June, 2010

Issue #9

The Little Crooked Finger
by Ellen Gray Massey

Last Rider: Nopal, Texas
by J. B. Hogan

Hangman's Noose, Part 1 of 2
by Larry Payne

Vengeance is Mine
by Matthew Pizzolato

"What'cha looking at, Mama?" Three-year-old Mamie peered out of the window to see what her mother was staring at so intently.

"Nothing, sweetness," Betsy said. "There's nothing out there to look at. Only that dreadful wind."

Mamie tugged at her mother's arm to pull her back to the table where Betsy had just dumped out of the black, battered pans the final batch of the bi-weekly baking. "Mamie wants some bread and butter," she begged. She touched a golden loaf, but withdrew her hand immediately.

"No, Mamie," Betsy cried, grabbing the child. "Too hot." She picked her up and hugged her.

"Finger hurts," Mamie held out her little finger for Betsy to blow on it.

Steam from the yeasty-smelling loaves rose into the sweltering kitchen lean-to. The stove heat added to the hundred-degree August heat, enveloping Betsy like a cocoon. Even the bouquet of sunflowers and goldenrod picked earlier in the morning drooped from the jar in the center of the table. But in spite of the oven-like temperature, she kept the window and door closed against the hot persistent wind of Kansas that she hated more than the heat from the iron stove.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and cheeks with the tail of her cover-all apron and peeked at the baby to be sure he was still sleeping before she dropped into a rocking chair. Her scant ninety-five pounds hardly stretched the leather strips that formed the seat of the oaken chair she and the Colonel had brought from Missouri.

Taking a breather from her morning duties, she again glanced outside through the dusty window pane as she used to do back home in her hills. She ignored the clutter that was still in the house--the piles of mending, the empty water bucket, and the unwashed dishes and pots left from her menfolks' breakfast. Her glance outside did nothing to cheer her. Instead of comforting, protecting hills, she saw space--unending openness that still frightened her even after living four months on the prairie. Except for the few acres of plowed ground showing black in the vastness of gray-green grass where her sons had labored all week, all she saw was miles of dried prairie grass, bent over and whipped by the southwest wind. No matter how much she squinted her slightly myopic eyes to see better, she couldn't see over the many miles to the green hills of Missouri. She couldn't even see the narrow line of cottonwoods down by their creek. Nothing but waving grass whose constant motion tired her.

"Only that dreadful wind," she said again.

Betsy pushed aside her wish to be back in her shaded hills to concentrate on her daughter. Pride in little Mamie overshadowed her dislike of this alien country. After four sons, she had almost despaired of raising a girl. A brief sadness coursed through her as she thought of the two baby girls lost in infancy before Mamie came.

She reached over the table for her sharp knife and one of the hot loaves. She sawed lightly through the steaming bread to avoid mashing the fat slice that curled off. Then she spread some freshly-churned butter over it. As always, the child's eyes crinkled with pleasure to watch the chunks of yellow butter melt away and sink into the finely-grained bread. Not until the butter had disappeared into the slice did Mamie take little bites around the crusty edge, saving the soft buttery center for last.

Betsy pulled a comb and brush from her apron pocket and began unsnarling the tangles in the little girl's golden curls. Mamie screwed up her face and pulled away, dreading the morning ritual. Betsy's stern look made the child sit still. Betsy took extra pains to part the hair in the middle. She brushed each ringlet that twined around her finger so that the mass of curls hung just below Mamie's ears.

This was a futile endeavor. The first toss of the active child's head tumbled the ringlets into their usual disarray. Even with her bonnet tied securely under her chin, the wind would force the bonnet off her head to hang down her back by its strings. But not even the wind could blow out the curls. They always bounced back.

Not like the hems in her bed sheets. When she thought of the comparison, Betsy grunted, admitting her defeat. While the sheets dried on the line, the wind blew the hems from them no matter how many times she mended them. They never bounced back.

Comforted by her daughter's presence, Betsy sighed. The more time she spent with her, the longer she could rest before tackling the rest of her morning chores. At least she would not have to fix dinner today. At noon she and Mamie could have a little picnic with thick slabs of roast deer between slices of the fresh bread. It would be fun with just the two of them, and the baby, of course. The Colonel and the boys would be gone all day, riding the twenty miles across the prairie to Mulvane to trade their mules for a yoke of oxen.

Thoughts of the mules caused a moment's regret. Betsy loved each of their animals and grieved to part with the faithful team that had pulled the family safely for so many miles. But she consoled herself that Pat and Jeff would be better off not having to strain so hard to pull the plow through the unyielding sod. She had seen Pat fall to his knees trying to obey the Colonel's command when all his strength could not move the plow that was enmeshed in the tough sod.

And the mules' poor cut legs! Even wrapping strips of Betsy's good counterpanes around their legs did not protect them from the sharp grass blades. Their legs bled and flies bit them unmercifully. Stamping and swishing their tails to discourage the pests only wearied the animals more quickly without easing the bites and stings. Strong and willing as they were, the mules were not equal to the task of breaking the virgin sod. The Colonel traded them for oxen.

With a guilty feeling of freedom, she shook off her momentary depression and looked forward to the day with less work to do. But with the men gone, she was more aware than ever of the emptiness of the prairie. To fill the void and lift her spirits, Betsy began to hum.

Finished with her bread snack, Mamie grabbed a wilting sunflower from the bouquet and pulled off the petals one by one. She counted up to ten, paused, her eyebrows crinkled in thought, and looked to her mother for the next number.

"Eleven," Betsy said laughing, prompting her with the number that came next beyond her ten fingers. Betsy beamed proudly at her. None of her boys learned to count so young. This child was such a blessing. "Come here, sweetness, let's change your dress."

She slipped off Mamie's dirty and patched frock. Though she could not explain why she did it, she got out her Sunday dress with the white tatting on the collar. Its blue color brought out Mamie's sky-blue eyes. She even put on her white stockings and only pair of shoes, instead of letting her go barefooted as usual. Then she admired the picture-perfect girl.

"We going someplace?" Mamie asked.

"No, sweetness. We're not going anyplace. I just wanted to see something pretty in all this sea of dry grass."

Mamie giggled. "Am I pretty?"

Betsy held her at arm's length, studying the effect. Pretty? Her daughter was the flower of her life. She frowned slightly, thinking about her answer. She started to say the truth, "Very pretty," but changed her answer to, "You'll do." With her adoring big brothers always bragging on her, Betsy felt she should give Mamie some balance to prepare her for the realities of life. "You're pretty enough that the boys won't throw mud at you."

The precocious child laughed at her mother's teasing. As she twirled to show off her dress, Betsy unintentionally held on to Mamie's left hand. Mamie puckered up to cry from the pain in her little finger, but held back the tears.

"See, Mama," she held up the crooked finger, "Mamie's finger is almost well. I can move it now." To prove her point she wiggled all her fingers at once.

Betsy hugged Mamie. She gently massaged the small finger, feeling the little bumps where the bones had been crushed. Mother and daughter rocked for a few minutes until the never-still child squirmed down to play with her stuffed dolls and the stick furniture her big brothers had made for her.

Still unwilling to resume her work, Betsy watched Mamie play. She sighed again. Nothing about this move to central Kansas was good. There was the wind that sapped the energy from all of them, the oppressive heat, swarms of insects, and the stubborn sod that refused to be broken. And now trading off the faithful mules! Betsy hated almost every minute of it, though she said nothing to her husband, who, as always at the beginning of each of their many moves, was optimistic that this time would be the best of all. He had assured her that Kansas would be their permanent home. Even in the pre-dawn light this very morning, after admitting that his prized mules could not get the sod plowed in time to sow the winter wheat, he was optimistic that the oxen would be the answer.

Betsy clamped her lips into a thin line and pushed into the bun on top of her head the strands of loose brown hair that stuck to the perspiration on her neck. Why can't he see that this land is not for us? She knew it would take more than Mamie's crushed finger to convince him. His recital of the benefits had not changed her mind, and what they'd gone through since moving here had only reinforced her dislike. She must be patient until he agreed to return to Missouri. Or, she admitted the more likely result, she needed time to come to terms with the land.

