March, 2010

Issue #6

Through the field glasses Drake could make out the shimmering image of six men riding abreast at a slow gallop. Just out of rifle range they stopped, and one man continued at a trot, a white flag held above his head on the end of a lance.

"Give me your truce flag, Sergeant," Drake said as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the rear of the column. "Unhitch that gun and get it ready to use." Six days earlier they'd assembled the Gatling gun, and they were now pulling it behind the stout mule that had packed it all the way from Virginia.

The old sergeant was used to barking orders. "Simmons, Getusky! Break out that gun! Everybody dismount and take cover as best you can, and wait for orders!" Turning back to Drake, he said, "I wouldn't go out there by m'self, Cap'n. A man shouldn't trust a injun with his life."

The Indian continued to advance alone. "He seems to trust us," Drake said, "and I won't get any closer to his men than he gets to mine." He nodded toward the pair of pommel holsters slung across his saddle, each of which held a .44 caliber Colt's Dragoon revolver. "These horse pistols have seen me through a few scrapes in twenty years. I'll be all right. But if anything happens to me, the most important thing is to complete the mission, and get the boys out of here." He handed Gage the oilskin pouch. "If the location of the cave is as accurate as everything else on these maps, it's no more than half a day southwest of here. And if the mountain looks anything like O'Kelly's sketch, you shouldn't have any trouble finding it." He unholstered the revolvers and checked the loads, put them away, and turned back to Gage. "If there's any gold to be had, Sergeant, you can't leave here without it, no matter if I'm dead or alive. Is that understood?"

Gage scowled, but nodded. "Me'n the boys only got to run a few rounds through that gun back in Virginny, but we damn sure know how to make her spit lead. If'n that savage tries somethin, there'll be hell to pay. But I wisht I'd never heard tell of that damn gold."

Drake almost smiled. "Well, as someone once said to me, it's a bit late for those sentiments. We're soldiers. We'll do our job, or die trying. If anything happens to me, you're in charge, and you're to get that gold and deliver it into the Confederacy's hands. That's an order, Sgt. Gage."

Drake urged his mount in the direction of the lone rider. The big bay gelding was bone tired, and didn't want to so much as trot, but he was game, and he grudgingly headed out at a canter toward the advancing Apache.

The two men stopped when they were fifty feet apart, and then, as if on cue, each nudged his horse forward at a walk. When they stopped again, their horses were muzzle to muzzle. They studied each other in silence broken only by an occasional snort from one of their mounts.

The Indian was the younger man, no more than thirty-five, and tall for an Apache, with straight black hair that hung down his back past his shoulder blades. He wore a blue bandana around his head, tied at the back, and a red calico shirt with buckskin breeches and a white cotton breechclout. His mocassined feet were in the stirrups of a McClellan saddle that was covered with a gray woolen blanket. He held his lance in his left hand, and the buttstock of a Henry repeater protruded from a U.S. Army saddle scabbard beneath his right leg.

His dark eyes betrayed no fear or emotion of any kind as he sized up the tall and wiry graycoat soldier with the faded coat and brown trousers. Milagro knew white soldiers would lie beneath their peace rag. They always did, no matter the color of their uniforms. But in his experience, they wouldn't start a fight until after they had made their demand, and been refused. Then they would go away, and come back later with more men, ready to fight.

"Buenos dias," Drake said. "I have been sent by the chief of the graycoat soldiers to speak with Milagro."

The Apache straightened in the saddle. "I am the one the Mexicans call Milagro." The white man was dirty from head to toe. His pale blue eyes were set deep in his head, with long lines at the corners, and his horse was exhausted. "You have come a long way," said Milagro. "Have you finished your fight with the bluecoats, and come back to fight the Apache?"

"I come as a friend, to make peace, now and forever, between the graycoats and the Apache. My name is Harlan Drake. I'm a captain in the graycoat army." He transferred the white flag to his left hand and extended his right.

The Indian frowned, and made no move to accept the hand. "I have met only two white men who wanted to be a friend to the Apache, and other white men killed them both. What does your chief want from me?"

Drake cleared his throat. "The bluecoats are your enemy, and ours. You have something that is of no use to you, and the graycoat soldiers need it to continue to fight our common enemy. It will be good for both of us when we defeat the bluecoats. My chief has sent me for the gold."

Milagro arched a brow. "What gold?"

"The gold the Mexicans took from the bluecoats, and you took from the Mexicans. O'Kelly was sent back east to fight in the big fight. We captured him and he told us you have it."

The Indian sneered. "O'Kelly! That one is a coward who would betray his mother to save himself. But if I have this gold, you have not told me why I should give it to you."

"After we defeat the bluecoats, we will burn their forts and make the white settlers leave, and give Apache land back to the Apaches. We'll punish the Mexicans and Commanches for raiding here." Drake could see that Milagro wasn't impressed by his speech, and he wasn't surprised. He didn't think much of it himself. "Hell, the truth is, you may be better off if the graycoats win the war, but I can't promise you a thing. I was sent to get the gold any way I can. I don't want to, but I'll fight you for it if I have to." He decided to play his trump card. "We have a new gun that you can't defeat. With it, one man can kill every Apache in an afternoon."

The Apache people had few friends; Milagro would have been willing to accept Drake as an honest enemy, but then came the lie about the gun. He gripped the butt of the Henry. "This gun can kill more men than the soldiers' guns, but it cannot do what you say. I have never seen such a gun."

"It's not a rifle. That's it over there, on wheels like a cannon. I don't want a fight, Milagro. If I show you that the gun will do what I say, will you let me take the gold and go in peace?" Drake knew the offer was a gamble. The Gatling gun might fire all day, but it was just as likely to misfeed and jam every five rounds.

Milagro shook his head. "If you have a gun that will do what you say, I will trade the gold for it."

Milagro stopped in mid sentence, and both men looked to the west, their attention drawn there by the pounding hooves and rattling sabres of a small Union cavalry patrol as its vanguard topped a rise a quarter mile away. The eight or ten troopers fanned out along the ridge and stopped as their dust came up from behind and enveloped them.

Milagro trained a livid glare on Drake, who raised his hands in supplication. "They're no friends of mine."

Both men sat motionless in the saddle and watched as a single rider emerged from the dust and loped toward them, a white flag in the air above his head. Drake looked to his men. As Sgt. Gage had ordered, they had dismounted and taken what cover they could find, mostly behind small boulders and bushes. Gage, Simmons, and Getusky were more exposed, out front manning the Gatling gun, which looked to be set up and ready to fire. Milagro's companions sat stockstill on their ponies, watching and waiting.

The young lieutenant reined in, his mount nearly perpendicular to the two men's animals. He smiled, showing even, white teeth. He was clean-shaven and handsome, with thick blond hair prominent at his ears and down his neck. "Gentlemen," he said, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Neither man responded, and he went on. "I know this fellow to be Milagro, and I expect you must be Capt. Harlan Drake."

Drake was taken aback. "You have the advantage of me, Lieutenant. How do you know my name?"

The young man removed his right glove and extended the bare hand. "Forgive me, Captain. Lt. William Tyler, 2nd U. S. Cavalry. Say, does he speak English?"

Drake released the lieutenant's hand with a bemused grin. This proceeding was becoming increasingly bizarre by the moment. He looked to Milagro and asked, "Habla ingles?" The Apache turned his head to the side and spat.

"I'd take that to be a no. And I'll ask again how you know me."

"I not only know who you are, I know why you're here," the young man replied. "You and I need to talk, Captain." He glanced from side to side. "Preferably somewhere in the shade, if there's any shade to be found around here..."

Lt. Tyler's voice trailed off and his eyes stopped their search. He was distracted by a puff of smoke from atop a rocky hillside behind and above the Confederate position. His eyes widened in surprise as the bullet arrived just ahead of the report, thudding loudly into his abdomen above the navel.

Drake's mount started and reared, and in so doing put itself in the path of the second slug. The gelding flinched violently when the bullet struck its neck, and stumbled slightly as its front hooves regained the ground, but the beleaguered warhorse didn't fall. Another bullet hissed overhead as Milagro wheeled his pony about and kicked it into a gallop. The Apache hunkered low over his horse's withers as he sped away toward his companions.

Drake cursed his foul luck as sporadic shooting erupted from the blue and gray ranks. The distance between the two forces was too great for either side to do wholesale damage to the other; he and the boy, meanwhile, were in no man's land, and well within range of a stray round from either direction. Lt. Tyler put his hand to his stomach and pulled it slowly away, staring incredulously at the crimson stain on his palm. He trained a bewildered glare on Drake, silently demanding an explanation for the treachery that had wounded him.

Drake snatched up the lieutenant's reins as the staccato bark of the Gatling gun joined the rifle fire. "Oh, Christ!" he muttered. Things were rapidly going to hell, and the Gatling gun was showing the way. There was a sizable clump of rocks, perhaps two hundred yards away in the direction of the near foothills, and the immediate problem was to get himself and Lt. Tyler some cover. As he urged his bleeding horse forward, Drake saw that Sgt. Gage had the gun trained not on the yankees or Indians, but on the hillside behind them. The heavy bullets were lifting chunks of earth and rock into the air and splintering foliage, but Drake couldn't see any sign of a rifleman in the midst of the hail of slugs.

