September, 2010

Issue #12

My name is Cyrus Sturgis and I was in a bad spot.

On the top of a barren hill, my wrists and ankles were tightly shackled to an elevated X-frame. The folks who had put me there intended for me to die; only, being good Christians, they were going to let God do their dirty work for them. By their rules, if I was still alive after three days, that meant God wanted me to live and they would set me free. Now I didn't know what God's plans were, but I was fixing on staying alive.

Three days is a long time to stay alive, exposed with no food or water. Water was the greatest concern. Spring in the piedmont was hot, even this close to the mountains. Evening thunderstorms were almost nightly events. Instead of being a comfort, this concerned me a great deal. Out of the back of the frame the good people of New Sinai had put a long, iron rod—a lightning rod.

I guess the faithful felt as though God needed a little help.

It seemed like overkill to me. I'd lived in the mountains long enough to know that lightning liked high places. And stuck up there, I was certainly the highest thing around.

As I said, I was in a bad spot.

Worse, I felt almighty confident that the man responsible for my being on that frame had no intention of leaving my fate in God's hands—a sorry lack of faith for a man of the cloth.

You see, I knew that the Reverend John Turner was really Captain Henry Myers, and that his ship, the Myrmidon, had been a pirate vessel off of the American coast. Fifteen years ago, I had been an officer on the HMS Susannah, a ship-of-the-line. We had overtaken the Myrmidon about two miles off of Cape Henry and sank her and captured Captain Myers. I had put him in our brig myself. Our captain had set course for Wilmington. Off of Cape Hatteras we ran into a fierce storm. We would have been alright if not for the damage that our ship had taken during the battle with the Myrmidon. At some point, as we were fighting to keep the Susannah afloat, Captain Myers escaped the brig and the ship. He was presumed drowned, but his body was never found.

Until now.

Apparently the good captain had reinvented himself as John Turner, man of God and leader of New Sinai on the edge of the Blue Ridges. But any question of whether or not he had really found religion had been answered in his treatment of me.

And as for me, I had left the navy a year later and had gone home. My brother had gotten into some trouble during the Regulator Movement so I had gone to help. As soon as the matter was sorted out though, I had taken my Deckard fifty caliber and headed for the mountains.

When the Revolution had come, I mostly stayed out of it. To those of us who lived in the mountains, beyond civilization and the politics of back east, it made little difference which side won. Not until British Major Ferguson had brought his troops into the mountains, threatening all who lived there, did I find the personal stakes to choose a side.

I had been one of many. Mountain men from all over the Appalachians rose up to deal with the threat of Ferguson. A thousand strong, we joined up with Shelby, Sevier, and the other Continental officers who had been hiding in the mountains since the defeat at Camden. They had lost their army to Cornwallis, but had escaped capture. We became their army.

It was Ferguson's turn to run. When he had realized that he couldn't outrun us, he had chosen to make his stand on King's Mountain. Ferguson had been openly contemptuous of our motley force. Throughout the war, militia troops had been ineffective when fighting British regulars.

Major Ferguson did not realize that we were a breed apart.

We were men who lived in the wild country. We were all experienced Indian fighters. The mountains were full of Cherokee who were not friendly to white men. We had learned to live and fight as the Indians did.

The Battle of King's Mountain started at about two in the afternoon and was over by three. At the end, Major Ferguson was dead and so were a third of his troops. Those that weren't dead had been captured. Seemed like we couldn't have lost more than forty men total. Colonel Benjamin Cleveland had presented me with a sword that had been taken from a fallen British lieutenant.

Then, just as quickly as it had risen up, the army which had fought that day vanished back into the mountains.

I made some friends among the other mountain men and in the little settlements that managed to hang on in the Appalachians. There were a few Tuscarora who were friendly and taught me a thing or two about medicinal plants and staying alive. There were Cherokee. Them I avoided when I could or fought when I could not. When I had heard of a new settlement, New Sinai, on the edge of the piedmont, I had gone down for a visit.

The folks there had seemed friendly. A young widow named Hannah Givens had fed me. She had been interested about my life in the mountains. When she learned that I knew a little about plants, she had quizzed me about them, their appearance and properties, for nigh two hours. Eventually, one of the other women had chastised her, seemed these folks thought the only healing should come from God.

I had spoken with a man named Hill. He had told me that they had come from New Bern. Their leader, the Reverend Turner had been given a vision of a life to the west and so their whole congregation had moved.

When I tried to speak of trade, Hill had told me that only Reverend Turner could bargain for the village. He also told me that the reverend had gone west with some men who were newly arrived, but was due back tomorrow.

My mistake had been relaxing. Their friendliness, a hot bath, and the company of women had led me to let down my guard.

Captain Myers returned on the morning of the second day. He managed to spy me before I saw him. My appearance had changed over fifteen years, but he had recognized me. Six men, apparently those who had been with Myers, took me before I even knew that anything was amiss. My weapons had been stripped away before I could use them and I had been trussed hand and foot.

Hannah Givens had been the only one to speak for me. She had promised to talk to the Reverend, but I did not place much stock in her convincing him to let me go. At no time was I given a chance to speak and I never even learned what Myers had told them about me.

I almost never even saw him. But as they were getting ready to haul me up the hill, I caught a glimpse of him standing near the church. He was little changed and I recognized him right away. I had started to speak, but someone had clubbed me over the head and I blacked out. When I came to I was being driven up the hill in a cage.

The men who had captured me were the ones who were taking me up the hill. They looked like a rough bunch, not at all like the other inhabitants of New Sinai.

"Do you know that you are working for a pirate?" I had asked. "Reverend John Turner is actually Henry Myers, a pirate captain wanted for capital crimes."

Most of them ignored me, but one man who had a crooked scar on his cheek said, "That was the Brits who wanted Captain Myers. It's forgot now."

"Is that why he's pretending to be a preacher?" I said. "Pirates still hang." On a hunch, I said, "How about you? Do you still use the same name as when you sailed on the Myrmidon?"

"Course not," he said. "It's just good sense."

"Shut up, Cham," another man said. Scar-cheek stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.

While two men covered me with rifles, the other four secured me to the frame. They explained then about the three days.

"Folks in New Sinai believe in letting God decide if a man is guilty," Cham told me.

From the expressions of the other men, I knew I wasn't going to have to wait three days. I figured they would be back to finish the job that night. I would have been dead right then, but the X-frame was visible from the settlement during the day. Most likely, Myers wanted me killed in a manner that would not be obvious.

A flash of lightning brought me back to the present. A storm was coming.

I was considered a powerful man, but the shackles had resisted all of my efforts. I had no way to manipulate the locks. It looked like it would be a race to see who would kill me first—the lightning or Myers' men.

It was full night by then. It wouldn't be long for finding out.

