Free short stories and novelettes: August 2020

MEXICAN RED

BY CHARLES TURNER

ONE

1

The late Juan Medina was a Comanche. In life, he went by this made up name, for those who knew him found the adopted name easier to pronounce than the original, which has since been lost to history. Juan made a reputation wrangling on some lesser ranches, then he became a legend at Sam Precker’s bigger spread. After winning the affection of Precker’s daughter, Jane, he and she fled to New Mexico, hoping to live quietly operating a livery stable in Santa Fe. Now, twenty three years later, Juan’s son, Tim, dismounted and proceeded to water his horse, right before Sam Precker’s foreman, at Precker‘s ranch.

“You’re Juan Medina‘s boy?” The words were chewed then spat by the foreman, named Jed Grimes, a man of about forty.

He studied the triangular face of Tim Medina with open contempt. “Suppose you tell me what you want?”

Grimes had been in the act of coiling a rope, when the younger man rode in. He was now paused, waiting on the young man‘s response.

Tim casually dangled a cigarette from his lips, but took it away to reply. “I am here to edicate you that I am going to kill James Precker.”

Grimes’s eyes became as steel and he draped the rope he had partially coiled over a fence post to free his gun hand. “You just ride in here and think you are going to live long enough to gun James?”

“I aim to do what’s necessary. I’m taking a room in town and gonna wait for him. You can tell James he’s a yella cur dog that I aim to put down before I leave Del Lobo.” He walked the horse back, preparing to take to the saddle, again.

Jed Grimes squared his shoulders and planted his boots in the dust. “You fast with a gun?”

Tim mounted his horse. “Middlin’,” he said. “But I got no quarrel with you.”

“Might be I have one with you. James is a pal of mine. If he warn’t, I still owe it to his father to stand for him.”

“Unless you are a back shooter, it will need to wait. Just deliver my message, hoss.”

He put the horse to a gallop and went on his way to Del Lobo.

Watching him go, then stalking off to knock at the big house door, Jed cursed himself for allowing the bastid to live. He nodded at the housekeeper and asked to see old man Precker. Wordlessly, the woman glided down the hall to the parlor, where Sam Precker, still in his robe at this late hour, was taking a weak tea, laced with whiskey, nursing a summer cold. “Jed,” she said, simply.

Annoyed, he spoke without returning her gaze. “Didn’t say what he wanted? Send him in anyway.”

Before Jed entered the room Sam moved the covering off his legs and stood up, for he never allowed any man to look down at him. Jed closed the door behind him. He hesitated and Sam muttered to himself before snapping curtly, “Anything? Or, ya just gonna stand there?”

Jed would not have abided such an attitude from most men, but he knew this to just be the boss’s way and he didn’t mind at all. “It’s about Tim Medina. He come here just now for James. Said he aims to kill him.”

“Did you tell him James got stove up and ain’t likely to see a ripe old age anyway?”

Jed almost cringed. “He warn’t talking social, Mr. Precker. Just let me know about his intention to put a bullet in James and rode off. I couldn’t a stopped him, less I put a bullet in his back.”

Sam grew reflective. “My grandson wouldn’t have it another way. If he didn’t want revenge I wouldn’t think nothing of him. But, after his father died, my fight was over. He took my Jane and he paid for it. I hoped, once Tim growed up, he would see the logic in what was done and let it drop. We’ll protect my boy James, but I don’t want to fight my grandson if at all possible.”

“It ain’t none of my business, but I always wondered why James didn’t bring Jane home with him, once he offed Juan.”

“It’s truly none o’ your business,” Sam said, his mood changing back. “But I’ll tell ya. It’s ’cause she run him off with his own pistols, once his shotgun was emptied on Juan Medina. Blood ties is all I can think, why she never pulled the trigger on him.”

“Well, what’s your orders about Tim? He said he’ll be staying at the Del Lobo Hotel.”

“Nothin’ for now. The way you been mooning after my boy‘s oldest girl, you might do something foolish and get killed.”

Jed made a move, sort of like being kicked in the rump. “I thought nobody noticed, about me and Sue. I hope you and James ain’t mad about it.”

“It ain’t my affair,” Sam said. “You, James and her got to work that out.”

2

Tim saw as he rode into Del Lobo the town was about like his mother had described it: A general store that served for most everything, such as stagecoach depot, post office, cafe and place for sitting around for those not interested in the saloon. A hotel with the saloon in the middle of the ground floor, with a board fashioned sidewalk entrance. Livery stable coupled with a blacksmith shop. Barbershop, doubling for a doctor’s office. Miss Laverne’s Boarding House. Several dozen residences. A corral at one end. A sparkling white church at the other end. It had endured, yet had never grown. He dismounted before the livery stable and called out to the interior for service.

Evan Sweet looked up from pitching hay. He invited the stranger in. “Name’s Tim,” the newcomer said. “Might board my horse a week; maybe less.”

Evan held up two fingers. “Two dollars,” he said. “Cheapest rate in town.”

Tim grinned. “That’s a might steep,” he said, handing over the dollars in silver coins.

At that moment a commotion caught their attention. A group of perhaps twenty
men were gathered before the hotel. Without much preliminary thought or action, they rushed it, with its narrow doorway, streaming in as best they could, until the citizens at the head of the stream rushed back and the tide reversed itself. Moving like a crazed animal, the crowd took a man out in the street and bound his hands behind him before towing him up the street to what was known locally as The Hanging Tree.

Tim helped Evan watch that activity until curiosity made him blurt, “What are they killing him for?”

Evan studied for a moment, then shrugged. “He’s the card player feller, come from St. Louis last week.”

Tim grimaced. “I don’t hold with lynching.”

Evan shot a keen look. “But you don’t mind a bit of righteous killing.”

Evan grinned. “Gossip moves fast.”

That nosy marshal in Santa Fe must have telegraphed the information about James Precker, as he had threatened to do. “Did they tell you that bastid shot my Pa in the back with two shotgun barrels?”

Evan’s grin faltered. Nevertheless, he offered a plea of sorts, for the son of Sam Precker‘s life. “In the back? Nobody’s telling that around here. But do you know James is an older man now and trashed from a Mexican fighting bull? He ain’t long for this world. I would let it drop - friend.”

Tim’s manner was casual when he replied, but his muscles had steeled themselves. “Do you say ‘friend’ meaning it or as a threat?”

Evan shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”

There erupted a cacophony of shouts from the mob and then a single gunshot brought utter quiet. For an instant, there was a parting of bodies and Tim beheld a chestnut-haired woman facing the crowd off with a six shooter. The shouting began again and the young newcomer looked at Evan quizzically. “Who is that?”

“It’s Sue Precker: James’s girl and your cousin. Wait a minute,” he said, tossing down the pitchfork. For, at these words, Tim began a hurried stride directly toward The Hanging Tree. “Don’t try to take it out on that girl,” Evan said.

Tim spun on his heel and said, “Going to break this up. You coming or not?”

Evan hesitated, weighing the odds. “Aw, damn,” he muttered, quickstepping to catch up with long-legged Tim. “You’ll have me ruined by this.”

Together they shouldered through to the crowd’s middle until they reached Sue, who spun around and around with her gun, keeping the wary men at bay. To the side, the man with his hands bound behind him stared in terror at the proceedings.

A burly one named Tuck Grackle, the saloon bouncer, took to looming over Sue, haranguing her. “It ain’t none of your business,” he offered in a true bully’s tone.

“I watched it all, looking in the saloon from the hotel lobby,” Sue said. “He didn’t do nothing worth killing him for.”

“He was cheating at poker,” Grackle insisted. “Instead of just shooting him, we had a trial and ruled he needed hanging.”

Sue laughed in the bouncer’s face, “You didn’t see him deal wrong. You all got mad when he kept winning.”

“Nobody gets a royal flush three times in a row.”

“Two of them times it was you and Edgar dealing.”

Tuck Grackle was brought up short when he heard that. It was a fact that had been buried beneath a pile of anger.

“Easy to see she‘s right,” Evan said, moving between the bouncer and the woman.

Indeed, the crowd knew at this point to peel away, a few at a time, possibly ashamed for their murderous lust. Looking upon the retreating backs, Grackle had to back down. Yet, his wounded pride turned, like a rousted out animal, toward Evan Sweet, who had not as yet backed off an inch. “What do you intend, stable man? Why are you here?”

“Oh,” Evan said. “I was just giving it a minute to be sure it’s over for real.”

There was a certain unintended glint in the man’s eye that antagonized Tuck so that on impulse the mountain of muscle made a bear paw swipe that wrapped Evan against The Hanging Tree. He peeled off it, landing face-first in an explosion of dust near the feet of Tim Medina. He looked up, in a daze, at Tim’s face. “You took that real good,” Tim said, to offer encouragement. “But I wouldn‘t get up right now if I was you.”

Grackle considered the matter ended and turned to observe Sue, who was having trouble getting the rawhide untied from around the gambler’s wrists. He pulled a knife from his belt. Shoving past the diminutive female, he pushed the knife forward and made a swift cut that freed the man. He bellowed with laughter when his almost victim lammed up the street like there was a pack of wolves on his heels, straight to his horse and a cloud of dust obscured his final exit. The gambler likely never considered gathering his belongings from out of the hotel, just left town at a full gallop. Chuckling, Grackle was turning like he would be heading back to the saloon when Evan torpedoed into his belly, head first. The two went down on the street.

The bigger man wrapped his hands around Evan’s neck and stood up with the stable man dangling. He tossed him to the side like a used towel. “Now you cut that out,” he lectured.

Evan settled flat on his back, with Tim bent over looking in his face. “That war a fearsome move,” he said. “Before he kills you, why don’t we just go with the gentleman into the saloon and have us a beer?”

Evan managed to sit up but had trouble trying to find his legs. Sue picked the moment to understand just who the stranger standing over the stable man actually was. The gun in her hand tilted his way. “Tim Medina, meet your maker.”

Her bullet tipped his ear. He dropped and rolled, pistols in hands. Two shots went off before the roll concluded. Sue’s gun hand was knocked empty. A spot of red came through the shirt she wore, at the shoulder.

Evan and Grackle had whirled, at Sue’s declaration. “You skunk,” Dan Grackle bellowed. “You shot a woman.”

Evan’s hand slid near his pistol. It froze in that place, for Tim’s right hand tilted a gun in his direction. “I knocked away her gun with one shot,” Tim said. “If she war a man the other would have drilled her heart, dead center. I had an instant to decide. The roll may have affected my aim, for I truly meant to miss her entirely.”