Apparently satisfied with the work he'd done on the hill, Gage ordered the gun wheeled about. The Apaches had vanished, so he directed fire on the Union line. Drake was raising a hand to call the sergeant off when his dying horse stumbled and fell. Unhorsed, he lost his hold on the white flag and Tyler's reins, and the panicked animal reared and threw the lieutenant as Gage opened up on the Federals. The bluecoats withdrew and dropped out of site behind the rise, but several quickly reappeared in prone position, leveling their carbines and firing at will as the Gatling gun peppered the ground in front of them.

Drake crawled to Tyler's side, and realized that at least some of the Union fire was directed at him. He managed to get himself and Tyler behind his fallen horse as bullets whined all around them. Two slugs struck the thrashing animal, and it heaved a final heavy sigh and became still as the firing tapered off. Drake rested a few seconds to catch his breath, and checked Tyler's wound. When he presssed he could feel the bullet with his finger; if the bleeding stopped, the boy might have a chance.

"Why did your man on the hill shoot me, Captain?" Lt. Tyler's tone was calm, and matter-of-fact.

"I don't know who shot you, son, but it wasn't one of my men. Our problem right now, though, is that your men are shooting at us. We need to show them you're not dead."

"They're not too far wrong, are they? I'm gut-shot. I know what that means."

"Well, if it was me, I'd be a goner. But you've been eating better than me, and you're stronger. I think maybe the bullet's into nothing more than fat and muscle." Drake pressed a kerchief against the wound. "Here. You hold this, and I'll get that white flag up in the air again and call this off. Do you have a surgeon?"

Tyler swallowed hard. "At Ft. Craig, yes. And my men should already be on their way there by now. They had orders to go for reinforcements if it came to a fight." He shook his head. "I never dreamed it would."

Drake could see no movement atop the rise. "You may be right."

A few minutes later Gage confirmed it as he galloped up and dismounted, excited and breathing heavily. "The 'paches and yanks have all turned tail, Cap'n. That gun's a reg'lar corker. She's jammed up right now, but the boys'll have her goin in a minute. Why, if'n we'd a had a dozen o' them at Gettysburg, we coulda showed them yanks a thing or two, I'll wager."

Half an hour later Lt. Tyler had his shady spot. They'd strung a tarpaulin between two pinion pines and put him on a blanket out of the sun, then given him the last of their laudanum and enough food and water to last until the patrol from Ft. Craig came after him. His wound had stopped bleeding, and he was resting fairly comfortably when Drake knelt down beside him. "I'd like to have that talk now, Lieutenant, if you're up to it."

Tyler lifted his heavy lids and nodded. "I believe that's a good idea." He swallowed hard and continued. "They found a copy of your orders, maybe in Richmond, or maybe with one of your officers in the field. Most of the north and west is connected by telegraph now, Captain. They wired us some time ago that you might be on your way here, or that you might have already come and gone. Then a few days ago, one of our Apache scouts spotted you, and they relayed the word to the fort. When they set out to deliver a message quickly, they can put the pony express to shame."

Drake didn't know what the pony express might be; he did know an Indian could travel light and fast when he wanted to. But he was more interested in goings-on back east. "Are you saying you've taken Richmond?"

The young man fixed his eyes on Drake's. "As I said, we have a lot to talk about. First of all, Captain, there is no gold out here, and never was. There was a shipment, all right. But all it's good for is making bullets and sinkers for fishing. It was just lead, made to look like gold. It's called fire gilding. Somehow or other they put a thin layer of real gold on the lead, and it sticks like skin."

Drake shook his head. "For what reason?"

"The shipment was a decoy. Details of it were intentionally let slip, in Denver and Mexico, and points in between. The idea was to draw attention to this shipment, in hopes the real gold shipment would go unnoticed."

Drake shook his head in disgust. "I hope somebody needed that gold real bad."

"Well, they told us at West Point a leader sometimes has to make hard decisions. I trust the officer who decided to sacrifice those men has lost his share of sleep over it. Trouble was, there were rumors going around about sending gold to Mexico, and they were true. It was necessary to risk a handful of lives for a greater good." Tyler grimaced in pain, and took a deep breath before continuing. "The gold was bound for the war coffers of Mexican President Benito Juarez. The United States had formally recognized his government; he had ideas our government liked, including his opposition to slavery in Mexico. But he had enemies who were getting outside help, mainly from France, and he needed cash. The actual shipment went to California, then to Acapulco by sea. Juarez supposedly got it, but if he did, it didn't help him much, because Maximilian was in charge inside of six months." Tyler responded to Drake's puzzled expression. "He's the Austrian the French have made Emperor of Mexico."

Drake stood and walked a few steps away. In a single motion he removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve, then he slapped the dusty hat against his leg. "I might have chewed tougher gristle," he said as he stared out across the desert, "though I can't say I remember when."

"There's more to choke down. Do you know what the date is, Captain Drake?"

Drake turned back toward Tyler. "I'd make it early June."

"It's Sunday, the fourth of June, 1865, to be precise. You were a while getting here."

"We travelled mostly at night, trying to avoid patrols. Hell, we laid up for days at a time, waiting for a chance to slip by a bunch of you all without trouble. Even so, we had four skirmishes, and I lost three men and two horses on the way. There's a war going on back there, Lieutenant. Or should I say there was a war going on?"

Tyler nodded. "General Lee surrendered on April ninth. For all practical purposes, the war's been over for nearly two months. Bring me my saddlebags, if you would."

When Drake handed him the bags, Tyler removed a folded newspaper and handed it over. Drake perused the paper in silence. The copy of the Denver Herald was dated April 15. "ASSASSINATION!" the huge headline read, and the sub-headline added, "President Lincoln Murdered. The Nation in Mourning." Drake nodded and returned the newspaper to Tyler, then went to talk with his men.

An hour later they were ready to leave, and Drake knelt down beside Tyler, who was looking at a small photograph. "Are you a family man, Captain?" he asked.

"No, I never seemed to find the time for all that."

Tyler showed him the picture of a raven haired young woman. "A man needs to make time. Our first is on the way. She's going to join me after the baby comes, as soon as they're able to travel. There's no finer thing that having a good woman and children at home."

Drake nodded. "I don't doubt that. I hope you understand I can't stay here with you. I'm not doing any more fighting, but I'll not see these men clamped in irons for six months while some desk major decides what to do with them." He breathed a heavy sigh. "If there was anything I could do for you, I'd send them home and stay with you, but..."

Tyler didn't make him finish the sentence. "I know, and I also know the grief that has befallen me is of my own doing. I'm not your responsibility. There'll be a patrol out looking for me tomorrow. With luck they'll get here before the Apaches come back."

Drake put a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "What made you come out here with barely more than a squad in the first place? If you hadn't run into us, Milagro would have made short work of your patrol."

"I don't think so. The militia has been tough on him the last couple of years--worse than the regular army ever was. Their goal is extermination, and they waste no effort looking for a legal pretext to shoot Indians. The half dozen braves Milagro had with him are most likely all he's got left. My intent, if I ran into him, was to offer him a final chance to come to the fort and surrender, and lead his people back to the reservation." Lt. Tyler closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "I didn't get out of West Point in time to fight in the war. I'm embarrassed to admit it, Captain, but the reason I brought my little volunteer patrol out here was to find you, and accept the final surrender of the Civil War. I thought perhaps there might be room in the history books for a short paragraph on the subject. Instead, I may well become..." His voice trailed off.

Drake knew what Lt. Tyler's footnote to history might be. He went to his mount and retrieved his saber, then walked back to kneel for a final time beside the young officer. "Lt. Tyler," he said, "I surrender. The Union can count on no more trouble from me." He held out the saber.

Tyler turned his head. "Thank you, Captain, but there is no need to humor me at this point."

"I'm not. I'm surrendering myself and the men under my command, on the following conditions: that you not require us to stack our arms, that you let us be on our way with the animals presently in our possession, including your horse, and that you make our agreement known to the commanding officer at Ft. Craig. I don't want a platoon following me to Texas looking for a fight."

Tyler took the saber. "Those conditions are acceptable, but I would require that you make certain the Gatling gun doesn't fall into Apache hands. Either disable the weapon, or take it with you."

Drake nodded. "Agreed. Good luck to you, son," he said, extending his hand.

Tyler gripped Drake's hand as firmly as he could. "And to you, sir."

A chill rain fell lightly, but steadily. Mose Traven rode with his head down, water dripping and blowing off the broad brim of his worn, dirty hat. His thick-backed pony ambled along the mud-gravely path surrounded by scrub brush and young oak and elm trees. It was late afternoon, although nearly as dark as dusk, and Mose hunched in the saddle, wet and tired. There was no sound save for the soft thudding of the horse's hooves on the soggy trail and the animal's occasional snorting breath.

Mose had let his mind drift as he rode, so allowed it to fill itself up with images of the recent past that he didn't hear the first sound in the trees beside the narrow, beaten path. The noise was like heavier rain hitting the leaves, harder, closer, then followed by the cracking of what could have been mistaken for thunder - thunder rolling fast after the electrifying flash of close by lightning. The leaves splattered nearby, the air boomed.