About an hour later, the sound of a horse brought me alert. I heard a voice behind me—a woman's voice.

"Mister Sturgis, it's Hannah Givens. I'm going to get you off of there. I have a horse and some tools."

"Ma'am, you shouldn't be here. There's dangerous men coming," I said.

"I know; I overheard the reverend and one of them speaking. They were speaking low and didn't know I was there. The man called the reverend, "captain." They're coming to kill you," she said. "There's just one thing. I want you to take me with you."

"Ma'am? It's a dangerous life in the mountains. Are you sure of what you're asking?"

"I am. I have had no life here. I have interests that make me . . . unpopular in New Sinai. I want to go to the mountains with you."

I wasn't one to argue with a lady, especially one who was trying to save my life. Besides, she was mighty pretty.

"Alright," I said. "But you'll have to hurry here."

The widow turned out to pretty handy with those tools. Inside of five minutes, I was free.

I climbed down, rubbing the circulation back into my wrists. She had two horses, saddled and ready.

"They're mine, left to me by my husband," she said. "He left me this too."

It was an old Brown Bess musket. She had powder and balls for about a dozen shots. It wasn't my Deckard, but it was better than nothing.

The way I saw it, I had two choices—run or fight. The first was no choice at all. Myers would answer for his crimes, not only piracy but those against me personally. He had tried to have me killed and I wasn't feeling forgiving.

A few drops of rain began to fall. The lightning would not be far behind. Time to get off of the hill. Even in the dark, the main trail was easy to mark, but it wasn't an option.

"We need to get down the hill and find you a place to hide. I need to head back to New Sinai," I said.

Hannah didn't argue. She just said, "I know of a place."

She led, taking the horses down the eastern slope then staying in the woods until we arrived by a creek. A little ways down, we came to an overhang. It was big enough for her and the horse and should be dry enough provided the creek didn't flood.

"Stay here until I come back," I told her.

When I was about half a mile from New Sinai, I tied my horse to a tree and went on foot. I had the satchel of tools that Hannah had brought. It was raining steadily by then and the thunder sounded every few minutes. I charged the musket, trying to keep my powder dry and crept to the edge of the tree line.

Myers had laid out a pretty defensible site. Most of the buildings were behind a solid, wooden palisade and all of the trees within about two hundred yards of the wall had been cut down to eliminate cover. It was a good thought, but he had failed to remove a number of stumps, large boulders, and there were still shallow dips and low rises that offered plenty of cover to a patient man.

It was obvious that Myers had never fought an Indian. And while I wasn't an Indian, I could move like one.

I assumed that someone was keeping watch. The rain cut down on visibility and that worked in my favor. As soon as there was a lightning flash, I moved forward about twenty feet, crouched behind a large boulder, and froze. It would take the sentry's eyes a second or two to adjust after each bolt. And even when they had adjusted he wouldn't be able to pick me out, provided I stayed still.

It took me about forty-five minutes to get within fifty yards of the wall. There was another lightning flash and I was just about to run for the next cover when two riders came galloping out of the woods. I prayed that the next lightning would hold off for a minute—from their angle they might spot me if one came before the riders got past me. Luck was not with me. There was a flash and I was momentarily illuminated.

They didn't see me though. They wore hoods and were hunkered down against the rain. I sighed and watched as they got to the gate. They rapped on the gate and it took only a minute for someone to open it and pass them through.

Now Myers would know that I had escaped.

I fought back the urge to rush and waited for the next lightning. It took me fifteen minutes to cross the last fifty yards. In the meantime, the rain increased to a downpour. I couldn't see or hear anything that might be going on inside of New Sinai.

The top of the palisade was about fifteen feet above me. The rain had made the logs slick and they were fitted together tight. From my satchel, I drew out a hammer and a handful of nails.

I counted on the sound of the rain to cover my work. I hammered in the first nail and another a few feet to the left and about two feet higher. They made precarious foot holds, but I made do. Only five more and the top of the wall was within reach. Grabbing the top, I hoisted myself up and peered over.

From the time that I had spent in New Sinai, I knew that there was a narrow walkway that went around the top of the wall for sentries and defenders to use. No one appeared to be on the wall at the moment. I shook my head. When the Cherokee came, these folks wouldn't stand a chance. I slipped over the wall onto the walkway. There was a light on in the church and I assumed that someone was by the gate, but I could not see anyone from where I was.

I lowered myself to the ground and went building to building, until I came to the rear of the church. I could hear voices, but I couldn't understand what was being said until I was right under the back window.

"Hugh and Cox went scouting for him, but in this weather it's going to be hard to find any sign."

"It doesn't matter, he has to be found," said a voice I knew was Myers'. "Now that we've finally found the mine, he could ruin everything."

"Captain—"

"Don't call me that!"

"Sorry . . . Reverend. It was hard to see, but it looked like there were some fresh horse tracks going up the hill. Do you think Sturgis has got some friends?"

"Could be," said Myers. "Leave Chambers at the gate. I want you two to get up on the walls with Tom in case he tries to come back."

"Tom was down at the gate when we came in, staying out of the rain."

"Damn him, Tom's a sailor and he's hiding from the rain? Tell them to get their eyes open. Sturgis will be back, if not now then later with help. I'll be in my room. I want to know when Cox and Hugh get back. And if the rain stops, I want all of you out looking for sign."

I risked a peek over the window frame. Myers went off through a door to the right. The other two exited the church, presumably heading for the wall.

I made my way to the front of the church and slipped inside. I stopped outside of the door that Myers had gone through and listened. It was quiet. There was no light coming from under the door.

A lamp was lit. I thought about dousing it, but decided that it might draw attention. Because of the rain I changed the load of my musket.

Then I knocked on the door, being careful to stay to the side.

"Reverend? Hugh and Cox just came in," I said.

There was a pause.

"Come in; the door is unlocked," said Myers from inside.

I knew that if I stood in the doorway, I'd be backlit. I depressed the latch and threw the door open. I burst in as fast as I could, hooking to the side as soon as I cleared the entry. There was loud boom and a muzzle flashed in the center of the room. Part of the door frame exploded and splinters struck me in the back of the head.

The lamplight from the church was sufficient for me to make out Myers holding my rifle. He was reaching for a flintlock at his waist.

"Don't move! Even with this old Bessie, I can't miss you at this range," I said. "Where are my things?"

"Your things? All of your things are here," Myers said.

I took the pistols from his belt and took back my rifle. I kept the musket on him though as the Deckard wasn't loaded.

"My sword?"

"It's on my dresser," he said, nodding to his left. "That shot will have alerted my men. They'll be here in seconds."

"Maybe, but with the rain and the thunder tonight, maybe not," I said.

But as soon as I had said it, I heard the church door open.

"Reverend, are you alright? We thought we heard a shot."

"Sturgis is here," Myers said.