“Get her to the barbershop,” Grackle ordered the liveryman. “I will handle this Medina son of a bitch.”

Because Tuck Grackle had left his gun inside the saloon, Tim felt he could not very well shoot him. He holstered his own guns and braced for the assault.

Grackle, a truly mountainous man, lumbered forward. It appeared his intent was murder. Tim stepped about, maintaining a distance between them, angling for a clear shot at his foe’s chin. He caught in his peripheral vision a group of riders approaching from out of town. He noted how they formed a ring around this struggle with Grackle. He could not afford to be distracted. He leaped forward to slam a fist into the greater man’s temple. His other fist smacked the jaw. The sledgehammer blow that retaliated sent him reeling. He recovered to resume the footwork, searching for openings. He resorted to dirty work and tripped the lunging man, who banged his head into The Hanging Tree. Grackle was up immediately, charging, arms outstretched, a looming bear hug intended for Tim Medina.

Tim sidestepped, pushed the out of balance man forward, causing him to stumble at a horse‘s feet. It reared in self-defense, coming down with a hoof against the bouncer‘s head. An instant great lump appeared beneath Grackle’s scalp. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling, clearly in such a daze as to not know his surroundings.

Tim let his hands drop. He was not one to assault the defenseless. The senseless bouncer wandered off in the general direction of the saloon. Tim sighed his relief. Then he noted that the lead of the surrounding cowboys was Jed Grimes.

He looked on each stern face, reading the name James Precker in each one. “What about it, boys? What kind of reception you dealing in?”

Jed spoke for the group when he said, “We weren’t sent here by James or Sam. But we’ve worked for the family all our adult lives and we intend to protect ‘em all.”

Tim backed off as best he could, until the one cowboy behind blocked him. “James Precker’s safe, long as he’s not in my way, thanks to his daughter, who I just ran into and admire. She don’t deserve the heartache. The same goes for the rest of you. Just keep that back shooting dog out of my path.”

Jed was taking on the air of a preacher. “James told me he didn’t never back shoot anybody, and we around here never saw such from him his whole life.”

Evan had been watching everything from the barber’s window, while the barber’s wife tended to Sue’s wound in the clinic room. Sue came out with a bandage beneath her shirt. Most of the blood had been washed from the cloth but still, it caught the eye, like a little reddish flower. When she looked out and saw Jed and the boys confronting Tim she thought she should be a part of it. She stalked in dust so dry powdery it made puffs where her boots came down. She locked eyes with Jed, whom she was known to favor, and asked what the gathered cowboys were intending.

Instead of answering, Jed was shocked to see blood on her shirt. “What is that wound?” he asked, horror-stricken.

“This scratch?” she said dismissively. She pointed a finger at Tim’s wounded ear. “See the crust of blood? I would of nailed him between the eyes, except I jerked the trigger too hard, I was so mad.”

Jed unhorsed himself and planted his feet before the younger man. “Make your play, Medina. For I’m about to gun you down.”

Tim unenthusiastically took his stance, not willing to plead when he was in the right.

But, Sue stepped in and grabbed Jed by the gun arm. “You are not to shoot him. He proved that he’s standup, by only nicking when he could easily have shot true and killed me after I shot first.”

Jed, reluctant to stand down, said, “You wanted him shot, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but since that he has shown his nature. I don’t think it’s in him to kill Father in cold blood, no matter how he feels about him.”

“Well -” Jed considered his words carefully. “We are going to see him off, far from Del Lobo.”

“Look,” Tim said. “I don’t need an escort. In fact, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Jed registered a tight smile. “’Angry’ Jones, behind you, might make you reconsider. His forty-five is pointed where your brain lives.”

3

The other cowboys were Wes and Wally Breen and Frank White. They left Sue and escorted Tim to where his horse was tied. Then rode away from Del Lobo, taking Tim deep into the wasteland, where days baked and nights froze. And when it was decided there was no water to be had and it would be virtually impossible to walk out, Tim was forced from his horse. “Assuming you are able to walk out of here, you know the direction to keep traveling. Any way but Del Lobo,“ Jed lectured sternly.

Wally Breen took the rein and attempted to lead Tim‘s horse, but the fiery animal balked. It had been raised by Tim and trained by him and it did not like attention from other folks. The horse made a ruckus and fought the cowboys until Angry Jones took out his rifle and shot it dead. The cowboys refused after that to look directly at Tim. They quit their banter and rode in shame, slowly off, leaving his guns, as they promised, fifty yards up the draw.

The riders slowly topped a ridge and one at a time dropped from sight. Tim fervently promised himself each one would die because of what they did to his horse. Unlike the run of most cowboys, he had no fear of being stranded in a land untouched by civilization. He would survive; making his promise was no idle threat.

After taking a few useful items from his saddlebags, he started up the grade to fetch his prized pistols: guns that were once his father’s. Young Tim claimed them even as his mother felt he was not ready for the responsibility. He found ingenious ways to conserve and add to an ammunition pile, as he learned and practiced every aspect of the gunfighter’s art.

Master of the landscape as he went, his father’s Indian teaching serving him well, he made better time than the horsemen. By the time they were setting up camp for the night, he came crawling among the big rocks, near enough to hear their talking.

“Cans of beans. What are they gonna think of next?”

“My cousin ate them in the war.”

“Too windy to start a fire. This whole place could go up.”

“Gonna need our blanket rolls.”

“Give the rest of us one of them cans.”

Silence.

Then:

“You coulda went another way. Killing that horse -”

“That’s done and over. Don’t want to hear more about it.”

“Might better of killed that Medina. He’s Indian.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means he might get away alive and take out revenge.”

“I’m tired. Shut up and lets get some sleep.”

“I got to get behind that rock to do some business, first.”

“You can just go right there.”

“Not this kind of business.”

There followed deep silence that lasted for a spell.

Then - “Frank. What’s taking so long?”

“Frank.”

“Go see.”

“I’m not going out there. It’s dark.”

“Take your brother with you.”

Feeling slightly spooked, the men edged their way around the rock. They froze on seeing a ghostlike figure in the deepening dusk: Tim, beside the body of Frank, strangled and quietly laid in the dirt. The brothers poised, helplessly, until Tim’s gun barked six times and they lay riddled on the ground. Tim pounced around the rock and drilled Angry Jones straight through the heart with the other gun. The sound of pounding hoofs signaled Jed had gotten away. Tim was unconcerned. He would find Jed at the Precker spread, sure as preaching on Sunday.

Jed had managed to scare off two horses. Tim selected from the two that were left and hobbled it nearby. The other, he shooed away. He stepped around the bodies, rearranging the camp to suit himself. Then he found a can of beans and pulled out his knife to open it. The coffee proved too cold for his palate, but he swallowed some gulps of it anyway.

Although the dead cowboys did not in his estimation deserve a proper burial, his conscience goaded him to wrap their bodies in blankets and cover them over with rocks. This he accomplished shortly after first light. Then, after sharing the canteen with the horse, he began the trek back.

His pace was leisurely. He enjoyed making Jed wait. And sweat.

He could imagine Jed riding his horse until it staggered to the ground, resigned and ready to die. In fact, a lesser man than Jed would have done just that. Contrary to Tim’s expectation, Jed in fact had respect for his horse and treated it accordingly. He would never have murdered Tim’s horse, under any circumstances. His impulsive compatriots had acted on the moment. He conceded that Tim had just cause for attacking as he did.

By the time he arrived at Precker’s, Jed was slumped wearily in the saddle and not ready to be held accountable for returning alone. He wanted only to fall on his bed and remain unconscious as long as possible. But Jorge Gonzalez spotted him from the first, hailing him with welcoming shouts. Then Jorge paused, confused that the man had come in alone. “Where are my friends? Where are Frank? Angry? -?”

Jed came down from his horse and brushed by the increasingly agitated Mexican. He was inside the bunkhouse, wrangling his boots off, when Sam Precker himself appeared, along with Jorge and two cowboys named Phil Gray and Allen Simm. “Where are the boys?” Sam demanded. “How is it you ride in alone after you took four men to run off one pesky hombre?”

Jed’s head sunk as low as it could without bopping the floor. He gave up the effort to get his boots off. “I’m not yella,” he muttered. “We got rid of Medina. He somehow followed and came in the camp, later, after knocking off a man relieving himself behind a rock. He stepped out and dropped another three in just seconds. I was unarmed. I took a horse and rode off. Warn’t nothing I could do.”

Sue had been at the door when Jed spoke. At that sad declaration, she sprang forward. “You ought to be dead, if you led them all to die. You ought to have stood and took it like a man.”

The men assembled were troubled. But they could see she was right. Sam cautioned her to stand down. “Thing to do now is get us up a posse. I can’t spare more’n a few cowboys, so I want you, Phil, and Allen, to go to town and get more. Get at least a dozen. It ain’t a ordinary man can put down that many at a time like that.”

“He’s your grandson, Mr. Precker. Do that count at all?” Phil inquired.

“Not no more it don’t. He’s proved hisself a danger and a killer. I want him stopped in any way you deem fit.” Sam looked at Jed, still unable to lift his head to look back. After shaking his head Sam ushered the men outside.

They went to the corral. “Phil,” Sam said somberly. “I’m giving you my horse now and making you foreman once you get back. Go get your posse together. I would say you could get Emilio Cortez to be your scout, except he ain‘t been in town lately. You will have it tough without him.”

Phil spat from his chew, careful to send it away from everyone’s shoes. “I thank you, Mr. Precker. And I swear I will make you proud.” He reset the chew in his mouth and went to saddle the great grey stallion he had just received. Likewise, Allen fetched his saddle to do the same. Sue’s horse was already saddled and, atop it, she waited at the gate for them to come out.

Phil paused to ask her what she thought she was doing. “I am in this posse. I ought to have killed that feller the first time. Now I am going to do it.”

Arguing did no good and Sam was already gone into the house. Rather than give cause the old man should doubt his leadership abilities, the sandy haired cowboy said, “All right. We are not going easy on you for being a woman though.”

They heard a gunshot from within the bunkhouse. Sue spurred her horse. “Let’s go. I don’t want to see Jed dead on the floor.”

TWO

4

It was a festive time when Del Lobo became aware Dan Avers had joined the community. Avers was legendary - an accomplished cowboy, decorated Civil War veteran and celebrated gunman. His mere presence made everybody proud by association. He brought some money and he made it known he would be looking to buy a spread in the roundabout area.