Betsy rocked idly in the chair. The sounds of the wooden rockers creaking on the wide floor boards gave a homey accompaniment behind the child's constant chatter to her dolls and the cooing from the baby's cradle. Now that baby brother was awake, Mamie ran to him and stuck out her left hand. The baby grabbed her crooked finger, making her cry out briefly. She pulled it back, but smiling again shook her head. "No, no, baby. Finger hurts." She gave him her other hand.

Betsy's thoughts went back four months to Mamie's accident, the first omen that seemed to doom the family's move west. In their canvas-covered farm wagon, they had not yet left the Missouri hills on their trip to Kansas. The rain drops glistened on the new leaves and formed puddles in the rough trail. Water collected in the folds and depressions of the wagon cover to trickle down the rounded sides and drip off the wagon.

The Colonel, Betsy, and the baby were on the high wagon seat. Mamie and the four big boys in the back were rowdy as usual. "Quiet down there, boys." The Colonel had to reprimand them several times. For a time the boys played games that Mamie was too young to join. She watched the water form into the depressions in the wagon cover above her and poked the low places with her fingers. She laughed to feel the dampness seep through the canvas onto her hand and drip down her arm.

Wearying of that she looked out the side under the cover that was looped up several inches for ventilation. "Pretty," she said smiling at the blooming dogwood and redbud trees that brushed against the wagon. She jabbered her pleasure at the myriad spring wild flowers beside the trail.

The boys were lulled to sleep by the monotonous motion of the lumbering wagon and the rhythmic beat of the mules' hooves on the rocky trail. Her oldest brother, Frank, was sprawled across the back opening so that Mamie could not tumble out.

Betsy glanced back at the wide-awake child. Mamie thrust out her hand to feel the rain and grasp the shiny-new vegetation within her reach. She pulled off some leaves. When she grabbed an especially interesting, still tiny, glove-shaped sassafras leaf, she added it to those she already had. "Mamie'll take care of you," she said to each leaf that she rescued from the storm. Her brothers had taught her the names of the trees. "Sassy, Doggy, Hick'ry, Oakie," she said placing each leaf carefully in a line.

The wagon rumbled on. The boys slept soundly. The Colonel concentrated on the mules to avoid the large rocks and chug holes in the narrow trail. Betsy finished nursing the baby who was finally asleep after a fretful afternoon. She pulled a light blanket across his face to protect him from the light mist that continued to fall and leaned against her husband to support her back. When she scooted closer to him the Colonel smiled at her and nodded briefly, not able to take his eyes from the trail too long or his hands from the reins. His smile and bright eyes showed his excitement of traveling toward the new home he had traded for.

"Just think, Betsy," he said to encourage her to share his enthusiasm, "a whole section of virgin land. Six hundred and forty acres all ready for the plow without having to clear it first." He mulled over that wonder for a few seconds. "More land than we ever dreamed of owning. Rich soil, a creek and some buildings. No soddy, but a real wooden house. We can move right in!"

Betsy smiled and nodded to show her support. "That's nice," she said. If that was what he wanted, then she did too.

The wagon gave a sudden lurch as the front right wheel hit a big rock. The mules jumped slightly. "Easy there, boys. You're doing good, Pat. Steady there, Jeff."

Betsy tightened her grip on the baby with one hand and with the other held on to the iron railing of the seat to avoid being thrown forward under the team's hooves. After the lurch, the wagon rolled smoothly. Nothing unusual. Since they had many such jolts, neither paid much attention to this one. The boys did not waken. The mules plodded on as Betsy and the Colonel resumed talking.

A few miles down the trail Betsy realized it was too quiet in the back of the wagon. No boys talking. No Mamie with her constant chatter. She peered back through the opening of the wagon cover. In the dim light she saw the four boys sprawled out asleep. For a moment she relished the unusual quiet. Even the rain that had splattered on the canvas cover was now only an easy light mist, and since they had descended into a valley from the rocky ridge, the mules' hooves were muffled in the loamy soil.

The unnatural quiet alarmed Betsy. Her eyes swept over the boys and the bundles of gear stacked all around them. No Mamie.

"Stop," she screamed. The mules halted even before the Colonel pulled back on the reins. The boys sat up, blinking and confused. "Where's Mamie?"

The boys pawed through the baggage. The Colonel jumped down, ran around to the back, and opened the end gate to find the hidden child. No little girl, only her leaves arranged in a neat row on a roll of blankets.

"I should have checked," Betsy moaned.

"You boys were supposed to watch her," the Colonel scolded. "Can't we trust you even to do that?"

"When did you last see her?" Betsy shook Frank in her anxiety.

"She was playing with her leaves," Frank said, almost crying. "I guess I went to sleep."

"She must have fallen out when the wagon lurched," the Colonel said. "How far back was that?"

No one knew.

The Colonel quickly turned the wagon around. He did not slow for rocks or potholes but urged the weary mules to lope back up the ridge. Everyone searched for the brown-clad child who would be difficult to spot either in the road or in the trees and brush on either side. The fearless little girl might wander off into the woods to pick a pretty flower or chase a bird or rabbit. Even a snake!

Betsy barely breathed during the mad flight back as she thought of many possibilities. The fall from the wagon killed her or a wild animal found her. Maybe someone picked her up. No, they had not met anyone on the trail all afternoon.

Numb with fear that she would lose still another child, Betsy held the baby to her chest so tightly that he began to squall.

They rumbled several miles before Frank called out, "There she is!"

Mamie was lying in a puddle, her dress blending in the ground colors. Her golden hair was the one distinguishing bright spot in the dim forest light. Her left arm was thrust out with her hand in the wagon track. The Colonel jumped down before the mules stopped. Betsy was beside him as they kneeled over their unconscious daughter.

Betsy wiped mud off the child's face and pushed back the mass of mud-splattered curls that covered her eyes.

"Is she dead?" the youngest boy whispered.

"No," his father said, his voice almost cracking. "I don't think she's hurt badly. But we must get her to a doctor."

"What happened?"

"She must have fallen over the side," Frank said.

"And when the wagon lurched on that rock she fell out," the Colonel said, gently lifting her up, "She tumbled out with her left hand falling between the wheels." He lifted her head off a flat rock.

Skilled from his experience on the battlefield during the Civil War, he examined her body for injuries. In addition to the bump on her head, the only other injury he found was her little finger.

While Betsy held the unconscious child tightly in her arms as she sat unmoving and stiff on the wagon seat, the Colonel urged the weary team back to a small town.

"The knock on her head isn't serious," the doctor said. "She'll come to soon, but her finger is crushed. I'll have to take her finger off."

Betsy cried, "No, no, no."

Then Mamie stirred. She opened her eyes and looked at her parents and then at the doctor. "Don't cut off Mamie's finger," she said.

With tears in his eyes, the Colonel comforted Mamie, "We won't."

The doctor cleaned out the mud, eased the tiny bones into place, splinted and wrapped the finger. He did not cut it off.

In the August heat of her kitchen, remembering how close they came to losing their daughter, Betsy let the tears she did not shed at the time course down her cheeks. Why couldn't the colonel see that accident as a warning? Instead, he viewed it as a blessing that Mamie was not killed.

Betsy wiped away her tears with her apron and straightened her shoulders. No more of this. She had promised to follow her man when she married him while he was still fighting for the Union during the Civil War. And she had done that, always by his side as he moved from Indiana to Arkansas, to Missouri, and now to Kansas.

Maybe he was right.

She could not allow herself to rest any longer. Too much time lost already. She reached for one of her twelve dry diapers to change the baby. Since the one she removed from him was only wet, she stepped outside to a makeshift line to hang it up to dry. As she pinned the muslin diaper on the line and watched it flap insanely, she grinned. The wind was good for something, anyway. The diaper would be dry in minutes.

She laid her hands on the loaves of bread. Still too warm to put away. She started clearing up the breakfast dishes. She removed the dipper from the empty water pail and grabbed its wire bail. "Mamie, watch Baby while I run to the creek for a bucket of water."

The brief rest cheered Betsy. Humming she pulled open the kitchen door. Her tune caught in her throat as she stopped suddenly, her bucket clattering against her leg. In the doorway, grinning and jabbering were five Indians who towered over her. Behind them she could see their ponies ground-tied in the unplowed area beyond the yard gate.