"Hell fire," Mose cried out, understanding at last the meaning of the loud rain that snapped twigs on either side of him and caused his buckskin pony to snort in fear and jerk forward on the reins. With a sharp jab of his spurs against the buckskin's solid flanks, he drove the animal to the lead it sought on its own.

"Go, Buster," he urged, "get up."

He needn't have admonished the horse, for it galloped now in that horse's way of escaping a leg- or side-biting predator. It breathed heavily, ears pricked, legs pounding the earth with strong, powerful strides. In moments, rider and horse were far down the trail. Coming out of thick foliage and into a clearing populated by several large gray boulders, Mose spurred Buster towards the largest of the rocks and reined him in on its back side.

Leaping off the animal, Mose pulled a rifle from beside the saddle, worked the lever to cock and load it, and edged around the side of the rock to see who or what was behind them. A round hammered the stone near his face and he pulled his head back just in time to avoid a spray of loosened gravel from the rock surface. Looking back, he saw a thick scrub bush and quickly tied the horse tight to it. The last thing Mose wanted was for the animal to bolt in fear and leave him out there alone, on foot.

"Easy, boy," he told the horse in a gentle, calm voice, "I'm just goin' to go around this other side and try to see who's doin' the shootin'. You take it easy, now." The horse snorted low and looked a little wild-eyed but it settled down at the quiet talk.

Slowly, Mose moved up to the back side of the rock beyond the horse. Never give a shooter the same shot, he remembered his old sergeant from the 3rd Missouri Mounted Infantry saying right before the battle of Westport when he had just been a boy - a boy conscripted into an army and a war he shouldn't even have been a part of.

Easing himself around the boulder, Mose took a quick look in the direction from where the shots had come. He could see nothing in the gloaming. It was getting darker and he didn't want to be caught out alone come nightfall.

It was probably a Kiowa hunting party or, he hoped not, marauding Comanches. They seldom made it this far east, but there had been a big ruckus the past year between cattle drivers and the Indians out in the Texas Panhandle so he had tried to stay on his toes about the trouble and did his best to avoid Indians.

Mose had no quarrel with Indians and had no designs on their land, but he understood they wouldn't know that and might view him as just another thieving white man. As a personal policy, he skirted the tribes and their territory as best he could.

When there hadn't been a shot in several minutes, he began to think that whoever was out there might be trying to sneak up on him. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. Behind was more bushes and a couple of smaller boulders and beyond that a small drop off. It might provide enough protection so he could make a run in that direction and then swing back in a mile or so over onto the Ft. Smith trail.

Just as he was about to go back to the horse, he had a funny feeling, one that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Without warning several shots suddenly rang out and rock chips and dust flew all around him.

"Son of a …," he started to curse, then pressed his body close to the boulder and waited silently.

His breath came shallow but not fast. He had seen too much in the War Between the States, as he'd seen the not so distant hostilities recently referred to in a newspaper, to panic over a few stray shots. He just wondered who it could be. Certainly not the blue bellies. They would have no reason to be following a lone white man all the way into Indian Territory. It was probably some part-renegade Indians, or some desperado looking for a horse or a saddle, or both. He doubted that it would be Jack Hart.

Mose waited. And waited. It was completely quiet again. He waited. Ten minutes, fifteen. Finally, he carefully peered around the boulder again. Nothing. No shots. Nothing. It was as if there had never been anyone there to begin with. He waited ten minutes more.

Cautiously then, he untied Buster and mounted him slowly and smoothly. Still nothing. With a low clucking sound he moved the horse away from the boulder, towards the bushes and the drop off behind. He only looked back once. When he reached the bottom of the drop off, he reined the horse tight and dug in his spurs. With a snort the animal bolted, ran hard.

Mose guided Buster across the wet ground, through scattered small bushes to the original trail. Still nothing. On the smoother ground of the trail, he slowed the horse to a canter and then finally to a walk.

Whatever or whoever had been out to get him no longer seemed to be there. There was a phantom-like quality to the experience that made Mose shudder in the saddle. Spurring Buster on briefly to hurry around another blind bend in the trail and to get himself completely out of rifle range, Mose continued on to Ft. Smith.

The dirt streets of Ft. Smith were empty and cast in shadow when Henry Hallow saw the rider come into town. The man first appeared at the head of the main, muddy street and, between sessions of puffing up his billows, Henry watched his slow progress toward the livery stable to the side of which Henry maintained his small blacksmith shop. As the man neared Henry's place he saw the livery stable sign and headed his mount towards it.

"Good evenin', young man," Henry said with a smile when the man pulled up in front of the stable.

"Evenin'," the stranger replied.

Even in the fading light, Henry could make out the man's features and noted a countenance that bespoke long months on the trail, a life - like so many of late - of deprivation and little human contact. The rider was a man of mid-twenties appearance, medium height and build, light brown hair - too long not cut - and a face highlighted by high cheekbones, a ruddy complexion hiding under the stubbly growth of a week or so, and light, pain-filled eyes. Henry guessed in a moment that this was a man who had seen more than his share of experience in his young life.

As befit a man of the trail, the stranger wore weathered but quality chaps over his dusty pants and above his very well worn boots. He had on a gray shirt, tattered at one shoulder, a dirty, once blue dust kerchief around his neck, and a big brimmed, cowboy hat. He had clearly seen much of the world but other than an obvious weariness seemed a decent enough type.

"You the stable man, too?" the stranger asked.

"Yes, sir, I am," Henry replied, pausing in his work. "Lookin' to put your hoss up for the evenin' are you?"

"I am," the stranger said, dismounting from the sturdy buckskin. "Easy, Buster," he told the animal as it skittered a bit when Henry tossed his hammer down and it banged off a stray piece of wheel rim on his working table.

"Sorry, mister," Henry said.

"It's okay," the stranger said, rubbing the horse's neck. "Buster's just tired. And maybe a little nervous."

"Somethin' happen to you all out on the trail?" Henry asked.

"Some place around here a man could bed down?" the stranger asked, ignoring Henry's question.

"Well, sir," Henry said, the only place for that is over at the hotel across the way and down a couple of buildings. See there by the sheriff's office?"

"How much for keepin' my horse overnight?" the stranger asked, not looking in the direction of the hotel or sheriff's office. Henry noted that reluctance.

"Fifteen cents?" Henry said doubtfully, never sure what a fair price to charge was.

His wife Mary always said "twenty-five cents for the horse and a dime for oats, never less," but Henry believed in basing the price on the appearance of the person asking. This fellow didn't look like he would have a lot of money, though you never could tell.

"How about a place to eat?" the stranger queried.

"Hotel again," Henry said, "but they charge four bits for supper."

"Hmm," the stranger mumbled, rubbing the stubble on his solid chin.

"You know," Henry said, not knowing what made him do it, "you could eat with my missus and me. If you wanted to, I mean. We have enough to share."

"I wouldn't want to put you out none," the stranger said.

"Mary would be happy to add another plate," Henry said, not knowing if she really would or not. There was something about this young man, in his demeanor or the way he held himself proud but humble somehow at the same time that told Henry he was not an outlaw, not a bad man.

"Join us, please. I'm ready to quit for the day anyway."

"It would be right neighborly of you," the young man said, a small smile improving his tired features.

"Well, come on then," Henry said with conviction. "Let's get your buckskin set up and we'll see about getting' something to eat."

"Thank you, sir," the young man said, "Mr. ...."

"Hallow," the blacksmith said, wiping his right hand on the black leather apron he wore before extending the hand in greeting, "Henry Hallow. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Moses Traven," the young rider introduced himself, "of Missouri, and other parts. My pleasure to meet you, too. And you done met Buster here. We've traveled a fair piece together the two of us."

"I suspicioned as much," Henry said with a nod, "I reckoned that you had."

After a big supper of beef, beans and biscuits, Mose made the Hallows accept two-bits from him just for their kindness.

"Oh, no," Henry had protested, but Mose could see the missus didn't mind. Spending money was hard to come by, he and the lady both allowed, so he left the coins on their kitchen table.

Henry insisted then that Mose spend the night free in the stable. There was a good spot up in the loft and plenty of clean hay. Mose took the blacksmith up on the offer.

"Better stick around," Henry said as the men walked back to the stable.

"Why come?" Mose wondered.

"Hangin'," Henry said, shaking his head. "Judge Corey's gonna hang some boy from the Territory come over and killed a drummer. It'll be a big crowd for that one."

"Never seen a law-caused hangin,'" Mose remarked.

"Stay a few days," Henry reiterated. "You'll see one."

When Henry went back home, Mose climbed up to the stable loft, found some good hay, and spread his bed roll down. It was pretty comfortable, a heck of a lot more comfortable than the ground that had been his bed during the cattle drive he'd just left.

Lying there in the stable, looking up through a hole in the roof at the star-filled night sky, Mose couldn't help but recall the events that caused him to leave the drive with a month left before they reached Baxter Springs trailhead.

It was that damned Jack Hart that caused it all. Hart was related to Charlie Wilcox, the cattle owner and trail boss, and even though he was just a flank rider, Hart thought he was in charge of the herd all the time Wilcox was out front scouting for water and that night's bedding down spot. In particular, Hart bullied one of the two teen-aged boys that rode drag on the mixed herd of ragged Mexican cattle and free ranging Longhorns that Wilcox had scrounged up down around San Antonio.

