May, 2010

Issue #8

Gunsight was not the quiet town Wil Sunday remembered. It had grown with new buildings along the street. The name McKinney dominated the businesses in the new buildings. He appeared to have a good hold on Gunsight.

A collection of horses marked a new saloon down the street. Wil would see an old friend to find out what went on in Gunsight.

Wil dismounted in front of O'Shay's Saloon. The owner of the saloon, Jimmy O'Shay, a big redheaded Irishman, stood behind the bar wiping glasses. He turned when he heard Wil come through the batwings.

"Are me eyes playin' tricks on me or has Wil Sunday risen from the dead," said Jimmy O'Shay with a big smile. Walking from behind the bar, he greeted Wil with a big hug and waved him toward the bar.

"Come, let Jimmy O'Shay buy ye a drink."

The big redhead went back behind the bar, setting a bottle of Irish whiskey in front of Wil.

"A special drink for a special friend."

Jimmy poured the whiskey into a shot glass in front of Wil and poured one for himself, lifting his glass to Wil.

"May ye be in heaven a long time before the devil knows yer dead."

They threw their shots back and Jimmy refilled the glasses.

"Awful quiet in here for this time of day, ain't it, Jimmy?" asked Wil after looking around the empty saloon. Jimmy's saloon had always been a popular place in Gunsight. He didn't think he'd ever seen it empty.

"A lot of things have changed since ye left, Wil me boy," replied Jimmy.

"This McKinney have anything to do with that? His name seems to be on just about every building in town."

"Jarod McKinney showed up shortly after ye left. Came with a lot of money and bought up a lot of land. Hired a bunch of gunhands to help 'im hold it, then he started on the town. That's 'is saloon across the street. Even the marshal is bought and paid for."

"Tom Draper still the marshal?"

"That 'e is. Never thought I'd see 'im turn on us like 'e did. McKinney's bunch can pretty much do what they want in Gunsight without any fear of the law."

Wil took the posters from his pocket and spread them out on the bar facing Jimmy.

"You seen any of these men in Gunsight?"

Jimmy studied the rough pictures of the men on the posters and slid them back to Wil.

"Three of McKinney's gunhands."

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I am I'm standin' here talkin' to Wil Sunday."

Wil picked up the posters, refolded them and returned them to his pocket.

"They come in town often?"

Jimmy nodded. "Every night. They'll drink 'til they git run out."

Wil held out his hand to Jimmy O'Shay. "You've been a good friend, Jimmy."

"We couldn't believe it when they told us Cassie'd been murdered. We all loved 'er, Wil. I'll do what I can to help ye get who done this to 'er."

Wil touched his fingers to his hat and left O'Shay's Saloon. He stabled Goldie and got a room at the Gunsight Hotel.

Wil removed his gunbelt, hanging it on the bedpost at the head of the bed. Cracking open the window, he lay down on the bed without removing his boots and was asleep before Buck got settled on the floor.

It was dusk when the tinny piano music from the McKinney saloon drifted through the open window waking Wil. Buck sat up when Wil rose from the bed.

Moving the curtain with his finger, he looked both ways down the street. McKinney's saloon had a full house. He took his gunbelt from the bedpost, buckled it on and thonged down the holster, shifting it until it felt comfortable.

"Let's go get some supper, we have work to do," Wil said to Buck.

It was dark when Wil walked out of the hotel dining room onto the boardwalk. Buck sat up when he saw Wil.

Standing at the edge of the boardwalk, Wil rolled a cigarette, lighting it with a match he struck on the support post. Stepping into the street, he walked toward the Cattleman's Saloon. Buck laid on the boardwalk when Wil went through the batwings. He weaved through the crowded saloon and up to the near end of the polished mahogany bar. The clack of the roulette wheel blended with the tinny notes of the out of tune piano.

He concentrated his attention on the tables with poker games in progress. This is where he would find his prey. He ordered a beer and proceeded to make his rounds of the poker tables.

Jess Walker sat at the third table he passed. He stood at the table looking at Walker until the gunhand looked up at him. After a second, Walker turned his attention back to the game. Walker had no idea who he was. He would wait for the crowd to thin before he made his move.

Wil was sitting at a nearby table when two of the men at Walker's table left their chairs. Wil rose from his table and walked over to stand in front of the bar facing Walker's table. Standing with his feet apart, he balanced his weight.

"Jess Walker, stand up and get what's comin' to you."

Walker looked up at Wil Sunday as men bolted from the line of fire.

"You talkin' to me, mister?" asked Walker.

"Time to pay up for what you done to me and mine," answered Wil.

"What do you say I done?"

Wil was aware that all the attention in the room was turned toward him and Jess Walker.

"You, Wade Jessup and Briley Cole, rode onto my land, gunned me down and raped and killed my wife."

Jess Walker smiled at Wil Sunday.

"I never rode with Wade Jessup."

Wil reached into his shirt pocket, never taking his eyes from Jess Walker. He shook the poster, unfolding it, and held it up for all to see.

"This says different."

The smile left Jess Walker's face. He jumped up from his chair, drawing his Colt as he came up. Wil anticipated Walker's move, drawing his Colt at the first sign of movement.

He fired before Jess Walker could clear leather with his Colt. His shot struck Jess Walker in the chest knocking him back, sending him toppling over the chair behind him.

Wil walked to the table and looked down at the motionless outlaw. Thumbing the spent shell from his Colt, he replaced it with a fresh one from his gunbelt and holstered his Colt.

The marshal came into the saloon as Wil was picking up the poster from the floor.

"What happened here?"

"Fair fight, marshal," said the bartender, "Walker drew first."

Marshal Tom Draper looked at Wil Sunday and smiled. "Still might not have been a fair fight."

Wil handed the poster to the marshal. "I'll be at the hotel when you get the money." Wil shouldered past Draper and through the batwings.

Wil sat in his hotel room at the small table cleaning his Colt when he heard a knock at his door. Getting up, he went to the door, careful not to stand in front of it.

"Who is it?"

"Tom Draper."

Wil turned the key and cracked open the door.

"Hello, Wil."

Wil opened the door to admit the marshal.

"Back to your old ways, Wil?" asked Draper as he walked past Wil, stopping at the window. He turned when Wil closed the door and walked back to the table.

"This was personal," said Wil. Sitting down at the table, he resumed cleaning his Colt.

"Walker was one of Jarod McKinney's men. He's not going to kiss you for killing him."

"He's also one of the men who killed Cassie," said Wil without looking up.

"McKinney will come looking for you. People expect it."

Wil stopped cleaning his Colt, laid it on the table, looking up at Draper. "I killed a man today that helped kill my wife. If Jarod McKinney comes looking for me, I won't run. I took care of one problem today, two are left. If I have to, I can take care of another."

Tom Draper left the window and started for the door. "I'll have your money for you in the morning. I'd be obliged if you left town after you collected it."

"You runnin' me out of town, Tom?"

"Let's just say I'm tryin' to stop trouble before it starts."

"Then, you better be talkin' to Jarod McKinney, not me. I'll be leavin' Gunsight when I've finished my business here, not before."

Wil picked up his Colt and resumed cleaning it. "Excuse me if I don't show you to the door." Wil didn't look up again until he heard the door latch behind Tom Draper.