Betsy swallowed a scream before it escaped and spread out her arms in a futile attempt to block their entrance. A man with a red feather in his hat pushed her aside and marched straight to the table, the other men behind in single file. They grabbed the warm loaves of bread and broke them open with their hands. As the steam escaped, they murmured with pleasure and gobbled the soft, fragrant chunks with loud smackings of their lips. Mouths full of bread, they chattered to one another, grinning with delight. Though their attention was on the bread, the leader also kept an eye on Betsy as he blocked her against the wall.

The children! She had to save them.

The bread did not matter. Hospitality in the West required feeding any stranger that came by. She sent an anguished glance out the door to see if her husband and the boys might be back, though she knew it was much too soon to expect them. What had she heard about the local Indians? "Usually harmless," her neighbor had said, "and poor as church mice."

Usually harmless? Did that mean that sometimes they were dangerous? She didn't know. She shivered, but showed no outward fear to the leader who eyed her carefully.

She had seen a few tribesmen in the towns as the family came through eastern Kansas. Although these men wore no war paint nor exhibited any hostile actions, she was not sure that they were harmless. They were five young, strong, and armed men against Betsy, a small woman alone with two little children and no protection closer than a neighbor two miles away. But all they seemed interested in was the bread.

While her initial fright subsided, Betsy tried to edge over to the children. Red Feather stepped in front of her and motioned her back into her corner. Then, as if for the first time, he noticed the children.

Mamie peered boldly into his face. She studied him as he did her, not once lowering her eyes. Though used to seeing men with guns, she was fascinated by the hatchet he had thrust into his waist band. His trousers and wide-brimmed felt hat were like those her brothers wore, though his tall red feather intrigued her. She pointed to the feather. Mamie and the man both smiled.

Red Feather stooped down and swept her into his arms. Betsy used all of her self-control to keep from screaming. The man's large, brown fingers caressed Mamie's silky, golden hair. He grinned at his companions and pointed to her curls. The others were equally impressed.

Pleased with all this attention, Mamie stared into Red Feather's black eyes, her smile replaced by lowered eyebrows as she studied his features. He pulled out one of her curls and until it reached her shoulders. When he let it go, the hair bounced back into the original ringlet. The men laughed in pleasure. Each one in turn pulled down a curl to watch it spring back.

Keep calm, Betsy warned herself. She clamped her lips together and clenched her fists to keep from throwing herself at the man and tearing Mamie from him. Helpless, she thought, If ever there is a time to pray, this is it. She remained still, not even giving a mental prayer. Perspiration darkened her blouse.

The men pointed to Mamie's blue eyes and the faint line of blond eyebrows and curving eyelashes. They moved their hands over her white, plump little arms and fingered her lacy collar. Mamie glowed under the attention.

"See my Sunday dress and shoes," she said, holding out the skirt for them to get the full benefit of the blue material. She twirled and held up one foot for them to admire her shoe. The men laughed and slapped their hands on their sides as they spoke rapidly to one another.

By this time the men had eaten all the bread they wanted. The leader stashed the remaining loaves into the bag slung over his shoulders and gave an order to the others. One by one the men streamed out the door. Only Red Feather with Mamie in his arms stayed. When the leader called out to him, Red Feather bolted out the door with the child.

Trembling with fear, Betsy watched them go. Red Feather walked through the gate with Mamie, shut it, and slipped its bar with his left hand before joining the others who were at their ponies. Instead of mounting, they circled around him. Helpless in the doorway, Betsy watched the argument between the leader and Red Feather.

Betsy's unspoken prayer was still caught in her throat. At first she thought they debated over which one of them would take Mamie. But when the leader pointed repeatedly from Mamie to the bag where he had stowed the bread and back to the house, she realized that he was trying to convince Red Feather to return her.

Please, dear God, Betsy was finally able to pray when she realized she had an ally, please make the tall man listen. Bring back my little girl. Surely after breaking bread in her house, the Indians would not harm them.

Still unafraid and finished with her scrutiny of the men, Mamie fingered one of her captor's long, black braids. It hung close to her left hand that rested on his right shoulder. She ran her fingers over the braid's shiny surface and then looked at the grease on her hand. She puckered up her nose in distaste and started to wipe it off on her dress. Then remembering she had on her Sunday dress, she rubbed her hand over Red Feather's bare shoulder.

The men laughed. Then the leader and the three others increased their arguments to Red Feather, pointing back to the house. Ignoring them, Red Feather fondled Mamie's left hand. She winched and held back a cry when he touched her little finger. He held out her hand to examine the finger that did not lay straight like the others. He frowned, moving his head slightly from side to side. His companions crowding around him also shook their heads.

Suddenly Red Feather turned and jogged to the yard fence. He hurried to the nearest point in the new wire fence the Colonel had just built. Mindful of the barbs, he leaned over the wire and gently set Mamie down inside the yard. He looked at her and then smiled. Mamie grinned back and waved the fingers of her left hand at him. "Bye, bye," she said.

Red Feather ran back to his companions. They vaulted on their ponies, and with shrill cries, disappeared over the crest in the rolling prairie. The wind that bent the grass blew the ponies' tails straight out behind them. Red Feather's black braids, like arrows, pointed back to the house.

Excited, Mamie raced into her mother's arms. "Indians, Mama, real Indians. They liked me. They thought I was pretty."

Weak with relief, Betsy carried her back into the kitchen. She did not shut the door against the wind but fell into her rocker hugging Mamie to her. Her girl was safe. The wind that played around Betsy's head teased out some loose wisps of hair. It dried her tears and perspiration-soaked dress.

For the first time since Mamie had fallen out of the wagon on their trip west, Betsy did not hate this country. In the last few minutes she knew that where she lived was not important compared to losing one of her children.

The Colonel was right. Mamie's tumble from the wagon back in Missouri was a blessing that saved her little daughter. Mamie, washed, combed, and dressed up, with her fair skin and blond hair produced an ideal picture to the tall dark Indian.

Except for her crooked little finger.

The End

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When Moses Traven crossed over into the Territory from Ft. Smith, he had every intention of avoiding the Boston Mountains in the north of Arkansas. He planned to skirt those hard to ride hills and the rest of the Ozarks altogether until picking up the old trail in southwest Missouri that led to the one-time trailhead town of Sedalia. Mose hoped there might still be work there.

During his first full day out of Ft. Smith, however, Mose's plans changed - and changed quick. From out of nowhere, an early norther blew up across the flat lands of the Territory and drove him south towards Texas.

Riding into the little town of Nopal at daybreak, the norther still on his heels, Mose headed Buster, his dependable buckskin, for the usual place he figured he could hole up and ride out the weather - the local livery stable. Remembering the kindness of Henry Hallow, the blacksmith and stable man back in Ft. Smith, Mose hoped the Nopal smithy would run just as friendly an establishment. It turned out to be a false hope.

"One dollar a night," this blacksmith grunted, not even looking at Mose, who had reached his hand out for shaking. "You sleep on the hay you feed your animal."

"One dollar?" Mose questioned.

"Take it or leave it," the blacksmith said. Mose turned Buster to go. "Six-bits." Mose kept Buster moving. "Four-bits." Mose reined in Buster and backed him up.

"Clean hay for my horse and for me."

"Suit yourself. Four-bits."

Mose dug in his shirt pocket and came up with the money.

"Put the animal in the middle stall across there," the blacksmith said curtly.

"That'll do," Mose said, nodding his head.

What a difference between good old Henry in Ft. Smith and this character. The man still hadn't even looked at Mose, much less introduced himself or asked who Mose was.

After unsaddling Buster and giving him a good currying, Mose climbed up to the stable loft and found some clean hay to lay his bedroll on. He dug in his saddle bags for some jerky he'd bought in Ft. Smith and after eating a couple of chunks of it, laid down for a rest.

Around dusk the smith stopped his banging and clanging below and left the stable. Mose tried to sleep but it was just too early. Instead he closed his eyes and daydreamed about riding a wide, sure-footed trail into a land of high green grass and tall thick trees. He could see a small creek running alongside the trail and there were small mountains, not much more than hills, in the blue distance and a … Suddenly, Mose opened his eyes, quickly out of his daydream. Someone was in the stable below.