“Think he will handle that Medina, should he come around?” folks began asking.

“He certainly could,” became the stock reply.

For Tim Medina had eluded the posse by leaving no trace that could be followed. Almost two weeks out, after numerous false trails, the riders headed home, defeated and disgusted. Following rather closely behind their party was Medina himself, laughing frequently, as that is where he had been nearly from the start. He caught frequent glimpses of the riders, from atop bluffs, or smelled their fires at night, with ample opportunity to pick them off, but did not, as his quarrel was never with any of them.

The routine in and around Del Lobo drifted to placid, after that. They buried Jed and said they never meant it, about him being yellow. Sue mourned him for a short time, but she soon became an admirer of Phil Gray.

Sam Precker could not get used to Gray taking Jed’s place at the helm. He came out to oversee much of the ranch routine, because change made such as he uneasy. In a younger day he would have made quick work of a Tim Medina on his own. He didn’t believe the story about James being a back shooter. If he did, he would have shot James himself. He expected Tim would come around when they least expected it. Nothing to do but carry on while remaining alert.

Four new cowboys had come to fill in jobs that were once held by Tim’s victims. Then, Dan Avers came to palaver. Dan was tall, just over six feet, but carried himself like a smaller, lighter man. He never appeared without the weapon at his hip. He spent a whole day with Sam, walking about and having dinner. By early afternoon Sam knew he had a new foreman and had Phil Gray summoned, to tell him so. Phil seemed somewhat relieved, as he grinned while shaking the big man’s hand. He was allowed to keep the grey horse.

Sue had already sighted Dan and right away her loyalty transferred to him. She was there to shake his hand, as were Jorge and several hands, come in from adding a herd to the growing cattle drive about to kick off. It was understood Dan’s tenure at the spread would end once he found a spread of his own to purchase.

Phil moved to the bunkhouse from the foreman’s cabin that very evening, not having that much in the way of belongings to transfer. Then he asked permission to go with some of the hands to drink some rounds in Del Lobo. Dan understood the need for release in these times and allowed them. Then the new foreman moved with his saddlebags into his home.

The cowboys riding with Phil were dusty from moving cows earlier. They insisted on a dip in the creek before heading in. They were embarrassed and angry as Sue rode in on them when they all were natural. “I seen bodies before,” she said. “Don’t you boys start feeling special.”

She waited on her horse until the men were again ready to go, then fell in alongside Phil on his grey mount. Phil just looked off, likely thinking girls should not be riding to saloons. She read his thoughts. “Don’t worry. I like to sit in the lobby and look on what you do in there.”

“Don’t sound like no fun,” he muttered.

The horses clopped in dirt that had seen no water in over a month. The boys were discussing should they “Hoo-raw” the town. Phil advised them against it. “You know these folk don’t take kindly to disturbing their peace.”

“Ain’t no sheriff,” said the one named Curley.

“No, but they don‘t deserve the treatment,” was the reply.

They rode in. When they walked through the swinging doors, the scene they confronted was Evan nursing whiskey at one end of the huge bar; Grackle was at the other end, watching a card game going on at one of three tables. An older man plinked on the piano without turning out any music. Phil and company took the bar in the middle, placing their boots on the rail, putting elbows on the shined surface and looking for the bartender. Ed, the man who served the drinks, was in the back to get some fresh bottles of whiskey. Curley slapped down his money and reached down the bar for a bottle that rested, half-empty, about halfway between him and Grackle. Immediately, Grackle became like a cat gratuitously awarded a mouse. “You can’t have that bottle.”

Reaching over the bar for a glass, Curley said, “Why not? I plonked my money down.”

“Don’t mind why. You can’t have it.”

With that the bouncer wrapped a huge hand around the bottle and snatched it from Curley’s grasp. “Being big don’t give you no right to do that,” said the cowboy.

“I work here. If you want to continue to stand there you will follow orders.” Holding on to the bottle still, Grackle returned his attention to the card table, signaling he considered the matter closed.

Curley said, “I will just go around the bar and get a fresh bottle.”

Grackle moved quickly to block the way. “Wait for Ed to get back.”

The other cowboys grew restless. Though they could see waiting for Ed in order for them to get served, they did not understand the big man’s attitude to Curley. Phil became the first one to speak out. “Seems a mite cowardly to pick at that kid with all of us over here to select from.”

Curley made to protest his friend’s interfering. But already the focus of Grackle’s spite had swung Phil’s way. Curley’s attempt to grab a huge arm was repelled the way it would be if he grabbed onto a passing buffalo haunch. Not that Grackle seemed to notice. Two cowboys had gathered behind Phil. The big man’s arms corralled the one and crowded the three out the swinging doors. He shoved until they tumbled off the walk, causing exploding clouds of dust. Another two cowboys were at the bar. They were unintimidated, just had not decided yet how to handle the monster. The barkeep was back and curious what his hired man had been doing with the customers.

Grackle shrugged. “Troublemakers,” he said.

Just then, a disheveled Phil Gray tapped on the bouncer’s shoulder. He turned to look and received two eyes full of spat tobacco juice. At the same time, Sue and Curley slipped a lasso over his shoulders and slid it down enough to cinch his arms before Grackle knew it was happening. Curly put a booted foot against Grackle’s upper leg and pulled as tightly on the rope as he could. Then Sue ran the line around and around his oversized form until he was practically a cocoon. Four cowboys dragged the man into a corner and there he was left until after the cowboys from Precker’s finished their drinking and went home.

They went drunkenly howling and laughing during the ride back. Then Sue launched a chorus of Old Dan Tucker. Smiley, the quiet one of the group, pulled his harmonica to accompany the singing. But they all were tired and soon quieted down. Even the horses were weary. They did not hold their heads quite so high as on the ride over. As the subdued revelers came in to the ranch and were putting their mounts to bed, Dan Avers peered out approvingly. All were accounted for and had come in at a reasonable hour. He knew they would be up and at it at the regular time. He was satisfied he had picked a good spread on which to work. He hoped for continued placid times, for he kept a secret from them all.

Lying atop his bunk, awake through the dark hours, Dan lived his secret over and over. He feared it might be discovered he had turned yellow. The bright stars seen through the window seemed stark and unforgiving. He turned away, pulling the pillow about his head. He barely slept by sunup.

The hands already were stirring, doing chores, anticipating breakfast, when Dan Avers still was pulling on his boots. He went to Cookie’s shed to pour himself a cup of scalding coffee. The coffee pot was a huge one that never went empty. Cookie always pulled the grounds and replaced them as necessary, adding but never dumping any liquid. Dan grimaced with the first sip but steadily worked on it until the tin cup was empty. He had wandered to the big house by this time and let the cup dangle as he knocked at the door. He followed the housekeeper to Sam at his breakfast table, apologizing when he saw the boss man fully engaged in a ham steak, with eggs and taters on the side. “I can come back later,” he said.

Sam waved him in. “Sit,” he insisted. “I’ll have more ham sent in.”

“Thank you, I make a practice to eat with the hands so they don’t see me as high and mighty, Mr. Precker.”

“A good, solid way to be,” Sam said approvingly. “Later, I want you to visit Elmer Ford, on the next spread over. He’s got a lot of cows missing and he wants to be sure they haven’t somehow got on my ground. I want for you to escort him and his men and help him out. Take four men. Make sure Jorge’s one of them. He’s smart and he knows more about this land than anybody I ever heard of.”

5

Elmer Ford gave Dan an enthusiastic handshake, he on the ground, Dan and his crew still mounted. Elmer wiped his sweating brow with a worn bandana. “Between your four men and my two, we ought to know something by early afternoon.”

Then he swung around and saw Jorge, sitting tall for a short man, a little grin tugging the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t want him.”

Dan seemed unimpressed. He was no stranger to Mexican haters. “He got foot and mouth?”

“I won’t have a Mexican. Sam knows that. We took this land away from the Mexicans and now they come to creep back. Not with me, they don’t.”

“He’s Sam’s chosen man. He says Jorge’s a good one to have. That makes him my man.” Dan made to ride. “You coming or not?”

Ford was a pragmatist. He knew they would not find his cows while arguing about Jorge. He signaled his men to get on their horses.

It was a rugged terrain they did the search over. In the end, they found nothing. The one thing of significance out there was a campsite, with ashes on the ground, still wet from being doused after use. They guessed it to be the first clue to Tim Medina yet discovered. Dan was disappointed to learn the man still inhabited the territory. He felt no urge to confront him at all.

The riders soon approached Elmer Ford’s property, which is where Elmer reigned his mount, abruptly. “I find it queer none of Sam’s cows disappear, but Paul Gurky’s, on the other side, do. I realize you are new, Dan, and by all accounts, upstanding. I will count on you to figure out this one.”

“If there was any such a thing going on, I would be duty-bound to bust it open. For now, I don’t see a thing to bust open.”

Ford gravely regarded Dan a moment. “You stand warned,” he said.

Here was a second headache Dan did not need. “Let’s get back,” he told the men.

On the way, they encountered a rider, who when queried said he had come across some F branded cows, two miles west of where the search ended. Dan asked if the stranger would lead his men to the cows, which he readily agreed to do. “I intend heading back,” he informed Jorge Gonzalez. “It’s up to you to go with this man and see to it the cows get returned.” He tipped his hat at the stranger. “I am much obliged,” he said. “If you get by Precker’s spread, stop and say ‘hello.’”

The rider tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “Might do that. Name’s Miller, if anybody’s interested.”

Dan rightly guessed Miller to be one of those rootless war veterans, who sought neither homes nor jobs, for they could not conquer the demons the war had set loose inside their heads.

As he turned homeward, Dan felt he had wasted entirely too much time on Elmer Ford’s cows. He topped a rise and he saw far down the slope a man who was leading a horse that was favoring a foot. He had never seen Tim Medina before but knew instantly it was he. His hand went automatically to the Winchester, as he proceeded down the incline. He had the range and could take him out before ever Tim approached a stand of trees, where he was headed. Drawing a bead against the fugitive’s back, he held the rifle steady a long moment, before drawing it to the side and squeezing off a round. His bullet popped a prickly pear off a cactus, landing the fruit near Tim’s feet. Tim turned and gave a wave, thanking Dan for not being a back shooter. Man and horse disappeared in the high growth and Dan continued his way to Precker’s house. He had yet to confront the yellow streak he lately nursed. It was like a gaping hole in his chest. But he knew eventually it must be faced up to. For now, Tim could wait.

