April, 2010

Issue #7

"Surely you don't imagine," said the blacksmith, as he gazed fixedly at the heaving bosom of the apprehensive young woman standing before him, "that the city fathers brought you all the way from Boston to Lost Hope Gulch, Texas just to be a schoolmarm. Surely you understood that other things would be required of a fetching damsel like yourself in a one-hoss town like this one."

"I . . . I suppose I could sing and dance a little," Miss Adelaide allowed, somewhat hesitantly.

"Singing and dancing are fine, but actually, we had something else in mind for you."

Estelle: Stop!

Oscar: What's the matter?

Blanche: You know very well that erotic stories are not permitted in workshop.

Shirley: Erotic or worse.

Burt: Aw, c'mon, let Oscar finish his story.

Montrose: Yes, let's hear the story. We can't conclude the story is erotic before we've heard it.

Jerome: Yeah.

Montrose: Go on, Oscar.

"That's a mighty pretty ankle you have, my dear," the burly smith said as he snatched with coal-blackened fingers at the hem of her petticoat. "Now let's see what the rest of that limb looks like."

Shirley: That's it! You can stop right there.

Blanche: We'll have no more, Oscar, of your disgusting stories that objectify women.

Oscar: I don't know what you mean. This is a story about romance on the frontier.

Estelle: Okay, then you won't mind if the story continues in this manner:

Deacon Spradlin, stepped through the doorway. "Unhand that maiden, you vile reptile!" he said in a righteous tone.

Oscar: Okay, but then:

"I don't know that I will," said the smithy, who stood two feet taller and one-hundred pounds heftier than the churchman. "I'm conducting Miss Adelaide's employment interview right now."

Blanche: Okay, but then:

"You haven't forgotten, I trust," said the deacon, "that the church holds the mortgage on your shop, your forge, and your horseshoe supply."

Oscar: Okay, but then:

"Curse you, Spradlin, for interfering with city business! You haven't heard the last of this, you dog," declared Vulcan's protégé before he stalked off to contemplate a horrendous revenge.

Shirley: Okay, but then:

"Oh, thank you, Deacon, for rescuing me from a fate far worse than death," Miss Adelaide asserted demurely. "Far, far worse, for that wicked man clearly had designs upon my virtue."

Oscar: Okay, but then:

Miss Adelaide continued, "For as the Good Book tells us, he who steals my sterling reputation steals trash, but one who takes my purse, er . . . or something like that."

Amy: Okay, but then:

"'Twas a mere nothing, my dear," said the deacon. "Any true gentleman would have protected your honor as I did. Now you must accompany me back to the parsonage, where my sister Esmeralda will serve us tea. You'll be quite safe at the parsonage."

Oscar: Okay, but then:

Meanwhile, the man of fire and steel repaired to the saloon where he announced, to various interested parties, a diminution in the ranks of potential entertainers--and, more importantly, in the range of performances to be given. The news provoked loud grumbling.

"This is what happens when religionists gain a toe-hold," an angry man exclaimed. "So let's run them out of town!"

Estelle: Okay, but then:

When they arrived at the parsonage, Deacon Spradlin said, "Look who I've brought home to tea, my darling sister. It's Miss Adelaide from the Lost Hope Academy."

Oscar: Okay, but then:

"I'll start warming the tar," said the man of fierce mien. "Who has a chicken coop?"

Blanche: Okay, but then:

"Dear, dear Miss Adelaide! How I've looked forward to this meeting!" said the beautiful Esmeralda. "You must help me prepare the tea. I have some jalapeño preserves in the pantry. It'll be glorious on the crumpets. Perhaps you can reach the top shelf, as you're a little taller than I."

Oscar: Okay, but then:

As the teacher stood on tiptoe and reached to the back of the top shelf in the dimly-lighted pantry, Esmeralda came up behind her, clasped her waist firmly, buried her face in Miss Adelaide's abundant chestnut locks, and whispered, "You're all the crumpet I need, my darling."

"Yow!" said Miss Adelaide, turning around.

"Don't be frightened, my love. I mean you no harm." Esmeralda planted kisses all over her visitor's face. "I only seek a little understanding and tenderness--qualities in short supply in this macho hell-hole." She wiped away a tear.

Amy: Stop!

Oscar: What's wrong?

Blanche: You're not trying to slip in a little lezzie erotica, are you?

Oscar: I don't understand. The women are only expressing a small affection for one another. Anyhow:

"What's that smell?" asked Deacon Spradlin. "Is someone re-roofing the house?"