The next morning,Wil and Buck stepped off the boardwalk in front of the hotel and walked toward the livery. Saddling Goldie, Wil led her across the street, hitching her to the rail in front of the gunsmith.

Stepping up on the boardwalk, Wil opened the door of the gun shop, ringing the bell mounted above the door on a taught spring. Hans Larson, known as Swede, sat at a workbench with his back to the door. He turned on his swivel stool when the bell rang.

"Wil Sunday," said Larson, with a heavy Swedish accent and a big smile. He got up from his stool, circled the glass display case and pumped Wil's hand vigorously. The Swede had been Wil's personal gunsmith when he was hunting bounty, paying regular visits to Gunsight to see him.

"Didn't know if I was going to see you again," said Swede, "They said you was in a bad way."

"Hell, Swede, It's gonna take more than a coupla pieces of lead to stop me."

"You may get a chance to find out. Jess Walker was one of Jarod McKinney's gunhands."

"So I've heard. Everyone keeps tellin' me how much trouble I'm in. Well, Jess Walker was one of them that killed Cassie. I did what I had to do."

"Won't matter to McKinney," said Swede. He held up a finger at Wil and picked up a ring of keys from his workbench, went to a locked cabinet and unlocked it.

"McKinney never goes anywhere without three or four of his gunhands, so let's even it up a little."

Larson took an oilskin bundle from the top shelf of the cabinet and laid it on the glass display case in front of Wil pointing to it.

"Go ahead, open it," said Swede with a grin.

Wil took his Bowie knife and cut the twine around the oilskin, smiling when he unwrapped the bundle.

"I thought I'd seen the last of this."

Wil picked up the Greener shotgun. The barrels and stock had been sawed off to make for easier handling. It had been a valuable weapon to Wil in his bounty hunting days. He sold it to Swede when he married Cassie, but Swede couldn't part with it, keeping it cleaned, oiled and wrapped. Now, he was giving it back to its rightful owner.

Swede went back to the cabinet to retrieve the saddle boot that went with it, putting it in front of Wil. He slid the Greener into the boot.

"You may need it sooner than you think," said Swede, nodding to the front window of the shop.

Jarod McKinney rode with three men down the street.

"You have a back door?" asked Wil. Swede pointed to a curtained doorway.

"Through there."

Wil grabbed the Greener and started through the curtain.

"Hey," shouted Swede, tossing Wil a box of shotgun shells. "Gun works better with these."

Wil smiled at Swede, touched two fingers to his hat and slid through the curtain.

Jarod McKinney rode into Gunsight with his foreman, Cinch Riley, and two of his gunhands, Wade Jessup and Briley Cole. They turned into the hitch rail at the Marshal's office and dismounted. Something caught Riley's eye as he stepped down from his saddle and nudged Jarod McKinney as he stepped up on the boardwalk.

"Seen that yeller horse before?" Riley asked McKinney.

"Yeah, I have," replied McKinney and turned to Jessup and Cole.

"Go check out who owns that yeller horse and bring him here to me."

The two gunhands walked across the street and into Swede Larson's shop.

"Where's the fella that owns that purty horse out front?' Jessup said to Larson who was rearranging a gun display. Swede shook his head.

"He didn't come in here."

"Well, we'll just take us a little look around," said Jessup, going behind the counter to look in the room behind Swede.

Briley Cole went to the curtained doorway, slid back the curtain and was greeted by the double-barreled blast of the Greener, hurling him back into the gun shop. Jessup came from the back room with his Colt drawn.

"Didn't come in here, huh?" he said to Swede, hitting him with the barrel of his Colt knocking him to the floor.

Jessup crept over to the narrow doorway, looking down at Cole lying in a twisted heap. Peeking around the corner of the doorway, he saw the back door standing wide open. He eased into the room stopping at the back door.

Cinch Riley, who bolted from Tom Draper's office at the sound of the shotgun blast, burst through the gun shop door with his Colt drawn. He looked down at the blood beginning to pool around the dead gunman.

"Jessup," shouted Riley.

"Back here," replied Jessup. Riley moved through the narrow doorway and met Wade Jessup at the back door.

"Ol' man said he wasn't here, but he was waiting when Cole come through the curtain. He went out through here."

"See if you can find him, I'll tell McKinney," said Riley. Jessup stepped through the door into the alley. Riley walked back through the gun shop.

"We'll deal with you, old man, when we're done with him," Riley said to Swede as he hurried out the door.

Jessup walked cautiously down the alley checking every doorway and alcove where a man could hide. Passing the stairwell behind the General Store, a stack of crates came tumbling down behind him. A double-barreled blast of the Greener caught him as he turned, killing him before he hit the ground.

"Them two won't be killin' anymore women," said Wil, running down the alley reloading the Greener.

Cinch Riley and Jarod McKinney looked out the window of the marshal's office at the sound of the second shotgun blast. Riley looked back at McKinney who nodded toward the door.

"Don't come back without him." McKinney watched Riley jog across the street and disappear between two buildings.

"Who is he, Draper?"

"His name is Wil Sunday and he's got you outclassed, Jarod."

"He's caused me a lot of headaches, killed, probably, three of my men and he's gonna pay."

"He's a killing machine, Jarod, and believes if a man's worth shootin', he's worth killin'. If you brace him, he'll leave you lying in the street and walk away."

"We'll see."

Wil Sunday went back through the open door of the gun shop. Hans Larson sat on the stool at the workbench holding a rag to his head.

"You all right, Swede?" asked Wil.

"Jah, will take more than a bump on the head to stop Hans Larson." He removed the bloody rag from his head revealing a small gash on his forehead.

"I'm going to put a stop to this before anymore innocent people get hurt," said Wil. He laid the Greener on the glass display case.

"I'll be back for this."

"Be careful, McKinney's foreman is still out there. Thery're not above backshootin'."

Wil went to the front door of the gun shop and out onto the boardwalk.

"Well, well, look what just showed up," said Jarod McKinney when he saw Wil come out of the gun shop. Wil stepped into the street, walking toward the marshal's office.

"Let it go, Jarod, you can't beat him," said Draper.

"Watch me."

Tom Draper and Jarod McKinney watched Wil Sunday walk toward them and stop in the middle of the street.

"McKinney, Jarod McKinney."

McKinney smiled at Tom Draper. "Let's not keep him waiting."

McKinney walked out onto the boardwalk followed by Draper. Stepping into the street, McKinney faced Wil Sunday.

"It's over, McKinney. Enough men have died," said Wil.

"You've caused me a lot of embarrassment, Sunday. It ain't over 'til you're face down in the street."

"Then, make your play, McKinney."

Mayor Herbert Addison, in his gray suit and derby hat, walked up beside Tom Draper.

"You have to stop this, marshal," said Addison.

"I tried, Herb, it's too late for that now."

McKinney caught movement behind Wil Sunday and saw Cinch Riley come out from beside the gun shop. With his Colt drawn, Riley moved into the street behind Wil.

Inside the shop, Hans Larson picked up the Greener shotgun from the counter, breaking it open to check the load. He walked from the counter to the door. Buck, who Wil left in the gun shop with Hans, began to bark when Larson thumbed back both hammers of the scattergun.