Mose had joined the drive at its beginning in San Antone, a fool's venture taking the old Shawnee Trail - which was being used less and less - up past Dallas, through the Territory to the trailhead at Baxter Springs. Wilcox knew it was a tricky proposition, what with the concern for Texas tick fever, unruly Indians, and the trails all running to the west now, but he allowed it was good for at least one more shot.

Following a couple of years in Mexico with Jo Shelby and his Confederate Iron Brigade escapees down on the Hacienda Carlota, and several more roaming Missouri, Arkansas, Texas and the Indian Territory, Mose knew all about last shots. He was glad to sign on for a dollar a day - even riding drag for a couple of weeks until Wilcox moved him over to a flank.

Jack Hart tried to bully Mose at first, too, but that didn't play. Not after Mose threatened to crack his .36 caliber Navy revolver over Hart's head. Instead, Hart took out his natural meanness on the two boys eating dust behind the herd. He especially singled out Tommy Robison, a good-tempered, hard-working boy.

By the time they had got near to Dallas, Hart was making the boy's life miserable. He would short-change Tommy on watch, bark at him for things the kid hadn't even done, and just generally push the boy around day and night. When Wilcox let several of the crew go into Dallas to blow off a little steam, Hart pushed his bullying to the breaking point.

About a half dozen of the boys, including Mose, the two teen-aged boys, Chuy the Mexican cook, a couple of other cowpokes and Hart, went to a saloon to loosen up a bit and knock off some trail dust. Mose was sitting at a table, joking with the young boys, when Hart tried to start a fight with Tommy Robison.

"Get up, you soft-headed piss ant," Hart growled at the bewildered boy.

"I don't know why you on me so much," Tommy said, shaking his head.

"Stand up," Hart ordered.

"No, sir," Tommy replied.

"On your feet or I'll bust you where you sit," Hart sneered.

"Ease up, partner," Mose intervened. "Have a drink with us. We're all on this drive together."

"Ain't talkin' to you," Hart countered, not even looking at Mose. "Shut your hole and stay out of my way."

"Best walk a bit easy there," Mose warned Hart.

"You don't like it, get up," Hart spat back.

"Suit yourself," Mose said, sliding his chair back.

"Don't, Mr. Traven," Tommy said, reaching an arm towards Mose.

"It's alright, Tommy," Mose told the kid.

He stood up and faced Hart. Hart squared to face Mose.

"You gonna regret this," Hart said.

"Could be," Mose allowed.

Hart made a move as if he might go for his sidearm, but before he got anywhere near his belt and holster, Mose drew his .36 and backhanded the barrel against the side of Hart's head. It made a loud, thwacking sound. Hart went down in a heap.

"Let's get him out of here and back to the herd," Mose told the boys. "He ain't likely to be none too happy when he comes to."

From that day, Hart seethed with anger towards Mose. So much so that Mose had to watch his back all the time he worked the herd. Once, Hart nearly snuck up behind him, but Mose sensed something and turned around in time to draw down on his adversary in a Mexican standoff.

Then, after the drive had crossed the Red River and were up into the Territory, Hart and Mose had it out. They went head to head, fist to fist, around the campfire just as Chuy was getting supper done. It was a bitter fight and he took his lumps, but Mose got the better of Hart. The next day, Charley Wilcox let Mose go.

"I'm sorry, Traven," he told Mose, "you're a damned good man, but I can't have this on the drive. Jack is family, even if he's trouble, and I gotta go with that. I hope you understand."

Mose took the sixty dollars Wilcox offered him and with a quick goodbye to the crew, turned east and headed for Fort Smith.

"This ain't over, Traven," were the last words Hart said to Mose as he rode out of camp.

"Good luck, Mose," the boy Tommy had called out. Mose waved his right arm in farewell without looking back.

Remembering the unfortunate end of the drive, Mose finally drifted off to sleep in the stable beside Henry Hallow's blacksmith shop. Before he even realized he had slept, something woke him. A sound in the stable below.

Mose lifted himself up on his elbows and peered over the loft. It was still dark but there was a slight hint of the first gray of pre-dawn. Buster snorted and moved nervously in his stall. Mose thought he saw the figure of a man down below.

"Who's that?" he called out. "What is it?"

The boom of a sidearm was his answer and before Mose could move, the loft slat next to his bedroll exploded upwards, spraying bits of wood all around. Grabbing his .36, Mose returned fire but could only shoot at the shadows below. Two more rounds ripped into the floor of the loft and Mose replied again, then moved away from his bedroll.

Feeling for his boots, Mose picked up the right one and moved to the back of the loft where he could peer down into the stable. All was silent for a moment. With a slow motion, Mose heaved his boot onto the loft floor in front of him. It landed with a solid thud. The moment it did, the shooter below fired off two rounds in the direction of the sound. Mose saw the flash of fire from the attacker's pistol. He fired two rounds above and slightly to the left of the flash. There was a low moan, then silence again.

Mose waited a full moment, continued to peer down into the shadowy stable. Nothing. He carefully climbed down the loft ladder, heard the sound of people coming towards the stable, walked cautiously towards the front of the building. Even in the graying light, he could hardly see and bumped into a heap on the floor. It was a man.

As Mose bent down to the man, someone opened the door of the stable and let in enough light to identify the shooter, who now lay in a pool of his own blood. It was Jack Hart from the cattle drive. He had tried to make good his word. He had tracked Mose down and tried to kill him. Mose shivered to think how close his adversary had come to fulfilling that task.

"Lower your sidearm, son," Mose heard a voice say. "Step back from there and drop it."

Mose looked up to see a man wearing a marshal's badge. The marshal held a long-barreled .44 pointed right at Mose. Mose laid his pistol down and stepped back.

"Get your gear," the marshal said, "I gotta take you in."

Judge Corey waited to hear Mose's case until the day of the scheduled hanging. Wanted to give Mose a fair hearing, he said, learn the particulars of the case. Liked to give everyone a fair trial, he said, thought the sound of the gallows would be likely to produce the truth of the case.

Mose told his side of the shooting. The judge, who was hardly older than Mose himself, listened with something that was maybe like interest. Half the time, Mose wasn't even sure what the judge was talking about, wasn't sure his honor was all there, all the time. He was sure the judge could do as he darned well pleased.

"I ought to hang you for murder," Judge Corey said. "For murdering your partner."

"He tried to kill me," Mose reminded the legal man, "and we wasn't 'xactly partners."

"Mose ain't no killer," Henry Hallow interjected from his seat out in the crowd. The judge rapped on his table with a wooden mallet.

"Did you see the shootin'?" he snapped at Henry.

"Uh …, no, sir," Henry admitted.

"Then shut your mouth or I'll throw you in jail, too," Judge Corey said. Henry shut up.

"Marshal," the judge switched his focus, "is the defendant indigent."

"W..what?" the marshal asked.

"Does he have any means of support?"

"I don't catch your meaning, sir."

"Does he have any money," the judge sniffed, shaking his head, "for cryin' out loud?"

"You got any money?" the marshal asked Mose.

Mose thought of the twenty dollar gold piece stowed in a little pocket at the back of his saddle that his Mexican girlfriend Maria had stitched up for him. There was also another twenty in paper bills under the worn out sock in his left boot. He had about seventeen dollars and some change in the pocket of his pants.

"Some," Mose admitted.

"Produce it," the judge ordered.

"What?" Mose asked. This judge talked like a crazy man sometimes.

"Let's see it," the judge sighed. "You frontier types are really dense."

When Mose was slow to "produce" his money, the marshal reached in his pockets for him. He handed the money to the judge.

"This is all?" the judge asked. Mose was silent. "Seventeen dollars and three bits? I ought to hang you just for this insult."

A man standing to one side of the judge leaned forward and spoke quietly in the barrister's ear. The judge grimaced.

"I know. I know," he acknowledged, "we have to get on with the real hanging."

"All right," he said, after a short pause and addressing Mose directly, "let's finish this up. I fine you this seventeen dollars and such for … for discharging your weapon inside the town limits. Case dismissed."

"You're takin' my money?" Mose asked.

"I suggest, cowboy," the judge said, with a wry smile, "that you should count your lucky stars I've got more work to do today than bother with a two-bit cowpuncher like yourself. This is your fine, now get out. Go. You're free to go. Get out of my courthouse. And let this be a lesson to you."

Without another word, the judge rose and stomped out of the courtroom. The marshal led Mose outside and walked him back to the stable, Henry Hallow tagged along beside.

"You're clear to go, son," the marshal told Mose. "I recommend you get your gear together and ride on." He held out his hand to Mose.

"I take your meaning," Mose replied, shaking the marshal's hand.

"Good luck to you," the marshal said, then turned and walked away.

"Whew," Henry Hallow said to Mose when the marshal was gone, "that was a close one."

"They took my money," Mose said, straightening a saddle blanket on Buster. "They didn't give a damn that somebody got killed one way or another."

"Yep," Henry said, "that's how old Judge Corey works."

"Old judge," Mose laughed, tossing his saddle onto Buster's back, "that boy wadn't any older than I am."