"Shut up," I told him. To his men I said, "I've got your captain here. Anyone comes through that door and the first shot is going through his heart. Understand?"

"Don't listen to him! Get in here and kill him dead," Myers yelled.

"Shut up! Sit in that chair," I ordered.

He hesitated like he might refuse, but then he sat down on the wooden chair I had pointed to.

"Looks like we have a bit of a stand-off," he said to me. "I have a solution."

"What's that?" I said.

"A fair fight, my sword against yours."

"A fair fight? Against a pirate?"

"Here I'm a man of God. You don't want to be here in the morning when the people of New Sinai wake up and find you holding their precious reverend hostage."

"They would feel differently if they knew who you were," I said.

"And you think they'll believe you over me? Do you want to take that chance, Sturgis? I'll order my men out of the church and you can take care of me fair, if you can."

I didn't like it and I didn't trust him. But the night was getting on and I wanted to be done with this.

"Order them out," I said.

"You men out there, this is Turner. Back on out of the church."

"Captain?" It was Cham.

"You heard me. I'm going to take care of this myself. Get out and wait for me," Myers said.

I heard footsteps and then the door opened and shut.

At his direction, I located Myers' cutlass in a foot locker and handed it to him. It was heavier than my sabre and slightly curved, a pirate's sword.

I peeked into the church; it looked empty. The front of the church where the preacher would normally stand was mostly open space. It would do. The Bess I set behind me. The flintlocks I tucked into my belt. As I said, I didn't trust Myers, or his men.

Myers unsheathed his blade and whipped it up in a smart salute. I matched him.

I'll say this for Henry Myers—he may have gotten older, he had to have been about fifty-five at the time—but there was steel in him. He was in good shape and moved with confidence. And, pirate or not, he could fence.

But I didn't keep my sword as a showpiece either. I had been schooled as a young man and practiced in the navy, and I'd had plenty of opportunities to use it since.

He made a lunging thrust and I parried and riposted. Myers tried to beat my blade down. I retreated a step and countered with a thrust. We were body to body for a moment. He was smiling. We disengaged then. He feinted but I didn't bite. After several quick engagements, I was starting to wonder if I was matched. He had a strong hand and equaled my reach. I lunged and he managed a stop cut, opening a small slice on the top of my wrist. Nothing serious, but the blood would make my hilt slippery. A few minutes later, he scored a cut on my weak arm shoulder.

Out a window, I could see one of his men peering in at us. I couldn't think about them right now.

I gave Myers an invitation, letting my forearm drift out of line with my weapon. He took it and I parried again and riposted, almost catching him. He was determined then, pressing my blade out of line and redoubling his attack. I had to try to end things right there. I retreated and then came up fast with a flying parry. My blade slipped between his ribs and he fell back.

"Damn you," he gasped. "That'll do me. Why did you have to come along? Another year, six months even, and I would have been rich again and John Turner could have disappeared." His sword fell from his hand and clanged onto the wooden floor. Myers sat on a pew, holding his hand over his wound, though there did not appear to be much blood.

"Someone was bound to find you sooner or later, Captain," I said, scooping up the Bessie and ducking down behind the end of pew, watching the window.

"They had forgotten. The war made everyone forget. No one looks twice at a preacher on the edge of wild country. This was a good set up."

"Sorry Captain, but you played yourself this hand."

Then Henry Myers died.

Staying crouched, I loaded my Deckard. At least one of Myers' men was by the window I was facing. I assumed that there would be at least one by the door. I remembered that there had been a window in Myer's room. On my hands and knees I retreated back into Myers' quarters, not easy with both the long guns.

I checked the window and didn't see anyone. I heard the church door open.

"Captain, are you alright?"

Without waiting to see what they did next, I broke out the window with the butt of the musket and slipped out.

The rain had mostly stopped.

Keeping to the shadows, I made my way to the stables. Movement out of the corner of my eye made me drop. A gun boomed and musket ball hit the wall right where I'd just been. Staying low, I got inside and found my horse and mule.

"What's going on?" said a voice from outside.

"Stay in the house!" I heard someone else say.

"Was there a shot?" said another voice. "Are we under attack?"

It sounded like the people of New Sinai were waking up.

I hazarded a look outside. It was still dark, but the clouds had broken up and the moon was big and hanging close to the horizon. There were about a dozen men near the church, most carrying rifles—the four who were Myers' men and about eight men of the village. As I watched, one or two more doors opened and more men came out.

I saddled my horse and rode her out slow, leading my mule. My rifle I held easy, but had it covering the closest of Myers' men.

"There he is! That's the one who killed the reverend," one of them said. Everyone turned to look at me. I needed to get control of the situation.

The sky in the east was getting light.

"Listen to me," I said loud enough for all to hear. "I am Cyrus Sturgis. I fought for the Carolinas at King's Mountain and fifteen years ago, I was an officer on the HMS Susannah. We captured a pirate vessel that was captained by Henry Myers. He escaped and I never saw Captain Myers again, until yesterday. Your Reverend John Turner is Henry Myers. These four men know this, because they sailed with him on the Myrmidon fifteen years ago. They are wrong when they say I killed Reverend Turner, because there was no such man. However, I dueled Henry Myers the pirate and killed him tonight in a fair fight.

"Now, I am going to ride out of here and go home. What you do with these four and Cox and Hugh is up to you."

Toward the gate there was a knock and a soft shout.

"Cham, open the gate. We didn't get him, but we got them as helped him escape."

"That would be Hugh and Cox now," I said. I recognized Mr. Hill. "Sir, if you would indulge me and go to the gate. Open it when I tell you. As for you four, I suggest you give up your guns to these folks."

Myers men hesitated. The villagers still weren't sure of what was happening, but my tone was one of authority.

"Cham, George, you others, go on and put down your guns till we figure out what's going on," said one of the men. The fact that there were at least ten guns against them now wasn't lost on Myers' men; they complied.

"Mr. Hill, if you please," I said.

He opened the gate. Standing on the other side were Cox, Hugh, and Hannah. She appeared unharmed.

"It's the widow!" someone said.

"What's going on George? Where's the reverend?" asked one.

"Seems you boys were wrong about the reverend. He wasn't who he said that he was. Drop your guns and let Mrs. Givens come to me," I said.

They were unsure, but there were about twenty people out of their homes now. Hugh and Cox saw the others with their guns cast aside and did the same.

Hannah rode over to me. She told the crowd what she had overheard, and admitted that she had released me and was leaving with me. I waited for an angry response, but none came. The whole situation was so strange that they seemed prepared to accept anything. It was the perfect time to go.

"Mr. Hill," I said. "Who is in charge of this settlement now that the truth has come out?"

"I don't know. There will have to be an election, I suppose," he said.