"No," replied his sister, "but there's mule-drawn wagon out front bearing a cauldron of dark, odoriferous material."

Amy: Okay, but then:

"Upon occasion," opined the churchman, as he edged toward the door, "religion must beat a tactical retreat to regroup and marshal strength before returning renewed to wage war against the godless."

Oscar: Okay, but then:

A dozen rude rustics swarmed into the house. "There he is," said the blacksmith, pointing at the deacon. "Get him, take him out to the wagon, and dunk him in the tar."

"We forgot the feathers," one man observed.

"We'll get them later."

The men took the deacon by his arms and legs, swung him back and forth several times, and with a mighty heave launched him toward the tar pot.

Estelle: Okay, but then:

The deacon flew up and over in the prescribed parabolic arc familiar to physics students, but when he struck the surface of the molten tar, he bounced. Then he stood up, walked to the far side of the vat, hopped down, and took off running.

Blanche: It was a miracle!

Oscar: Okay, but then:

Miss Adelaide sidled over to the blacksmith, and said, "Actually I'd like to supplement my meager teaching salary by moonlighting in the Lost Hope Entertainment Emporium. I played hard-to-get just to pique the interest of the community--and yours, you sexy rascal."

"Two sets o' tracks, Cap'n, headin off to the southwest," Sgt. Gage said. "One set deeper'n the other, probl'y a horseman an a pack animal that ain't packin much. Beats me how I never hit him, all the lead I put into that hill."

"Even your Gatling gun won't shoot through solid rock," Drake replied. "I'm going to follow that trail and see who I find, Sergeant. Whether you and the boys come along is up to you. I've got no right to order you anywhere."

"You say it, we do it, same as always. But if'n there ain't no gold, an' no more war, why not just go on home an' be done with it? You don't owe that kid lieutenant no vengeance. Are you fergettin how many o' us them yanks have put under?"

"I'm not forgetting anything. I'm not forgetting that one hundred forty-two men elected me Captain and followed me to Virginia, and there's seventeen left. I'm not likely to ever forget that. But the coward that shot that kid could just as easily have shot me. I'd like to think you'd be after him if he had."

Gage was offended. "Until my horse died under me, an my shoes fell off'n my feet, an then some. But that yank ain't nothin to you like you are to me."

"I'll tell you what he is to me, Sergeant. He's a kid playing soldier, who should have had a chance to grow up. You and me, we'd give our left arms to be able to go back in time and skip this war. But he felt deprived because he missed out on the fight. The man that shot him did it for only one reason; in hopes we'd all kill each other off, or do a good enough job of it to give him time to get the gold and be gone. I want to see the look in his eyes when he finds out there isn't any gold. And then I'll kill him."

Following the ambusher's tracks, they found the mountain silhouetted against a reddish purple sky at sundown, the jagged features along the crest almost exactly as drawn by Sgt. O'Kelly. The mountain rose perhaps a thousand feet above the valley floor, and a clearly defined path snaked its way up the slope. They passed the night without fires, and in the morning Drake made ready to head up the trail alone.

Sgt. Gage protested in vain. "There might be a dozen of em up there."

"You can see the tracks as well as I can," Drake said, "and the map doesn't say anything about another way up. Besides, this is my fight. Just give me until sundown. If I'm not back, then do what you think best."

The pass narrowed quickly, and Drake soon found himself closely walled in by rocks and trees. Halfway up he tied his horse beside the path, and throwing the pommel holsters and heavy revolvers over his shoulder, continued on foot. An hour later he came to a wide spot in the trail where two animals and a human had clearly spent the night. Drake reminded himself the man he sought had only gotten a two or three hour head start, and he drew the Colt from the holster at his left breast. He looked back the way he had come, breathing heavily, and could see nothing but mountainside. The bushwhacker would be cautious, for sure, but there was no way to look back down that winding trail and spot a pursuer who was more than fifty yards distant.

He walked on, comforted by the smooth walnut and steel of the revolver, taking a few steps, then stopping to rest. He didn't know when he might round a turn and find the cave, and he hoped his ragged breathing wasn't as loud to the rest of the world as it sounded to him.

Over the noise of his breathing he heard the nicker of a horse, followed immediately by the click of a cocking hammer somewhere behind and to the right of him. He put his thumb to the Colt's hammer spur.

"I wouldn't, Johnnie Reb. All I've gotta do is touch this trigger. You just holster that horse pistol, drop the lot, and keep on walkin, with your hands on top of your hat. Now!"