"You ain't gonna stick around even for just a bit?" Henry asked. "There's still that hangin' later on."

"Hell, if that crazy judge don't decide to rob me instead of tryin' me," Mose said, cinching the saddle down, "it could be my neck getting stretched up there today, too. And for killin' a lowdown scoundrel what was gonna kill me."

"I could use some help with the blacksmithin'," Henry suggested.

"I appreciate that, Henry, and you and your missus' hospitality, too, but I don't believe this place is right for me. I best be movin' on like the marshal said."

"Where to?"

"Don't know. Sedalia maybe. If there's work."

"Well," Henry said, looking down at his grimy boots, "I reckon it's goodbye, then, Mose."

"I reckon so," Mose said, adroitly lifting himself into the saddle.

Buster snorted and shook his head. He was ready for the trail. With a gentle heel to the horse's flanks, Mose turned the animal to the left out into the dirt main street of Ft. Smith.

"Take care, Mose," Henry called after Mose's retreating figure.

Mose waved his right arm in goodbye without looking back. With a light tug of the reins, he guided Buster to the north, towards the Boston Mountains, and Fayetteville beyond, on to the Missouri border. He'd had all he wanted of Ft. Smith. He doubted he'd be back.

“Spiro, we’ve sure hit the bottom of the ladder.” The aged stoop shouldered man drove the shovel blade deep in the ground. “Gravediggin’ it ain’t a fit way to make a living. Folks don’t want to have much to do with you. Nobody ever offers to buy you a drink. Figures it marks em’ for death, if they speak to you for more than a few minutes.”

He glanced at the long eared brute harnessed to a patch work two wheeled cart. A coffin of rough cut lumber nestled in the center of the short bed.

“Still it could be worse. Mr. Timmons pays a fair wage, and we’re a mite old to be working the mining camps.” He shaped the rectangle of the grave and began to work on depth.

He spit a stream of tobacco juice at the growing mound of earth. “Everyone needs us at one time or another.” He leaned on the shovel handle, his eyes fastened on the small casket which held the sheet wrapped corpse of Lilly Drummond.

“Wish that little girl didn’t have need of us for a while yet. Sure is a damn shame. It’s one thing to die natural, but the way she died.” He shook his head slowly. “I just can’t understand that kind of greed.”

“Milo, you still talking to that sorry old mule?” A familiar voice called from behind.

“Better than talking to you Nate Spence.” The old man turned, recognizing the voice. He leaned the shovel against the side of the grave; his hands massaged his lower back working the stiff muscles. “You on your way home?”

The young man urged his sorrel gelding into the graveyard. “Yeah, we got cattle to look after. Always one thing or another.” He pulled his right foot from the stirrup and hooked his leg over the saddle horn. “I’ve heard Sheriff Pitman has Curly Royal and his boys boxed in down at Panther Creek.”

“Where did you hear that?” The old man’s hands closed on the smooth worn handle.

“Short Cummins rode into town a little while ago. His arm was tore up pretty bad. He was there at the fighting.”

“I hope the posse kills the whole damn bunch.” Milo rubbed a rough callused hand over his whisker stubble. “Panther Creek ain’t what, ten miles from here?”

“More like twelve. You thinking about riding over and giving the sheriff a hand?” Nate pulled a sack of makings from his saddle bags, with practiced ease his hands manipulated paper and tobacco into a cigarette.

“I’m too old to do much fighting.” Milo lifted another wedge of dirt from the deepening hole. “That’s a job for younger fellers than me.”

Nate scratched a match on his saddle horn and puffed the cigarette to life. “Mister Timmons wants you to dig two more.”

“Lord have Mercy.” Milo spit another brown stream to the ground. “That’s four.”

“Liable to be more. Some of the wounded ain’t doing good. Pat Collins is barely hanging on.” He returned his foot to the stirrup. “At least they didn’t get the money.”

Milo shrugged. “Might have been better for the town if they had. Maybe Curly Royal would have left folks alone if he robbed the bank.”

“That’s crazy thinking, Milo. Poor people can’t afford to lose everything.”

Milo pointed at the cart. “She lost everything.”

“Reckon so.” Nate flipped the cigarette to the ground. “I need to get moving. See you later.” He wheeled the sorrel, loping him toward the road.

“Tell your Pa hello for me,” Milo yelled at the diminishing figure.

Nate waved a hand over his head in response.

Milo plunged the steel blade into the soft earth. The pile of dirt grew progressively larger. “Gotta dig deep,” he mumbled. “Varmints don’t care where they get their next meal. Coyotes will dig a body up and eat the innards, and possums them things are the worst carrion eaters I’ve ever seen. Gotta put ‘em deep if you want em’ to stay.”

He paused for a moment to rub sweat from his eyes. “Could do with a drink.” Milo stabbed the shovel into the bottom of the waist deep hole. A loud grunt escaped his lips as he climbed topside.

“The preacher will be here in a little while, but we’ll have it done, Spiro.” The old man nodded at the mule. He placed his hands on his hips and arched his back, his spine popped like a dead tree branch.

“That feels better.” He shuffled over to the long eared animal, laying a hand on its rump. His hand disappeared under the spring seat and rumbled through the contents. He pulled a half full cork-topped bottle from its hiding place. He pulled the stopper and tilted the glass to his lips. Air bubbles chugged through the amber liquid.

“Save some for me, old timer.” A gruff voice sounded.

Milo sputtered and spit, the harsh alcohol burned his nose causing his eyes to water. “Damn you, Nate Spense, you nearly drowned me! You shouldn’t never surprise a man like that.” He spun, tripping himself in the effort. He landed on his butt, staring bug-eyed up at a killer.

“Curly Royal,” he mumbled.

The outlaw sat astride a foam covered roan gelding, the bore of his fisted .45 pointed at Milo’s chest. “You got a gun in that rig?”

Milo licked his dry lips, he nodded his head slowly.

“Get off your ass and move away from the mule.” Royal waved the pistol to his right.

“You’re…You’re supposed to be on Panther Creek.” Milo raised his hands, following the pistol barrel.

“The sheriff has my boys penned down. I decided to get out when I had the chance.” Royal pulled his left foot from the stirrup, flexing the knee. “Caught a little lead on my way out. Nothing serious just nicked the meat some.”

“Your boys won’t last long. Pitman’s a tough customer, but I reckon you know that.”

A cruel smirk crossed the killer’s face. “Shut up and give me the whiskey.”

Milo’s hands trembled as he tossed the bottle to the mounted outlaw. “That’s all I got.”

Royal snatched it from mid air. “Nice throw.” He put the bottle to his lips, draining the liquor in two gulps. “Another dead soldier.” The empty fell to the ground.

“I wish you was,” Milo whispered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Don’t get cocky with me, you old coot.” Royal eyes turned to blue pinpricks. “Who’s in the box?”

“Her name’s Lilly Drummond.” Milo drew in a deep breath. “Can I put my arms down? My shoulders is starting to ache.”

“Put em’ down,” Royal said. “She got any folks?”

“Far as I know she’s an orphan. Worked at Sadie Mullin’s boarding house for her keep. Her maw disappeared a couple of years ago.”

“Drummond.” The outlaw scratched his jaw. “She that crazy woman always out looking for plants and leaves? Heard some Indians killed her.”

“That’s the story.” Milo nodded. “Town’s people thought she was a witch woman.”

“You believe that?” Royal arched his eyebrows.

“Who can say?” The old man shrugged. “I’ve seen some strange things in my time.”

Royal holstered the pistol; he swung his leg over the lathered horse and stepped to the ground. “She got any other kin? Anyone to come to her funeral?”

“Sadie’s in bed broke her leg during the ruckus. The preacher’s on his way here to read over her.”

“Open it up. I want to look at her.” Royal shuffled to the cart, blood streamed down his chaps.

“What did you say?” The corners of Milo’s mouth quivered, he slowly shook his head.

Royal’s hands rested on the rough cut boards. “Open it up.”

Milo hesitated. “It ain’t a pretty sight.”

“I don’t care what she looks like.” Royal patted his holster. “Just do what I tell you.”

Milo nodded, he understood the silent threat. He shuffled slowly to the grave, keeping his hands in sight. He felt the killer’s eyes on him boring holes in his back. His eyes closed, drawing in a deep breath, expecting a bullet in his spine at any moment his hand closed on the shovel handle.

A pent-up breath rushed from his lungs. He turned and retraced his steps to the cart. Royal stepped out of swinging range, his right hand cradled the pistol grip.

The old man wedged the metal blade under the lid and pulled down on the handle. Nails screeched, slowly they surrendered their hold in the wood. With a final screech the top popped open, spilling Milo to the earth.

“Get rid of the shovel,” Royal limped to the wagon. Milo opened his hand, letting the digging tool fall among the grass.

Lilly’s killer peered inside the coffin. The color drained from his face, turning ashen white. Sweat beaded on his forehead and around his eyes. “I didn’t …” He wiped a dirty hand across his face.

Milo crept to the cart; he stared at the crumpled remains of a small red haired girl her hands folded across her chest. A white pillow case highlighted her hair and the purple-yellow horse-shoe shaped bruise on her face. The beauty of the young girl destroyed forever like a flower crushed beneath a boot sole.