When Riley turned he saw Larson in the window with the Greener to his shoulder. The split second of surprised hesitation cost Riley his life. He caught both barrels of the scattergun in his chest sending him, flailing, backwards into the street.

Surprised by the shotgun blast, Wil ducked, turned aside and took a quick glance behind him in time to see Cinch Riley fall to the ground.

Seeing his chance, McKinney drew his Colt and fired a hurried shot at Wil Sunday.Turning back to McKinney an instant before the rancher fired, Wil dropped to the ground, firing twice.

McKinney stood with a bewildered look on his face, looking down at the growing red stain on the front of his shirt. Looking up at Wil, McKinney dropped to his knees letting the Colt slip from his fingers. He toppled over, face first, into the street.

Buck ran toward Wil as he picked himself up from the street. Wil thumbed the two shells from his Colt, replacing them from his gunbelt. He looked behind him where Hans Larson was walking toward the lifeless Cinch Riley, the barrels of the Greener resting on his shoulder.

Wil walked up to Jarod McKinney, the crimson stain growing around him. He turned the dead rancher over with the toe of his boot. Sightless eyes looked up at the blue sky. Wil holstered his Colt and, along with Buck, stepped up on the boardwalk in front of Tom Draper and Mayor Addison.

"You have your town back, Mayor. Don't let it get away this time," said Wil. He reached over and took the marshal's badge from Draper's shirt, handing it to the Mayor.

"I think you need a new marshal too."

Wil turned, stepped into the street and walked back to the gunshop. Swede waited for Wil on the boardwalk.

"Works good, too," he said, handing the scattergun back to Wil. Wil offered his hand to Larson.

"Swede, take care of yourself."

"Come back real soon, Wil," said Swede, shaking Wil's hand. Wil looked down at Buck.

"Let's go home, boy."

A shrill blast from the River Belle's steam whistle drew a cloud of angry retorts from a flock of crows as they took to wing. The tall gentleman standing at the bow watched as the dark forms swooped and then skimmed across the brown waters of the river.

The Mississippi ignored their complaints as it did the steady beats of the stern-wheeler's passage.

He reached up and loosened his string tie, and the opened his black coat to allow the slight breeze to cool him. Lifting his arms and then flexing his shoulders, he took a breath. He stifled a slight cough with the back of his hand, and then reached under his coat to shift the weight of his shoulder holster. Although the self-cocking 44 nestled there had been his companion longer than he chose to remember, he often wished that it were lighter. He returned his attention to the crows. They had completed their journey and had settled in the dead arms of an ancient cypress tree on the far bank of the river. They could be still heard discussing the problems of the day.

The soft scent of jasmine caught the man's attention, just as he heard a broken sob from behind him. His hand dropped to the wooden grips of the 44 as he turned with a smooth grace to face the sound. What he saw stopped his hand. She was very slim and quite beautiful; her blond hair tumbled down on bare shoulders that had yet to see twenty years. She held a delicate lace handkerchief to her tear stained eyes, and her snowy white shoulders shook with sobs.

He moved quickly toward her and asked, "Excuse me ma'am. May I be of any assistance?"

She looked up at him and tried unsuccessfully to stifle her sobs. "I don't know what I can do. He's going to kill himself, all that money, and it's all gone, what can I do? We have only been married for two months."

"Ma'am, please try to stop crying, it's a one thing that I can't handle. Tell me why you are crying, maybe I'll be able to help." He took out a handkerchief, and coughed quietly as he stood waiting for her to answer.

Her story, when he heard it, had been told many times on the river. Her husband owned a small plantation down river. It was near Baton Rouge and was called The Oaks. He was carrying money that he and his neighbors were going to invest in a new strain of cottonseed. They had arranged with a broker in Saint Louis for the purchase, and her husband was to oversee its transportation down river. Unfortunately, he had started gambling and lost $30,000. He had complained to her that the gamblers had cheated him.

They had let him win almost $30,000, and then he lost it all in one hand. She paused and tried to dry her eyes. "Now we are ruined and he's going to kill himself. I'll be left all alone." She started sobbing again.

He looked down at her; her head scarcely came up to his chin. She was much like a china doll he had once seen in New Orleans. "Ma'am, you don't know me, but I may be able to provide some help. What cabin are you in? "

"Cabin #4. But what can you do, these people are professional gamblers?"

He smiled before answering. "Do this for me, go to your cabin and keep your husband with you. Don't let him leave the cabin. It's important that he must stay out of sight. You stay there with him and I'll get in touch with you."

"But I don't understand . . ."

"Please just do as I ask. Now go to your husband and keep him with you." Reaching out he placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Please?"

She looked up at him and then bit her lower lip and nodded.

He turned and left her standing there, and headed for the main saloon in the center of the riverboat.

As he entered, he was able to spot the gamblers immediately. There were three of them, all dressed in flashy clothing. He took a place at the bar and watched them operate. They worked as a team, but they were not skilled card handlers. The tallest gambler seemed to be the leader; the other two appeared to be brothers. They were in the process of separating a fool from his money.

He walked up to table just as a tall farmer pushed back his chair and stood. "Damn, I never had such bad luck ever afore, I done lost everything but my name." He turned and stalked away.

"You gents got room for one more?"

Three gator-like smiles appraised him.

"Why sure stranger, what's your game?" asked the flinty eyed man in the center.

"Looks like y'all are playing stud, and that's fine with me."

He flashed a huge roll of the greenbacks. "Are these okay or would you rather play for gold?" He produced a long leather pouch of gold dust, and placed it on the table.

Six eyes were glued to the money and the gold on the table. The stranger kept his face blank, but he could tell that they were already dividing it up among themselves.

For the first few hours of play, the cards were to kind everyone, but then he had a lucky streak, and won almost $5,000. He appeared to be exuberant. "This must be my lucky day, what say we raise the stakes? I'm sure you gentleman would be willing to contribute to my welfare." Then he laughed loudly, and slapped his hand down on the table.

A dark look passed between the three gamblers, but they agreed to continue playing.

The stranger noted the sloppy dealing going on, but pretended not to notice. He also noticed they were folding when they had good hands. He knew that he was being set up to take a big fall.

They continued to play through the night and the stakes rose higher and higher. As the sun rose, he won a pot of $35,000. All three gamblers moaned and complained about his lucky streak, but they continued playing. He acted as though he was getting drunk and made a few mistakes, but became loud when he won a good hand. The gamblers continued flashing looks at each other.

The stranger wiped his eyes as if he was tired, and then said, "Boys I've really enjoyed myself tonight, but it's getting late. Let's play one more hand and then call it a day."

The tall gambler had the deal, one of the other gamblers cut the cards and then he dealt. He noticed the dealer palm a card and then pass another card to one of his accomplices.

This is what he had been waiting for, he stood and drew his 44 and shouted, "Y'all are thieves. I saw that you have a card palmed. I demand satisfaction. Shall we settle this over cold steel, or are you all cowards?"

The Captain of the riverboat rushed over to their table, "There will be no shooting in here!" He looked all four of them over with a critical eye. "Now tell me what's going on. I don't want no bloodshed on my boat. Maybe we can talk this out."