It had turned dark and Mose couldn't see the floor or stables very well but he heard Buster snort and dig at the ground with his hooves. Carefully reaching for his .36 caliber Navy revolver in its holster beside the bedroll, Mose took the weapon and quietly moved up to the edge of the loft. There was someone stirring below. Mose aimed his pistol at the figure and called down:

"Who's there? What are you doing?"

The figure stopped moving but there was no answer. Mose made a production out of cocking the .36.

"Wait, wait," a high voice cried out. "Don't shoot. I'm the smithy's wife."

"What are you doing down there?" Mose asked.

"Come to see if you was hungry," the woman answered. "Got some food here."

Mose heard a scratching on one of the stable's wood beams and then a match flared. The woman lit an oil lamp she carried and set it on a work table.

"Biscuits and bacon," she called up to Mose. "Figured you might like some."

"Yes, ma'am," Mose said, holstering the .36 before hustling down out of the loft.

In the light of the lamp, the smithy's wife looked to be several years her husband's junior. She had long brown hair, flowing wild and free, and sharp, playful brown eyes. Her skin was dark and smooth, with a narrow attractive nose above her full mouth - which seemed always on the verge of forming into a laughing sneer. Her long, form-fitting cotton dress left little doubt as to her womanly attributes, which Mose tried to ignore.

"I reckon you was some hungry," she said, watching Mose tear after the food.

From the little curl in the woman's well-defined lips, it looked like she might have more to say on the subject - on any subject for that matter.

"I reckon I was," Mose said, concentrating on consuming his meal.

He didn't think the smithy would necessarily cotton to his wife being out in the stable chatting with Mose after dark - whether it was to bring him food or not.

"There's water here, too," the woman said, pointing to a small cup beside the cloth she'd brought the biscuits and bacon in.

"'Preciate it," Mose replied, taking a swig of the water with his last bite of food. "How much I owe you?"

"You don't owe me nothin'," the woman said, moving up close to Mose to retrieve the food cloth.

Mose downed the rest of the water and handed her the cup. Her hand grazed his during the exchange. It felt like lightning running through Mose's body. The woman moved closer yet. She was so close, Mose could feel the warmth of her body and the smell of something sweet on her breath. He suppressed an urge to put his arm around her waist.

"I better get back up in the loft," he said, rising quickly. Just as he did, the blacksmith came banging through the back door of the stable.

"What the hell is goin' on out here?" he bawled at Mose and his wife.

"Whoa," Mose said, instinctively backing up. "Nothin's goin' on."

"You get back in the house," the smithy growled at his wife.

The woman turned and with a lovely sneer for both Mose and her husband, sashayed right out of the stable as if she were a noble lady strolling in a manicured English garden. The smithy glowered at her retreating figure and when she was gone turned his harsh glare on Mose.

"Stay away from my woman," he said coarsely, "if you know what's good for you."

"I wasn't doin' nothin' with your woman," Mose countered, "and I wadn't intendin' to."

"You saddle tramps think you can just come in anywhere and take what you want," the man said.

"I don't think no such thing," Mose shot back, "and I'd be goin' easy on the saddle tramp part."

"I'll say what I …," the smithy began, but stopped when he saw Mose square up into a fist-fighting position. "I … just don't like nobody messin' with my wife."

"I done told you I wasn't messin' with nothin'," Mose said, making no effort to conceal his anger or lack of respect for the pushy smithy.

The smithy looked Mose up and down, saw the hard, clenched fists, the fire in the eyes, the position ready to strike. He backed away. Slowly, but surely, snatching the lamp off the work table where his wife had left it.

When the troublesome man was gone, Mose let out a deep breath and relaxed his hands and body. Seemed like these days somebody was always trying to start something with him. In the dark of the stable he climbed back up into the loft to his bedroll and lay down to try and get a night's sleep. He kept the .36 nearby just in case.

Mose woke next morning to a commotion in the road outside the stable. Sleepy-eyed and still groggy from his long run on Buster away from the recent storm, he slowly raised himself up and peered over the loft edge. The blacksmith was there already, preparing for his day's work.

"What's all that ruckus out there?" Mose called down.

"You cowboys are mighty slow for risin', I reckon," the blacksmith said by way of answer.

"Don't concern me no how," Mose dismissed the topic.

"If you have to know," the smithy said grumpily, "they was a stagecoach robbery yesterday. The guard was winged and a passenger shot and killed."

"My, God," Mose said, "that's terrible."

"Hmph," the smithy grunted.

The conversation seemingly over, Mose put on his boots and started gathering his gear. There didn't seem any reason to stay in this place any longer, especially now that the norther had passed through. Down in the stable, he fed and watered Buster. The smithy acted like he was busy but he was keeping track of every movement Mose made.

"Leaving in a hurry?" the smithy finally said, unable to restrain a natural impulse towards nosiness.

"Yeah," Mose answered, "I don't see any …."

Before Mose could finish his sentence, the doors of the stable swung open and several men marched in. At their head was a big man wearing a star.

"Morning, Enoch," the lawman spoke to the smithy, while giving Mose a quick once-over.

"Morning, marshal," Enoch said, also giving Mose a fast glance. Mose tossed and straightened the blanket on Buster's back in preparation for saddling him.

"I reckon's you heard about the stagecoach?" the marshal asked the smith.

"Yes, sir," Enoch said firmly. "Got you a killer on your hands. A loner was it?"

"One man," the marshal confirmed. "Shot the guard, killed a passenger. Rode on towards Nopal, the driver said."

"Anybody else get it?" Enoch asked.

"No, thankfully," the marshal said. "A woman and man, not together, were unhurt. The other poor fella got it in the neck. Bled to death out there."

Enoch didn't say anything but he turned his head in Mose's direction, enough so to make the marshal do the same. Mose was tossing the saddle onto Buster's back.

"What about you, young fella?" the marshal spoke to Mose. "What's your story?"

"My story?" Mose asked.

"Yeah, where you from? Where you headin' in such a hurry."

"I ain't in a hurry," Mose said evenly, giving Enoch a cold stare, "I'm just leavin'. Ain't the most hospitable place I seen."

"Where were you late yesterday?"

"Ridin' into here."

"He come in right about after that shootin'," Enoch volunteered. "Come off the trail. He's a saddle tramp. He might be your man."

"You son of a …," Mose began.

"Easy, son," the marshall said, squaring up towards Mose. Some of the men with the lawman did the same. Mose stopped saddling Buster. "We just need to ask you a few questions."

"It's him," Enoch said, wagging a finger at Mose. "I know it is. He paid me with brand new coins. Bet he got 'em from the strongbox on the coach. Hell, yes. I knew they was somethin' wrong with him right away. Scared my wife in the night, too. Damn near raped her, I figure."

"Why you lyin' dog," Mose growled, stepping forward menacingly towards Enoch. The smithy took refuge behind the marshal's delegation.

"Hold up, boy," the marshal ordered Mose. He pointed his finger at Mose and two of his biggest men grabbed Mose who started to struggle, then thought better of it.

"You're makin' a big mistake, marshall," Mose said, red-faced, "this lyin' weasel made all that stuff up."

"We'll decide that," the marshal said, "over at the office. You come along peaceful, son, or we'll take you there the hard way."

"I ain't done nothin'," Mose insisted, but he went along quietly. There was nothing else for it.

The Nopal city jail was not much more than a cage at the back of the tiny marshal's office. There was only one rickety wooden cot with a filthy, lice-infested mattress that could have doubled for a worn-out blanket it was so thin. Mose ended up putting the mattress under the cot, finding hard wood more comfortable than the insect-filled padded cloth.

Well into late afternoon, after leaving Mose pretty much to his own devices for the better part of the day, the marshal, a thick-headed deputy, and some man named Carlton who had something to do with the local court bustled into the jail with news for Mose.

"We found your stash of loot, boy," this Carlton blustered, as the three men gathered around Mose's cage.

"I ain't got no stash of loot," Mose said tiredly.

"What do you call this, then?" the thick-skulled deputy asked. He held up Mose's twenty dollar gold-piece and the remaining paper money he had left.

"I call that wages," Mose replied.

"Nobody makes that much money," Carlton countered.

"We found it among your belongings, son," the marshal said.

"Look, marshal," Mose said, feeling the marshal might be a good bit more reasonable than the deputy and the court man, "I earned that money. Ridin' trail."