"When you have it, if you are so inclined, I'll come down from the mountains and we can talk about trading. Myself and Mrs. Givens, we're going to be leaving now. I'd be obliged if you'd keep these men here a bit longer, till we can get on a spell."

Mr. Hill nodded. "Seems fair. I expect that they have some questions to answer before they go anywhere."

And I rode out with Hannah Givens beside me. I didn't know her well, but she had already shown me that she was a brave and intelligent woman. A month later, we were wed by a Moravian minister in Morganton.

I went back to New Sinai after about six months. The frame on Judgment Hill was gone. Hill was the new leader of the community. He told me that they had released Myers' men, but not before they had told the truth about their pasts. They had also told the villagers that Myers had brought them there to look for an emerald mine that had supposedly been found by a Spanish prospector who had later been killed by a Catawba war party. Hill said that they had located the mine, filed a claim and were working it themselves.

A year later, they were attacked by the Cherokee, but I heard that they came through alright.

That was the last I heard of New Sinai. I don't know if it is still there or not. Right after I heard about the Indian attack on the village, Hannah and I decided that things were getting a little too crowded for us in the Blue Ridges. We had heard of the Mississippi and wanted to see it and maybe what lied beyond.

The air carries the first soft hint of Spring, warmer than past mornings with a promise of awakening red dirt. I scramble out from under the Double Four Patch quilt my mama sewed specially for me from calico sacks as soft against my skin as the white flour they held. The pine boards are cold on my bare feet as I pad to the window. When I was little, this here window was bigger than my whole head and I could stand flat-footed and look out onto the hills that are the silent guardians of our life.

In Spring and Summer my morning greeting is thick green, each Fall my view is speckled with oranges and yellows, and in Winter I see black trees that reach their naked branches to heaven as though they're praying to God for an end to the infernal cold. This morning I hike up my nightgown so as not to get it dirty before kneeling and pressing my face against the cold glass.

The mud puddles in the yard shimmer like old silver reminding me of my mama's candleholder — the one she packed with her all the way from Illinois when she and my daddy came here nine years ago. Beauregard is already in the field behind the barn, his black nose to the ground, his stubby tail aiming for the sky. I can hear my daddy on the front porch stomping his boots on the bottom step. The milking done, he's coming in to breakfast.

I pull my nightgown over my head quick as I can but the cold air still tickles my skin with goose bumps before I can pull on my last year's Christmas present (I pretended it was a surprise even though I watched my mama knit that green sweater for practically every night the whole month of November). Mama says next year, when I turn ten, I have to start wearing dresses, but with one more year of freedom promised me, I step into the overalls mama cut down from daddy's after he wore them plumb out at the knees and seat.

I am itching to get outside with Beau but I know any exploring will have to wait until after breakfast and chores. I climb down the stairs barefoot, knowing my boots and socks are waiting warm as toast beside the wood stove where mama is just now lifting a flapjack from the cast iron fry pan to my plate.

By the time I've helped clear the breakfast dishes, swept the front porch, and filled the kindling box, the sun has melted the silver puddles into ordinary red slush. Mama is kneading bread for dinner when I reach inside the front door, snatch my jacket from its hook and wave to let her know I'm headed for the woods. She flutters a floury hand of dismissal at me. Beau and I don't wait for her to think of any more chores. We make our escape across the hard packed dirt of the yard.

Daddy is stringing fence. I stop a while and watch a flock of young crows as they make themselves a torment to him. The shiny black birds squawk and caw and fly in a disorganized circle just over his head. Then, as though encouraged by an audience, a few of the birds begin dropping like rocks from the sky, pulling up in a sharp arch inches from his head. When Daddy removes his wide brimmed hat and waves it in the air, they leave off that fun and begin swooping down, stealing the shiny hog rings he's using on the fencing.

"If you're gonna stand around and encourage the devils, you may as well help me with this here fencing."

I press my mouth into a trembling line to stop the laughing and Beau and I take ourselves down to the creek.

Deep in a pile of musky leaflitter, I find a brown and orange salamander. Just about the time I'm done fooling with that creature, Beau discovers a black millipede wiggling its way over a pale green patch of moss. After that I skin both elbows and one knee stealing an empty sparrow's nest from the branches of the Sweetgum tree that angles itself out over the summer swimming hole. With the nest secured in the bib pocket of my overalls, Beau locates a lumpy hop toad which we imprison for a while in a cage of creek stones.

My belly is beginning to rub up against my backbone and this is generally a clear sign that my mama is going to be wanting help with putting dinner on the table. Then Beau is tearing hell bent for leather, his nose to the ground headed up the rocky bank that marks the border of our land. By the time I scramble up the embankment, Beau is digging frantically at the roots of a Scaly Bark Hickory unearthing what looks like a small den. It's not that I don't know better than to stick my head into the home of a wild animal. I even hear a still small voice, that sounds remarkably like my mama's, shouting for me to step back. But Beau is digging like a fiend, leaf mold and black dirt is flying and I simply cannot stop myself from pulling the slobber faced dog away and squeezing my face into that hole to see what we've found.

I'm looking into the round face of a baby badger. There is a scream. I can't say with certainty whether this squeal came from me or the badger, both of us being about equally surprised. Without his mama for protection this tiny creature hesitates not one instant before he lunges, connecting one knife-sharp front claw with my surprised face. When I jerk my bloody chin out of that hole, Beau rushes in.

"I bet we could tame him down. Keep him for a pet," I tell the dog, who lifts his own torn face from the ground, cocks his head to the side, looks at me like I've lost what little sense I possessed at the beginning of this day.

It's not like I don't know that messing further with this formidable creature is what my mama would call, 'a failure of reason.' But with both Beau and I running blood, our dander is up and there ain't no way we're backing away from this here challenge.

Between the two of us we manage to get just under a pound of soft fur, ripping claws and evil teeth up out of that den. The badger is making a shrieking racket that brings to mind the crying and gnashing of teeth that Preacher is fond of describing. I take off my jacket, drop it over soft fur, slashing claws, and snapping teeth. Then, with a growling ball of badger pressed tight, flattening that bird's nest against my chest, Beau and I use the cawing of young crows as a beacon and we pump our legs as fast as we can to get our prize to Daddy.

It takes a buckboard ride into Fayetteville and twenty-one stitches to put me and Beau to rights again. The dog got the worst of it with sixteen. His left ear hangs a little crooked but I believe it gives him a jaunty look. My chin is sore from my own meeting with Doctor Swanson. I swear the sewing hurt a heap more than the original damage done by the baby badger. Worst of all was my daddy's scolding and my mama's crying nearly the entirety of the hour long trip to town.

Right now Beau has been given special permission to sleep on my bed and the two of us are tucked in snug under the soft quilt. Daddy made me a promise that he would return the badger to it's den, but he told it to me in the exact same voice he used last Christmas Eve to convince me to go to sleep so as Santa could come. Mama has declared that, starting tomorrow I will be wearing a dress every day of the dang week and that I'll be doing my exploring within sight of the front porch for a goodly long time.