The sun had increased its intensity as he approached home, with the corral in view. He envisioned a drink of cool water before reporting to Sam. The pounding of hoofbeats from his rear set him on guard. It was one of the new hands who had been riding with Jorge. He reigned his horse to greet the man.

The cowboy, whose name was Gus Prather, babbled a story of Elmer Ford renewing the search and finding Jorge with his cows. In the struggle that ensued, Ford’s men shot and killed Miller. They stripped Jorge and the remaining men, all but Gus, and sliced them to ribbons with a bullwhip. Gus had managed to slip away and was able to outrun a rider sent to “bring him back, or just kill him.”

“Let’s take this to Mr. Precker,” Dan said grimly.

First thing when they rode in, they lifted off their saddles before going up to the house, as they would need fresh mounts for the next riding ahead. The housekeeper had them wait until Sam Precker came downstairs from visiting James. Sam left the visit feeling encouraged for the first time since the accident. His son seemed inclined to live, after all. He hailed Dan with a half-smile. “How’d it go?” he said.

The older man discerned right away it had gone awry, well before his new foreman could speak. “Well?”

Dan explained his part in the story, before having Gus tell the rest. “I am afraid I let you down, sir,” Dan concluded.

“You couldn’t know Elmer’s nature,” Sam allowed. “Elmer was never a standup neighbor. Yet it’s going to pain me to have to hang him.”

Dan nodded assent. “He got a wife and family?”

“Yep. And ten kids. Looks like I will have to help them out some after he’s gone.” The rancher fetched his gunbelt and a Buntline pistol. After cinching it around his waist, he took out a shotgun, then reached for his biggest hat. “We will round up any hands that’s willing and we’ll ride.”

“I saw the Medina feller,” Dan said, as an afterthought. “He got off into the trees and slipped off.”

“I hoped he would be gone,” Sam said, cussing.

They had Gus saddling horses as they looked around for hands working nearby. There was two loading hay in the barn and three preparing to slaughter a beef. All five became bent on avenging their comrades. They somehow kept clear of Sue, who would have insisted on coming along, and soon all were in the saddle, riding at a quick trot, off to take that “bastid” Ford. First, of course, they would see to burying his victims and were carrying blankets to wrap the bodies.

When they came on the bloody scene, hardened men were repulsed at what they saw. Words should not be employed to make pictures of such a horror. Dan discovered a trace of life yet in the eyes of Curly. Like a candle the eyes flickered, then faded. He was gone. With the fading, Dan also saw other eyes, the eyes of a dying sister, in her final instant. Annie -

They tenderly wrapped the lost comrades, then carefully and reverently buried them. Sam spoke a few words, but no words could address the sorrow these men felt. Or the urge for revenge.

Despite the sagebrush in bloom, an occasional yellow cactus flower among prickly pears slowly turning red, swarming birds in the trees, a rabbit across their path, the men felt gloom like an impending storm upon their souls. Soon enough, they went over the ridge, where a full view of the ranch house, with its barn and corral roundabout, stood in blissful silence. They found Elmer sitting in a homemade chair, alone on the porch, with his hand resting on a favorite dog. He seemed somewhat in a trance. He looked crushed like a battered cabbage.

The riders formed a single row, shoulder to shoulder, the length of the porch. Sam, along with his foreman, dismounted and approached as far as the steps. His eyes and Elmer‘s met and they just looked for a time. “Where can I find a suitable horse?” Sam asked.

Elmer pointed to his left without ever altering his position in the chair. Dan went off to the corral. He came back, leading a large paint. Together he and the boss approached the doomed man. They caused him to stand. Dan tied his wrists behind him. They helped him down the steps and hoisted him atop the saddle. “Are there a good limb hereabouts? Must we go looking for one?” Dan said, gently.

“We got an old hanging tree on the way towards Del Lobo,” Elmer replied.

The riders followed the wagon trail, making no sound but clopping hooves. A short way up trees began to crowd the trail a bit and then the way parted. Before them grew the greatest oak tree many had ever seen. Dan had fashioned a noose on the way, which he now slung over a limb. He tied off the loose end so that once Elmer swung the noose would tighten appropriately. He slipped the knotted rope over the man’s head and settled it snuggly about the neck.

Sam minded the horse’s reins as Dan moved back, ready to slap the paint’s rump. “Any last words?” Sam enquired matter of factly.

“I know now I done wrong,” Elmer lamented. “But I ain’t sorry, ‘cause I thought I done the right thing when I done it. That drifter we shot lived long enough to tell us how we mistook innocent men. It was after we done what we done to those men. So hang me and get over with it.”

Dan slapped the horse as hard as he could and it ran off to leave Elmer dangling. At first, his feet started like they were walking. They quickly went limp.

6

On the following morning, Dan rode with Sam back to the Ford ranch. He found it surprising that where the scene of yesterday had been deserted it now thrived. Ten youngsters scurried about, getting the morning chores. Most surprising of all, the ten were unmistakably Mexican. Sam, unperturbed, tied his horse and walked up to knock. Dan followed along and sure enough, a corpulent, very tired looking woman answered the door. “Hello, Maria,” Sam said. “Sorry I had to hang Elmer.”

“Ah. He had it coming,” she said. “Now I have my rancho back.”

“Well, do you need anything? I feel sort of responsible if by killing Elmer I created hardship for you.”

The woman had been grinding corn for the next meal. “Well,” she replied, “my hired hands left the country to hide from you. If you could get me somebody to work for me.”

“Done,” he said. “I can lend a few until you get a chance to hire some.”

He turned to Dan. “Why don’t you have a look around and see what needs done, until I can send Gus and some of the boys here?”

“Mighty glad to,” he answered. He tilted his hat to Maria. “Ma’m.” he said and he went outside.

The house and barn were in tip-top shape, as was the vegetable patch behind the barn. Fences, perfect. He singled out a muchacho who looked about seventeen. “Kid; what’s your name?”

“Jose. Who are you? Did you hang Mr. Ford?” The kid mirrored the attitude of his mother. He proudly displayed Elmer’s pistol, strapped at his side. “See; I have his gun.”

“It’s a nice one. Don’t shoot anybody with it.”

He asked the kid to saddle up and show him around. Jose eagerly brought around Elmer’s favorite horse. “See? He’s mine, now.”

Dan continued with feeling surprised. “How many of your brothers and sisters are Elmer’s?”

“Four. No, six. Come on, let’s go. I want to show you how fast I can shoot.” Jose heaved Elmer’s blanket and saddle on the back of his mount. His movement was quick and efficient, as he cinched it up and jumped aboard, spurring the horse to a trot.

Dan’s wry grin said it all. He soon wished he had bypassed the kid and rode out on his own. He kicked his horse to catch up. The kid rode aimlessly. Dan stopped. Told the lad he was heading back.

“Wait,” Jose insisted. He edged near a fallen rotted tree and dismounted. “I shoot fast. Watch.”

Jose stalked the tree, like one approaching an armed foe. He halted. “You die,” he shouted, clearing the holster and fanning the gun until it was empty.

He was as fast as anybody Dan had seen. But the shooting? Inept. The pistol had been wildly jerked about, sending the bullets in unplanned directions. “You are quick,” he allowed.

“I can kill anybody.” He gave Dan a stern look. “Even you.”

“Well,” Dan further allowed, “I’m glad that gun is empty.”

He turned his horse and trotted toward the house. After reporting to Sam, he suggested his boss send just two men to help out a few days. “Good,” Sam responded. “Let’s get back.”

Later, when Dan sent back Gus and another hand, he warned them to be wary of Jose.

Sam told Dan he wanted to introduce him to Paul Gurky, the other neighboring rancher, tomorrow. “He’s been missing cows too.”

Dan went to his new house to relax a bit before mealtime, sitting on the little porch, rolling tobacco and lighting it. He kicked his feet up on a little stool, eyes going lazy, hat down, sucking in the harsh smoke. He became annoyed at something pushing against the sole of his boot. Pushing back, then kicking at the something, until he heard Sue chuckle. He became fully awake, seeing Sue with a stick, as he came fully alert. “I’ll put that stick to use where it does the most good,” he threatened.

She tossed the stick then playfully grabbed the porch rail. “You know there’s going to be a dance tonight in town, doncha?”

“You inviting me to go? If you are, you’ve got to wear a dress. Right now, you look more a man than me.”

Her tone became sincere. “Of course I’m wearing a dress. You can’t judge me by my work clothes.”

“I suppose not. You have good features. You just could dress up nicely.”

Dan resumed his relaxing. He had let his cigarette burn short, so rolled another. Sue stood by the porch a few minutes before giving up on having Dan pay more notice to her. He waited for her to walk away, then studied her from behind, figuring she would be fun on a dance floor. He wondered if her father really was a back shooter.

The cowboys were coming in to eat and he planned on eating too. He noted Gus had returned early from Elmer Ford‘s. “How was it?” he asked, taking a plate, sliding some ribs on it.

Gus made a wry face. “Them youngsters are controlling it. You warn’t wrong to warn us of Jose. That kid’s got a streak of pure crazy. I had to take his gun.”

“Where’d you leave it?”

“I made his mama hide it.”

The cowboys wolfed their food, then got on with the endless tasks of running a huge spread.

It was near to dusk when he and Sue took the buckboard and all the cowboys who could pile on to traverse the dusty way to Del Lobo. Gus, who feared social activities, and a friend to Gus, Jeff Plate, who could not look in a woman’s face, had volunteered to stay home and guard James, who was these days getting well enough to be venturing outside.

The church had an adjoining wooden pavilion for these dances. Three sides were open to a dry breeze that played through the crowd, alleviating some of the body heat. Once Freddy Popper began on the mouth harp and the strings (banjo, guitar and fiddle) joined in, the dancers moved, sweating like field hands on the hottest day in August. Sue had dressed up her prettiest and Dan wore his only clean shirt, along with the same pants he had worked in all day. Square dance was all they knew to play, but that’s fine, because, it was the only dance anyone could execute.

In the course of the event, many town-folk gathered on benches to the side, with children playing in the grass before them. The discussion was politics and the need for a very first sheriff of Del Lobo. Two names automatically came to the fore: Dan Avers and Emilio Cortez. While it was conceded Cortez was the meanest, yet fairest, son of a bitch of them all, “We can’t have no Mexican,” became the prevailing sentiment. “Ain’t no Mexicans been allowed to be anything in these parts since Texas became a state.”