"That gold-piece is spankin' new," the deputy said. "Like it came off that strongbox from the robbery." Mose shook his head. These boys weren't listening.

"Why you hidin' that money, if you earnt it," Carlton huffed.

"Why do you think?" Mose said.

"You stole it, that's why," the deputy shot back.

"I'm on the trail these days," Mose explained patiently, "you can't leave what you got out in the open."

"Where were you headed?" the marshal asked.

"Sedalia," Mose answered.

"Sedalia?" Carlton laughed. "Boy, you are a liar. You come in from the north, the smithy said he seen that. You goin' the wrong direction if you was goin' up to Missouri."

"I was tryin' to outrun the norther," Mose said. "You call me a liar again and I'll come out of here and knock your head off, mister."

"See, marshall," Carlton squealed, jumping back away from the cell, "he's the one. He's the killer. He's threatenin' to kill me. For nothin'."

"Take it easy, son," the marshall told Mose.

"I'm tellin' you, marshal," Mose said with some heat, "I never had nothin' to do with no stagecoach robbin' nor killin'. And I don't like bein' called a liar by some damned polecat."

"You'll think polecat," Carlton spat at Mose, while backing towards the jail door. "You killed a good man. A good man from this town. People knew him good. You'll pay for this. People in town will see to that. You'll pay soon."

"Calm down, Carlton," the marshal said. "Judge Winter will be here in a couple of days, he'll decide."

"There may not be nothin' to decide by then," Carlton threatened, opening the jail door. "There won't be no need for a trial."

"Go on," the marshal told him.

"Mark my words," Carlton called back from the doorway, "it'll be settled long before that."

After Carlton, the would-be vigilante, left the jail, Mose tried to calm his own nerves by lying down and resting for a bit. He stretched out carefully on the wood slats of the cot, his feet dangling off one end and closed his eyes. He tried to picture in his mind what his parents looked like but too many other images from the last ten years of his life gained the forefront and he could not clearly picture either his mother or his father's face.

He could remember the handful of battles he'd been in when serving under General Shelby in Missouri. Boonville, Waverly, the bitter defeat at Westport. The retreat and collapse of General Prices' command. The flight into Mexico and the mixed experience in the Carlota colony. It was there ….

Of a sudden it seemed, Mose was startled awake by loud shouting outside the jail. Sitting up quickly, he was surprised to see it had gotten completely dark. The unseen mob was loud and boisterous but Mose could occasionally hear the marshal's voice over the general clamor. He was sure he heard Carlton and maybe Enoch as well.

"He killed Bert," Carlton's voice declared into the night.

"Kill him," came a chorus of angry voices.

"Take it easy now," the marshal counseled the mob.

"Bert was our friend," someone cried.

"He was mine, too," the marshal allowed, "but lynchin' this fellow without a trial ain't right."

"We want him," someone else demanded, "now." Mose thought it might have been Enoch.

The next outburst from the crowd was unintelligible and Mose's attention was then drawn to a nearer, different sound. It was a hissing noise coming from the back of the cell. He got up from the cot and walked back to the barred window to find its source. At the window, he was shocked to see Enoch's pretty young wife just outside the back of the jail.

"What are you doin' there?" Mose asked her.

"I got your horse," the woman said, "I'm gonna bust you out of there before they hang you."

"What?" Mose wondered, almost laughing. "What are you talking about?" But when he looked outside more carefully, he could see the woman had Buster saddled and ready to go.

"Here," the woman said, reaching the end of a thick rope inside the jail to Mose. "Knot that around the window bars. This adobe ought to fall apart like dry sand with a good pull."

"Are you crazy, woman?" Mose said, holding the end of the rope like it was a dirty yellow rattlesnake. "I'm under arrest. I gotta wait for the judge to come. There's gonna be a trial when he gets here. I'll be let go. They'll see I'm innocent."

"They'll see you're hung is more like it," the woman shot back. "You ain't gonna make it through the night much less till the judge gets here."

Mose listened to the loud, unintelligible sounds of the vigilante crowd outside the front of the jail. The woman had a point.

"You got that rope tied good to the saddlehorn on Buster?" Mose wanted to know.

"I will," the woman said, "on one condition."

"Oh, no," Mose groaned.

"You gotta take me with you."

"Hell, woman, I'll be lucky if I make it a mile out of town even if we do pull this window out. They'll be comin' hell bent for me, lickety-split."

"I cain't stay here. Enoch beats me. He's a God-awful man, mister."

"If I take you, we both die," Mose said flatly. "Buster cain't carry the both of us."

"He looks big and strong."

"Not that big and strong."

"Hell."

"Listen, lady, I thank you truly for helpin' me, but I gotta go alone. There's no other way."

The woman was silent. Mose listened to the mob out front. It was getting louder. There was no time to lose.

"Bust me out, woman, or forget about it," Mose said. "It's dark out there, run off the other side. Nobody'll see you. That old man of yours won't know you did it."

"Damn it, mister."

"I'm sorry."

"Damn," the woman repeated, but she made sure the rope knot on the saddlehorn was as tight as she could get it.

Mose hooked his end around each of the two bars closest to where he stood. They looked the weakest. He tied the rope off tight.

"Swat Buster on the rear. Hard," Mose told her, "he's strong."

The woman did as she was told and Buster gave a leap forward, straining against the rope and the wall it and he was attached to. The lady swatted the horse again and he pulled hard against his restraints. The barred window ground out on the side closest to Mose and with a hard kick he knocked two chunks of adobe wall loose. Buster jerked forward again with another slap on the rear and the wall separated enough for Mose to climb through. He was out. Free.

"God bless you, lady," he said, pulling the knotted rope loose from the window bars.

The woman gave Mose a quick hug, shoved a pistol into his hand and dropped something round and shiny into his shirt pocket. Without another word she disappeared into the darkness. Mose could hear the crowd going wild in front. They'd heard the noise. He didn't have much time.

Sticking the pistol behind his belt, he ran to Buster, clambered into the saddle and dug his heels into the horse's sides. The spirited animal practically leaped forward, then galloped into the desert night, Mose pleading for more speed as they shot out of the little town and onto the stagecoach road.

Behind them, the mob cursed and yelled, fired wildly and inaccurately in the general direction of the escapees. None of the rounds even came close to them, but Mose kept Buster at a gallop until he was sure they were completely out of range. He ran the animal as fast and hard as he dared in the available light.

About a mile or so outside Nopal, they left the stagecoach road and headed due north toward the Big Dipper, toward the refuge of Indian Territory, toward freedom. When Mose could no longer hear anything but the normal sounds of night, he reined Buster in and let him cool down at a reasonable walking pace.

The night was still, reassuringly quiet. Mose was sorry he had had to leave the lady back there to deal with her vicious husband and the mindless mob, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were looking to string him up. He had to escape.

As the night deepened into its darkest hours, man and horse were one in the opaque shadows. Nopal was well in the distance now. Mose kept on a northerly trail, he never once looked back.

The End

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The stifling heat hung over the makeshift courtroom enveloping the twelve men walking from the open door of the saloon's back room. Angling up the staircase, they resumed their seats on the stairs facing the three tables in front of them.

To the right of the staircase, at a lone table, sat Judge Thomas Becker, who regularly held court in The Lucky Lady Saloon on his visits to the town of Sweetwater.

To the left of the staircase, facing Judge Becker, were two tables. The one closest to the staircase was presently unoccupied. At the near end of the other table sat attorney Jacob Wyatt, Marshal Cooper Smith at the far end and Wyatt's client, Charlie Gilson, who was accused of killing a man in a saloon fight, sat between them in shackles.

Spectators to the proceedings sat in the rows of chairs arranged behind the two tables. Everyone's attention was on the twelve men who'd entered the room.

"Has the jury reached a decision?" asked Judge Becker when the jury settled themselves on the staircase.

"Yes sir, Judge, we have," said Asa Hartley, rising from his seat on the stairs.

Judge Becker looked over at the three men sitting at the table across from him. "The defendant will rise and face the jury."

Jacob Wyatt and Marshal Smith rose from their seats, but Charlie Gilson remained slouched in his chair.

"Marshal Smith," said Judge Becker, nodding at Charlie Gilson.

"Get up, Gilson," said Cooper Smith, looking down at his prisoner.

