stomach growled and his head ached from last night's whiskey. Jerrod found an out of the way spot where he could stay hidden and watch the approach of the train; he would board the train at the last minute.

The train ride was uneventful, and Jerrod slept most of the way. One time he stirred, and he thought he saw the man in the suit walking through the train car. Upon arriving in Cheyenne, Jerrod went to the Four-Bits Saloon, hoping to find an old friend.

"I'll have a whiskey. Say, does a sweet young thing name of Katy still sing and play the pianny here?"

"Who? Katy? Don't know no Katy. Pay up, mister." The bartender wanted the money first. Jerrod was still wearing the prison issued duds. "Try the Shave-Tail Saloon, down by the tracks.

Jerrod found the Shave-Tail and stepped in. It was dark, dirty, with a rough crowd, causing Jerrod to flash back to prison yard at Leavenworth. In a back room he saw a flash of red hair in the dim light, and stepped quickly in that direction.

"Katy! Katy! It's me…."

"Jerrod? Oh Jerry, ah, I didn't know you were out."

"HEY RED! GIT TO WORK. YOU GOT PAYIN CUSTOMERS!" The bartender looked like an ox, a neck the size of a tree trunk, arms like rain barrels. Jerrod instinctively stepped back.

"Jerry, come by tonight. Back door. I get off at twelve."

Jerrod walked away, glancing back at Katy. She seemed older, worn, tired. Katy had been his sweetheart. He was gonna ask her to get married after the big score. He'd do it now. He'll get the gold from the stash and take her away. Maybe go to Californy or Oregon.

Jerrod waited anxiously in the back alley at midnight. Inside he heard the bawdy laughter of men and alcohol, and an occasional feminine squeal, a squeal that sounded like Katy. Finally, at about one, she came quickly out the backdoor and down the steps, followed by a drunken miner. Jerrod stepped up pushed the drunk who stumbled back onto the stairs. Jerrod took Katy by the hand and led her away. Later, they were cuddled in the straw in the loft of a stable.

"I don't like you working there. Bad people there, treat you awful."

"You know I love you, Jerry." She snuggled closer and kissed him softly. "But you was sent away,…a girl's gotta earn her keep."

"I'm gonna take you away from all this." Jerrod touched her chin, and looked into her eyes. "I . . . I got money now. Take you to Californy."

"Just leave? Just like that? You promise?" Katy's eyes moistened. A tear dripped down her cheek.

"I've got the gold from the train robbery. I know where it's hidden. Tomorrow, tomorrow night at midnight. Meet me in the alley again."

That night, Jerrod walked the silent streets of Cheyenne, his mind racing, too excited to sleep. He needed a horse. No, he needed two horses, but the prison release money was all gone. He'd go up into the mountains, to the stash, get some gold so he could buy the needed supplies. But it would take all night if he climbed the mountain on foot. If, only…

"Go home and sleep it off!" The bartender threw a drunk cowboy onto the street in front of the Four-Bits Saloon. The cowboy struggled up to his feet and stumbled to a horse standing at the tie in front of the saloon. The drunk stumbled into the horse, causing it to whinny and step back nervously.

"Here, let me help," said Jerrod as he loosened the reins from the tie while staying hidden on the other side of the horse. In an instant, Jerrod leapt up into the saddle, jerked the reins and kicked the animal's flanks, and the horse bolted away. The drunk fell backwards, laying in the street. Even though it was well past midnight, a partial moon provided some light, and Jerrod guided the horse up a familiar trail to his stash in a cave by the creek several miles up into the hills.

By morning, Jerrod was back into town. The stolen horse was tied a short ways back in the woods out of sight. He stopped first at the livery stable to buy a horse, saddle and bridle for Katy. Then he started walking down Central Avenue towards the general store. At mid day, Jerrod stepped out of the general store onto the avenue, a new man, sporting store bought trousers, shirt, bolo tie, tailored jacket, boots, and broad brim hat. His pockets jingled with gold and coins as he strutted down the avenue towards the Four-Bits Saloon. He'd show them. Now they'd respect him. Heads turned as he walked through the batwing door; conversation stopped.

"Bottle of your finest whiskey. Now, my man, I'm thirsty."

"Yessir. Tennessee Bourbon." The bartender put out a glass and the bottle; it was the same man who had insisted on payment first the day before.