There were impassive Mexicans in the crowd who feared losing all they had gained in the event they spoke out.

As for Dan Avers, he continued dancing and being captivated by the wiles of Sue Precker. He never meant it to happen, but he was already feeling mighty attached to her. Those deep eyes and smooth cheeks, perpetual smile - She was not so much graceful as energetic. As one dance winded down, Gerald Grief caught his attention, motioning him over. Dan tried to excuse himself long enough to learn what could be so important at the meeting. Sue grabbed his arm and pushed forward with him.

They met Grief and the preacher, who both were grinning and fawning, like conspirators. “It’s a business proposition,” the preacher began.

“Yes,” Grief chimed in. “Business deal.”

It was explained to Dan that the town needed him for its new sheriff. The pay would be five dollars per month more than his pay from Precker. Dan termed it a “handsome offer,” but, “No thanks. I owe it to Sam to stay put.”

Grief spluttered a moment, unsettled that a man could fail to be moved by the prospect of such a windfall. After a moment’s recovery time he looked in the eyes of the preacher and both nodded. He offered to increase the offer another five dollars. Dan meant to refuse, but Sue stepped up. “Yes. He will take it.”

Dan told Sue he did not like to leave Sam with James needing the extra protection his presence afforded. “We can move him into town,” she said, giving Dan a meaning-filled look. “With us.”

Dan turned to the preacher. “Guess we’re getting married. Guess I better take the job.”

“You will need it,” the preacher replied.”

CHAPTER THREE

7

Emilio Cortez rocked easy in the saddle as his spirited black pony loped along the outer boundary of Precker’s spread. He knew where to look from listening to the talk made at the general store: talk fed by the cowboys who had taken part in Elmer Ford’s hanging. He had been stung by the selection of Dan Avers over him for the sheriff’s job. It was rightfully his. Now he had to show Avers up by bringing in Tim Medina.

Cortez was a proud man and he dressed the part, with a handsome grey hat, a black vest over a grey shirt, black trousers, tucked into highly polished black boots. He was well equipped for shooting, with a Winchester rifle tucked between him and the pommel and two silver pistols at his sides. His spurs rarely touched the horse; it was in tune with his wishes.

His spread was a small one, off to the side from the corner of Precker’s, a short ride from the stream that served the ranchers from all sides. He was not sociable in a way that would invite people out there. He kept his private life divided from the public one.

Medina would be complacent, now, as nobody had been out looking for him ever since the posse came home empty-handed. Cortez was certain Medina would again be mounted, even if he had to swap his injured horse. He guided the pony into the trees, where Medina was last seen to be entering. No man alive excelled Emilio Cortez for tracking. He followed in Tim’s footsteps from the first, quickly discovering the hollow where the man paused that day. Then he went on, walking still. Cortez discovered two camps before the trail took him into the open, near Paul Gurky’s land and on to the rocky hills.

A campsite among these hills showing repeated use put Medina very close. All he need do now was wait. Cortez hobbled his pony and made himself at home. Shortly, as he lounged against a rock, sipping the coffee he’d just made, he was thinking about taking a snooze, when a nearby voice spoke out. “Mind if I have a cup?”

Cortez straightened himself and looked up. “You got a cup?”

Tim Medina grinned. “Sure.”

They shared the bitter coffee in silence. Then, Tim spoke. “You from Del Lobo?”

Cortez allowed he was. “I come for you.”

“If I don’t want to go?”

“I think you will,” Cortez replied.

“I think they wish to kill me, there. You will understand if I tell you you will have to persuade me.” His hand rested near his pistol.

Cortez dumped the dregs of coffee. He stashed the pot and cup before speaking again. “You murdered some men and caused the death of one other. There is no other way.”

“No,” Tim said. He explained why the men deserved to die.

His story was compelling to Cortez. “I would have done the same,” he said, emphatically. “Come back with me and we will make them see.”

“If you make them guarantee a jury trial, I will consider it.” Tim said. His polite words made no attempt to mask a readiness to defend himself.

As for Cortez, he settled again against the rock. He took from a tin some black cigars. Reaching out for a stick from the fire, he asked Tim if he would like to smoke.

Tim eagerly took the cigar. “You’ve got the best tobacco,” he said, puffing, settling near Emilio.

Drawing in smoke, exhaling it in clouds, made Cortez blissful. Cigars were a passion. He closed his eyes, lazily, with Tim looking on impassively, until the cigars grew noticeably shorter. “This trial,” Cortez said at last. “We could make it happen. I go now to arrange it.”

He began to ready the black pony.

Mexican Cortez then stood before half breed Medina. “Remember, it’s a white man’s court,” he cautioned.

He mounted up and rode off without another word.

On the way to town, he considered whom to approach. Ultimately, his logic told him to take Medina’s case to Gerald Grief, the unofficial leader and likely best educated of citizens. Certainly not the novice sheriff.

The main street in Del Lobo seemed rather quiet, for many cowboys that took their breaks for relaxation were gone on the trail north, driving cows. The raucous nature of their activities were not missed by the fastidious Cortez. He tied up at the general store and walked right in. Mrs. Grief had always treated him solicitously, compared with other Mexicans who came in. She saw him in the doorway now and stopped everything. “Mr. Cortez. What can I do for you?”

Emilio bowed and explained to her that he would be able to bring in Tim Medina, if he could get the property owners to agree to giving the man a jury trial. She went in the back, where Gerald worked, and minutes later came out with the message they could have their meeting at the end of this week’s church service.

Satisfied, Cortez determined he needed just one drink, before seeking a bath and a bed. He walked in the street to avoid two drunken cowboys crowding the plank sidewalk, until he reached the saloon. He attracted numbers of stares on parting the swinging doors and taking long strides to the bar. He told the barkeep, “Ed, fix me up a drink I can take outside. A big one.”

“What’s a Mex doing in here?” one of the drunks demanded to know.

Cortez gave the man a benevolent smile. “Relax, friend. I’m on my way out.”

Ed, the barman, made up a tall glass, as specified, and accepted the money. Cortez took his whiskey and was in the act of turning to leave, when the same fellow slapped his elbow, splashing the drink on the floor. “I don’t drink around no Mexes,” the cowboy stated flatly.

Cortez placed the glass before Ed, telling him, “Fix another.”

In a fluid motion his hand left the glass and slapped the cowboy. Almost instantly that same hand shoved a silver pistol into the man‘s gut. “Pay the barkeep,” he demanded.

“Sure,” the crestfallen drunk responded. “I never meant nothin’ to call for guns.”

“I never either,” Cortez said, holstering his gun and reaching for the glass. “Don’t worry that you have to drink with a ‘Mex.’ I never intended to stay.”

Tuck Grackle had sheepishly watched the proceedings. Since the episode of him being tied up by those cowboys, he no longer thrust himself into the heart of any argument. He had become a souse, with no motivating purpose.

Outside, Cortez stood beneath an awning, appreciating the shade, while the whiskey slowly went down. Then he sought a bench, where he intended to smoke.

Sheriff Avers discovered Cortez lounging near the livery stable, lighting up a black cigar. “Well. You are the man of the hour,” he observed dryly.

“Someone must do a sheriff’s job,” Cortez retorted. “Have a smoke?”

Dan accepted the offer, taking a place on the bench, biting off the end of the cigar. He accepted a light. They smoked in silence. Eventually, when Cortez reached the end of his smoke, the Mexican arose and casually walked off, to seek a bath and a clean bed. Dan watched him go, unwilling to give up the bench until the tobacco all had been smoked.

There were three places to get a hot bath: The barber shop, Mrs. Laverne’s Boarding House and the hotel. After much thought, Cortez opted for the hotel. It was not so quiet as the boarding house, but the hotel actually had the more accessible rooms. With his rifle in one hand and saddlebags slung over a shoulder, he stepped up to the desk and hit the bell. It was the first time Cortez was to stay overnight in town. A mousey clerk peeked around a corner. “Er. We don’t got any Mexes - I mean, Mexican gentlemen - staying here. Do you think you ought to go on home to your place? I know it’s not that far.”

“I have been on a long trail. I need you to get me a hot bath. Hot, understand?”

The clerk froze, not knowing what to do about this uppity Mex, who was widely known as a MAN in any ethnic category. “The boss won’t like it,” he simpered.

Cortez pulled the login sheet to him and scrawled his signature across nearly the entire page. He put his face inches from the clerk’s face. “Bath. Now,” he intoned softly.

The clerk scurried off to fulfill the man’s wish. Cortez located a key and climbed the steps, admitting to himself, at last, he was tired.

8

Rain came to the region, in gusty lightning packed storms. It could be seen to be on the move all across the horizon, for hours, until suddenly it broke over the spreads and the town. Minor floods washed quickly through. A few gullies became as raging rivers for a brief time. Then all was still. The clouds quickly parted and the sun-scorched away the moisture. By the following morning, the dust in Del Lobo’s streets had returned. Life resumed, as though the rain never happened. But, the people had the satisfaction of the memory knowing it did.

Sam Precker departed, early in the morning, with Sue along, driving a buggy to Paul Gurky’s house. He had intended taking Dan Avers, but when Avers departed his employment he decided not to postpone it. He had no other pressing business with the man, but Sam made it a point to be social once a year with all of the neighbors.

He tried to make his trip in contemplative silence, but quickly learned he should not take young ladies along with that in mind.

“I never understood you going around to visit folks, Grandfather. Not one ever visits you.”

Sam’s age was telling, as he didn’t take the rattling and the bounces too well. He even had a wide flat cushion under his bony haunches, but it did not help a lot. He gave his granddaughter a miserable look, before replying. “It’s my place, as the biggest rancher in the territory, to show I’m not vain about it. Keeps them aware we are all in this together.”

He tried to settle into his private thoughts, but she kept on talking. “Father always said he wished he could be like you. Now he thinks he may never measure up. But he’s strong, Grandfather. We went riding, yesterday. I think in a month or two he will be back on the job.”

“He never gave up,” Sam said, his love evident. He stared across the range, knowing his own passing would leave it all in good hands.

“I haven’t told him, yet. Dan and I plan to get married.”

“You already told me that. I couldn’t believe it, then. I do, now.” Sam’s demeanor became gloomy. “I don’t know what I hoped for you. I suppose I expected you to choose a man here and live here.”

“I want to move Father into town and Dan can protect him, if Tim comes gunning for him.”