After a moment's hesitation, Gilson heard a shotgun being hammered back. He looked over at Deputy Marshal Otis Fuller, sitting in a chair against the wall next to the table. Fuller waggled the shotgun at Gilson.

"Judge said stand up," he whispered with a smile.

Slowly, Gilson stood up between his attorney and the Marshal. Satisfied, Judge Becker turned back to the jury. "Tell the court your decision."

Asa Hartley cleared his throat. "Judge, the jury finds Charlie Gilson guilty of killin' Jodie Wilkins."

When the room erupted in cheers, Judge Becker beat his gavel on the table until the outburst subsided.

"Another outburst like that and I'll clear this court," said Becker and turned his attention to Charlie Gilson.

"Charlie Gilson, you've been found guilty of murder by a jury of your peers. As a result, I sentence you to be hanged by your neck until you are dead. Sentence to be carried out one week from today. May God have mercy on your soul." Judge Becker beat his gavel on the table. "Court is adjourned. Marshal Smith, the prisoner is remanded to your custody."

"It ain't never gonna happen!" shouted Charlie Gilson. "When my brother finds out, he'll come in here and burn this town to the ground."

"Come on, Gilson, let's go," said Cooper Smith, guiding Gilson from the table.

A cowboy sitting alone in the last row of chairs watched as they hurried Charlie Gilson from the saloon. Rising from his chair, he went out onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon, pulled the fixings from his shirt pocket and rolled a quirley.

Striking a match on the handrail, he lit the quirley, watching Cooper Smith and Otis Fuller escort Charlie Gilson through the door of the Marshal's office.

Stepping off the boardwalk, he threw the spent match into the street and untied a sorrel from the hitch rail. Stepping into the saddle, he turned the horse and rode out of town.

Otis Fuller stopped at the window as Cooper Smith escorted Charlie Gilson through the office and into the cellblock, locking him in the nearest cell visible from the barred window of the door. Smith walked back into the office and threw the keys on his desk.

"What're you looking at?" asked Smith, hanging his hat on a wall peg next to the door.

"There was a fella sittin' in the back row all by his lonesome during the trial. He was still there when we left with Gilson. He just left town."

"Yeah, so?"

"I just got a bad feelin' about him is all. Lotta things can happen. When word gets out we're gonna have a hangin', it'll look like the Fourth of July around here."

"'Nothing we can do about it, Otis. Judge Becker sentenced him and we gotta carry it out."

"Why do we have ta wait a week? Why couldn't we just hang 'im in the mornin' and be done with it?"

"Where were you going to hang him, deputy?" asked Judge Becker, walking through the open office door, "throw a rope over a rafter at the livery and hang him in a barn? Maybe there's a tree outside of town where you could throw a rope."

"No sir," said Otis, turning back to the window.

"Marshal, I've arranged for the building of a gallows to start tomorrow. I've also wired Fort Smith and they'll make sure someone is here within the week to execute the sentence. All you have to do is make sure the prisoner is there." Judge Becker threw a side-glance at Otis Fuller.

"He'll be there, Judge," said Cooper Smith.

"I'll be leaving on the morning stage, I have to be in Fort Worth in two days." Judge Becker extended his hand to Cooper Smith. "See you in a couple of months."

"Deputy," said Becker as he walked out the door.

Otis Fuller didn't leave the window until Judge Becker crossed the street and entered the hotel.

Gil Jennings walked his sorrel through the trees to the brush-hidden crevice in the rocks. He ducked his head as the horse stepped through the crevice, straightening up when he came out on the other side into a small clearing.

Six men sat huddled around a blazing campfire. He walked his sorrel to a small spring, letting it drink while he unsaddled it. Putting a couple handfuls of grain from his right saddlebag into his hat, he let the sorrel feed.

Slapping his hat against his leg when the sorrel was finished, he picked up his saddle and rifle, carrying them to the clearing, dropping them near the fire. Taking a tin cup from his left saddlebag, he filled it with coffee from a pot on the fire.

"We got trouble," he said, standing at the fire sipping the steaming liquid from his cup.

Hap Gilson lay on his bedroll near the fire smoking a quirley, his hat partially covering his eyes.

"What kind of trouble?"

"They're gonna hang your little brother."

Hap Gilson lifted the hat from his eyes.

"They're gonna what?"

Jennings took another sip of his coffee.

"They're gonna stretch your little brother's neck. He's sittin' in the jail in Sweetwater right now. He got drunk and killed some sodbuster. Had his trial today and the judge sentenced him to hang."

"When?"

"Next week."

"Where were you when all this was happenin'?"

"I didn't get into Sweetwater until they already had him locked up. Wouldn't a mattered none no way. Cain't nobody control Charlie, Hap, not even you."

"We'll pay Sweetwater a little visit in the mornin'," said Gilson, putting his hat back over his eyes.

"You're thinkin' about bustin' him out, ain't ya? Cooper Smith is the Marshal in Sweetwater. Think about that," said Jennings, tossing the last of his coffee into the fire making it sizzle.

Leaning back in a chair outside the Marshal's office, Otis Fuller sat with a scattergun across his lap. Listening to the staccato of the carpenter's hammers constructing the gallows, he watched Emil Dessler load travel bags into the boot of the stagecoach.

For the first time in three months the noon stage would be leaving on time. He'd always wondered why they called it the noon stage, because it never arrived or left before two or three o'clock.

Emil Dessler greeted each of the passengers as they climbed into the stagecoach, saving a special greeting for Judge Becker. Climbing to the top of the stage, Dessler slapped the reins and cursed the horses into motion, rocking the stagecoach on its thoroughbraces.

Watching the stagecoach thunder down the street, seven riders caught Otis's attention. As they neared the Marshal's office, Otis rose from his chair, leaning into the doorway.

"Riders comin'," he shouted inside to Cooper Smith.

Watching the riders dismount at the hitch rail, Otis slipped his finger through the trigger guard of the scattergun, resting it in the crook of his arm, cradling it like a baby. Seeing the six riders step up on the boardwalk, Otis sidestepped, blocking the open doorway.

"Howdy, name's Hap Gilson, I understand you have my brother locked up in your jail," said the man leading the way.

"He's here," replied Otis.

"I'd like to see him."

"Gotta talk to the Marshal," said Fuller, stepping from the doorway. Otis hammered back the scattergun, leveling it at the five riders behind Gilson.

"No reason for you to move, he ain't your brother."

Hap Gilson turned in the doorway. "You boys go on to the saloon, I'll meet you there."

Gil Jennings stopped at the edge of the boardwalk as the other five riders remounted, walking their horses to the Lucky Lady Saloon.

"I'll wait for Hap," he said, reaching into his shirt pocket for the small sack of tobacco and papers. He stood facing Otis Fuller and rolled a quirley.

Cooper Smith moved from behind his desk when Hap Gilson entered the office.

"I'd like to see my brother, Marshal," said Gilson.

Cooper picked up the keys from his desk, unlocking the cellblock door.

"The hogleg stays here," said Smith, pointing to Gilson's holster.

After a slight hesitation, Hap Gilson placed his gun on Cooper's desk and strolled through the open door.

"I knew you'd come, Hap," said Charlie Gilson, hopping off the cot, "When you gettin' me out?"

"You couldn't stay out of trouble, could you, Charlie? You've caused me a big problem."

"You gotta get me outta here, Hap, they're goin' to hang me."

Hap Gilson looked back at the door, seeing Cooper Smith through the barred window.

"Just sit tight, Charlie, I'll think of something," whispered Gilson.

"Okay, Hap."

"You need anything?" asked Hap, turning to the door.

"Bring me a bottle before you go."

"Ain't that what got you in here?"

Cooper Smith closed and locked the cellblock door when Hap Gilson came back into the office.

"Thank you, Marshal," said Gilson, picking up his Colt from Cooper's desk, dropping it into its holster and continuing on toward the office door.

"Whatever you're thinking, Gilson, don't," said Smith, tossing the keys onto his desk.

"Have a nice day, Marshal," said Gilson, stepping out onto the boardwalk.

Gil Jennings followed Hap Gilson into the Lucky Lady Saloon, finding their five companions sitting at a table against the back wall.

"Ainsley, you and Willis stay in town and watch the jail. I want to know if you see anything happen," said Gilson, dropping a double eagle in front of each of them. "Don't drink it up all in one night or you'll be sleepin' in the street. The rest of us are going back to camp. I don't want nobody hung over when I get ready to move."