“Death ain’t never pretty.” Milo’s liver-spotted hands caressed the rough wood. “Damn shame, when it claims someone this young.”

“She reminds me of my sister.” The Outlaw’s eyes bulged. “She ain’t dead. She moved. Her cheek and eyelids moved.”

“Muscle spasm. Mr. Timmons says it happens all the time.”

Royal leaned over the rails, his face inches away from the dead girl’s. “Did you see? Her lips moved. Did you see that?”

“It could be gas. I’ve heard dead folks belch and fart something awful.”

“It ain’t gas,” a note of panic colored the killer’s voice. “This girl’s alive. She ain’t dead.”

“Mister Timmons checked her over real good. He knows what he’s doing. He wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

A wild look marred Royal’s face. He lashed out, the barrel of his .45 slapped Milo in the mouth. The old man dropped to the ground, spitting blood from a split lip.

“She’s alive. Damn you, I know she’s alive.”

“That poor girl’s as dead as she can be.” Blood stained the old man’s whiskered chin. “Her whole face is ruint. Can’t nobody live through that.”

The pistol barrel swiveled to the casket. Curly Royal fanned the hammer; smoke billowed from the muzzle, three rounds splintered the rough wood. The thunderous noise spooked the mule; it surged against the collar dragging the cart forward.

“Stop!” Milo yelled. “That girl’s dead.”

Royal ran after the rickety vehicle. His free hand closed on the side rails, he jumped into the cart bed, straddling the wooden box.

“You’re dead now! Ain’t you Missy?” he shouted. “You’re dead now.”

The mule planted its feet in the ground, stopping as if an invisible hand had pulled back on the reins. Royal stumbled. His forward momentum pitched him forward to the hard earth, landing near Spiro’s hooves. The pistol flew from his hand and landed in the high grass ten feet away.

Milo scrambled to his feet. His hands closed on the shovel handle. He charged the gunman, the spade slung over his shoulder.

“I’ve done for you now, Missy.” Royal brushed the dirt from his pants, rising to his feet. “You’re done for now,” he shouted. “You’ll never move again.”

The muscles bunched in the old man’s back and shoulders. He charged the outlaw. Rage clouded Royal’s eyes as Milo drew closer. His deadly right hand swept down for the familiar pistol grip and came away empty. Milo felt a moment’s satisfaction. He saw a glimmer of fear flash over Curly Royal’s face. He swung the shovel with all his strength. A loud grunt tore from his throat when the steel blade smashed into the side of Royal’s head.

Lilly’s killer dropped like a slaughter house steer. The outlaw pawed at the ground, his wobbly legs slid in the earth, he tried in vain to rise to his feet. He crawled, his hands searching the tall grass for the .45. Royal rolled over to his back, the pistol gripped in his right hand. Milo’s second blow landed on his outstretched forearm, the .45 dropped from the outlaw’s numb fingers. A satisfying crack told him the fabled gun hand was rendered useless.

“No more.” Blood frothed the outlaw’s lips, his right arm cradled against his chest. “Please, no more. I’m through. Take me to jail.”

A third blow smashed his face, breaking Royals nose.

“Please, no more.” Blood streamed from his nostrils. “Take me to jail, just let me live.” Tears flowed from his face mixing with the blood.

“Your time is up, Curly. It’s time to send you to hell.” Milo drew his weapon back, readying the final blow. The shovel thudded into the crown of Royals head, an eye ball popped from its socket at the moment of impact. His body twitched for nearly a minute, with a final shudder he lay still.

Milo stared down at the once feared gunman. He didn’t look fearsome any longer, only dead.

“You ain’t so mean now? Are you Curly Royal?” Milo’s hands remained curled around the shovel handle, ready for instant use, should his weapon be needed again. “I’m gonna haul your sorry carcass to town, charge the town folks two bits each to look at you. Then I’m gonna cut off that gun hand drop it in a jug of alcohol and sell it to the highest bidder.”

Milo wiped the blood from his mouth, stumbling to the cart. “Yes sir, I just fell into money.” He lifted the coffin lid leaning it against the side rail while he climbed aboard. “Why did you shoot that poor girl? Wasn’t any reason.” A knot of dread formed in his stomach, what damage had been done to Lilly’s body?

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled. He shook his head in disbelief. No bullet holes marred garment or cadaver, her white dress remained unsoiled. The now fisted left hand lay across her chest. Milo hands quivered, he grasped the small white fingers and pried them open. The three bullets fired by curly Royal spilled from her hand and tumbled across her dress.

A hint of movement to his left caught his eye. Milo jumped from the wagon. He ran to the tree line for a clearer look. A lone dark figure shuffled through the scrub growth. A wild thought leaped into his mind. Lilly’s mother came to her funeral.

I walked between the bodies. Everyone was dead. Horses, dogs, men.

The smoke from the burning wagons towered like black pillars against the blue, unwinking sky. Canvas from the canopy ribs snapped and tore in flaming shreds. Sometimes the wind moaned through the broken wheels like a ghost trying to find his way home.

There were a lot of ghosts here.

Jake leaned forward in his saddle. "I don't know why we live here, Marshal Marwood. The desert...it kills people."

A young girl lay at my feet. Her green dress was torn. The desert didn't do this, Jake."

"Apache? Savage enough. And they didn't just count coup."

I studied the arrow in the back of a man. He was face down, holding the girl. He had tried to protect her with his last breath. Her father, maybe, or brother.

I put my boot against him, took hold of the shaft and pulled it free. "Look at this point, Jake, and the fletching. That's not Apache."

"Navajo." He tossed the arrow away. "That's not like them. They're mostly peaceful folk."

"Someone made them mad." I took the reins from Jake and swung into my saddle. "We'd better find out why."

"But, Mr. Marwood, we're riding to Las Cruces to pick up a prisoner. Sheriff White is waiting with transfer papers."

"Henry White can hold that man a while longer. If renegades jumped the reservation they might hit Haxan next. They're headed in the right direction. We can't let that happen."

I had come a long way through time and wind and dust to make sure something like that never happened. Either to the town, or her.

We followed the unshod pony tracks. It was hard to judge on the hard earth, but it looked like twenty or thirty horses in the war party. "A good sized group, Jake, moving fast."

"Lucky thing we were skirting Crooked Mesa to the east or we'd have never found them." He turned round in his saddle. "Six wagons. And they didn't have time to circle up and defend themselves."

I pointed to a hillock a hundred yards away. "Looks like the war party came over that rise. Let's ride that way." Jake pulled his rifle from his boot. The desert was quiet around us. We were holding our breaths, too.

I was thinking about the dead girl. Her hair was long and black. Just like Magra's.

"My stars, can you imagine what it was like?" Jake whispered. "Thirty men on war ponies screaming out of the sun. It's enough to freeze your blood."

"That's enough, Jake."

"Yes, sir."

We topped the rise. "Oh, no...."

A cabin a quarter mile below was wreathed in flames. There were more people on the ground. All the livestock were dead.

All men are born of blood. We die that way, too.

It is the blood of our family and friends that ties us together. Makes us human. Gives us enemies.

I cannot remember how long I have traveled or from what depths I arose. I only know I am here now, brought to stand against that which must be overcome. As all my people are.

"I telegraphed Fort Providence before the lines were cut. A war party of fifty jumped the reservation two days ago and another one, a smaller one, yesterday. Two more this morning. Something's got them stirred up."

Mayor Frank Polgar and Doc Toland were standing in my office looking nervous and unsure. Jake was oiling his Winchester.

Mayor Polgar had thinning red hair and watery blue eyes. His face was drawn and yellow in the desert morning light streaming through the open window. "Who's in command there?"

"Colonel Chapman. I've dealt with him. He's competent. They've got a troop trying to run this first war party, the big one, along the El Camino Real. No luck so far."

"What do you think we should do, Marshal Marwood?"

"People are safe if they remain in town. It looks like this southern party is hitting up and down the territory, restricting their terror to Sangre County. But they're bypassing towns like Haxan and Glaze."

"Are these random attacks, John?" That was Doc Toland, a grizzled man in a black frock with dusty cuffs. I remembered the night Ben Tack gunned me down and Doc Toland running across the plaza toward me.

"No, doc, more like they're looking for something. Or someone."

The two men exchanged swift glances. Polgar squinted in disbelief. "Say again, Marshal?"

I turned to the yellowed map of Sangre County framed behind my desk. "Here's where they hit that wagon train we found. This was the cabin on a little farm where a creek hits the rise. And an hour ago I got a report of a whiskey drummer who had his mule train attacked before sundown. It's scattered all over the county. Back and forth along this line between Crooked Mesa and Coldwater."

"That's a lot of territory, Marshal."

"The attacks are concentrated there. That first party, well, if you ask me it's a feint to give this second party time to attack in force."

"But, if they're raiding up and down-"

"This isn't a raiding party, Mayor. Jake and I saw those wagons. They were fired and broken but they weren't ransacked. Nothing was stolen, except for maybe guns and ammunition which you would expect. Same on the farm. Everybody was just...dead."

"Scalped?"

"They were dead. Let's leave it at that."

Jake put his Winchester down and loaded Magra's old shotgun, clicked the breech shut. He handed it to me. "I'm ready, Mr. Marwood."