I rub Beau's right ear gently between my thumb and pointy finger, kiss the top of his whiskered face, fall into a dream of unruly crows, warm flapjacks, and the discoveries to be made under nearly every mossy rock and rotten log in Northwest Arkansas.

The white oak tree had grown on a sweet grass knoll at the edge of the plains for more than a hundred years. It stood against endless wind, grew great and unbending through drought-brown summers and savage, slashing winters. It tolerated these hardships. But, the ancient grandmother suffered mightily under the meanness fostered on it as a hanging tree.

Elijah Red Horse found his brother Micah Little Fox hanging from a stout limb late in the afternoon, two days after the noose tightened around his neck, choking off life. Crows plucked out blood-filled eyeballs leaving empty sockets staring sightless across the grass sea. These and other scavengers gnawed on the man, ravishing his humanness, leaving only ripped clothes and the medicine bag to identify the earth-red body.

Elijah did not fault the crows or other creatures picking morsels from his brother. They were part of the greater ebb and flow of life around mother earth. The medicine bag held the essence of the dead man.

Nor could Elijah fault the bay mare that bolted away from some cowboy's quirt leaving her rider to strangle blue. He could not even fault the hired-hand from whose wrist that same quirt might still dangle. The fault lay between Micah and the man that commanded the riders.

Elijah legged his horse toward the dangling corpse. The dun gelding snorted and whirled away from the death scent several times before he could be maneuvered close enough for the hanging rope to be cut. The man carefully lowered his brother back to earth, although there was no longer a need for gentleness.

A half-breed, he honored his Indian blood by wrapping the dead body in a saddle blanket and placing him high in the grandmother's arms. Dry, hot wind whispered a death song. It curled around the grandmother oak with her burden, spilled down the knoll and sank into the rolling waves of grass.

Elijah found a trail of unshod horses herding cattle accompanied by a wagon with a bent wheel. He saw that, for two days, Micah had ridden point for the wagon and riders. He had helped butcher a cow. The group divided the cattle and splintered into several small groups, moving west and north into Indian Territory. Micah took nothing when he rode alone toward the southeast and Ft. Smith.

Sign told a tale of shod horses striking Micah's track and a running struggle ending at the ancient tree. Elijah's white blood curdled and cried for revenge. His Indian blood understood a story of hunger and desperation.

A day slid past before he tracked Micah's bay and shod horses to a corral at Jess Young's River Y Ranch. A lavender dusk had crept across the hard-pack ranch yard by the time he rode within sight of the buildings. Several cow hands lounged around the well smoking hand rolled cigarettes. A lantern cast a weak light across the clapboard bunk house porch. Dust powder floated around the men's boots as they shuffled to and fro ending their evening chores.

Elijah dismounted and waited in the tree shadows. He stroked the neck of his horse, keeping it quiet and still.

When the last of the lights were extinguished and the yard appeared settled for the night, he slowly circled around the far side of the corral leading the horse, careful to minimize their silhouettes against the dying light. He made a cold camp in a scrub choked dry wash just beyond the ranch yard. There he hobbled the dun on the prairie side, beyond the stunted trees. In the morning he'd have time enough to handle affairs.

Before first light he caught the gelding, saddled quietly, and squatted watching the ranch yard wake. Pink light pried open the morning, turned orange, and promised another hot day. Cloud mountains were already forming across the east with no hint of rain for the parched land.

As the sun began to climb above the ridge, a chuck wagon loaded with extra gear and supplies, moved out with a great clanging of pots and groaning of leather to the summer camp.

Hired hands caught their mounts and threw on heavy saddles. One roan pony crow-hopped across the corral, rebelling against a day of dust and work.

The sun rose to flame red as riders mounted, ambled out and began driving the old cows and bawling calves north across the dry west pasture, away from the outbuildings, toward the high north ridge and richer summer grass.

Elijah waited until they were out of ear-shot before he walked toward the barn corral. The morning air was sodden and already he felt the prickle of rising sweat.

A grizzled foreman, last to ride out, finished cinching up and appeared out of the barn darkness. He looked hard at Elijah, rubbed leather-broken hands down his horse's shoulder, and flicked a quirt against his chaps. Its soft slapping sound belied its cutting sting against living flesh.

"What's a breed like you doing out of the territory?" His voice carried a note of menace. His face, spiderwebbed from harsh years in the sun, gave no quarter.

He did not wait for an answer but mounted and turned his cowpony to face the Indian. "You need to be riding on. Your kind's not wanted around here."

Elijah squinted up at the rider, flicked the reins against his leather leggings, and nodded. "Yep." The two men eyed each other.

"Mind if I water my horse?" He did not wait for a reply but allowed the dun a morning drink from the ranch trough. "I need another horse to take into the territory. You sell me that bay?"

"River Y don't sell to breeds." The voice was hard and steady, the eyes blank, unreadable.

"What about that big grey? He looks like he's got a long stride." Elijah stood next to the rough log corral, leaned slightly on the top rail, and looked over the milling horses. They shuffled, tails swishing against the on-slaught of flies.

"I told you. I don't aim to repeat. Can't sell you nothing. You need to move on. Besides, the grey is Mr. Young's personal horse." He backed his cowpony away from the Indian before slapping it with his quirt, causing the chestnut to jump forward into a canter. Dust swirled up as horse and man followed the bawling herd.

Elijah stood a moment and watched the rider disappear over the ridgeline. He took the rawhide lariat off his saddle, left the dun ground tied, stepped into the corral and put a loop around the bay, fashioning it into a rope halter. He led the horse outside the enclosure and swung onto the dun's back in one smooth motion.

The ranch house door burst open, slapping loud against the wooden frame. A heavy-set man emerged, his belly pushing tight against his shirt. He tied down his pistol, settled it loose in the holster and stalked toward Elijah.

The breed sat his horse quietly. The man's proprietary arrogance oozed around him like yellow fog.

"What the hell you think you doing with that horse?" He spoke with a snarl.

"My brother's horse. She needs to carry him on his spirit journey. I'm taking her to him."

"The devil you say. I took that horse off an Injun cow thief. Caught him red handed."

"Maybe you got the wrong man. Maybe you didn't see true. Maybe the judge in Fort Smith only one can do any hanging." The breed looked down at the rancher. "Taking the horse makes you a thief. Hanging a man outside the law makes you bloody."

"You mangy red scavenger. No one accuses me of anything. I own this ranch and every thing around here—cattle, horses, men—every thing. Even the law."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe there are laws you don't own."

The horses stamped, restless and snorty at the rising hostility. "Brother's already on his journey. He needs his horse. I have to ride."