He motioned with his 44, "The best way to settle this is with lead, I should just drop them all right here."

The Captain said, "There will be none of that on my boat. Can you prove they were cheating?"

"Damned straight I can. If you look there you can see the card he dropped on the floor." He repeated his demand for a duel.

The gamblers knew they were caught, but they proclaimed their innocence. None of them were foolish enough to go up against the leveled 44. They had all killed before, they were not afraid to face the stranger, but not like this. The duel seemed a good way to assure that they got the money. They agreed to the duel.

With the Captain's help, it was decided that the stranger would have a duel with each of the three, one after the other. If he survived.

Although it was unspoken, each of the gamblers hoped that one or two of their number would lose. That way, there would be more money for the survivor or survivors. It was not conceivable that they would lose everything. Gamblers by virtue of being gamblers believed they would win.

The captain took possession of the money, and after counting it, and had the First Mate put it in a cloth bag, for the winner of the duel. Then they followed the Captain to the top deck. The First Mate returned from the Captains cabin with a cased pair of dueling pistols. They were beautifully made single shot flintlock weapons. They were loaded as the duelist's watched. Because the stranger had issued the challenge, the first gambler had his choice of weapons.

The Captain explained the rules; "You will stand 12 paces apart, facing each other. On my command of ONE you will raise your weapon. On the count of TWO, you may take aim. On the count of THREE you may fire. In the event that you both miss, the pistols will it be reloaded. If you both agree that your honor has been satisfied, I will declare the duel as over. Otherwise we will start over. We will continue until one or both of you are dead. Are there any questions? No, then let us begin. Take your positions."

The duelists moved away without speaking to each other. When they were in position, the Captain began. "ONE," both pistols came up together.

"TWO."

A strange thing happened; the stranger didn't aim at the gambler. He just stood with his weapon pointed in the air. The gambler took aim, but his hand was trembling. Death was near and he knew it.

"THREE."

The gambler squeezed the trigger and the flint ignited the powder in the pan, it flashed and then the gun fired. Just as the flint ignited the powder in the flash pan, the stranger stepped sidewise to the gambler. This made him a smaller target, the next instant the ball bored a hole through his coat, but it drew no blood.

Slowly, the stranger turned to face the gambler and then began walking forward with a measured step. He raised the pistol to eye level and sighted on the gambler's head.

There was sweat on the gambler's brow. He looked at the Captain and said, "He's walking closer, he can't do that."

The Captain smiled, "Yes he can. You fired, now its his turn, he can get as close as he wants."

The gambler was terrified. The hole in the pistol's muzzle was as big as the doorway to hell. He knew he was going to die. He looked around to his friends. They were as frightened as he was. They knew that they were next to face the stranger. All thought of money was gone, and they were now only concerned with how they were going to survive. They knew they would face the same fate after he was gone.

The stranger was about 4 ft. away when the gambler could no longer stand the tension. He dropped the empty pistol, and leapt over the railing with a cry of fear. He landed with a loud splash into the muddy water of the river.

His friends followed him quickly into the river.

The Captain looked at the stranger and smiled. "Good, no blood. I hate it when we have blood on the decks. It stains the wood and it's slippery."

The stranger lowered the pistol. He slowly dropped the hammer to half cock and handed it butt first to the Captain. He started to turn away, but stopped as the Captain spoke.

"Stranger, I've seen many a thing in the years I've been on the Big Muddy, but that was one of the most amazing. Would you care to tell me why you didn't shoot when you had the chance?"

"I'll answer your question, but I'd rather that you didn't let it get around what I tell you. Can I trust you?"

"You have my word. I'm just confounded interested in the answer."

He moved closer to the Captain and said in a low voice, "I don't trust flint locks when it's this damp, they misfire. Besides that, I am a gambler and I can read men pretty good. That fellow could not hit the floor if he fell down. I figured if I made him break, the others would follow."

The Captain burst out laughing, "Your secret's safe with me." Then he called the Mate over and gave the money to the stranger.

The stranger left and went down to his cabin. After locking the door he counted the money. He divided the money into two piles. He counted $30,000 in greenbacks and put them back in the cloth sack. He took the rest of the money and put it in his carpetbag, with some of his clothes. He then left his cabin, locking the door on the way out.

He walked down the deck until he found cabin #4. He knocked softly and then after waiting a few moments, he knocked again.

The door opened and the young woman stood before him once again. Her hair was in disarray from sleep, but she was still quite fetching. She clutched a blanket over her shoulders. "Oh, its you. I was afraid to answer, I thought it might be the men that took my husband's money." She motioned with her head, "My husband is asleep, please be quiet."

Without speaking, he handed her the bag containing the money.

"What is this?" she asked as she opened the bag. A gasp escaped her lovely throat, "How did you manage to get this back? This is wonderful, you have given us our life back. I wish there was some way that I could repay you. Is there any thing I can do?"

She stopped as she thought of what she had said. A look of shock spread across her face as she realized what she would have to do to repay the stranger for his kindness, Then she squared her shoulders; she let the blanket slip a little. "I owe you so much, I guess that it's the least I could do." She tried to put on a worldly face, but failed.

The stranger reached out toward her. She started to pull away, but then she caught herself. She raised her chin and looked up into his eyes. He reached over and tugged the blanket back up over her shoulder.

"Today I was able to help you, someday I may need help. If and when that time comes I would like to know there is someone out there that I can count on. Are you that someone?"

She was speechless; she bit her lower lip and nodded her head.

"Good, we all need friends." He turned and moved off down the deck.

She came to her senses and called after him. "I don't know who you are. How will I know if you need help? What is your name?"

The stranger turned and then removed his hat. "Folks just call me Doc. Doc Holliday." He turned again and walked off with just a slight cough.

Trey Dunlap saw the stream through the tree-cover, sunlight reflected off the waters smooth surface. Twilight was hardly an hour away. It would be good to camp by fresh water, get a rabbit or squirrel, eat a hot meal and watch the evening sky. A movement in the underbrush caught his attention. His hand dropped to the pistol at his side. The nations were well known to host horse thieves and murderers.

A loud commotion came from a thicket of wild plums near the water's edge. He saw the red dots of ripened fruit long before he saw the source of the ruckus. A mouse-gray horse stamped its hooves, pawing at the dirt.

Trey looked at his immediate surroundings, searching for a campfire or an injured rider. On closer inspection the gelding had traveled a long distance; the dry sweat on its coat gave it a dull unhealthy look. The saddle had slipped, riding under the animal's belly. The stirrups dragged along the ground.

He slipped off the black horse and approached the gelding, unsure how the animal would react.

"Easy fella," he said softly. "I'll have you out of there in a jiffy."

His hand moved slowly, touching the gray's hind leg. His fingers traced the outline of an S burned into the flesh. The muscles rippled beneath the hide, the horse snorted and sidestepped away from his touch.

"Take it easy," he said his voice low. "Give me a minute and I'll have you loose."

He rubbed the gray's back, moving his hand up the backbone. The horse flinched, its front hooves working the loose earth.

"Just a little more." He patted the gelding's shoulder, rubbing along the neck to the jawbone and down to the reins.