Jerrod shifted his weight impatiently, and glared. After a moment's hesitation, the bartender poured the whiskey into the glass. Then Jerrod placed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the bar. After several drinks, his cheeks were flushed and his courage was bolstered. Jerrod marched out of the bar, down the street to the Shave-Tail. He stepped in, and looked around until he saw Katy.

Katy stood in a back corner at a small table cleaning bar glasses. Jerrod marched over, took her by the elbow and turned towards the door. Glassware fell and broke.

"Let's go, Katy."

"Wha . . . Jerry?"

"Hey Red! Where ya goin'? Git back here!"

Jerrod, with Katy at his arm, strode through town. Heads turned, people on the street stopped to watch. Although attired in a tattered dress of a hireling, Katy held her head high, running on her toes to keep up with Jerrod's long strides. They reached the horse tethered at the stable, mounted together, and rode out of town towards the hills.

"The stash is right up here, Katy; in a cave around the bend. Bought you new clothes, too." They were on the two horses now. As they approached the cave, a man stepped out.

"Looking for this?" It was the man in the suit with the string tie; the man from the stage and then the train. He was standing over the wooden chest of gold, gun in hand. He quickly raised the pistol towards Jerrod's chest. "We been looking for it too. Appreciate your cooperation in leading us to it."

"You're under arrest, young man." The local sheriff stepped forward. "Apologize, ma'am. Gonna have to postpone your trip."

"But . . . but, I done my time. Uh, I just found this here stash," Jerrod stammered in disbelief.

"Us Pinkertons get our man," said the man in the suit. "You left a trail of crime, assault, robbery, and horse thievery. Then flashing your riches around town today. Why, I'd call this fool's gold."

They Were Intrepid, Part 2 of 2
by John Kallenbach

Tracy proceeded east to Yuma. His sole intent was to end the torture that his life had become. He was done killing. He could feel the souls of all that he had killed howling in pain, haunting him, wishing they could impose retribution upon him.

He arrived at Yuma at 2 p.m., and perched himself on a chair in the farthest corner of the Tinhorn Saloon, with his back at the wall. The bartender, Warren Dooley, a feeble, unconfident man, approached Tracy.

"Can I help you sir?"

"Get me a bottle of whiskey", Tracy commanded. The bartender did not know why, but when he looked into Tracy's eyes, he was petrified. As the bartender turned and proceeded to the bar, Tracy said with authority, "You!"

"Yes, sir!" Dooley replied. "Might I help you with something else?"

"Yes. After you bring me my whiskey, you are going to tell Sheriff Nash that Tracy Amidon is here. He is to meet me at 3 p.m., and I am going to kill him. And remind him: I am the man who killed his brother. If he does not meet me, and runs like a coward, I will hunt him down and take his life. Got it?"

"Yes sir," the bartender answered, his voice withered with fear.

Dooley proceeded to take Tracy his bottle, then ran two blocks to the Sheriff's office. Sheriff Nash and his deputy, Johnny Witherspoon, were playing cards at the Sheriff's desk, when the bartender barged into the office.

"Sheriff! Tracy Amidon is at my saloon. He says he has come to kill you."

"Tracy!" the deputy howled. "I didn't think he really existed."

The Sheriff replied, "Oh yes, he truly exists, Johnny."

"But why, Sheriff? Why is he here and why does he want to kill you?"

Winslow thought a second, and replied, "He killed my brother eight years ago in Abilene. I searched for the bastard for years, but I could never catch up with him, as he was always one step ahead of me. So I gave up my search; I thought it would be wasting my life to pursue him. I stopped looking for him and figured that if it was destined, then someday I would confront him. Why, after all this time has he come? I have no idea, but I guess I'll find out today."

On June 5, 1889, at 2:58 in the afternoon, Sheriff Nash proceeded to Main Street, slightly before Amidon's designated time. With some trepidation, he approached the Tinhorn Saloon. At that moment, he faced the realization that he was walking to his certain death, death by the shootist that had killed his brother. He had often thought this day would eventually come, and now it was at hand. Twenty years of being a lawman, defending those that could not defend themselves, and it had come to this. Here he was, about to confront a man whom he knew possessed the capability to smite his life, to be killed as quickly as a candle being snuffed by a gust of wind.

Deputy Witherspoon barked at Nash: "What the hell are you doing, Sheriff? Why are you facing this man? You cannot bring back your brother's life, and Tracy will surely kill you."