Drake did as he was told, feeling stupid and angry. He heard the bushwhacker drop to the ground behind him as he walked, and twenty paces later the path ended in a clearing. The horse and donkey were tied off to the right, and a small opening, roughly four feet square, disappeared darkly into the face of the granite. Twelve shiny golden rectangles, perhaps four by two by eight inches, were stacked on the ground near the entrance to the cave.

"A fine sight, hey, Johnnie? I swear I never thought you lot would actually come after it, though."

Drake looked at the ground. "I kinda thought it would turn out to be you, O'Kelly," he said.

O'Kelly walked by him, tossing the pommel holsters aside, a Spencer carbine trained on the center of Drake's heaving chest. "We had a deal, O'Kelly," Drake said. "That gold belongs to the Confederacy."

Michael O'Kelly was a big Irishman, over six feet tall, perhaps forty, with grizzled whiskers, red-nosed and paunchy. "But darlin," he laughed, "there is no Confederacy."

Drake didn't know what else to do, so he bought time. "If you didn't mean to keep your word, why did you bother drawing accurate maps?"

"Truth is, I drew em for meself, so's I wouldn't forget me way back here one day. The prison camp commander wound up with em, and it was me stay in your fine detention facility that prompted me to go to him, explain what they were, and offer the trade. I'd a give up me dear silver haired mother to get outa that hole."

"I've heard that about you."

O'Kelly frowned. "Now Johnnie, you're in no position to be sassin me. The slightest little annoyance might cause me to flinch and accidently blow a hole right through you. Understand?"

"I do. But I don't understand how you got here. I'd wager it wasn't on a horse."

"You've got that right, Johnnie. Once I made me way to Washington --no small feat, I might add, what with changin uniforms an makin up stories at the drop of a hat--it was easy to disappear in the crowd. I simply rolled drunks and whores until I had a stake, and made me way to Denver by coach and train, layin over when there was no ride to be had. I'd recommend the train, Johnnie, if you're ever travelin up north where they're still runnin." O'Kelly grinned and went on. "Now, you tell me a secret. How many men have you got left?"

"None. The handful still living have headed home to Texas. You started quite a ruckus back there." Drake thought it unlikely that O'Kelly had stuck around to watch the fight, considering the job Gage and the Gatling gun had done on his rifle perch.

"Well, now, we'll have to wait'n see if you're tellin the truth about your boys, but the ruckus was for a good cause. I was aimin at that miserable son-of-a-bitch of an Apache, the one the pepper-bellies think can't be killed, that they call el Milagro. He was fond of puttin me on a leash, an lettin the young savages play with me like some dog. Would you be so kind as to tell me if I got the bastard?"

Drake nodded toward the Spencer. "When a man opens up with a carbine from that range, he's not particular what he hits. I take that personally, O'Kelly."

O'Kelly wagged the carbine at Drake. "I've spoken to you about your disrespectful tone, laddybuck. If I were you, I'd be careful."

"And if I were you," Drake replied, "I wouldn't bother packing that stuff down the mountain."

"Oh, I believe I'll go to the trouble, Johnnie. You see, I done twenty years in this man's army, an' for what? I got no qualms about takin it. I was all for takin it on the way to Ft. Craig, but some of the boys were fearful the rumors weren't true, an if we broke the seal to find out, there'd be hell to pay. In fact, we were havin one helluva row about it when the greasers jumped us. But they didn't kill me, nor the injuns, nor you lot. I figger if there's anybody charmed it's me, an not that smelly savage. Nobody's gonna stop me." He leveled the carbine. "And I'm afraid, Johnnie, that includes you."

Drake knew there was no more time to buy. "Do you have a knife?"

O'Kelly tilted his head and grinned. "Why, you know, I was plannin to shoot you, Johnnie, but a knife ain't a bad idea, on account of you might have some friends back down the trail. But only if that's what you'd prefer."

"Cut into one of those bars, and you'll see why it's not worth hauling."

O'Kelly scowled. "What're you sayin?"

"I'm saying they sent you out to get killed guarding a shipment of lead. Look at the corner of that bar on top."

O'Kelly looked, and saw the gray dent. He unsheathed a skinning knife as he knelt beside the pile, his breath quickening. Pointing the Spencer at Drake with an unsteady left hand, he cut a 1/8-inch gouge into the edge of the ingot, clearly revealing the lead beneath the thin layer of gold.

"No," he said, unable to accept the truth. "Mother of Christ! No!"

Milagro's leap started fifteen feet away, in the boulders to O'Kelly's right. His foot landed on O'Kelly's forearm, jarring the Spencer loose as he grabbed O'Kelly by the shirt and threw him into the rock wall near the cave. Drake dove for his revolvers, shucking one free of its holster as the Apache shoved O'Kelly against the granite, a knife at his throat.