"Almost there," he said. "This is the tricky part."

He tugged the gray's head toward the ground; gaining him enough slack to loosen the reins from the base of the plum tree.

"We're gonna be friends, you and me." He rubbed the animal's nose, finding an old wound that ran from his nostril halfway to the eye.

"I see you found split-nose." A rough voice spoke behind him. "I've been looking for that lunkhead for two days."

Trey froze at the words, his hands moved away from his body. "I ain't stealing this horse. I found him tangled up in the trees."

"Relax; I'm not looking to gun you down. Turn around and let me get a look at you." "Don't do anything hasty." Trey moved slowly, taking care to keep his hands visible. "Name's Trey Dunlap. I'm traveling up to Colorado. Heard about the gold strike around Cripple Creek."

"Nice country." A huge man held the reins of an equally large roan gelding. "I took a herd of mules up there some months back. Made a good profit from them miners."

"Thought I might try my luck up there." Trey stared at the muzzle of a Spencer Carbine a nervous tingle ran the length of his spine. "My dad has a repeater like that. He says it's the truest shooting gun he ever owned. You mind pointing it somewhere else?"

"Just wanted to make sure you was friendly. Name's Buck Kincaid. I got a little spread south of here." He pointed the rifle skyward. "It's near dark. What you say we share a camp down by the river. Start out fresh in the morning."

Trey nodded. "That sounds good to me." He offered Buck the reins. "Here's your horse. I wasn't trying to steal it."

"You don't know do you?" Buck frowned.

"Know what?"

"That ugly thing belongs to Orville Summers. He's offered fifty dollars to the man who brings it home."

"Where can I find this fella? I could use fifty dollars."

A smile broke Buck's face. "You up to an even split."

Trey returned the grin. "Sure, twenty five's better than nothing."

"He's got a ranch about three days south of here. Let's fix that saddle and get down to the creek give these animals water and rest."

"What happened to its nose?" Trey asked, as he moved the saddle to an upright position.

"Heard it was a snake bite. One of the ranch hands had the bright idea to lance it and left the animal scarred for life." Buck slipped the Spencer into the scabbard. "Damn horse ain't good for much. Doesn't have any cattle sense at all. He's a straight-line animal. Put him on the trail and he can walk any other horse in the ground."

"He's got a little money. Got a ranch down on the Red River, Texas side. Does pretty fair for himself."

Trey looped his rope over the gray's head and tied it off to his saddle horn. "This animal ain't worth ten dollars, tops," in one motion he swung into the black's saddle. "It doesn't make any sense for him to pay fifty dollars for it."

"Orville's a strange man. He takes things real personal. He trailed a man for a week once, when the fella cheated him in a poker game. Gave him the beating of his life and left him afoot on the trail."

"Sounds like a hard man." Trey tugged on the reins moving the black toward the stream.

"He ain't a man to take for granted. Orville came here after the war, got a piece of land and spread out over the years. Split Nose belongs to his boy, Grant. The boy lost it about a week ago. I don't know all the details."

"There's some raw spots around its legs and belly."

"I've got some salve in my saddlebags. We'll doctor them sores before we turn in." Buck nodded. "I've also got some salted middlin and a spot of coffee. We can have a pretty good supper."

"Sounds good to me. I've been eating jerky for two days."

"There's good grass here for the horses." Buck rode to the waters edge; the roan dipped its mouth to the smooth surface, filling its belly.

The leather creaked as Trey removed his saddle. The strong odor of dried horse sweat drifted up from the blanket. He laid the saddle with the underside to the sky to allow it to air overnight.

"How you gonna spend your share of the money?" Buck asked, as he scavenged for wood.

"I've got a weakness for poker. Thought I might use it for seed money, maybe add to it." Trey laughed. "Miners aren't very good poker players. What about you?"

"I owe Ben Ross a little money down at the general store. After I pay him off, I'm gonna stock up on supplies, and then I'm gonna get something nice for Rachel and Emily. That's my wife and baby."

"Let me gather up the firewood." Trey offered. "While you doctor on Split-nose. Just lay out the fixin's and I'll be back directly."

"I'll be here." Buck rummaged through his belongings for the ointment.

Trey staggered back to the campsite a short time later burdened with a large load of wood. "I tried to get enough to last out the night." He dumped the sticks on the ground. "I like to keep a fire going."

Buck remained silent.

"Something wrong?" Trey asked.

"That horse has had a rough life. It's got a lot of old scars and nicks on his flanks and legs."

Trey glanced at the animals munching on a patch of grass. "Not our business," he said. "Let's just take it home and collect our money."

"Those marks couldn't have happened natural. It ain't right."

"Don't think about that horse. Think about your wife and kid. Twenty five dollars can ease your conscience."

"Maybe so." Buck nodded. "But money ain't everything. Some things are more important."

"Right now, we both need money. Keep that in mind."

Buck's lips thinned into a hard line. He dug the salted meat and coffee out of his saddlebags.

This is crazy. Trey arranged the wood for the cooking fire. He's worrying about a broomtail that don't even belong to him. The silence grew between the two men. Dawn seemed a long way off.

They arrived at the Summers ranch late on the third day. Nice place Trey thought. Two story house, real glass windows, huge barn for the draft animals. This Orville Summers sure knows his business.

A few ranch hands worked around the barn, mending harness or shaping horseshoes on the anvil for the Belgians in the small corral. A thin raw-boned man rose from a rawhide porch chair and met them in front of the house.

"Are you Mr. Summers?" Trey asked pulling the black to a stop.

The man stared at the pair through red-rimmed eyes. "You found Split-nose."

"Yes sir, just north of the Red." Buck nudged his horse up to the old man. "Remember me I used to work for you Mr. Summers, about three years ago. Names Buck Kincaid"

The old man failed to acknowledge Buck's greeting. "I never figured he'd swim the river." Summers dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

"I tracked him for two days." Buck nodded his head. "Time I caught up with him, Trey had already found him."

"Buck told me about the reward, so we started this way double quick." Trey swung from the saddle, the dry dust puffed up from under his boot sole.

"Reward?" Summers stared vacantly at the two men.

"Fifty dollars." Buck cleared his throat. "You offered fifty dollars to anyone who brought Split-nose home."

"That's right, fifty dollars." Summers turned toward the house. "Grant died four days ago," he mumbled as he stepped up on the rough planks. "We buried him yesterday."

"What did he say?" Trey turned to Buck. "Did you hear him?"

"Something about Grant and a funeral. I think his boy died."

"Damn, I hate to hear that. I wonder if he still wants the horse."

"He'll pay. Orville Summers always keeps his word," Buck looked at the outbuildings and corrals. "One day I'll have a place like this."

"Grant didn't check his cinch strap." Summers said, as he returned. The sound of his voice startled both men. "He was showing off like boys his age do, trying to impress the young girls." The old man stood quiet for several seconds

"Mr. Summers, are you alright?" Trey asked to break the silence.

"I'm fine." Summers eyes popped open. He wiped at his nose. "I owe you boys some money," he said, as he passed each man a handful of crumpled bills.

Trey stuffed his share in his shirt pocket. "Thanks, Mr. Summers. I'm sorry about your son."