The Sheriff looked into his young deputy's eyes and replied, "Deputy, it's my job. If you live long enough, someday you may understand." The young deputy stared back at him, thinking it was the last time he would see him alive.

Nash continued: "This was obviously meant to be, and so it will be. Tracy killed my brother; my brother was the deputy in Abilene, Texas. Eight years ago Tracy killed three men there when the Sheriff was out of town. My brother Gabriel attempted to detain Tracy until the full facts of the shooting were understood. Tracy squelched my brother's life to escape. I have no idea why that bastard has come here to slay me, but the one thing I do know is that I cannot run from a man that wantonly took the life of my brother."

The Sheriff arrived at the saloon, seeing Tracy Amidon standing in the middle of the street. At the mere sight of him, he knew he was facing someone who had been bestowed a power few men ever would receive.

"I knew you would come, Sheriff," Tracy belched with his deep, guttural voice. He then assumed his stance of battle. One could see by his demeanor that he had struck this pose many times before; he knew exactly what he was doing. Tracy stared at the Sheriff with his blazing blue eyes, seeming to be able to focus upon every part of his body at once, waiting for the slightest sign of aggression. His eyes seemingly hypnotized anyone who gazed into them, all the edge he needed.

The Sheriff spoke firmly: "Before we draw, can you tell me why you wish to kill me?"

Tracy stared into the Sheriff's eyes; he could see into his soul and knew that he was a noble man.

"Today is a good day to die, Sheriff."

Winslow Nash had rarely tasted true fear, yet at this moment he knew it would take an act of God to stop Tracy from slaying him with ease. Sweat streamed from the brow of the Sheriff, causing his right eye to quiver.

Sheriff Nash had been a lawman all his adult life. He knew his time would come, and in a way he was glad it would come this way, and not sitting in a rocking chair as an elderly cripple. Yes, he did not want to die, but he could not turn away from his adversary. And then it happened: Tracy pulled his pistol, clearly out-drawing the Sheriff. He pulled the trigger at least twice before the Sheriff's gun had even left its holster, yet no bullets were expelled from the Colt's barrel.

The Sheriff knew his aim was true. Tracy was struck twice by the Sheriff's .45 caliber rounds. As the outlaw fell to the rutted street, Nash ran to his adversary, cradled his head, and asked him: "Why, why?"

"I am tired; I'm simply tired of killing," Tracy uttered with failing breath. Tracy's last words were: "Please do not let them lay me out and allow all of the townspeople to stare at my body." He gasped for air. "I know it sounds crazy, but the thought of people gawking at my corpse has always repulsed me." With his brow bleeding forth, he lay slain.

The front page of the Yuma Tribune, June 6, 1889, read:

"The notorious killer, Tracy Amidon, has been slain by our admirable Sheriff Winslow Nash, on Main Street. We don't know how Amidon knew the sheriff, yet the gunman claimed to all that his sole purpose in being in Yuma was to kill him. Amidon called out to the Sheriff and provoked him. Sheriff Nash knew he had no choice but to face Amidon, the most feared shootist known in this part of the country. As his legend was so fantastic, some thought he did not even exist. Who else but a legend could have killed 31 men in the past 10 years, none of which they said had a chance? In some of his gun battles he had slain two or three adversaries before any of them could even draw their weapons. But now, Amidon lies dead by the hand of our dutiful Sheriff Nash, a true hero."

Three witnesses saw Sheriff Nash retrieve a letter from Tracy's vest. He never, to this day, has divulged the words it possessed. Something must have touched him in his reading of that letter, considering the respect and reverence in how he carried Tracy's body to his office, and that he gave his deputy strict orders that no one would see Tracy or touch him, so he could rest in peace.

The letter Sheriff Winslow Nash found in Tracy's vest bore these words:

"My name is Tracy Amidon. Friends and foe both know me only as Tracy. I leave this letter to explain the events that have transpired in my life to bring me to this end. They call me a killer, a bloodthirsty savage. Well if you don't want to believe everything you hear, and if you would like to hear the true facts, please listen to my story.