Drake thumbed back the hammer on the Colt as he rose to one knee. "No," he said. "Alto!"

Milagro remained motionless, his hot eyes fixed on O'Kelly's. "I will kill him, unless you kill me," he said, in Spanish.

O'Kelly's breath came in rapid bursts. "Christ, Johnnie, I wasn't goin to harm you! I was only havin some fun." He spoke in a raspy whisper, as if to keep the Apache from overhearing. "But this heathen won't rest 'til every white man in the territory's dead. For the love of God, shoot the son-of-a-bitch!"

"Good idea," Drake said, and pulled the trigger. Milagro released O'Kelly and let him slide down the wall to a sitting position, eyes wide and mouth agape. His lips moved, but no sound emerged as he slumped over and died.

Drake stood up, then lowered the Colt as he walked through the smoke toward the Apache. "He was the one shooting from the rocks," he said, in Spanish.

"I heard," Milagro replied, in English. "I know the words. It is better if the bluecoats don't know I understand them when they speak."

Drake nodded. "I could kill you right now. Why did you risk your life for me?"

Milagro spread his arms. "Maybe there are twenty warriors with rifles aimed at you. What do I risk?"

Drake knew there weren't any warriors around. He felt he understood the Apache, and the Apache understood him.

"I have no gold to trade," Milagro said. "I give you your life for the gun that keeps shooting."

Drake shook his head. "I can't do that."

"I will kill many bluecoats. It will be good for the graycoats."

"The bluecoats have defeated us, and they will defeat you. They have many men and guns, and real gold to buy whatever they need. The young bluecoat officer was going to ask you to surrender, and save your people's lives."

Milagro scoffed at the notion. "My people will not live at Bosque Redondo, begging for scraps and stealing blankets from the Navaho to keep from freezing. If the bluecoats want peace with me, why will they not leave Apache land to the Apache?"

"They don't want peace, they want this land. And they will take it for the same reason the Apache take blankets from the Navahos, and horses and cattle from the white settlers. They want it, and they're strong enough to take it. You can't imagine how many men and guns they can send against you. You won't stop them with a hundred of those guns that keep shooting. They'll kill every one of you if you keep fighting."

Sgt. Gage could hear the voices, but the old man couldn't quite make out the conversation. Stepping into the clearing, he glimpsed the menacing visage of an angry Apache warrior with a knife in his hand, glaring at his captain. He dropped to one knee and brought up his Enfield.

Drake shouted, "No!" but the word was lost in the roar of the gunshot.

They found Milagro's horse hidden and tied not far from Drake's. Sgt. Cage couldn't understand why a healthy horse had to be killed, or why a perfectly good Henry rifle needed to be entombed with its owner in the cave, but the captain insisted, so that was what they did. At the base of the mountain they felled enough pinion pines to make a good sized fire under and around the Gatling gun and the remaining ammunition. When the gun was fully engulfed and the cartridges were beginning to explode, Drake turned away and walked to his waiting troopers, where a downcast Sgt. Gage stood holding both their horses.

Taking the reins of Lt. Tyler's horse, Drake wearily hoisted himself into the saddle. "Sam," he said, "let's go home."

Lightning streaked the darkened sky above the solemn group around the grave. The Preacher, standing at the head of the grave, read passages from his worn bible as four men, dressed in black suits, grasped the ends of the two ropes stretched under both ends of the wooden coffin. Slowly, they moved the coffin over the open grave and began to lower it.

A woman's white-gloved hand appeared from the coffin, sliding the lid to the side. She reached out to the group above.

"WIL, NO. DON'T LET ME GO."

Wil Sunday sat upright in his bed. With a chill running over his sweat soaked body, he looked around the moonlit bedroom. The recurring nightmare was a frequent part of his nights since he buried his beloved wife, Cassie.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat staring at the floor. Finally rising, he lifted his pants from the chair next to the bed and stepped into them. Running his fingers through his hair, he walked from the bedroom to the front door.

The cool night breeze greeted him as he walked out and sat down on the edge of the porch, looking up at the full moon amid the dark blanket of twinkling stars. His big, brown dog, Buck, who had followed him out the door, laid down next to him, resting his head in Wil's lap. Wil looked around the yard, and the events of that tragic day flooded back to him.

Wil was repairing a harness in the barn when the three gunmen rode up to the house. Buck's barking brought him out of the barn. Seeing the three riders, he went to the front of the house.

"Howdy," said the rider closest to Wil. The first to speak, Wil figured this was the leader.