Cooper Smith stepped up onto the boardwalk as Emil Dessler jerked back on the reins bringing the horses and stagecoach to a skidding stop in front of the stage depot.

Setting the brake with his left foot, Dessler wrapped the reins around the brake lever, climbing down from his perch atop the stagecoach. Shifting his chaw to the other cheek, he spit a stream of tobacco into the street, opening the stagecoach door.

"Only one passenger today, Coop," said Dessler, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

Cooper Smith watched a man, in a black suit and black derby; duck his head as he stepped from the stage onto the platform. Cooper smiled as Harlan Hancock stepped from the coach.

In his time as a lawman, Cooper had the necessity to meet Hancock a time or two and always thought he looked more like a school teacher than a hangman, but, Harlan Hancock was efficient at what he did.

"Marshal Smith," said Hancock, extending his hand to Cooper.

"Hello, Mister Hancock," said Smith, always surprised by the firmness of the handshake of the frail looking hangman.

Unstrapping the baggage boot at the back of the stagecoach, Emil Dessler set two large carpetbags at the edge of the platform near the two men.

"There you are, Mister Hancock, enjoy your stay in Sweetwater," said Dessler, waving as he walked past the two men and into the depot.

"I shall like to see the subject after I freshen up a bit, if you don't mind, Marshal Smith," said Hancock, picking up his carpetbags.

"I've arranged for your room at the hotel, Mister Hancock. Drop by the office when you're ready."

"Thank you, Marshal," said Hancock, walking off the platform toward the hotel.

An hour later, Harlan Hancock walked through the door of the Marshal's office. Otis Fuller, with his feet up on the desk, sat in the Marshal's chair reading the latest edition of the Sweetwater Star for the third time. He looked up when Hancock came through the door.

"I was looking for Marshal Smith," said Hancock, stopping at the desk.

Dropping his feet to the floor, Otis folded the newspaper in half, laying it on the desk.

"Marshal Smith is having a bite to eat. I'm his deputy, Otis Fuller. Who might you be?"

Hancock straightened up, hands on the lapels of his coat.

"I am Harlan Hancock and I am here to execute the sentence handed down by Judge Thomas Becker."

"Oh, you're the hangman."

"That is a very barbaric term, I must say Mister Fuller. Now, may I see the subject?"

Rising from the chair, Otis picked up the ring of keys from the desk.

"The subject is in here," Otis said, unlocking the door, swinging it open, following Hancock into the cellblock.

"Stand up, Gilson, gentleman here wants to fit you for your necktie," said Fuller.

"He what?" asked Gilson, looking up at them from his cot.

"Stand up," repeated Fuller.

With a look of irritation, Gilson rose from the cot, standing in a slouch.

"A little scrawny, wouldn't you say?" Hancock said to Fuller.

"Scrawny, I'll show you scrawny," shouted Gilson, reaching through the bars of the cell causing Hancock to back step.

"A little extra weight ought to do the trick," said Hancock, turning from the cell.

"Yeah, we want his neck to snap real clean. Don't want him dancing around," said Otis, looking at Charlie Gilson over his shoulder as he followed Hancock out the door.

"It ain't gonna happen, Hap's gonna get me outta here," shouted Gilson, as Otis Fuller locked the door.

"What's all the shoutin'?" asked Cooper Smith, as Harlan Hancock and Otis Fuller walked back into the office.

"Gilson took exception to being fitted for his noose is all," replied Otis.

"Thank you for your help, Deputy Fuller," said Hancock, "I have some work to do and only a couple of days to it in."

"Marshal," said Hancock, tipping his derby to Cooper as he walked out the door.

"I'll sure be glad when these next coupla days is over," said Otis.

Hap Gilson looked up from his plate of beans and salt pork when Tuck Ainsley rode into camp. Ainsley dismounted, took a tin cup from his saddlebag and walked to the fire, pouring himself some coffee.

"Well?" said Gilson, as he watched Ainsley drink his coffee.

"Hangman come to town today," said Ainsley.

"How you know it was the hangman?" said Gilson, spooning another bite of food into his mouth.

"Seen 'im once before. Strung a fella up in Yuma. Pretty good at what he done too. Snapped that fella's neck like a dry twig. Didn't dance at all."

How much time we got?" Gilson asked, turning to Jennings.

"Judge said a week. Way I figger, we got 'til day after tomorrow."

"That'll be plenty of time. Here's what we're gonna do."

Finishing his rounds, Cooper Smith walked down the deserted boardwalk toward his office turning doorknobs and looking in windows, noticing two men dismount in front of his office. Waiting for him at the edge of the boardwalk, Cooper caught a glint of metal on their shirts in the lamplight.

"Cooper Smith?" asked the taller of the two as Cooper reached his office. US Marshal's badges adorned the shirts of the two newcomers.

"I'm Smith."

"I'm Roy Hickman, this here's Early Grimes, Judge Becker sent us. He said you might be in need of some help."

Cooper Smith smiled as he shook the hands of the two Marshals.

"And welcome help you'll be. Come on in, I want you to meet my deputy."

"Otis, I'm comin' in," said Cooper as he turned to the door.

"Come ahead," replied Otis. Cooper Smith led the two lawman through the door.

End of Part One

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Kenneth Walker's heart hammered in his chest, and his breath came in tearing gasps. Blood poured from the wound in his side, and he put a hand to it to quell the bleeding.

Huge raindrops pounded against his skull. Holding his hand up in front of his face, realized that he couldn't see it. Utter blackness had descended upon the land.

Kenneth sat up and moaned. Razor sharp pain racked his short, stocky frame as he sucked deep breaths of air. In his fevered state, his brain worked slowly. What had happened to him?

Ken attempted to focus his thoughts, but the pain was too intense. Why couldn't he think? A faint memory finally forced its way into his intoxicated mind. The crackling sound of his cabin burning brought it all back, and he heard his wife's screams all over again.

His wife! Where was she? All thought of pain was erased instantly. Struggling to his feet, he took two steps and the pain roared back like a runaway locomotive.

He stopped, nearly overcome by it and put both hands over the wound. Blood seeped though his fingers and down his pant leg.

If only this damn rain would stop so he could tell how badly he was bleeding. The flow of blood must be stopped, or he was a dead man and useless to his wife.

Taking his knife, he cut off a section of his shirt and wrung rainwater out of it out as best he could before he pressed it against his wound. The bullet must have glanced off his hipbone, leaving about a five-inch gash in his side. It was only a flesh wound, but it bled profusely. His eyes peered into the darkness, but he didn't know where he was or how he managed to escape the riders.

Kenneth and his wife filed legal claim and settled on a water hole that was under the control of a large cow outfit, the Rafter 99. Rafter riders had attacked them the night before and set his cabin on fire while he and his pregnant wife, Molly, were eating supper. As soon as he stepped outside the bullet hit him. When he staggered backward, something struck him over the head. The screams of his wife were the last thing he remembered.

As if on cue, his head began to throb. Reaching up to feel of it caused him to hiss in pain. A large knot protruded from under his thick mane of brown hair, just above his right ear.

Moaning in agony, he curled up on the ground with both hands firmly pressed against his side. Raindrops pelted him and his eyes closed.

When he opened them again, it was daylight. The rain no longer stung his skin. Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, he blinked and gazed around the rain-soaked prairie. A thin column of smoke rose against the tree-covered mountains in the distance.

That would be his cabin or what was left of it. Seeing no immediate threat, he struggled to his feet and inhaled sharply against the sudden pain.

Ken took a step forward and doubled over. The pain was so intense that he nearly retched. Dying would be a relief. But he couldn't, he had to find his wife.

His mind wandered and drifted back to the last meal they shared. She had cooked his favorite desert, pecan pie. His mouth watered at the thought.

The country he walked across was open prairie. His enemies would make quick work of him if they spotted him now. Oh well, there was nothing he could do about it.

Every step was agony, but he ignored the pain. An hour later, he approached the remnants of his cabin and observed that parts of it still remained. The storm last night must have put the fire out. Some sections still smoldered, and he observed that there were no people in sight.

"Molly!" His voice echoed back at him off the distant mountains.