"Grant was a good boy," Buck said. "He would have been a man to be proud of."

"Freda named him after her pa." Summers looked toward the horizon. "She's been sitting at the kitchen table since the funeral, just sips at her coffee, won't say nary a word."

"We won't trouble you any longer." Trey's boot slipped into the stirrup. His hand circled the saddle horn; he pulled himself aboard.

"We'll leave you to your grieving." Buck touched his fingers to his hat brim.

"He loved this sorry horse," Summers mumbled. "Used to brag about how much ground it could cover in a day. Freda blames Split-Nose for Grant's death. She thinks it meant to kill him."

Trey stared at the black's ears, unwilling to make eye contact with the older man. "I know it doesn't seem possible now, but she'll come around. She'll get to thinking about the good times."

"Not with Split-nose around. Every time she sees him she'll think of Grant lying in his coffin with his skull bashed in."

Trey wanted to comment. He sat silent for several seconds, searching his mind for the right words, something to comfort Orville. Faster than Trey thought possible the old man pulled a small .36 caliber Remington from his waist band. He placed it two inches from the animal's forehead.

"Don't," Trey shouted. His spurs touched the black's flanks urging him forward.

The thunder from the small caliber weapon echoed in the distance. Trey felt a warm splash on his face, as blood splattered his cheek. Split-nose stumbled sideways and crumpled to the ground, its hooves pawing at the earth.

"I had to do it. Don't you see that?" He stood stoop shouldered, looking down at the dying gelding. "I couldn't let Split-nose live, not with Grant dead. I just couldn't let him live."

Trey swallowed the lump in his suddenly dry throat. "Take this Buck," he fished the bills from his shirt pocket. "I don't want money that bad."

Buck took the bills from Trey's hand. "I don't want it either," he said, shaking his head. "I'll figure out a way to get by." He urged his mount up to Summers. "Take your money. It's tainted."

Summers turned a tear stained face to the pair. His hand closed on the wad of greenbacks as Split-nose ceased his death throes and lay still. "You understand, don't you? Can't you see I had to kill him?"

Trey sank his spurs into the black's flanks, he had to get away from this place of death and Colorado beaconed.

INTRODUCTION
My great-great-grandfather was one of the original Mormon Pioneers who travelled to Utah Territory in 1847 and I have taken the liberty of writing this humorous, fictional short story of the trip in his honor.

I - THE MEETING ON THE PAWNEE INDIAN RESERVATION
So, here I am, sitting on the high bench seat of my wagon, just me alone sitting here, on my way to the Rocky Mountains, to some desert valley by a big, salty lake, they said. The gent that's riding with me is sleeping in the back. Can't blame him for that, even though it is about mid-day. He had a busy night last night on night guard to hear him tell it.

"Get along there, Blocky and Rocky," I yelled to the two oxen pulling the wagon over the hills and through the vales by the Platte River.

Yup, here I am, the captain of fifty wagons all strung out over the prairie. Supposed to lead them all the way, about seven or eight hundred miles, to that valley in the desert, and, hell, I haven't been further west than fifty or sixty of them miles past where I was when they asked me to join up. So far, can't complain, though.

The other explorers in the party have been very cooperative, keeping right up with everybody else, not too many arguments, but, hell, we only been traveling for five days, and no women in my fifty. Makes it easier that way, but two or three of the leading men just couldn't leave their wives behind. I ain't straight on that yet, are they henpecked or just can't cook for themselves? Don't know exactly who them women belong to, even though I seen them once or twice. I seldom get a chance to see what's going on up there with them being at the front. Might be a mile or two away from us. That's the bad thing about being in the back part of the train, we get all the dust, and bad dust it is, when the wind blows from the west. Don't mind it when it comes from any other direction.

It was funny how they thought I should join up with them. Hell, I wasn't even a Mormon, no sir, born and raised in the Presbyterian Church, I was. Even came out here with a couple of Reverends of that faith. First thing these gents said was, "You're going to have to convert to our religion. We need you to get us through this Pawnee territory. If you would join the Mormon Church, we would have a lot more trust in you. We don't get along too good with other religions in this part of the country."

They had come riding up one afternoon out of nowhere, said they had heard about the white people working with the Indians out here on the Loup River. Six or seven of them, well armed, a tough looking bunch, if you ask me. Said they had been kicked out of Nauvoo, Illinois, and had no place to go until their leader, Brigham Young, had a talk ith God, and God had told him to collect his people and head out west to the Rocky Mountains where they'd find water and land and more Indians, and told 'em to till the land, grow the crops, and ye shall prosper until the ends of time. And the leader of this bunch, said his name was something or other, which I didn't quite catch, said they were the advance exploration party for the expedition.

I said, "You're lost now, it looks like to me. There ain't no Rocky Mountains around here, as you can see."

He gave me a queer stare right in the eye, and made me shudder a little, and said, "We know there ain't no mountains here, but we seen plenty of Indians, and we were thinking they're just out here now hunting there buffalo for the winter. But we can't wait that long for them to return to the Rocky Mountains so we can follow 'em. Brigham wants to be in that valley God told him about before the first snow flies, and we were lookin' for somebody that could lead us there. You're the only white man we run into in a couple of weeks, so we thought we'd stop and ask you about joining up with us, since you could probably get us through the Pawnee territory without getting us killed."

"What about that part about having to convert to Mormonism?" I asked. Hell, I didn't really care what faith I was by now, but I would've liked a church that wasn't hated so bad by everybody.

"As Mr. Young told us, we can't have somebody that's not a Mormon leading us Mormons to Paradise on earth. Wouldn't be right. He sounded pretty set on that," the same explorer told me, but in a more soothing and polite way.

So, I thought to myself, I'm getting pretty sick of this country and nobody around to talk to but the Pawnee, which lingo I don't understand anyway, maybe I should take him up on this deal. The Pawnee Agency hired me back a few years ago, and it ain't like it used to be. But they got that liquor situation straightened out and allowed me back on the reservation, but I'm getting a little tired of all this work. Seems like I been doing it for nothing for all the interest the Indians have shown in it. Hell, joining up with the Mormons would be better than this, with that Agent for the Pawnee about ready to lay me off again, anyway.

"I have to go back to Council Bluffs to tell my wife and boys," I told him.

And, by golly, here I am. They even made me a captain of fifty wagons, even though it is the tail part of the train, to start out. But, I don't mind, no, sir. I'm sorry I had to take the Agency's only oxen and a bunch of tools and stuff, though. I'll have to send them some money for that. Maybe I can take up a collection among these Mormons and send it to Council Bluffs to satisfy that Agent. Hell, I think being a Mormon is going to work out just fine, as long as we don't get overrun by them Indians and get ourselves in a mass-acree.

"Haya! Haya! Blocky and Rocky, get some speed up, we got a long ways to go!"

II - CHIMNEY ROCK
Well, here we are at the rock they call Chimney, sticks straight up in the air a couple hundred feet, looks like to me. It's pretty independent out here all by itself except for that other clump of rocks over there. Never did hear why they called it Chimney, but some of the explorers been talking among themselves on that very thing. Don't think none of 'em know what they're talking about, though. Pretty simple, it's supposed to look like a chimney. I guess you get far enough away from it, it would stick up like a chimney. But they ain't never going to get any smoke out of it.