Wil walked up beside Buck, growling at the new arrivals, and patted him on the neck to calm him down. He looked at each of the three riders in turn, all hardcases.

"Your dog's a mite unfriendly," added the gray haired rider.

"He doesn't like strangers. What can I do for you fellas?"

Just then, Cassie walked out of the house onto the porch. Her appearance got the attention of the four outlaws.

"I think you and your missus can do quite a lot for us."

Suddenly, Wil wished he hadn't left his rifle in the house. With a slight nod of his head, he motioned Cassie back into the house.

"I've got work to do, so I'd be obliged if you'd water your horses and be on your way."

"Yeah, so do we," said the outlaw, drawing his Colt as his two companions dismounted.

Wil dove as the outlaw fired, feeling an intense pain in his side. Despite the burning pain, he tried to get up. The outlaw fired a second time, hitting Wil in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground again.

The outlaw stepped down from his horse, looking at the still form of Wil Sunday. He thumbed the spent shells from his Colt and replaced them from his gunbelt. He dropped the Colt back into its holster, turned and followed his men into the house.

Wil opened his eyes as the gunman disappeared into the house. Cassie's screams were the last thing he heard before succumbing to the darkness.

Buck licked Wil's face, interrupting his thoughts, bringing him back. He scratched Buck behind the ears.

" I guess it's just you and me now, boy."

Wil stood up, walked down the two steps of the porch and went toward the barn. Stopping at the barn door, he lit the lantern with the matches he kept on the shelf beside it. Taking the lantern to the ladder at the far side of the barn, he climbed to the loft.

Setting the lantern on the floor, he grabbed a pitchfork and began moving hay from a corner of the loft. Uncovering a trunk, he dragged it clear of the hay and removed a wooden peg from the hasp.

Opening the trunk lid, Wil lifted a small tarp covering the contents of the trunk. A low crowned, flat brimmed hat was the first thing he removed from the trunk. Laying it on the open trunk lid, he pulled out an empty holster and gunbelt and laid it next to the hat.

Next, he unwrapped a well-oiled, sightless Colt from an oilskin and slid it into the holster. He removed a Henry rifle lying across a stack of clothes and leaned it against the side of the trunk.

A Bowie knife came next. Removing it from the scabbard, he lightly ran his thumb along the edge of the blade testing its sharpness. Satisfied, he slid the broad blade back into the leather scabbard, laying it on the trunk lid.

He lifted the clothes to uncover two boxes of shells each for the Colt and the Henry rifle. Repacking the trunk, he closed the lid and slipped the wood peg back through the hasp.

Wil took the end of a coiled rope and strung it through a pulley above the edge of the loft. Dragging the trunk to the edge of the loft, he tied the other end of the rope to a leather handle on one end of the trunk and gently lowered it to the floor of the barn.

Buck was waiting for him when he stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder. He untied the rope and after a short struggle, maneuvered the trunk onto his back.

Carrying it into the house, he lowered the trunk to the bedroom floor. Reopening the trunk, he laid the contents on the bed. Picking up the gunbelt, he buckled it around his waist, thonging the holster to his left thigh. He lifted the Colt and settled it gently back in the holster.

Wil caught his reflection in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner. Turning toward it, he looked at his reflection for a moment, suddenly drawing his Colt. Wil looked at the Colt, then down at Buck who was watching curiously.

"We've got a lot of work to do."

Wil practiced tirelessly day after day. When the shell boxes were empty, he bought more. The days turned into weeks, until finally, the speed came back. The accuracy followed close behind, but he had to be sure.

One morning he brought Miguel Saldano, his farmhand, to the field where he practiced, handing Miguel a tin can.

"Miguel, walk out about twenty paces and hold that can out."

"Senor?" said Miguel, an alarmed look spreading across his face.

"Trust me, Miguel." Hesitantly, Miguel marched out twenty paces and turned around.

"Hold the can out," said Wil, holding his arm out at shoulder level. Miguel raised his arm.

"Drop the can whenever you're ready."

After a moment, Miguel released the can. At the first sign of movement, Wil became a blur of motion, drawing his Colt, shooting the can at waist level.

Wil asked Miguel to retrieve the can, this time holding it waist high. Again, Wil shot the can before it touched the ground.

"Madre de dios," said Miguel, crossing himself. "I did not know you could shoot like that, Senor."

Wil walked toward Miguel as he reloaded his Colt and dropped it back into its holster.

"You go after Senora Cassie's killers? You wish Miguel to go with you?"