The man whom I have chosen to slay me is Sheriff Winslow Nash. I killed his brother Gabriel, but I swear I did not want to. The men whose life I took that day tried to kill me first. I was merely defending myself when his brother attempted to arrest me. I knew at once that in the custody of the law I would hang, so I had no choice but to squelch his life. I am truly sorry for that. I was always good with a gun. My father first put a gun in my hand when I was 10 years old, and he taught both me and my brother to utilize a pistol to defend ourselves and our family. I have no understanding why, but I had a true gift for gunfighting. Given to me by God as I saw it then, but now I see it may be a curse bestowed upon me by Satan.

I was 16 years old in 1863; at that time, my father, Nathaniel Amidon, fought by the side of Stonewall Jackson, and was given the task of protecting him the night he was shot by accident at the hands of his own men. The General was scouting the battlefield when they approached from the west. Three scouts from our own company had no idea the General was surveying the field. They shot him down from afar, never knowing that they had just killed their General, who was the only hope the Confederate Calvary had to survive. My Father never forgave himself, as the General's safety was his responsibility.

When he returned home, my father was a broken man. The War had ended and his wife was dying; he never put the cork back on the bottle after that. Yet, he did teach me all that he knew about being a shootist and a tracker, to prepare me, he said, to fend for myself.

That done, I guess he lost his will to live, my Mother soon being dead and all. He himself died two years later. Father just seemed to drift off to the afterlife, a broken man. I will never forget the look on his face when he passed. Yes, his early death did bestow an anger upon my soul; it has had a thirst which could never be quenched.

My father once told me that some things just don't have a reason. Every year you live is like a chapter out of the storybook, he said, and you just turn a new page, that's all, and crying about the yesterdays don't make the tomorrow's any better. If you can learn to live with that, you will learn to live with just about anything, maybe even yourself. Hatred is fuel for its own fire; once it starts it does not stop. So all a man can do is to try to smite that hatred, lest it vanquish him.

In my father's dying words, he said, "Son, never let a man wrong you, never let a man speak against you, lest you counter his words. Most of all, stand tall and remember: dying ain't so bad as long as you hold your honor in your soul, never to be forsaken." With that, his cold hands fell weak, his noble spirit left this world, and now resides with the angels.

I then traveled from town to town, sometimes herding beefs and sometimes working as a bounty hunter, but all of the time simply trying to stay alive. I got myself a reputation as one of the best shootists in the West, yet all I ever wanted to do was live and try to have a respectable, honest life. Unfortunately for me, every bastard that heard the name Tracy Amidon felt they must kill me to feel like a man. This is one thing I will never understand for the life of me. Why can't men live together without butchering each other?

The reputation that has pursued me my whole life started when I was 16. A brutal man raped and killed the love of my life, sweet Darcy Loveish. After the rape and murder of my beloved, the bastard came to me knowing the love I had for her. He came to my home howling like a jackass in heat. As he dismounted his steed, the very image of him repulsed me. He looked at me with an evil that I at that point in my life did not know a man could possess. He smiled at me as if to taunt me; proud of the carnage he had reaped upon the woman that was to have been my wife. The coward slashed my face with his saber, leaving me scarred for life on the outside, as well. He saw me as a mere boy, yet unbeknownst to him I practiced many hours a day to refine my skills with my revolver, and I possessed proficiency with my pistol that very few men could ever claim to obtain.

After my beloved's death, I personally never feared death again. Living without her was worse than any pain anyone could inflict upon me. The bastard feebly attempted to draw his pistol, which was an antiquated Colt Dragoon black powder revolver. Even I was surprised at the ease I had in inserting a bullet between his eyes before he ever had a chance to aim it. At that moment, I knew I possessed a gift, however terrible.

So I used this talent to give me my livelihood; my woman was dead, my father and mother were both gone, and my older brother also was killed, in the Great War. I was alone, so I utilized the only talent I felt God had bestowed upon me.

As the months and years passed, I slowly realized I was cursed. I had been given a talent that would inevitably reap a slow and agonizing death. To this day, I have no conception of why I had been given this destiny. I only wish my talents could have been used to help, not harm other people. Since then there have been 31 men that have opposed me. As soon as they learned my name, they felt it necessary to confront me to show they could defeat the great Tracy; all of these men are now dead. Seemingly every drunken cowboy, bounty hunter or town's vigilance group pursued me at the mere whisper of my name, for the reward or the glory. I wish for the life of me I did not have the capability or the inclination to kill.