We had a big prayer meeting every night as we traveled along, all gathered around the leaders, Brigham Young and a few others, who took turns leading us all in prayer. It usually sounded about the same, but they all prayed in earnest, talking to the Lord and, consequently, to ourselves about how the trip has gone, and thanking Him for leading us to Paradise on earth. A couple times Brigham said a few words after the prayer, usually chastising some member or other about the way they been acting on the trip, telling them that we still had a long way to go, and we didn't have room for all those petty arguments he heard about, and it was all well and good to be happy in the evening after the chores were done, but he didn't like the men dancing with each other and staying up so late at night. He told 'em it was unseemly for grown men to be carrying on like that, especially in front of the females of the party. "Oh yes," he said, "they know all about it, and it has made them blush and hide their eyes on more than one occasion to see and hear grown men acting like the fools they're turning into."

Hell, it didn't bother me a bit after what I seen them Pawnee do when they got a hold of a bottle or two of that rotgut whiskey. You should've seen what they did, half-naked as they were to begin with. At least the men in our party keep their clothes on most of the time, except for the weekly dip in the river to get the grime and dust off themselves, and some of 'em don't even take off their clothes for that. No sir, just go in dressed like they are every day. Helps to keep the clothes half-way decent, too. I tried that once or twice, but I couldn't stand walking around in a wet pair of britches waiting for them to dry off.

All in all, my fifty has been pretty well behaved, I think. Oh, we got a few of those type men that are belligerent and want to run things. They just can't stand to take orders from somebody else, not even when it's for their own good. Taking them to Heaven on earth, they should be downright happy about that. Hell, I just never could understand that. Only had to beat on two or three of them to make them understand the importance of what we're doing in the Lord's scheme of things. Seemed to work pretty good. Them knowing I'm dead set against violence and bloodshed has made believers out of most of 'em.

The head explorer of the expedition said we'd be getting into the Rockies any day now. In fact, we could see some mountains rising up to the west in the far distance. Some of the men let out a whoop like it was the best news they had heard in years. Hell, don't they know that the hard work starts with them mountains? No reason to get too happy about that. And the Indians have more hiding places on the trail a lot closer than down here on the Platte. Hell, if we don't run into a mass-acree, I'll be surprised.

And that head explorer told us that we would be coming to more landmarks now, the Devil's Gates or something or other, to help guide us through. I never heard of those gates, but it'll be interesting to take a gander at 'em. Who built them in the first place? He never did say, or at least, I never heard him say anything about that. They must be made out of gold to be so important. He said Wyoming Territory started around here somewhere. But before we get to the Devil's Gate we got to get by that other big rock, Independence, he called it. Something about the Fourth of July is why they call it by that name. Haven't got the full particulars on that yet.

Lookin' back over the last weeks, I got to say that it's been a rough expedition, what with that stiff wind blowing in our faces every day, the continual flood of dust, the couple of rainstorms that came blasting out of nowhere, and those darn buffalo that're too numerous to count like big black ants with fur on them tryin' to run us over. Came right near succeeding a couple of times. What gets 'em all in a huff, anyway? Hell, they got the whole damn prairie to wander in, and over some unknown reason, they all head south or north at the same time. Scare the hell out of a ghost, they would.

And we were held up for a couple days due to broken wheels or runaway oxen. Took us awhile to find them in this country. They disappeared into the small valleys and high grass before a cat could lick his tail, dragging their harness along with 'em. Don't they know enough to put an extry rope on 'em and tie it to the wagon? Some of these so-called explorers should've been left behind, and if it had been up to me to do the choosin', they would still be in Nauvoo or Council Bluffs or somewhere other than here. Hell, we'll never get there at this rate.

All that praying came in handy, though, when those Pawnee attacked the train. If they'd had a few more with 'em, it would've been a mass-acree for sure. As it was, it was nip and tuck there for a while. We followed instructions, about all of us did. There were one or two that didn't seem to get the word about what to do if we were attacked by the Indians, though, and that put the whole train in danger, practically, 'til they finally maneuvered their wagons in like they were supposed to. Some people never listen.

I'll be anxious to get into them mountains. Never been that high up before. Hell, the only mountains I've seen were those little ones between New York and Ohio, and I was so young when we made that trip, I hardly remember 'em. Hell, this is a big country.

I might take a walk later tonight when everyone's sleeping except the night guard. I figure I can sneak out and climb up to the top of that rock where I can write something on it to let everybody coming this way know that I was here. They'll think it was Jesus Christ, himself, been up there instead of me. I'll put something like, "Jesus is watching you. You're half-way to Heaven up here, but don't look down. Raise your arms high and sing hosanna, hosanna, God is the King! J.C. WAS HERE!"

Hell, I'm going to have to wait until we reach that Indpendence Rock to do any writing. I thought I could get up high enough on Chimney, but I had to give it up. Had to quit anyway when the night guard caught me with all my paint and brushes. And for some reason he told me that Independence Rock was much easier to climb and you can write away to your heart's content. Never did say how he knew so much about it. The hell with it, is what I say about it. Lose too much sleep climbing around on a rock out in the middle of nowhere where nobody's going to see it anyway except a bunch of Indians who can't read.

I wonder if the Indian Agent has noticed the missing items yet. We'll get more use out of them than the Pawnee anyway the way they go about farming. Never get around to it, they don't.

III - FORT BRIDGER
We made it into Bridger's fort a way ahead of schedule according to my calculations. We're supposed to be by that salty lake before the snow flies, but everything I heard coming down through those mountains of Wyoming, tells me it's only July. Hell, snow don't start flying until September or later, so we're way ahead of schedule. Give us some time to get in a crop or two for the winter. They said we only got about a hundred and fifty more miles to the Great Salt Lake Valley. I'll tell you, I'll be glad when this expedition is over. They cut my leadership down to ten wagons way back there, and have only one captain of fifty now from what I gather, even though there's more wagons than that in the party. Hell, I get 'em through the Pawnee territory with no casualties and they take away four-fifths of my responsibility. If I go too much further, I'll probably be kicked out of the outfit now that I've done my duty. Maybe I should've stayed a Presbyterian. I'm not up to liking this situation as a Mormon too much any more, but I made my bed, now I got to lie in it. We'll see, we'll see.

That Bridger gent is a fine specimen of humanity, I'll tell you. Living out here all by himself just about, him and that other fellow, Vasquez, I think they called him, and taking care of the Indians instead of killing them, he's made himself quite a power. Heard he'd had some fights with them once or twice, but he overcome that and built himself this fort here on the green grass by that little river. Not too luxurious, but why would he want luxury in the middle of nowhere. He's been a big help to the expedition, helping with the wagon repairs, telling us where to go, etc. Yes sir, a big help.

Bridger told us about the Oregon Trail, which direction it headed, and where to take the trail to the valley of the salt lake. I suppose we'll be heading out pretty soon, but, hell, I'm enjoying this stop, the weather is just right, can't beat it, cool at night and warm in the daytime. Plenty of room to spread out and stretch. Beautiful sight, it is!