Wil put his arm around Miguel's shoulders as they walked toward the house.

"Miguel, I want you and Maria to run the farm while I'm gone."

Miguel stopped and looked at Wil.

"Me, Senor?"

Wil smiled at Miguel.

"You've been with me from the start, Miguel. You can run this farm as good as I can. I'll make all the arrangements to make sure you get all the help you'll need."

"I will do my best, Senor Wil."

Wil left Miguel in the yard and went into the house. In the bedroom, Wil removed the clothes from the trunk, putting on the Levis and the blue cotton shirt. He put on a black leather vest over the shirt. After stomping into his boots, Wil put the leather scabbard and the Bowie knife on his gunbelt and rebuckled the Colt around his waist, rethonging the holster to his left thigh. Finally, he settled the black hat on his head.

Grabbing the Henry rifle from a corner by the dresser, he walked from the bedroom to the kitchen where Miguel and Maria waited.

"Move your things into the house," said Wil.

Maria threw her arms around Wil's neck and gave him a hug.

"Thank you, Senor Wil. I will pray that you find the men that did this thing. Come back safe to us."

Wil hugged Maria for a moment and then shook Miguel's hand.

"I'm taking Cassie's Palomino. Buck is going with me too."

"Si, Senor," said Miguel, "She is a good horse and Buck will watch out for you."

Wil went to the barn and saddled the golden Palomino that was Cassie's pride and joy. She had not been ridden since Cassie's death. Throwing his saddlebags behind the saddle, he put the Henry rifle in the saddle boot.

Walking the horse outside, he stepped into the saddle. He could feel the anticipation of the powerful horse. She hadn't run in a long time. He waved at Miguel and Maria standing on the porch as he rode out of the yard.

"Vaya Con Dios, Senor," whispered Miguel.

Wil Sunday rode into Beecher a little past noon. His unusual dress attracted attention as he dismounted in front of the bank. Withdrawing one thousand dollars from his account, he asked to see bank president, Hiram Willis.

"I want to authorize Miguel Saldano to make any withdrawals or deposits as needed on my account."

After a mild objection, Hiram Willis drew up the paperwork for Wil to sign. Next, he made stops at the General Store and Hardware Store before dismounting in front of the sheriff's office.

"I wondered when you were going to get around to this," said Sheriff Logan Shepherd, eyeing the thonged down Colt when Wil walked through the office door. He knew about Wil's bounty hunting past and had vowed to keep his secret.

"Before I leave, I'd like to look at your dodgers," said Wil.

Logan opened a desk drawer and removed a stack of wanted posters and laid them in front of Wil. One by one, he looked at each poster in turn, setting aside three. When he reached the bottom of the stack, he looked up at Logan Shepherd.

"I found all three."

Logan looked at the three posters. The faces of Wade Jessup, Briley Cole and Jess Walker looked back at him. Logan slid the handbills back to Wil.

Wil folded the posters, put them in his shirt pocket and stood up, holding out his hand to his friend.

"So long, Logan. Keep an eye on Miguel until I get back."

Logan shook Wil's hand.

"Be careful, Wil."

Wil reined up at the white picket fence surrounding the grave of his beloved Cassie. The gravesite sat on a hill under a tree, overlooking the farm. She liked to come up here and sit.

Dismounting, he walked through the gate, picking up the wooden folding chair that lay on the ground next to the fence. He unfolded the chair, sitting down next to the grave. Taking off his hat, he set it on the ground next to the chair.

"I guess you're wondering why I'm dressed in my old clothes again. You prob'ly noticed I was wearin' my gun too. I'm goin' after the scum that done this thing to you. I know I promised you I wouldn't wear a gun again, but I didn't know this would happen, either. Don't be mad, just try to understand. Miguel's gonna watch the farm and I'm takin' Goldie and Buck with me. Goldie's a good horse and Buck'll be a good companion. I don't know how long it will take, but I'll come back every so often to let you know how it's goin'. I love you, Cassie. I always have and I always will."

Wil picked up his hat and put it on. Rising from the chair, he picked it up, folded it and laid it next to the fence as he walked through the gate. Buck was sitting outside the gate and Wil scratched the big brown dog's head as he walked by him.

Mounting the Palomino, Wil sat for a moment looking at Cassie's grave. Turning the horse, he looked down at Buck.

"Ready to go, boy?"

Buck replied with a boisterous bark, running after Wil.

Long days on the trail gave a man a lot of time to think. Wil Sunday thought about the events that put him on the vengeance trail.