He legged the dun into a slow walk toward the dark presence of the man. "I tracked this mare here. Someone at the hanging rode a horse that toes out on the left fore, like that grey does."

"You half-breed red dog. I'd hang the preacher himself before I'd let him call me a murderer and thief and try to take one of my horses. I sure as hell can hang another Injun. I'll see you dead before I let you ride out."

Elijah's boot came out of the stirrup before the man's gun cleared leather, kicking the pistol, letting it skitter across the yard. Sun glinted briefly off the knife blade as the breed dropped low out the saddle, and slashed through the man's gut, spilling white-blue entrails into the hard-pack ground.

The smell of blood and steaming innards caused both horses to shy and side-step away from the slumped man. He knelt for long minutes in the dirt, vainly holding his belly with both hands.

Elijah straightened himself on the dun and wiped the blade clean on his pant leg. Without passion, he watched the dying man struggle to hold his innards.

He kicked his horse into a canter, riding west toward the river, leading the bay. He did not look back.

The great oak's arms formed several cradle notches, one of which held Micah. A buffalo knife, simple quirt, medicine bag and crow feather rested on the still form. Near the grandmother, the bay mare lay with her throat gently cut, already racing across time.

Within a year only bleached bones and hair marked the killing ground. It would be another year before late summer lightning struck the majestic oak, burning it and the grass around for miles, releasing its spirit. Finally, winter threw a white blanket across the blackened earth and the season of rest descended.

In the spring, green shoots pushed against the ground, sending up rich sweetness to spread across the knoll, at first timidly, then with growing strength, covering the death scars.

After his narrow escape from the vigilante mob down in Nopal, Texas, Mose Traven drifted back north into Indian Territory on his sturdy mount Buster, crossing the Arkansas River southeast of Ft. Gibson. Frazzled, hungry, dirty and trail-weary, all he had to his name were the clothes on his back, his bedroll, and the old pistol and twenty-dollar gold piece the Nopal smithy's wife had stolen and pressed upon him when she engineered Mose's jail break.

For days Mose had lived on water and whatever small game he could get—a scrawny rabbit here, a bony squirrel there, anything he could capture or shoot. The old .44 black powder pistol the smithy's wife had given him worked alright, after a fashion, but only five rounds had been loaded into the cylinder and one of those misfired when Mose tried to bring down a fat possum that crossed his and Buster's path one hungrier than usual afternoon.

"Damn it," Mose had cursed, but he didn't fire again at the possum. He figured he better save his ammunition for other kinds of trouble.

"We ain't got much, Buster," he complained to the horse, "nothin' but this old pistol with two shots left, if they fire even, and …wait a minute." He reached into his shirt pocket and felt the $20 gold piece. "We ain't quite done yet, old hoss, if we can just get to Ft. Gibson I got an idea."

Just as Mose had hoped, just south of Ft. Gibson he found what he was looking for: a gun smith shop. It was in a little town, actually more a collection of shacks used for businesses serving the soldiers from the fort rather than a real community. Mose tied Buster to a railing outside the gun smith's and, knocking the dust of the trail off his pants and shirt, walked inside.

"Good day to you, young fella," a friendly old man working behind a counter in back of the shop greeted Mose.

"Howdy," Mose said, taking off his wide-brimmed hat and nodding to the old man.

"Nice weather for a change," the old man chattered, wiping off a glass top in the middle of the main counter behind which Mose saw various separate parts of firearms, mostly pistols, laid out on several small tables. "Been cold of late, stormy. Sunny and warm feels good. You bet."

"I reckon so. I been ridin' mostly these days, tryin' to stay out of it."

"A wise course. A wise course, indeed. Yes, sir."

Mose let the conversation die out. As his eyes adjusted to the dark of the shop interior he saw that the old man had several pistols already converted to the new cartridge-firing cylinders that were catching on all over the region. He hoped there might be a Navy .36 like the one the marshal back in Nopal had taken from him. There had been no time to recover it in his hasty escape from the vigilante mob's noose.

"Lookin' fer a new sidearm, mister?" the old shop owner asked, watching Mose eyeing the display of pistols beneath the glass-covered portion of the main counter.

"Yes, sir," Mose answered, "I am. I have this older one here but I'd like to trade up if you got a good one and the price is right."

"Well, sir," the old man said, "maybe we can do us some horse tradin'."

Mose produced the black powder .44, took the firing caps off the two remaining rounds and then handed the pistol, butt in, to the shopkeeper. The old man took his time checking out the weapon. He tried the action, looked down the barrel at the sights, turned the cylinder.

"Old," he said, when he'd finished his examination, "but serviceable. Not much demand these days what with the new cartridge shooters and all. What are you lookin' to swap it for."

"You got maybe a .36 Navy that's been changed for the new cylinders?" Mose asked. The old man joined Mose in looking down into the case of pistols.

"Don't see one," the old man said. "Wait. Here's somethin' close." He reached into the case and pulled out a long-barreled revolver. "A Griswold .36. Is that close enough?"

He reached the pistol across to Mose, who tried it for weight and balance. It felt pretty good. Comfortable to hold, easy action, smooth-turning cylinder. It would do.

"Might work," Mose allowed.

"Comes with a free box of cartridges," the old man said hopefully.

"How much with the trade?" Mose asked.

"Well," the old man said, scratching the back of his neck, "how about eight dollars?" Mose grimaced. "Seven?"

"I don't know," Mose said, "I only got . . ."

"Six," the old man said. "That's as low as I can go."

"I'll take it," Mose said, "and that box of cartridges."

"Comin' right up," the old man said with a smile, "comin' right up."

Mose paid with the twenty dollar gold piece, leaving him fourteen dollars—in coins. He knew that wouldn't last long but he was so tired of being hungry all the time he decided to stop at the first hotel or eating place he found and get a good, hot meal and then later maybe treat Buster to some oats.

After filling his gullet with a big steak, potatoes, bread and butter, and a grand piece of apple pie—all with a cool, satisfying glass of milk—Mose bought several pieces of thick jerky for eating on the trail and a small bag of oats as a treat for Buster. He then headed north out into the country away from Ft. Gibson, away from people, away from trouble—he hoped, for a change—and looking for a place just to rest for awhile.

He found what he was looking for under a big oak tree beside a small, clear running stream. Letting Buster forage along the creek side, Mose spent the daylight hours casually catching small fish for his meals and simply sitting beneath the big oak doing nothing more than chewing on a piece of straw and absorbing the restful beauty of the unspoiled environment. It was a pleasant idyll and a needed respite from his recent spate of troubles.

Within a couple of days, though, he began to feel the familiar tug of the trail. There was something in him that longed for movement, that needed to follow the unknown road, to find the next thing up ahead—for good or for bad. With that restlessness mildly gnawing on his insides, Mose saddled Buster and headed up the old cattle trail towards Baxter Springs.