I feel the main reason no man could ever defeat me in a gunfight was that I had no fear of death. Something I read once stayed with me: As Miyamoto Mushashi, the great samurai warrior once was quoted, "When a man makes a friend of pain and of death, only then will he find the true meaning of life." Unfortunately for me, I had no fear of death. Any man, no matter how proficient he was with his gun, if he even slightly feared his death, he would hesitate for that split second. And I would kill him.

I have never been a man that could possibly think of taking his own life. So I sought out a man with an admirable career as a shootist, so I would not look like a fool. I apologize, Sheriff Nash, for having bestowed upon you the reputation as being the one that killed Tracy.

Of course, you now realize my gun was unloaded. I respect you, and I wish my skills could have been utilized in the way you have used yours. That is why I have chosen you to take my life. I truly apologize for any retribution this act shall bestow upon you, but this was the only way I could find to stop the unimaginable, agonizing pain of being the best gunman; which meant I was forced to kill every drunken ass that learned my name.

I never wanted to kill. All I wanted was a family, wife and children. Please believe me, this is not the way I wanted my life to be lived. I tried changing my name, living for a while in Texas, Wyoming, New Mexico and some other places I don't even remember the name of, but it would not end. My scar marked me. I was the immortal gunfighter, Tracy Amidon, that everyone said could not be defeated; so, therefore, everyone I confronted had the compulsion to attempt to end my life.

Sheriff Nash, if you wish to tell people that you outdrew me and beat me in a fair fight, that is your decision. Or, you could tell them that I approached you with an unloaded weapon, being a man with a good soul that only wished to die a valiant death. Tell this story as you wish. You have given me the sweet release of death that I have longed for. Please do not give this letter to be published in a newspaper, or share it with anyone else. I know you are a noble man, and the words I state here are between you and me."

Sheriff Winslow Nash paid the $20 dollar charge himself for the burial of Tracy. Nash saw him as a killer, the man that killed his only brother; yet he admired him for having endured the hell his life must have been. As they lowered the coffin six feet below the earth, the Sheriff sincerely hoped Tracy could find happiness and peace in his death, the one thing he had hoped for but could never procure in his mortal life.

The next day, Sheriff Nash woke late; it was 9 a.m. as he returned to consciousness. The first thing he saw was his deputy sitting next to him. As he saw the Sheriff had awoken, Witherspoon asked the question he had been waiting to ask all night. With a congratulatory smile, he queried,

"How in the hell did you do it, Sheriff? You killed Tracy Amidon."

"Boy, you're a good deputy, but there are some things you cannot comprehend at this point of your life. I'm only going to say this once: 'let it lie'. I have nothing else to say about this matter." The young deputy walked out of the Sheriff's office confused, yet he also understood the Sheriff w ould not divulge anything further about what had transpired between him and Tracy.

Johnny mounted his steed and rode to the north of town, to a stream where he had gone to think ever since he was a child. Staring at the cloudless sky, he dreamt that he could be a man like Sheriff Nash someday; he also prayed that someday Sheriff Nash would divulge to him what had transpired between him and the mystical Tracy.

After much soul-searching, the honorable Sheriff of Yuma, Winslow Nash, a week later publicly pronounced that Tracy outdrew him, yet his gun misfired, which tale he felt would spare him from the hindrance of being called 'the man that outdrew Tracy.' Yet, his yarn still preserved Tracy Amidon's name as an intrepid warrior.

Nash's problem: to somehow respect the man that killed his beloved brother. It may be inconceivable to most, but Winslow, having been a law man his whole life, had acquired the ability to put himself in another man's shoes. Therefore, he understood Tracy.

The sweet release of death had been given to a good man that tried, but could not ever live the life he dreamt of. Sheriff Winslow Nash had a tombstone made for Tracy. It bore the words: Here lies a good man that was dealt a bad hand. May he rest in peace.

Winslow relinquished his badge one month later. He had come to the realization that no matter what side of the badge he was on, killing was not a life he wished to live. Yet that was the only life he had ever lived, starting in the War Between the States, then the Indian Wars, and then utilizing his talents as a sheriff. He knew not what he would do, but he did know that more killing was not something he wished to experience in his future.

Winslow saddled up his steed and rode from town, stopping to take one last look at Tracy's grave. "Damn you, Tracy", he mumbled, as he plunged his spurs into his horse's side. No one ever saw Winslow again, nor knew what befell him.