He was a bounty hunter when he walked into the General Store in the town of Gunsight. Cassie Landis was the prettiest store clerk he had ever seen. It took some doing, but he finally persuaded her to have dinner with him.

A whirlwind romance ensued and three months later they were married. But first, he had to promise to unstrap his guns. He put the guns and clothes in a trunk that he buried under the hay in the loft of the barn on their newly bought Kansas farm. That was where the trunk was when the three outlaws rode into his yard, gunned him down and had their way with Cassie before they killed her.

A deep-throated bark from Buck interrupted Wil's thoughts. Ahead of them, six riders circled a tree under which a seventh rider sat mounted with his hands tied behind his back. A rope over the bottom branch of the tree was noosed around his neck.

"Looks like someone's about to get his neck stretched," Wil said to Buck, pulling his Henry rifle from the saddle boot. "You know how I feel about lynchin's."

Wil heeled Goldie and reined up outside the circle of riders.

"Keep ridin', mister, this don't concern you," said the rider nearest to Wil.

Wil held his Henry rifle across his lap. He raised it and rested its stock on his thigh.

"I don't have much of a stomach for lynchin's," said Wil.

"Then, ride on, or you'll take his place," growled a rider from the middle of the circle. He walked his horse to the edge of the circle facing Wil.

Wil figured this was the leader. His graying temples told Wil he was older than the rest. His funneled hat brim tilted forward to shade his eyes.

"I'll ride on when you release the kid," said Wil. He noticed the intended victim couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. The rider turned and looked at the tree, then back at Wil.

"Looks to me like you ain't in a position to make demands. You're a little outnumbered, I'd say."

"Maybe so. But, you'll be the first one I drop when the shootin' starts."

The rider leaned forward. "I don't think you'll get a shot off."

Wil leveled his Henry at the rider, thumbing back the hammer.

"You willin' to take that chance, mister?"

"You know who I am?"

"Don't matter. Turn the kid loose."

The rider stared at Wil, but Wil's eyes never left the circle of riders. The first sign of trouble would come from them, not the one in front of him.

"Turn 'im loose," yelled the rider, not taking his eyes from Wil.

The rider nearest the kid removed the noose from around his neck and untied his bound hands. As soon as the kid was free, he heeled his horse out of the circle.

"Now, unbuckle your gunbelts," said Wil, as the kid rode out of sight.

"I hope it was worth it, 'cause you just made the biggest mistake of your life," the leader said as he unbuckled his gunbelt and let it fall. Wil watched the gunbelts of the rest of the circle fall to the ground.

"Maybe, maybe not. Now, the rifles." One by one, rifles clattered to the ground.

"Now, ride out."

The rider gave Wil a look of pure hatred. If looks could kill, Wil would have dropped from his saddle.

"You ain't seen the last of me, mister." He spun his horse and rode away at a gallop with the rest of his riders falling in behind him.

When the dust settled and the band of riders were barely visible in the distance, Wil let the hammer down on his Henry rifle and slid it back into its saddle boot. He looked down at Buck.

"Think we can make it to Gunsight without getting in anymore trouble?"

Smitty Jones spotted the vultures just outside of Silver City. Black shadows circling high in the sky, with a crowd of feathered undertakers waiting their turn in the branches of a gnarled oak tree. Others perched on the shoulders of a cowboy dangling at the end of a rope, his body swaying with every savage peck.

"Petey Sway," he muttered. "You never did know how to keep your neck tucked in when trouble was sniffing round your back trail. I'm gonna miss you, old friend."

Jabbing his heels into the horse's flanks he nudged the pinto away from the tree.

"He a friend of yours, Mister?"

Smitty froze in the saddle, then slowly turned. A green kid with a deputy's badge was holding a shotgun on him. "Used to be."

"You just gonna leave him hanging there?"

"The law seen fit to let him swing, ain't much else I can do, is there? I expect your sheriff left him hanging there as a warning."

The kid nodded. "Sheriff Cole. He's in town. Supper. He's having his supper. It is supper time."

The kid stopped talking, took a big gulp of air and managed to get his tongue under control. "He left me standing guard but I can't take them birds no longer. Don't matter none to me what you done, Mister, just help me bury him, then get back on your horse and ride on outta here. Please, I can't stand seeing them scavengers pecking at his eyeballs no longer."

"I know what you mean, kid," said Smitty as he swung out of the saddle. Hell, Petey would've taken the risk for him. "You got a shovel handy?"

The shovel sliced through the dirt and for a long while only the sound of the birds fighting over Petey's body broke the quiet of the grave digging.

"You were supposed to be here with him, weren't you, Mister?"