Polgar gaped. "Where are you going?" He and Doc Toland followed us out of the office and onto Front Street. "You have to stay and protect the town, Marshal. Both you and your deputy."

"No, we don't, Mayor. I told you these renegades are skirting big settlements. If they're roaming the countryside then that's where we need to be. Maybe we can run them down and learn what this is about."

"This is an Army problem. Let them handle it."

"And I'm a U.S. Marshal which makes it federal business. Anyway, Fort Providence is chasing that group up north. This smaller war party is our problem. Keep everyone inside and no one will get hurt." I mounted my blue roan and he kicked a little. He was always able to smell blood coming.

"I mean it, Frank. I don't want any posses forming up without my knowledge. I won't stand for it. Doc, you get the word out, too." He waved his understanding.

Polgar had his hand on the bridle of my horse. "You're taking an awful risk, John."

"I'll handle this problem my way, Frank."

"How?"

"I'm headed for Magra Snowberry's place. She's part Navajo and they've always trusted her. Maybe she has some idea what this is about."

Jake and I kicked for the old Shiner Larsen place. As we rode through town several shopkeepers called from their doorways for us to stay. The plaza was empty. People were scared and I couldn't blame them. We followed the road out and cut across country to save time.

Magra's place - everyone called it the Shiner Larsen place after her dead father - was on a small rise where Gila Creek turned through a field of boulders. Jake and I were skirting the last big boulder when we reined our horses hard enough to cause them to stumble and snort.

"My...stars," Jake whispered in awe.

Magra's little cabin was surrounded by Navajo braves mounted on sleek, painted ponies. There must have been a hundred or more and they were wearing war paint.

"Ride easy, Jake," I said. "Keep your hands in sight or we'll both end up as a smear spot on the desert floor."

"You think they're holding Miss Magra hostage?"

"I don't know. Come on."

We rode slow. Their hard faces watched us come. We pulled short ten yards away.

"Now what?" Jake wondered.

"Let them make the first move."

The door to Magra's cabin opened and a tall Navajo wearing breechclout, moccasins and an imposing war headdress came out. His face was marked by the New Mexican desert and wind, his shoulders burned red from the blistering sun. He had a single white feather tied around his neck. Magra emerged after him, unharmed. She wore buckskin instead of her usual calico, perhaps as a concession to her people. Even her hair was tied back Indian fashion.

Addressing the war chief standing at her side, she pointed at me.

"That's him," she said. "The man known as Long Blood."

Thermopylae. Masada. Agincourt.

And now Haxan, New Mexico.

We have many different names, we who come. Some are unpronounceable and even we don't know them all. I don't think we're supposed to because it would be too overwhelming. But we all have names and some are taller than others.

We go where we are needed.

I have a name. Lots of them. And when I am called I stand against that which must be faced. I have done it since the beginning of time.

You see, there is a thing inside me, coiled in wintry sleep. Rarely does it awake. But when it does I let it have full voice.

It's who I am. It's my Name.

"I am White Hawk," the war chief said.

I had a name in his tongue, too, but he probably wouldn't believe it. "My name is John Marwood. I'm a U.S. Marshal for this territory. This is my deputy, Jake Strop."

"My people know you as Long Blood. I will call you that. We will talk between us, Long Blood. I have much to say and I will listen to you as well."

"I think that's a fine idea, White Hawk."

"We will speak inside Magra's lodge. She is a daughter of our nation. Her words and her heart are made straight."

"I think so, too."

"We will sit at table as White Men do so you will know my words have serious meaning."

"I appreciate that, White Hawk." It was a big concession on his behalf and I wondered why he was making it. "Jake, stay out here. White Hawk's men won't hurt you. Magra...."

She smiled at me. It always made me feel good when she smiled. "I'm all right, John. I'll stay with Jake. Go inside and listen to what White Hawk has to say. I...I hope you can help him."

I nodded and followed the other man inside. We sat across the table, hands crossed before us. We studied each other for several moments before he began to speak in slow, measured words.

"The roof of Magra's lodge is open to the sky." He meant he didn't want there to be any half-truths between us.

"It's a good place for men to talk," I agreed.

"I have killed many Whites these past days."

"It has to stop, White Hawk."

"I cannot stop, Long Blood." His sadness sounded genuine. "I must keep killing until I find that which we have lost."

"What did you lose?"

But I was pushing him too hard. His pride and his culture would not allow him to be so direct. "My great-grandfather, Crooked Tent, told me stories of how it was before the Whites came. He taught me our people believe all things are living in this world, so we should not be surprised there are other men who also live. But over the years I have learned the White doesn't believe all things live. To him, all things are dead. Even other men who are living are still dead in their eyes. This makes their hearts hard and they have no reverence for those who are truly dead. I admit this saddens me as a human being."

White Hawk took a deep breath and stared at the table. He was moved by his own words. "We have allowed our Nation to be put on land that is not ours. By doing this we have let the hearts of our fathers to be cut." He raised his face. Now his eyes found mine. "But it is not my hand that broke the treaty. I am White Hawk. I speak straight."

"I know you do, White Hawk." His talk about reverence for those who are dead had me thinking. "Listen. Did something happen with your burial grounds?"

He gave a solemn nod but didn't speak further. Now I understood why he was so reticent, why it was such a battle for him to reveal what was bothering him. It wasn't the topic itself, but the cultural embarrassment mixed with anger.

"We are in Magra's house," I reminded him, "a place of friendship between men who can trust one another. Like you said, her roof is open to the sky. Tell me what happened, White Hawk. Magra seems to think I can help."

The stoic man appeared to resolve some internal conflict. He started by pushing the words out, but then they came more easily.

"You know something of our medicine, Long Blood. Our burial grounds are sacred. Last week men dug holes in the earth and put the bodies of our dead in them. They said their own spirit words from the book they lean upon. Then they went away after violating the quiet medicine of that place."

That was bad enough, but there was more. "When the moon was orange a Navajo maiden died of sleep fever. Her name was Morning Star. Her passing cut the heart from my body forever and made me lose my memory." He made a motion with his hands to signify the pain he felt. "She was brought to the burial grounds in the tradition of my people so her body could cross into the spirit world. But when those men came she was not put in the ground with the others they defiled. Morning Star was stolen."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. All too often settlers moving through the territory, and who didn't know any better, precipitated cultural clashes with the various Indian tribes. But I had never heard of anything like this. No wonder the entire Navajo nation was up in arms.

"Who did this, White Hawk?"

"One of the Great Wheels that destroy the ground and make the buffalo that remain stampede before them." The wagon trains moving through the El Camino Real.

"Why did they steal Morning Star's body?"

"She was beautiful even in death. She was dressed in white, and wore beads, and her hair was braided in the fashion of our dead. Too, it is not unknown for men of your race to take totems and fetishes from our burial grounds and sell them to people in the East. They put them in their own lodges and make themselves feel superior to people whose shoulders are burned red from the desert sun."

He let out a long, slow breath. I thought he was relieved, now that he had unburdened himself. "While riding the power of my memory returned. I remembered Magra. And how there was a man of blood and violence who cared for her. I spoke words with Magra. She told me a man known to love a half-white Navajo girl was someone I could trust."

"I hope so."

"That is my story, Marshal Who is Long Blood." His voice was deep and measured...and full of conviction. "They stole Morning Star's body. Now I kill Whites. And I will keep killing until her body is returned to my people."

I rode with White Hawk for five days through the El Camino Real. I never knew there were so many people on the move. We came upon camps and river sites and way stations searching for a wagon train that had passed through Indian burial grounds when the moon was orange.

We had a fair idea where the train might be found. After all, they can only make so many miles a day. Given the relation of the burial grounds, and the fact wagons stick to well-marked trails, it should have been easy.

But there was a lot of territory to cover.

The Navajo nation was standing down for the moment. It hadn't been an easy armistice to arrange. White Hawk said if I helped find Morning Star before the next moon he would call off the slaughter. That didn't leave me much time. Meanwhile, the Army sharpened their sabers and the Navajo braves sang their death songs.

One thing stood in our favor. The entire countryside was talking about it, which helped and hindered our search. Most people were supportive, understanding White Hawk's shame, while others were downright hostile. It felt like we were riding through a powder keg and everyday the fuse sputtered closer.

With two days remaining before the new moon we found the wagon train we were looking for twenty miles south of Santa Fe. There were four wagons in the train. One had broken its whiffletree and they had stopped to carve a new one. If the wagon hadn't broken down we would have missed them by two hours.

Like I said, we go where we're sent. But sometimes it seemed those who send us were also looking out for us. I didn't really believe it, mind you. But it was nice to think it could be true when you have to stand against that which must be faced.

It was going on toward evening. The sky in the west as a cauldron of fire.

The people we were looking for had a big central campfire going with the wagons parked around it. White Hawk and I let the horses browse while we walked out of the gathering dark.

I warned White Hawk to let me do the talking. His noncommital grunt didn't make me optimistic. His eyes glared with hate.

"Hello in the camp," I called.

I heard the distinct click of a gun. I put an arm cross White Hawk's chest to hold him up. I think he would have kept on walking right into the gunfire. He was that angry.

"Who is it?" Gruff voice. Challenging. And a little frightened.