Sam blew up. “Hot dang it, girl. James is man enough to protect himself. I need him on the ranch.”

Sue became submissive, hanging her head. “Okay, Grandfather.” She looked up, troubled. “Grandfather? Why do you suppose Tim claims Father shot his father in the back? It‘s not true is it?”

The old rancher’s gaze locked straight down the road. He wanted to avoid the subject, but felt he could not. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “James always told it using the exact same words. Didn’t want to talk about it. I see why. His sister had to watch and so did Tim. I guess the thirst for revenge made the boy blame James in ways that made revenge easier to pursue.”

“I wish there was a way to make peace between them,” she said thoughtfully.

Sam nodded his head. “Yep. Tim is blood. He and James both deserve better.”

He finally got his still time as they rattled down the trail into the brushy country that made up over half of the Gurky land. Gurky was highly thought of, for he had fought the Indians more than any other man in this part of the state. He had just one external ear, due to the butcher work of one of the marauders, a brave who escaped, holding the severed part aloft for his friends to admire. Tragically, Gurky had to raise two families, as the first had been kidnapped by a raiding party and never heard of again.

Paul Gurky had no give in his nature. He barged straight ahead with everything. Eventually, it paid off and he had his ranch, another wife, several children and lots of cows. He was fond of saying, “What? What?” when others spoke, even though he could hear them perfectly well.

The visitors came by the corral, where seasoned cowboys engaged several wild horses, seeking to teach them manners. Some who looked around at Sue removed their hats until she went past. A child of perhaps six was carrying a pet chicken. When she saw Sam’s buggy come around the house she threw down the chicken and ran to inform her parents.

Gurky came on the porch and hailed his neighbors, genuinely glad to see them. Glad also Sam came only once per year, as having visitors constantly made him feel crowded like he figured a sardine in a can would feel. He had never seen sardines, but he knew of them and he knew they were tightly packed in tins. He noted that Sue had become a woman. He might send his older boy over to visit with her. “What in tarnation you doing out in such heat?” he said, lurching down the steps and meeting Sam as he stepped away from the buggy.

“Oh- You know. I make these rounds each year. I don’t like being a pain, but this is how a society holds together.”

They shook hands. As he moved back a step, Gurky put Sue in full view and he said, “Your granddaughter sure grew up nice.”

“Yep. She’s getting married. Yours married yet?”

Gurky made a disgusted face, as he contemplated his sons, who were too bashful to even look toward a girl. “Aw. I got ’em working too hard. Say. Do you know they are building tracks as we speak? Railroad’s coming to Del Lobo. Know what else? It’s a good thing because the farmers along the trail drives is banding together, to turn back our herds. They said a longhorn carries the ticks that are spreading across their land and they sooner put a bullet in one than let it get near their own cows.”

“I never heard about that,” Sam said, troubled. “How long do you think before a train can move cows?”

“Might be before next year.” Gurky rubbed his chin and looked away from his guest. “Know what else?”

“You’re the one that’s a newspaper. Tell me.“

“I talked to a wire salesman last month. He said all the farmers in the next territory began fencing off their land. The ranchers fought ’em for a time. Then they decided the wire’s good for cows too.”

Sam was dumbfounded. “No.”

Gurky pulled out a brand new plug of tobacco. “Chew?” he asked.

Sam fixated on the wire, oblivious of the offer. “You ain’t thinking of using it, are you?”

“Well,” Gurky said slowly. “I aim to see what develops before I make any mistakes like that. If the rest of the folks thought it the right thing to do, then I would have to go along with it.”

“This wire,” Sam enquired. “You’re talking about the pointy kind that can tear up a cow’s hide?”

“It’s bob wire,” Gurky admitted. “Sam, the world is changing. We are getting civilized.”

“Not me, Paul. And don’t you put any wire near my land.”

He motioned to Sue. “Let’s go.”

Sue moved fast. She knew that Grandfather would be lashing that pony the moment he settled on the seat. Paul Gurky watched, saddened and bemused, the buggy turning around the house, listening to the horse’s clopping feet fading. He knew to tread carefully around Sam, henceforth.

Sue grabbed at the hand lashing the pony. “Spare the horse, Grandfather.”

But the savagery continued for a long way down the path. By the time they reached the ranch house the pony was coated with sweat and staggering. Sue called one of Jorge’s sons to take the poor animal to care for him. Ruben Gonzalez looked critically at the pony a moment but took it away. It was in good hands. Ruben had inherited his father’s- Jorge’s - way with animals.

Sue went with Grandfather until the housekeeper took over and escorted him in the house, then she went up the stairs to see her father. She couldn’t wait to tell him of the coming railroad and the ending of the cattle drives. His rooms were empty.

She found James at the corral. Her father looked like a longer, thinner, Sam Precker, just without the ancient wrinkled skin. His hair was graying and going thin in front. He held a cigarette in his lips without lighting it. James now made a good hand with the horses, but it would be a longer time before he sat atop a wild bronco. He left off with his duties and went with his daughter to have coffee at the cook’s shed. She told him all about her adventure with her Grandfather, including the argument about bob wire. James said nothing for a time. He poured them both a coffee, sugaring his own by liberally dumping some in. “I expect Father was pretty upset,” he said at last.

But Sue had slipped into a reverie and as she sipped she was trying to imagine a scenario, in which her father killed her Aunt Jane’s husband by shotgun. She had always been confused and she imagined the one way to get the story as it truly happened would be by putting her father and Tim together in the same room.

9

The new jail had been added to the back of the general store. The carpenters were not artisans, but they managed to construct a room they averred no man could break out of. Dan Avers came from surveying the work, making a small diversion before going off to join the folks deciding to give Tim Medina a trial - or not. He figured they would, for in bringing him in, he could conveniently be hanged, which is why they wanted him in the first place. He knew going in that that would be the prevailing sentiment. Jed Grimes’ dying statement about how it happened would be the justification to make the trial and verdict short and quick.

Nodding along the way to friends and supporters among the crowd, he reported to Grief and Preacher Smith. “We were waiting for you so we could get started,” Grief said impatiently. “Mr. Cortez is seated to ride, as we speak. I think our sheriff ought to go with him.”

“Shouldn’t we have the meeting first?”

“Yes. We’re having it.” So saying, Grief took his place before his own hand-made podium. “Friends,” he said, raising his hands.

They were a working people, simple in their notions of justice. They were farmers and cowboys, but they also were the clerks and laborers and the businessmen, such as Evan Sweet and the barber. The lone sex in the room was male, as politics was deemed “not genteel” enough for women. They immediately centered their attention on the general store owner, all on their feet, eager to get on with it.

“All in favor,” Grief said loudly, “say ’Yes.’”

To a man, they resounded with “Yes.”

The celebration began, even as Grief shouted into the racket, “Opposed?”

A vote was what the sheriff needed, to cause him to fetch his horse. He went to Evan Sweet’s livery to lead out a powerful chestnut that should keep pace with Cortez, whose pony pranced and pawed, eager to be moving. As he came into the sunlight, Dan witnessed Cortez spur the pony to an immediate canter up the street. He cursed aloud the man’s disrespect as he mounted and spun the horse, chasing hard to catch up.

Cortez gradually increased the speed, until their trek turned into a fullblown race. The pounding of hoofs thundered across the plain, with the black pony having the best of it over open ground, but the chestnut clearly excelled in the rougher terrain. The riders made an inconclusive end of it, to spare the horses.

Now at an easy trot, shoulder to shoulder, the men were silent, for clashing reasons. In Emilio’s case, it was wounded pride and unwillingness to consort with the source of his bloodied ego. And Emilio’s contempt stung Dan, for he was too used to adulation to understand it or for very long suffer it. “Is that Paul Gurky’s land, yonder?” Dan questioned.

Instead of answering, Cortez pulled up the pony and Dan followed suit. For the first time ever, he looked in Dan‘s eyes. “We are to part ways here,” he said. “You can make a camp by that log over there. Wait for us.”

Dan surveyed the spot and found it a satisfactory stopping place. “We will play this your way,” he agreed. “It’s important to bring the man in peacefully. Just don’t forget where you left me.”

He watched Cortez take his horse along the imagined line separating Precker land from Gurky land. He knew Cortez was right, that Medina would be alert to signs of treachery and that a second man would be viewed with suspicion. So, yes, sir; he would go along with Cortez this one time. But, he vowed it was the last time he ever would allow Cortez to encroach his authority as sheriff.

After hobbling the chestnut, he took the saddle and blanket to put down that he might rest against it. Regretting no coffee to make, settling back to wait, he smoked.

Dan Avers had been the sort of man in the War who faithfully served, even if he had preferred citizens not to kill each other. His bravery in the face of enemy fire had saved numbers of lives, more than once. There had been comrades he loved and admired, who succumbed to enemy actions, but also to disease and exposure. Personally unscathed, he came home, unbroken, not bitter, looking forward to a less destructive way of life. It was not to be. While working on a ranch outside of his home town, he was made aware, by his sister, Ellen, of the invasion by a bunch led by a near giant the folks called Mexican Red. They rode through the streets at first, shooting up everything they felt to be a worthy target. Then they commandeered the hotel and the saloon, for headquarters, proceeding then to pillage the town. The slain telegraph operator got off a message of distress before the bullets he faced struck him down. As there was now no one to accept a reply, it was unknown when or if help would be sent.

Dan understood the value of tactics. Also, as General Bedford Forrest is famous for stating, it’s he who “gets there firstest with the mostest” who generally prevails. So, avoiding town, he quietly recruited his men - rough hombres with guns, who were willing to fight - from surrounding ranches and farms. In the end, he moved in, with twelve fighters. Seven entered from the north of town; Dan and the remaining five came from the south. The seven were to wait near the hotel, while the six challenged those inside the saloon, from the street. Among the six, there were four shotguns and two pistols.

Ten gang members answered the call, with grins on their faces. Full of lust to kill, their hands resting on butts of guns, they burst out through the swinging doors. But, to a man, they quailed before the shotguns, knowing those deadly blasts, at close range, can trump all in a gunfight. The crestfallen gang members were hustled off to jail and shoved in, to stand, shoulder to shoulder.

Six holed up inside the hotel until a siege starved them out. In the end, Mexican Red’s gang was persuaded to leave the town alone and they were released without any weapons. Elusive Mexican Red had deserted the gang early on and had not actually partaken of the violence. He appeared to vanish after that.