Smitty stopped shoveling. He pulled the bandana from his around his neck and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Yeah, I should have been here but my horse threw a shoe. Kept me from catching up with him before he hit Silver City and ran into your sheriff."

"You sorry he's dead and you ain't?"

"Petey and I been friends for as long as I can remember. We grew up together, fought a war together, rode herd together. Am I sorry he's dead? Yeah, I'm gonna miss him. Do I wish I was dead right along with him? Not a chance in hell. If I'd been here he might still be alive or we could both be swinging from that tree. Ain't no way of telling. Life is what it is, kid, all you can do is live it the best you know how."

"You think killing a woman is living the best you know how?"

"Petey never killed no woman. Yeah, he was trying to cut her from the herd at that dance over in Red Rock, but she wasn't having none of him. The thing about Petey? That man had the looks and charm to sweep any number of girls off their feet. One didn't want him, he just moved on to the next."

"Then how come his face is on a wanted poster?"

"Cause folks in Red Rock didn't want to believe one of their own killed that girl. It's a whole lot easier to pin that kind of meanness on a stranger. Makes it easier to look at your neighbors without wondering who among you might of done something like that."

The kid grunted and went quiet for a spell while Smitty went back to digging.

"That hole deep enough so we can cut him down?"

"I 'spect so," said Smitty. "You been mighty deep in thought, kid. Made any decisions yet?"

"Decisions?"

"About me."

"I told you, you're free to go once we got your pal buried."

"I know what you said, but you ain't set that gun down since I started digging."

"I'm the deputy and you're probably a wanted man. It wouldn't look right if someone came along and I wasn't doing my job."

"And what is your job, kid? You supposed to shoot off that gun to let the sheriff know that I showed up?"

"That was the plan."

"Was?"

"Look, let's just cut you friend down and get him buried before them birds got him all picked to pieces."

Smitty laid the shovel down and walked over to the hang tree. He waved his hat in the air to chase the vultures off of Petey, then pulled his knife to cut the rope. The kid's shotgun blasted through the branches and a cloud of black vultures filled the sky. Smitty sliced through the rope and Petey's body thumped to the ground.

"You just couldn't resist could you?"

"Couldn't stand them birds a minute longer. Now, you just drag his body on over to the hole, mister. Besides, you shoulda known from the start that I couldn't let you go, you being a friend of his and all. There's paper out on you ain't there?"

"Could be. Could be not. Let me ask you something, kid. What's more important? That reward money or your word?"

"My word? To an outlaw?"

"A man's only as good as his word, boy. You gave your word that I could be on way once Petey was buried. Hell, that's the only reason I stuck around."

"I thought you stuck around because I was holding a gun on your sorry butt."

"As green as you are, kid, I could've dropped you before you pulled the trigger on that shotgun. But I ain't a killer and now I know you ain't a man of your word. That makes you no better than old Petey here, 'cept your picture ain't on a poster."

"I ain't nothing like your friend. I didn't never kill no one."

"Yeah, you did. You killed my friend, Petey, without benefit of a trial. The sheriff and you and probably a bunch of town folks strung him up just because his face decorated a piece of paper. You're the law, you're supposed to be better than that."

"What would you know about the law, mister?"

Smitty pulled back the lapels of his coat. A silver marshal's badge was pinned to his vest. "I'm the US Marshal for these parts, kid. I've been tracking Petey so I could take him back for trial in Red Rock."

"But you said he was your friend."

"He was, but there comes a time when a man has to make a choice about what side of the fence he plans to stand on for the rest of his life."

"You said he didn't kill that girl. You know that for a fact?"

"Yeah, I do, kid, cause I did some investigating before I set out to find Petey. I arrested the man who killed that girl. Folks in Red Rock weren't too happy with me but finding out the truth, well, that's my job."

"So what were you tracking him for?"

"Cause he robbed the bank in Red Rock before he left town. He's a wanted man, but bank robbery ain't a hanging offense."

The kid looked toward town and spotted a group of men heading their way. "You'd best head on out of here, mister. The Sheriff Cole ain't a man who listens real well. He'll hang you quick as he did your friend there. I'm sorry for what we done to him."

Smitty swung up in his saddle. "You kept your word, kid, and that's good enough for me. Just do me one favor."

"Anything, mister."

"The next time you're rushing to judgment on somebody, think about Petey Sway and what you done to him before you do anything you might regret later."

"I doubt I'll ever forget what was done here today, Marshal."

"Looks like you picked what side of the fence you're gonna live your life on, kid. Petey'd be proud to know that at least one good thing came out of his dying like he did."

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