Whoa up, there, some riders are approaching the fort from up that salty lake trail. Wonder who they could be. Bridger said that everybody's been coming or going on that Oregon Trail, but here we are, about a dozen riders in that party coming in from the south. They look like they been on the road a while, and they're asking for Brigham Young.

Turns out they're a party of Mormons that took that boat out to the Pacific to California, and are headed back east to deliver messages and such about the church group out there. I heard about them before, yes sir, old what's-his-name they called him, a leader of that group. They were talking about him on the trail here, some of the leaders every once in awhile would bring up his name for one reason or another. They been pretty well huddled up with the leaders of our expedition. Must have a bunch of important news to pass on the way they been huddling tight with Brigham. Had another big prayer meeting, said they'd been discussing church matters, thanked the Lord for preserving us in our travails, and to protect us on this last leg of the journey. Amen.

This morning they took off heading east bright and early, and we captains were called up to a meeting with our leaders for some reason or another. Hell, there's more talking around here than anything else. Yup, just as I thought, we're to get our wagons in order, 'cause we're leaving tomorrow morning. This'll be the last jaunt on this great expedition with the Salt Lake valley only a few days away. Through more mountains, of course. We're right in the middle of these Rocky Mountains, and by Hell, it's a glorious sight to behold! The air is a good deal thinner than it was down there on the prairie and is just as clear as a bell, you can see all the hills and mountains in the distance. Feels like you're on top of the world. Makes a man's feet tickle after a few days rest and a rebuilding of the physical parts. Feels like we ought to be doing something besides sitting around here waiting for the cold weather to set in.

There are plenty of Indians camped around the fort, Shoshones, Utes, etc., even some Arapaho and Sioux they said, enough to have a big mass-acree and wipe us all out if they take the notion. But Bridger said not to worry, they just want to do some trading, get some goods, to pacify them over the winter season. Thank God for that. Hell, I thought they were all out hunting buffalo on the prairies to get their winter meat. A lot more of them than I thought. Live and learn, I say, live and learn.

IV - THIS MIGHT BE THE PLACE
What a glorious sight it presented from the hillside up above as my wagon came around the last bend of the trail! I could see across the valley the salty lake everyone had been talking about, and south of that the mountains on the other side of the sweeping, broad depression that made up the Great Salt Lake Valley. You could tell how salty that water was by the whiteness of the soil around it on the beaches. There was a nice-sized island sticking up that one could distinguish in the glare of the sun off the water. The lake was big, vanishing into the horizon to the west.

If you'd asked me a few days ago, I wouldn't have believed we could get a wagon down that last cut, narrow as it was. No trail of any kind on that hill, and that creek running through it presented a tough obstacle to get a wagon through. Hell, I wouldn't have believed it! But somehow that crew Brigham sent down there to clear the way did just that, but it still wasn't a joy ride when my wagon finally got down that way. Brigham said that with prayer and hard work anything could be accomplished. Like I said, I wasn't the first one down that way, I just had to go on what I heard around the campfire at night. I was still lying in my wagon with some type of fever, not feeling at all well. But, I got over my sickness and went on down there.

They told me that Brigham said, "This is the place," the first time he got a good gander of it. I thought to myself that this might be the place, if we could get something to grow in all that salty earth down there. There's a stream that leads into or out of the lake that cuts right down the valley with a lot of vegetation and some trees growing on its banks indicating it is fresh water. Mighty curious, that. Down here below the tree line, there's a bunch of good grass growing. Looks like it pretty well covers the valley, except for some bare spots out there. It'll take a passel of hard work to get a crop in of some type, but I wouldn't rule it out.

After all the wagons got down out of the mountains and everybody had a good drink of water from a fresh water creek that rolled into the valley from the higher elevations, we all gathered around and Brigham said a prayer to the Almighty, thanking Him for everyone's safety during the journey and the deliverance to this valley that would become our home. He went on about asking the Lord to protect and watch over them as they began the hard work of…, and etc.…etc. Amen!

Somewhere after leaving Fort Bridger a number of us got sick from something or other, and it took awhile to reach the valley, even Mr. Young had a hard time of it for a while. So, his prayer fit right in, and who knows how we had all got here without some of us being killed or dying or whatever. Hell, this Mormonism is all right. If it can get us all through that, it's going to be just fine. Yes sir, just fine.

The leaders of the expedition now ended, drew up a map of the valley and doled out spots for everyone to park their wagons, and we all set to work tilling the soil and putting seed into the ground with the hopes it would all grow out to be extra productive of its fruit. Them tools I took from the Pawnee Agency, I should say we took, came in handy at this time. There was only three or four fights over 'em, until somebody got the bright idea of taking control and assigning them to individuals of the party. Yup, I worked that out real fine and proper. No more fights over that stuff. Can't stand violence of any kind, myself.

By hell, one of the party found a pool of hot water bubbling out of the earth on that hill over there and we all had to take a look at it. Some of us even had a bath in it. It sure felt good to get all that dust, dirt and grime off the corpus after being on the trail for so long. But, it was hot, mighty hot and it took awhile to get accustomed to it. I looked and felt like a parboiled lobster that they talked about eating in New York climbing out of that pool. Praise the Lord for his little touches of luxury! A few of the men still didn't take their clothes off when they got in there, I bet it was mighty uncomfortable walking around after they climbed out of that hot water.

Some of those Indians around here, somebody called them Utes or Paiutes, or Diggers, or something, came to call on us and asked us to leave. But Brigham told 'em that we were here to stay, the Lord had told us this was our land, and by Hell, we're going to keep it. Not exactly in those words, but something along that line. We shared with them some of our possessions and food and they left without causing a fracas this time. But we know enough to be on the lookout, 'cause you just can't trust them people. They get enough of 'em together, you never know what they'll do. They all like to count up their coups at the end of the day and might just have been looking forwards to a run on the place, a mass-acree, if you will. They're better lookin' than the Pawnee, though, that is, the Utes are, at least in my eyes. Appear cleaner and bigger, most of 'em, than the Prairie type of Indian, except for those they call Pie-utes or Digger Indians. Them people don't appear to be too cultivated like the others. I guess it's just the way they live, though. You have to stand upwind any time you get next to 'em.

Well, now that that expedition is over with, it looks to me like there's a lot more to look at around here. Hell, there ain't no white people once you get out of the valley. I guess Jim Bridger been down through here a couple of times. He's probably the only one that ever looked around much. Hell, those people coming from California came through here, but they didn't spend any time exploring or such or have anything good to say about it that I heard. Too dry and desolate for anything but Indians, I heard they said. And there was those Spanish explorers came through here a couple hundred years or so ago, too, once, further down south about the middle of the valley, though. I would've liked to read what they said about this country. They ain't never been back, so I suppose it wasn't anything too praiseworthy to them. I heard somebody say that they were looking for the seven cities of gold. I wouldn't mind finding that myself.

Hell, I guess I better get to working this land or they'll take it away from me and give it to somebody else. I got a feeling that this is going to be a bad winter. If we survive it, though, we can survive anything. Just hope nobody steals my oxen. To me, they're worth more than all the gold in them cities they talked about. Mighty fine workers they are. Yup, mighty fine.

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