"My name is John T. Marwood. I'm a federal officer." I opened my grey duster so he could see the glint of my badge. "I'm a United States Marshal. Mind if we share your fire?"

"Who is with you, Marshal?"

"You know his name."

"Let me hear him say it," the voice demanded.

"I am White Hawk. I come for the woman you stole."

"Let them in, Paul." This second voice was measured with a fair hint of education behind it. "We can't keep running."

"Come easy, both of you."

We walked between two wagons and into the shifting camp light. Two men stood beside the main fire. One held a double-barreled shotgun with the hammers pulled back. He had a roundm bearded face and heavy shoulders. His partner was lean and clean-shaven with a wide-brimmed hat, fancy striped waistcoat and silver watch chain.

There were a dozen other people, too, keeping to the relative safety of the wagons. Families holding their grubby children, and all with desperation burning in their eyes.

Everyone was staring but they weren't fixed on me. It was likely they had never seen an Indian up close. All they knew were stories from penny dreadfuls and tall tales heard around a drunken camp fire.

The lean man broke the silence once we had taken measure. "Marshal, my name is Dr. Robert Carver Graves. This is Mr. Paul Hickle. I hired him for protection while traveling out West. Put your gun down, Paul, it's okay. Marshal, I want you to know we never meant any harm, but-"

"Where is she, Graves?"

"In that wagon yonder. Wrapped in canvas and packed in a barrel of salt and charcoal."

White Hawk started beside me. "I want to see," he told me. I nodded for him to go ahead. The people beside the wagon ran aside to clear the way. He crawled into the wagon and disappeared.

I turned to face Graves. "What for?"

"What? Oh, so the body will be preserved, Marshal. We're going to ship it East by rail. But once word got out we thought it prudent to keep it until the brush fire burned itself out. If you get my meaning." Graves tried a knowing smile on me. When I didn't respond he wiped it off quick.

Paul Hickle chimed in. "This here is an important man, Marshal. You would do a better to treat Professor Graves with respect."

"Is that why he hides dead Indian maidens in freight wagons and hires a melon head like you to protect him?"

Hickle's face closed down. His hand tightened on the stock of the gun. "There's no call for that talk, Marshal. We ain't done nothing bad wrong. We gave those bodies a Christian burial. Only a godless savage would leave them to rot out in the sun like that."

"Gentlemen, please." Graves glanced at the wagon in question and cleared his throat. "Look, Marshal, let me explain. I'm a natural history curator for the Smithsonian Institution and a founding member of the Megatherium Club. Though that guild disbanded in 1866 many of us continue to work for the museum. I collect and classify anthropological specimens. My particular expertise is primitive cultures, documenting them as they become extinct. From a scientific point of view we must have a record of these cultures that are disappearing from the West as they are supplanted by a superior one. Therefore, you can realize-"

"You can stop now."

"What's that, Marshal?"

"Talking. You can stop."

"Why, Marshal, I'm just trying to explain-"

"I said shut up."

"You can't talk to Professor Graves that way," Hickle bristled.

I met his eyes. "That's where you're wrong."

One of the women screamed. White Hawk walked from the wagon with a long canvas-wrapped body doubled in his arms.

"Where does he think he's going?" Graves blustered. "That's a very valuable artifact!"

White Hawk approached me. His face was stone. "I will need fire."

"I understand." I had spent enough time with this man to know what was going on inside him. I motioned to the settlers standing around and gawking. "Start gathering wood for a bonfire."

Graves rushed forward, waving his hands. "Wait one blessed minute. You can't order these people around. I'm in charge of this expedition."

The men and women, for their part, were uncertain. "Do what I told you," I told them. They looked at me and Graves and started stacking fresh wood in the clearing.

Graves pushed through the working throng and stood in front of me. "I protest this outrage to the highest degree, Marshal. I'll telegraph Washington and have your badge pulled. I am trying to preserve the memory of this declining culture. How can I make you understand that?"

"Graves, if you say one more word I'm going to shoot you."

He opened his mouth to protest and found himself staring down the iron barrel of my Colt Dragoon. Sweat glistened on his wide forehead.

"Easy, Marshal," Hickle growled. "I've got this shotgun trained on your back."

"Don't be a fool, Hickle. You kill me and you, and all these other people, will never see the sun rise."

"Don't bluff me, Marshal. I'm the one holding the shotgun."

"Look around you, Hickle."

"All I see is you about to be cut in two squirming halves."

"No, melon head, around you. Through those wagons over yonder. And to my right. Now do you see what I'm talking about?"

"Oh, my God...."

The others looked too. They screamed and fell over themselves, dropping firewood and crowding like sheep in the center of the wagon ring.

There were hundreds of Navajo braves dressed in war paint and standing in the dark. They were armed. They drew closer. The light from the campfire played over their features and limbs.

"Put your shotgun down, Hickle," I told him. "And do it slow. That's right." Maybe he was smart after all. "Now, professor, or whatever you want to call yourself, back up against that wagon there. The rest of you settlers, keep stacking that firewood. Go on, do as I say. These braves won't hurt you."

With reluctance and then renewed energy the Whites gathered the remaining firewood carried it to the clearing. All the while White Hawk stood with Morning Star cradled in his arms.

While they were getting the bonfire prepared I walked over to the wagon White Hawk had searched. Inside were crates and barrels and hundreds of glass bottles. More specimens. I pulled one of the men aside helping build the bonfire.

"Whose wagon is this?"

"It belongs to Dr. Graves. We met him in St. Louis and he asked if he and his bodyguard could come along. We thought there would be safety in numbers. We never knew anything like this was going to happen. We thought we were doing right burying those exposed bodies, Marshal. That part is true, we never meant harm. But then we started hearing stories about how the Indians were on the warpath because a burial site had been raided. We knew we were responsible and wanted to say it. But Professor Graves, he said the furor would die down if we laid low long enough. Hickle backed him up with his shotgun. We sure didn't mean to cause trouble."

"What's your name, mister?"

"Joyce. Caspar Joyce."

"Where are you headed, Mr. Joyce?"

"Wyoming." He watched the braves and swallowed audibly. "I have a wife and two small children, Marshal. I hope we get out of this with a whole skin."

"You're not going to be hurt. These people will go home once they finish what they have to do."

"Maybe so." He looked at me. "Marshal, there's something I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Well, sir, doesn't this land belong to whoever can hold it?"

It was a dark night. All the world was dark, maybe. I guess it's always that way, though.

"I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Joyce."

"The Indians had this land for a long time. Now it belongs to us. Our people. One day, someone will push us off. That's how life works, Marshal. May not be fair, but no one ever said life was fair."

"Better get back to work, Mr. Joyce. They're almost done."

"Yes, sir." He left me and I joined White Hawk.

"No one is going to stop you," I told him low. Graves was still standing by himself but I was keeping an eye on him.

"I want to thank you, Long Blood," White Hawk said. He had been holding Morning Star all this time and showed no sign of fatigue. "And Morning Star's spirit wishes to thank you, too. Now she will cross to the other side and have a guide to make sure she won't get lost. She will rest in the morning sky, thanks to you."

"Goodbye, White Hawk."

"Goodbye, Long Blood. Magra was right. You are a man who can also be a brother."

Everyone drew back leaving White Hawk all alone. He laid Morning Star on the pyre and raised his face to the starry heavens. He lifted his hands and began to sing. Tears fell from his eyes into his open mouth.

When he finished singing he took a flaming brand from the smaller campfire and lighted the dry wood. It caught easily. He stepped into the smoke and flame and stretched out to sleep beside Morning Star. The flames leaped higher, whorling around their bodies like a tornado. They burned for a long time.

When it was finished the remaining Navajo braves melted into the night. When the fire died down the sky to the east was tinged with pink.

There wasn't much left of the pyre but I picked up a smouldering brand and walked toward the far wagon.

Graves threw himself at me. "No, you can't! I won't let you!"

Hickle grabbed the older man's shirt and pulled him back. "Dr. Graves, those Indians are still be out there. We have no choice. We have to do it."

"Out of the way, Graves." I pushed him aside and pitched the lighted brand into the rear of the wagon. There must have been loose straw or something back there because it caught fast.

The other settlers were packing their wagons and getting ready to pull out in the grey morning. Hickle wrestled with Graves until the latter suddenly lost any fight he had left. Graves watched his specimens and artifacts go up in smoke and flame.

He turned on me, snarling. "Does it give you satisfaction, Marshal?"

"As a matter of fact, Dr. Graves, it doesn't. But I don't expect you to understand that."

I put my back to him and walked out of the wagon ring to find my horse.

"You must realize you haven't changed a thing," Graves shouted. His voice sounded thin in the wide open desert. "The West will die and their culture will die and nothing you or I or anyone can do will ever change that. Marshal! All you did was destroy the memory and record of that change. All you did was destroy yourself!"

A half hour later I caught my horse and rode along the spine of a hogback. Half a mile away three wagons creaked toward the West. A tiny dot followed behind on foot. I watched them disappear in the desert haze.

Magra. She had long hair tied back Indian fashion and it always smelled clean and crisp. I wanted to see her.

I turned my horse toward a bright star that was rising with the morning and rode straight into it.

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