Striding around to the door, he stuck his head inside. Nothing. His wife was gone. A partially burned tintype of them on their wedding day stared up at him from the floor. Tears filled his eyes and after wiping them away, he shoved the tintype into his pocket.

Everything else was burned beyond use. The weapons he owned were missing. Had they taken everything?

The town was a good two days ride from here, but he had no horse and he had no gun. Nothing was left for him here, so he started along the trail.

The little bit of money deposited in his account at the bank would have to be used to purchase a weapon. Suddenly, he stopped flat-footed. A stark figure lay ahead of him in the trail. His heart skipped a beat and then pounded in his chest with slow heavy beats as he recognized the dress that his wife wore the last time he'd seen her.

"No!" His voiced echoed back at him off the mountains three distinct times as he ran toward her. It was a slow, shuffling, limping run but it got him there. Swallowing hard, he gazed upon his wife's lifeless body. Her eyes were wide open to the sun. A blue bullet hole stared at him from her forehead.

He stood there, his mouth hanging open, shocked. What kind of no good, worthless scum would kill a pregnant woman?

Ken knew that he should feel sorrow. But he didn't. He knew that he should feel pain and loss. Instead, he experienced a completely new emotion. For the first time in his life, he knew what hatred was.

A white-hot rage washed over him so intently that his whole body shook. Goose bumps raised his flesh and he shivered. His eyes burned with such intensity that they watered. His fists clenched of their own accord and he ground his teeth.

After a few moments, the rage passed. Falling to his knees beside her body, he tried to cry but couldn't. Scenes of their wedding day flashed before him. He remembered the happiness she experienced and smiled in spite of himself. Time slowed and seemed to stand still, but at last Ken swallowed hard and stood.

Picking her up, he carried her back to the cabin. The pain in his side became acute, and blood trickled down his side. He lay her body gently on the ground and found a shovel.

Fashioning a cross from two charred pieces of timber, he placed it at the head of her grave. As he looked down the mound of fresh earth, he took a deep, ragged breath. His reasons for living were gone. There was but one purpose left for him. Kill those men responsible for this atrocity or perish in the attempt.

He took a match from his pocket and struck it, watching as the flame grew. Just before the fire reached his fingers, he flung it inside his cabin. The match landed in the remnants of their bed. The mattress ignited and flame licked the walls.

Kenneth turned and walked away from his former life. Black smoke billowed into the sky behind him.

Four days later, at noon, he strode into town. The doctor treated his wound but refused payment. Then Ken went to the bank and closed out his account. Shoving the money into his pocket, he stepped back out onto the boardwalk, avoiding the mud filled street.

His boot heels clanged loudly on the wood planks as he made his way to the mercantile. The clothing section drew his attention first, and he tried on several different hats before he found one that fit. Then he went to the counter. "I need to buy a pistol..." He paused a moment, considering. "And a shotgun."

Dave Griswold, the owner of the mercantile, nodded his head. "Sure thing."

Several rifles and shotguns leaned against a rack on the wall. The counter before Ken was a glass case in which the pistols were encased.

"Let me see that one." Ken wiped his nose and pointed at the case.

Dave unlocked the case and removed the gun Kenneth indicated, a beautifully engraved silver .45 Colt Cattleman with an ivory handled grip.

Ken turned and pointed the gun at the far wall, sighting down the barrel. It felt balanced in his hand, as if it were an extension. Drawing the gun in close, he spun the cylinder, listening to it click and admiring the engravings. Whoever had created it was truly an artist. "I'll take it."

"You'll need a gunbelt," Dave said. He went down to the end of the counter and came back with one. "See if that fits."

Kenneth slung it around his waist and buckled it, dropped the pistol into the holster. "That'll work."

Dave took a shotgun from the rack and handed it to him. "That's the best one I've got."

Kenneth took the gun from him and looked it over. It was a double-barreled side-by-side 12 gauge. Nodding and scratching his bushy beard, he glanced at the rack. "You might as well give me that '66 Henry," he said. "And shells for all of 'em."

Ken took his ammunition and packed it all into a pair of saddlebags he bought. He didn't have a horse yet, but that was his next stop. Counting out his payment, he cradled the long guns under his arm and turned to leave.

Dave leaned over the counter and whispered. "I know who you are and I'm sorry about what happened. You didn't hear this from me, but there are some Rafter 99 riders in the saloon right now. They've been talking it up about what they did to you."

"Thanks. I owe you one," Ken said and pushed open the door, stopping just outside. A bench in front of the mercantile beckoned to him, so he sat to load his weapons.

The rifle, he slung over his left shoulder. The shells for the Colt made little clicking sounds as in dropped them into the cylinder one at a time, and then shoved the gun into his holster. Dropping two shells into the shotgun, he snapped it shut and stood.

His lips turned upward in a grim smile as he stared down the street. The saloon was at the far end so he stepped out into the mud. Six horses were tied out to the rail in front of the saloon. All of them wore the Rafter 99 brand.

Ken marched down the street, his feet making squishing sounds in the mud. Death awaited him, his death and the death of those men in the saloon. But he was not afraid. His only hope was that he could get all of them before they killed him. The thought of dying disturbed him not at all.

He stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon and slammed the batwings open with the shotgun pointed at the floor.

An old man sat in front of a piano and banged on the keys. His head swiveled around, and he stopped playing abruptly when he saw Kenneth. Several poker games were going full tilt, and six men stood at the bar. All eyes focused on Ken. The men at the bar turned to face him.

"You all riding for the Rafter 99?" Ken recognized one as the man that shot him, and smiled when he saw the man's eyes flare.

"That's right," a scrawny looking redhead said. "What's it to you?"

The bartender took a quick glance at Ken, and then dove to the floor behind the bar.

Ken smiled and raised the shotgun. "See you all in hell!" he said, and squeezed both triggers.

The other men in the saloon scrambled for cover, and a saloon girl screamed shrilly. The roar of gunfire drowned out all other sounds. Cards and poker chips scattered as tables were flipped over, and whiskey bottles shattered on the floor. The piano player yanked the piano away from the wall and jumped behind it.

Ken dropped the shotgun and raised the rifle from its sling over his shoulder, and unconsciously worked the lever action until the gun was empty.

The hammer clicked a few times, startling him. Gun smoke obscured his vision, but he managed to see that all six men were down. Ken dropped the rifle and drew his pistol as he approached them.

The unexpectedness of his attack must have caught them off guard. Three men were dead from the double-barreled shotgun blast.

Two of the men were still alive. Blood leaked from the corner of one's mouth. Ken aimed the pistol at the man's head.

"Please, don't Mister," the man said.

"Why not? You didn't give my wife much of a chance," Ken said.

The man coughed and spat up blood. "I didn't have no part of that. I don't hold with killing women."

"Who killed her?"

The man coughed and swallowed hard. "It was Bobby... the... the redhead. You... got him with the first shot." He coughed and gagged as his head lolled to the side, and blood gushed from his mouth.

Ken focused his attention on the other wounded man. His wounds were slight, and he could recover.

Ken's mind flashed back to when he discovered his wife. Her lifeless eyes stared into his. A ragged breath left his lungs as he once again saw the bullet hole in her forehead.

Reverting to the present, he aimed the gun at the man's head. The man didn't speak, only pleaded with his eyes.

White-hot rage washed over Kenneth until he shook and he ground his teeth together. Meeting the man's eyes and smiling at him, Ken cocked the pistol with his thumb. The sound was loud in the stillness of the saloon. Ken's finger took up the slack in the trigger.

A voice inside his mind stopped him. It was his wife. Closing his eyes, he realized that he could see her again. She turned away from the book she was reading and smiled at him. Ken saw that it was the Scripture. "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." She put her Bible down and turned to look at him. "Don't do this thing," she said, and then vanished as if she never existed.

Ken exhaled heavily and opened his eyes. The man on the floor stared up at him. What should he do? The slightest bit of pressure on the trigger, and the gun would fire. Seconds turned into eternity, and a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

Ken dropped the pistol to his side and exhaled heavily. He holstered the gun and shuffled aimlessly from the saloon.

Tears filled his eyes and he sobbed. His wife was gone, and he was stuck in this world alone. Killing those men hadn't brought her back. Kenneth Walker wandered out into the prairie toward the setting sun.

The End

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