Less than a month later, Dan lost his sister. It was over her a yellow streak burned itself into his heart. An ex-convict and one-time friend, Jesse Lane, came home from serving hard time. He had left, an okay guy, but returned, tough and bitter. When he sought to romance Ellen, her rejection triggered a cruel rampage. After he laid hands on her Dan became involved. Ultimately, they faced one another in the street. Jesse’s draw matched Dan’s for speed, though Dan’s shot went true and his went astray. Jesse was killed outright. But Dan was soon to learn the wild bullet passed through a paper-thin wall and pierced Ellen’s chest. When he found her, it was in time only to witness her moment of passing.

Dan tried hard not to relive such memories. He roused himself now and prepared for Cortez to bring his prisoner. Once he had allowed ample time he stood beside the horse, impatient to get busy. Minutes became hours and still no Cortez. Finally admitting to himself that he had once again been disrespected by the man, he mounted up and rode for Del Lobo.

Cortez and Medina waited for him in the general store, as Dan had the key to the jail. “My friend,” said Cortez with fake concern. “When we could not locate you we had to ride on. Why did you not wait where I put you?”

“We might discuss that later,” Dan observed dryly, bypassing Cortez to confront Medina.

The men shook hands, with Dan speaking first. “So, you’re Tim Medina. I expect you will surrender your firearms to me now. I promise to uphold the agreement to grant a fair trial.”

Tim nodded. “I expect I will be acquitted if the trial is fairly composed,” he said.

“There’s lots of folks wanting to see you hanged,” Dan said, as he accepted the gun belt and Tim’s two guns.

The store was jammed full of belligerent ill-wishers that the men ignored, apart from elbowing to the side a few of the more aggressive ones. The jail had been built to close it off from the public, except for if Dan let someone in. Only a mob with a battering ram could have gotten beyond the massive oaken door.

The force behind it all, Grief, had insulated himself inside his office. After locking up the prisoner, Dan beat on his door. It was not until Dan pounded, harder and harder, that the door was opened to him. “Get in so I can lock it,” Grief commanded.

The men greeted and seated themselves to talk. Grief spoke first.

“I heard about how Cortez brought his man in and left you sitting out on a log, waiting. I intend having a word with him about that. But not while we still need him. There is anger among the crowd out there. Those folks don’t want the trial. I need for you to recruit several deputies, to make sure a lynching doesn’t take place.”

“Thanks. I believe two men - that’s me and Cortez - with shotguns - can be a good persuader. How soon is this going to happen?’

Grief seemed dubious of Dan’s assertion, regarding just two men for protection. However, he was wise enough to know that a good man works best when not overly supervised. As to the trial - “Tomorrow at ten.”

CHAPTER FOUR

10

Del Lobo’s population doubled during the trial, for the cold-blooded killing of three cowboys by a trouble-making half breed from New Mexico had the greatest impact of any event in town history. Sam Precker shut down his entire operation, thus allowing every interested soul on his ranch to attend. Chairs from the church had to be set up in the street; there was not nearly enough room to seat everybody inside the saloon, where the trial was to take place. Dan Avers and Emilio Cortez took Tim Medina from the jail, with Dan leading and Emilio walking backwards, each pointing a shotgun before himself. Surly ones of the citizens could scarcely contain themselves, though none would brave a probable shotgun blast by vying to touch the prisoner.

Inside the saloon was Gerald Grief, who would be judge. Preacher Richard Smith, prosecuting attorney. Evan Sweet, defense attorney. All were in place when the prisoner entered. “All rise,” Grief proclaimed.

In the witness chairs were Sue Precker, Phil Gray, and Allen Simm. The jury, chosen by lot, sat behind the bar. Preacher insisted on a few words of faith, after which it subsequently began.

The witnesses were caused to stand, one at a time, and tell the story how Jed Grimes rode in alone and what they heard of his tale about how Angry Jones, Frank White, and the Breen bothers were slain by the defendant. Smith asked Evan if he wished to ask the witnesses any questions. “No,” he replied. “It seems obvious they spoke truthful.”

“Well, then,” Smith responded. “I don’t see the need to go further. Both sides of the court are in accord that this man did murder and it is up to the jury to convict him.”

The crowd made noisy assent and Grief had to pound and shout until they quieted down. After order became restored, the judge asked Evan if he agreed it was open and shut and ought to be ended. The defense surprised him by answering, “No, sir. We ain’t begun, yet. I spoke with my client last night and it turns out he has more of the story than anybody else knows.”

“What are you doing, Sweet?” a voice from the crowd said angrily.

“Doing my job, friend. Sit there and let me do my work.”

Sam Precker made his people sit still when Evan brought Tim to the stand. He said, “He’s my grandson. We’ll see what he says.”

Tim cooly stood before the court until his gaze roved over the faces in Precker’s entourage. He swore. Then swore again. Sitting next to Sam was a face he had not beheld since a fateful day in his youth. Though he had seen that face just once before, and the face had weathered considerably, there was no doubt as to his identity. He leered at the man he blamed for killing his father. His hands went to where his colts normally were found. He gave the Preckers a final evil stare before returning his attention to the proceedings.

Tim lifted up his hand when asked if he planned to tell the truth. “Yep,” he replied.

“First,” said Evan, “let me ask a question of Sue Precker, if I may.”

He looked to the judge and received a gloomy nod, meaning, “Yes.”

Sue stood up, but Evan waved her down in her seat. “Sue,” he said, his voice stark and sober in the now totally quiet room, “were you present when Jed and those other men surrounded my client and toted him off out of town?”

“I was,” she replied.

“What do you reckon was their intent?”

“They was gonna see he didn’t come back to Del Lobo, ever.”

“Thank you,” he replied graciously.

Turning his attention to Tim, he asked, “What did you think they was intending for you, these men?”

“Same thing they attempted,” he said in a measured voice. “They was dead set on leaving me way out, without a horse and water, hoping the walk out would be too much and it would kill me. And they did it, too. I would have tolerated if they merely left me, if they just took away my horse and rode off. The ways of my father could sustain me. They deserved to die only after they murdered my pony. I watched as they could not control my pony, then they shot him.”

“So you followed them and you killed them all,” Preacher Smith said, with malice. “I move we give it just like this to the jury.”

At that, Sam Precker stood and addressed the court. “He done what any one of you would have done, were you man enough to do so. That the men who died had friends among you means nothing. Do your job, jury. I ask you to free this man.”

Both preacher and judge stared at the old rancher, agog and confused. “That man has sworn to kill your son, Sam. Are you sure you want to let him go?” the judge questioned.

“Yes,” the old one growled. “This man didn’t kill anybody didn’t need killing. We will handle that other matter later and on its own merit, with guns, if need be.”

The judge addressed the twelve men sitting in judgment. “Well?”

The jurymen came to their feet as one. “Let him go,” was said. And they reached for their hats.

Sam addressed his entourage. “Let’s get going,” he commanded.

Without another glance in Tim’s direction, they swept from the room.

For the first time since they left the jail, Dan and Emilio relaxed with the shotguns. Dan thanked Cortez as he relieved him of his duties. With Sue, he walked to the buggy she had come in. “It was fair,” she said simply, as she climbed unassisted into the seat.

She was the sort of woman to do it all on her own, not wanting men to concern themselves with feminine “frailty” by lifting them into buggies.

“Have you talked to your father?” he asked, as she settled and prepared to drive.

Sue smiled and put her finger to Dan’s nose. “Tonight,” she said.

Dan stood in the street until Sue’s buggy had gone from sight. Then, curious to know how Tim would be treated by the crowd, he made his way through the clusters of men and women and went back in, where talking was all about the trial. Tim, at one end of the bar, nursed a beer, trying to have his one drink alone. To the remarks from the mostly neutral patrons, he handed out single syllable answers or simply moved his head, to indicate assent or dissent. Dan intended to find out where the man intended living, for loitering was not to be tolerated in Del Lobo.

Dan insinuated himself between Tim and three men, who persisted in attempting to dialog with the now acquitted man. They were reluctant to relinquish the role to Dan, but backed off, in deference to his position and reputation. Dan gave them a nod before seeking Medina’s attention.

Tim looked Dan up and down before taking a final swig out of his glass. “Sheriff, how come I don’t see no badge?”

“The job’s too new. The blacksmith promised to make me one this week.”

“You planning on pushing me around?”

Dan looked his most affable. “Depends,” he replied, pulling out his makings. “Are you planning on being in town long?”

“I’m no bum,” Tim said. “I’m sleeping in the hotel, tonight. I haven’t enjoyed a bath and a bed in a long stretch of days.”

After making his cigarette, putting it in his lips, lighting it, exhaling a stream of blue smoke, the sheriff said, “I guess what I’m asking is, what are your future plans for around here?”

Tim’s grin made him look like a kid. “Just give back my guns.”

“It goes against my judgment, to have a hothead with his guns strapped on, free to do what you have claimed to be bent on doing to James Precker,” Dan said dourly.

“I could get more, if I have to. But them colts are special, because my father had them first. Don’t make me fight for them.”

“Come to the jail,” Dan said, walking away, with long strides, his heels resounding loudly upon the wooden planking that made up the floor.

Tim moved silently behind, matching the sheriff step for step. They swept through the slow-to-dwindle groups that still discussed the trial out in the streets. Those who had been made to wait outside during the proceedings had to listen to all the details, repeatedly, usually from more sources than one or two, just to make sure they had an understanding of all that had transpired.

Dan unlocked a cabinet near the jail cell. The opened door displayed a few shotguns and several pistols. Hanging from a hook were Tim’s gun belt and guns. As he pulled down the gun belt, he dangled it between them, briefly. “I don’t know you at all, Mr. Medina. Right now, there is no bad blood between us. I do hope you will do nothing to change that.”

Tim seemed noncommittal, accepting his property and fixing it around his hips. “See ya around, Sheriff,” he said, stepping out the door.

11

Maria’s boy, Jose, sat high atop the tall paint horse that had been his stepfather’s favorite show horse. His pants and his brown shoes were badly worn, but he had on his best shirt and a yellow hat. His pockets jingled with coins stolen from his mother’s hoarded dollars from sales of chicken eggs. At his hip he carried Elmer’s gun, with the holster tied down for the quick draw. He had stolen it back from Maria. The Henry rifle he carried bolstered the notion that he had become a man. He boldly rode for Del Lobo, to test the newfound freedom that had suddenly become his.

The seventeen year old was in no hurry, as he had, along the way, the child’s curiosity for things beyond his narrow experience. Not once had Elmer Ford allowed any of the family off of the property. Already the air smelled sweeter; the heady smell of freedom.