It was a warm, clear day: perfect for easy, steady riding. He didn't push Buster but let him take his own lead much of the time, only reining him in if the dependable cayuse strayed too far off the trail in search of the perfect stand of grass.

Towards mid-day, with the sun directly overhead, Mose saw several riders heading down the trail towards him. Instinctively, he felt for the Griswold tucked behind his belt on the left side for a crossways draw. It was a slower draw, sure, but the pistol rode steadier there and more comfortably. As the oncoming riders drew nearer and nearer, Mose rested his right hand on the butt of the .36, at the ready.

When he was still some distance from the approaching riders, Mose heard one of them call out something. Then one of them waved. Then they all began waving and shouting.

"Well, I'll be a son of a gun," Mose whistled to himself. "I never."

"Mose, Mose," he heard his name called.

He recognized the voice. It was Tommy Robison, the waddie he'd defended from Jack Hart, the man who'd followed Mose to Ft. Smith where they shot it out and Hart was killed. Mose could hardly believe his ears or eyes. Chuy the cook was with the others, too, and another young drag rider named Braddock who'd eaten trail dust with Mose and Tommy, and Charlie Wilcox—the trail boss and Hart's kin. Mose slid his hand back onto the butt of the Griswold where it had been before he first recognized his former trail mates.

"What do you say, boys?" Mose said, halting Buster in front of Wilcox's Bay horse. Wilcox saw Mose's hand on the .36.

"No need for that, Traven," Wilcox said. "We heard about Ft. Smith. We know what you done and we know you had no choice. Jack Hart was a hard case and kin or no kin, I reckon he had what comin' that what you give him."

"There was no other way," Mose said. "He didn't give me no choices."

"Fair enough," Wilcox said, reaching his hand out. Mose shook it. Tommy, Braddock and Chuy surrounded Mose happily.

"What'cha been doin', Mose," Tommy asked, smiling. "Where you headed?"

"Just driftin', I reckon," Mose said. "No place particular."

"There's a way station back just a mile or so," Wilcox said, "why don't we ride back and have a meal together. Me and the boys ain't in no hurry to get back home. What do you say?"

"Well," Mose said, a little bit of a smile trying to crease his mostly solemn features.

"C'mon, Mose," Tommy said, "you can tell us all about your adventures."

"Yeah, Mr. Traven," young Braddock chipped in, "it'll be like on the trail again, except there'll be real food and not that chuck wagon stuff." The boy glanced quickly at Chuy, who pretended to be offended.

"You'll think chuck wagon stuff, the next time we go on a trail drive," Chuy said, to general laughter. "I'll cook you a prairie dog pie and flavor it with vinegar and salt."

"Yum, yum," Braddock laughed, "my favorite."

"C'mon, boys," Wilcox said, turning his mount back to the north. "Let's go get some grub and celebrate seein' Mose again."

"Yee haa," Tommy and Braddock hollered, waving their big trail hats over their heads and spurring their horses on. "Last one there's a no count waddie."

After the trail riders treated Mose and themselves to steak and eggs, and listened intently to the stories of his recent travails—minus the specifics of the jail break—with the sun reaching mid-afternoon level they gathered by their horses for a final farewell.

"You boys take care of yourselves now," Mose told his friends, shaking hands with each in turn.

"You, too, Mose," Tommy spoke for the group. "Come see us sometime."

"Sure," Mose said, nodding his head.

"Traven," Wilcox said, "me and the boys did well with the drive and we made a bit more than we thought we would."

"Well, that's great," Mose said, "good for y'all."

"We agreed," Wilcox continued, "that since you was with us over half the way, you ought to share in some of our good fortune."

"Ahh," Mose mumbled, looking down at his dusty boots.

"Sure, Mose," Tommy said, "you deserve it. For sure."

"Mighty good of you to say so, Tommy," Mose replied.

"Here, Traven," Wilcox said. "Enough jawin'. Each hand kicked in a dollar for you. Take it with our blessin'. You earned it."

"I don't know about that," Mose hemmed and hawed.

"Take it," the others insisted. "Come on, Mose."

"You all is mighty good fellas," Mose said, looking at his boots again. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll take it," Wilcox said. "We want you to."

"I truly thank you, boys," Mose said, accepting five one-dollar coins from Wilcox. "I'll always remember this."

"Atta boy, Mose," Tommy said.

"One more thing, Traven," Wilcox said. "If you're set on headin' north, there's a ranch up along the Territory border, up where it runs close to Kansas and Missouri and Arkansas. The Rocking H Ranch it's called. Tell the boss there I recommend you for work. Name's Ben Carson. You get up in that area, just ask anyone about the Rocking H and Ben Carson. They're always lookin' for good hands. He'll treat you right. Tell him I sent you."

"Thank you, Wilcox, boys," Mose said, mounting up. Buster snorted. He was ready for the trail again, too. "See y'all down the line."

"Bye, Mose," the cowboys said to their friend. "Good luck." Mose spurred Buster gently and gave the excited animal a controlled lead. To the sound of his old trailmates cheers behind him, Mose waved his right arm without looking back and rode on to the north, on towards the far end of the Territory.

Ben Carson, owner of the Rocking H Ranch, hired Mose on the spot. He needed a line rider, he said. Especially would need one during the coming winter. Was glad to hire anybody that Charlie Wilcox recommended, he said. Mose could start right away, taking a spare pack horse and supplies enough for a few weeks ahead. Might as well get right to it. No time to waste and plenty of stray cattle to find and drive back to the main herd out in the grassy rolling hills of the Rocking H. Lots of fence to repair and restring. Plenty of work to do.

Mose thanked the stocky, voluble Carson, met a few of the Rocking H boys and with very little ceremony loaded up the pack horse and followed a narrow, but clear trail out to the line rider cabin nestled at the base of several hills near the four corners border in the far northeast section of the Territory.

The cabin itself was not much more than a one-room shack. It looked like it had been thrown together out of scrap wood by men in a hurry to get the job done. Mose's first order of business, after unloading his supplies and settling Buster and the pack horse in a small corral out back of the cabin, was to find a hammer and some old nails and reattach several slats on the roof and side of the shack. At least the place would keep out the rain and wind for the time being anyway.

Inside, it was basic living at best. The place had a dirt floor, which helped keep the inside cool—a benefit in warm weather for sure. There was one chair and a little table and on one side of the room a bed, more of a cot really, with a thin mattress and thinner, down pillow. On close examination, both the mattress and pillow were bug-free and Mose considered that a considerable blessing.

There was a small pot bellied stove for heating the place and a little flat one for cooking, with enough pots and pans to fry some meat, prepare biscuits and the like. In one corner, there was a place dug down and covered with burlap that Mose figured was used for keeping apples and such and there were open, partial boxes of sugar and salt and a little wooden container of pepper.

From the Rocking H larder he was given a sack of flour, a tidy supply of salted meat and jerky, coffee, beans, several tins of vegetables and two of peaches. He looked forward to trying those peaches some evening after a hot day out mending barbed wire. For the fencing, the supply boss at the ranch had handed him a bag with a roll of bailing wire, a sack of staples, a fence tool and some grease. He was told to cut his own sticks of wood for repairing small breaks and to replace broken fence posts with whatever tree limbs he could find for the purpose.

There was a shallow, clean creek nearby, ample small game in the area and, supposedly, wild berries and such to supplement his diet. With all that and a decent place to stay out of the weather, Mose figured he could make do just fine in between supply runs to the Rocking H. And for the first month he did.

Oh, it was a bit lonely sometimes and the job could get downright boring, fixing broken barbed wire all day. Occasionally, he would find a lost stray and that broke up the monotony somewhat. Overall, it was a simple existence, one Mose felt was suited to him and his solitary personality.

One day, about mid-morning, as Mose was fixing a small break in a stretch of barbed wire he heard the sound of a rider approaching. Cocking his ear to catch the direction, Mose saw one of the boys from the ranch pop out from behind a small hill and head towards him. As the man got closer, Mose could tell it was a young 'poke called Meador that he had seen before on a supply run. The cowboy reined in his horse a few feet from Mose.

"Mornin'," Mose said, tapping the brim of his hat.

"Boss want to see ya," Meador said bluntly.

"He say what for?" Mose asked.

"He just say for you to get back down to the ranch right pronto," Meador answered.

"Let me finish up this break and I'll ride on in," Mose said.

"Suit yourself. I done told you what he said," Meador replied laconically.

"Alright," Mose said, not particularly pleased with Meador's terse conversational skills.

"Better get to it," Meador added, turning his horse to ride away.

"I got the message," Mose said, heating up a bit.

"Don't make no never mind to me," Meador said over his shoulder.

"None to me, neither," Mose said, turning to face the cowboy.

Meador laughed and spurred his horse. The animal jumped and broke into a fast trot. In a moment, rider and horse were out of sight beyond one of the nearby hills.

"Dumb head," Mose said in the general direction Meador had gone. "What was eatin' him?"

Mose tied Buster to a post in front of the cowpoke bunkhouse and walked casually towards Ben Carson's big white house that was the centerpiece of the Rocking H Ranch. After grabbing a quick bite to eat back at the cabin, Mose had taken his time riding in. By the sun, he guessed it was going on one thirty in the afternoon.

"Come in, Traven," Carson said, meeting his latest line rider out on the front porch of the house.

"How do you do, Mr. Carson?" Mose said, removing his hat.

"'Preciate you ridin' down," Carson smiled.

"Yes, sir," Mose replied.

The two men stepped inside the big house, which, despite the heat outside, was cool and dark. Mose took a deep breath, smelling the pleasant odors of cooking and such that were so different from the smells of his little ramshackle cabin up in the hills at the far end of the ranch.

"I suppose you was wonderin' why I asked you to ride in?" Carson asked, guiding Mose towards the inner rooms of the house.

"I reckon I didn't really know," Mose said doubtfully. He was hoping he wasn't getting the axe already. He was just getting used to working at the place.

"I have someone here to see you," Carson explained, entering ahead of Mose into a large living room filled with heavy, ornate furniture.

Mose pulled back like he was about to step on a Texas rattlesnake. He instinctively reached for his sidearm and began to draw it from the holster.

"Whoa, there, Traven," a familiar voice called out from across the big room. "No gunplay. I ain't here to arrest you."

Mose stopped with his pistol half drawn. He couldn't believe who it was. It was the marshal from down in Nopal, Texas. The one who had locked him up on the false murder charge. The one whose jail Mose had busted out of.

"Take it easy, Traven," the marshal said, smiling. "It's alright. I've got your belongings and money. Your pistol, too."

"I don't reckon I understand," Mose said, letting his pistol slide back down into the holster.

"Marshal Dacus is here to exonerate you of all the charges down there in Texas, son," Carson explained to his cowhand.

"Marshal Dacus?" Mose said, not quite able to get his mind around the new information.

"I'm awful sorry, young fellow," Marshal Dacus said, offering Mose a small burlap bag. "Here's all your stuff. That nice Navy .36, too."

"That's right decent of you, sir," Mose said, taking the proffered bag, "but what happened? The way I lit out of there, I figured you had to be here to take me back. Even if I didn't do what they was chargin' me with."

"We know you're innocent, son," Marshal Dacus said, "and you've been acquitted in absentia."

"In ab . . . what?" Mose asked, rubbing his chin.

"In absentia," the marshal replied, "means you was freed even thought you weren't in our custody no more."

"I still don't get it," Mose said.

"You're a free man, son," Carson told him. "The marshal has rode all the way up here with your things just to let you know."

"I appreciate that, sir," Mose said to both men, "but how did I get free? I swear they was getting' ready to lynch me when I got busted out of there."

"What happened, Traven," the marshal elaborated finally, "was that a fellow who was a passenger on that stage what was robbed came forward and described the robber that shot and killed Bert Carey. Fellow named W. C. Gilbert testified a few days after you busted out and his description was nothing like you. Me and my boys caught the real shooter. He's locked up waitin' on his own real trial right now."

"Thanks to Heaven," Mose said, sighing deeply. "And I'm awful sorry 'bout the way I busted out of there, but that Carlton fellow and that Enoch, I was sure they was gonna lynch me."

"All charges against you are dropped," the marshal said. "You are free. And, by the way," he added, reaching into his shirt pocket, "here's your $20 gold piece, too."

"And my paper money?" Mose dared ask.

"Sorry," the marshal said, "needed that for the finding of you."

"Fair enough," Mose said, extending his hand. The marshal shook it.

"No hard feelin's?" Marshal Dacus asked.

"No, sir," Mose said shyly.

"Well, there you go, boy," Carson interjected. "All's well that ends well."

"I reckon," Mose allowed.

"One other thing you might want to know," the marshal added.

"Yeah?" Mose asked, an eyebrow raised.

"That Enoch, the blacksmith what turned on you?"

"Uh?"

"He's dead."

"Dead you say? What happened?"

"After his wife helped you get away," the marshal detailed, "Enoch took to beatin' her, beatin' her hard. I went to stop him one day and he come at me with a hot smithy iron. I shot him dead. Damned near cost me my job, but I'm cleared now. As for me and you, we're even."

"No, marshal," Mose said, "I owe you this one and I won't forget about it. I appreciate what you done for me."

"Well, good luck, then," the marshal said, shaking hands again.

"Thank you kindly, sir," Mose said, "and good luck to you, too."

Click here to be notified when each new issue comes out!