He had been practicing to perfect his technique with a colt. At one point in this journey, he goaded his mount to a full gallop, pointing the pistol and firing at targets, generally striking dead center where intended. He paused the horse long enough to reload, then wasted more bullets on random targets along the way. He made sure the cylinder was full of bullets when he came into town.

Del Lobo was more and less than he had expected. The business district was disappointingly small, but there were houses where people in greater numbers than he thought possible were living. He wondered how these people survived, with no cows and no fields to sustain them.

The saloon had a sign nailed beside the door that read “FREE EATS.”

Jose’s stomach growled. He had not learned much reading, but “eats” he knew. He had never felt too full to eat more in his entire life. He tied off the paint and subsequently shoved his way through the doors. His age, his brown face and jet black hair drew immediate attention. Making straight for the food at the bar, paying no attention to the prying eyes locked on his passing, he had already a mouthful before Ed spotted him and said “Hey,” signaling Tuck Grackle.

Grackle had spent his time in the shadows, mild as a pussycat, ever since the incident where Precker’s cowboys tied him up. The sight of this kid had him feeling bold again. He pounced and grabbed Jose by the collar, dragged him across the floor, and flung him through the swinging doors without first opening them. Turning away with satisfaction, he swaggered toward the bar, intent on treating himself to a tall beer.

Ed served it up, likely feeling it was the first time the man deserved a beer in weeks. Grackle turned from the bar and tilted his brew, chugging, unable to see over the rim of the glass. As he neared the dregs, he felt a poking in his stomach. Letting the glass settle, he pulled the drink away from his face, not at all doubting the poking was done with a pistol. The big man took half a step back. “Why did you throw me outside?” Jose demanded. “I did nothing to you.”

“Put that gun away, kid, before you hurt yourself,” Grackle stammered.

“If you give me your word not to try anything like that again, I will let you live,” the kid uttered in the toughest voice he could muster.

“Let me buy you a beer, kid,” Ed said from behind the bar. “We don’t need to have any blood on the floor in here.”

Grackle relaxed some. “Go ahead, kid. Have a beer.”

Keeping his pistol steady, Jose crept slowly around to take the glass with his free hand. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “I am better with my gun than Elmer Ford was when it was his.”

“Are you Ford’s kid?” Ed said with surprise. “His hired hands used to come in here. You can relax, kid. We are all friends here. Go on back and sit down, Tuck”

The barkeep watched Jose guzzling his beer. “You can have all you can drink, free,” he said, winking at a few onlookers.

“Thanks. I’m hungry,” the kid said, swaying and approaching the food tray.

As he attempted to swallow a huge bite, both beer and eats erupted out of him, splattering on the floor. Ed nodded to Grackle. The emboldened near giant took Jose’s legs out from under him and slid him on his back over the wet part of the floor. Then he took the kid’s collar and dragged him outside, beyond the sidewalk, where the wetness caked dust on Jose’s clothing. As Grackle disappeared back inside the bar, laughter could be heard all the way in the street. But Jose did not hear, for he had passed out the moment he touched the floor.

He awakened on another floor, in the jail. He had been doused with buckets of water, while unconscious, before Dan lifted him and carried him all the way to the lock-up. There was wetness in his clothing, but no lingering odor. He leapt up, feeling chastised, the same as the times when Elmer punished him by socking him at times or coming down hard with a razor strop. At first he barely recalled the incident in the bar. But, with the feel of wet shoes and cuffs, memory slowly filled in. He learned a lesson that he vowed to not repeat.

Pacing the floor, yearning to plead for release, he finally saw Dan come through the door. “Hey,” Jose said, “You are the cowboy came to the rancho after Elmer got hanged. So - You are the sheriff?”

Dan pointed to himself with his thumbs. “That‘s me.”

The boy peered sadly and pleadingly out the bars. “Can I get out of here?”

Dan put his fingers to his chin, as though he were thinking. “Jose. We don’t have many laws set up in this town. So I guess it is my discretion whether I keep you for drunk and disorderly behavior or set you back out on the street. I’m not going to let you out, if you are going to go back again and put a gun in somebody’s gut. That’s sometimes being unlawful enough to get yourself hanged. Are you understanding what I am saying?”

“I won’t go back in there. I want to get a place to stay and not go back to the ranch. Those things I can’t do while drinking beer and getting sick.” Jose pulled his fingers through his hair, trying to get it to stay away from his face. He ran his hands down the dampness of his worn out pants.

Dan relented. “If you want a a job, kid, I think I can get you one and a place to sleep along with it.”

Reaching inside his pocket for the key, he paused to take a look at Jose’s pistol and gun belt, hanging where Tim Medina’s gun belt had also hung. He closed the cabinet, blocking the paraphernalia from view. “When I let you out, I am going to walk you to the stable, to help get you some work. In a few days I will find you and we will have a bit of a talk before I let you have back that gun.”

“But if I am free, I need to keep what is mine.” Jose said as he slapped on the yellow hat, then stood with his hands on his hips, pouting.

“Only way you will be free is after you agree with me,” Dan maintained.

“You remind me of a father. You know, without the beatings.” Jose’s demeanor changed. He began smiling at the prospect of getting a job with a place to sleep. “Okay. I will do as you say. May I call you Dan?”

“Sure you can.” Together they walked from the Del Lobo jail, directly to the stable, where Evan Sweet had just taken a jet black pony, after giving it new shoes for Emilio Cortez.

“What have you got there, Dan?” Evan said, looking beyond Dan at the ragged boy in a yellow hat.

“How’s business, Evan? Still looking to hire on a hand to shovel shit and move hay?”

The stable man gave Jose a close once over. “Are you saying a kid like this should work for me? He’s kind of scrawny.”

“You are underestimating this MAN. I’ve been out to the place he grew up and can say what he does is the best. He had Elmer Ford’s ranch working like the inner doodads of a clock. Give him a try. You won’t regret it.”

“Well -” Evan hesitated. “I can’t get anybody else. You want to work, boy? Come with me.”

“His name is Jose. He needs a place to bed down, too.”

Jose obediently followed. He thought he liked this Evan. He would work very hard for him. “Mr. Evan,” he said, “my caballo has been tied up by the saloon many hours, without food and water.”

“Go get him, son. Together we will take care of him.”

12

The next time Dan reported to Grief, Grief had a business proposition for him. “You know, Dan, the railroad is coming. The town is set to grow at a rapid pace over the next few years. I drew up these plans to build a bank. I won’t ask for help from the preacher, because this kind of money and the church shouldn’t mix.”

Dan interrupted him at this point. “What are you getting at? I’m no business man. I can read and cipher some, but that don’t qualify me to do anything for you.”

The store owner smiled indulgently. “I don’t want your expertise. It’s your savings I’m after.”

Dan snorted. “Thanks for being up front about it. I come here with the intent to buy a spread with that money. Now that Sue and I are getting hitched, we’re going to be needing it for sure. I’m debating how to make use of it, what with me living in town and such.”

“It would only be for about a year or two. As soon as my bank had assets to spare, you would have your money back, doubled.”

“That’s a mighty handsome offer,” Dan admitted. “But I can’t wait that long to use any of it.”

“Is that your decision, Dan?” Grief had something further in his mind, beyond getting at those savings. “I would not have taken it without letting you know there’s a spread that’s up for sale. Paul Gurky says he’s losing too many of his cows. He was thinking of fencing with bob wire, but Precker threatened to go to war over it. His plan now is to move on.”

“Well,” Dan observed, “the coming railroad and the numbers of families moving this way makes wire practical. Seems I heard ’good fences cause good neighbors.’ If I buy I’m definitely fencing. I believe I can get you to have some shipped here.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking Precker is a civilized human being. He puts on a face of it, but he won’t hesitate to wage a range war. And Sue would be caught in the middle.”

“Well, thanks, Mr. Grief. I appreciate your advice and your honesty. I hope you will find a new sheriff, because I resign.” As they shook hands, Dan added, “I recommend Emilio Cortez.”

“I like Emilio. Trouble is, the town won’t accept him that way. Truth is, folks here look on Mexicans as slightly better than Indians, but not enough to measure. I know. It’s their loss if they can’t live and let live. It’s just, that’s the way of it the world over and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Dan’s words were tinged with gold, when he told Grief, “Emilio is one hell of a man that I respect, even though he bears me some resentment. I recommend that folks get on his good side if they know what’s good for them.”

He slapped his hat on his head and slammed the door somewhat going out. As he saw it, the best course to deal with the Preckers - including Sue - would be to head straight to Precker’s spread and have a pow-wow. Which is what he was in the process of doing right now. When Jose brought out his horse, he noted that the kid had on a pair of the new Levis Grief had just gotten in. “Evan’s treating you good,” he remarked, sparking Jose’s already near perpetual grin.

He had questions how Sue would take the new turn of events. He steeled himself for the possibility she would back away from marriage, for he aimed to have that spread, no matter on which side of it she settled. On arriving unannounced, he tied the chestnut and made straight for Cookie’s shed, for he loved that God-awful coffee. Coming away with a steaming tin cup of brew, he encountered James, all clad for wrangling and on the way to take up gentling a few wild horses. Dan did not like the cut of the man. It had seeped into his consciousness to think James likely just might be the sort of a back shooter Tim Medina said he was.

“Is Mr. Precker around?” he asked. “I come to make a statement to him.”

James cut his eyes up at Dan and his look was not welcoming. “You got plans for my daughter? If you do, I would recommend you tell me about it, like a man, instead of letting a woman do the talking for you.”

Dan scoffed “Come with me to see the old man. Then you will hear me do some talking. I would like to have her present, if at all possible.”

Sue was found and brought around. After a quick glance at James, she joined Dan at his side. She thanked them both for including her.

“Who’s the foreman? Phil Gray? It would be good if he were in on this,” Dan stated, as they approached the house.

Dan left his empty cup on the porch. They were allowed in and ushered to the parlor. James sent a man to find both Sam and Phil. The housekeeper served lemonade, which was appreciated and quickly drank. Sue and Dan stared at James, who stared back, but no words were spoken. Phil was first to come in. He sat in as least intrusive a chair as he could find, clearly uncomfortable in his role of ranch foreman. Sam entered moments later. His activities of the day had him wound up and moving like a much younger person. He clearly did not appreciate getting interrupted just now.

The assembly accorded Sam their full respect. Dan stepped forward to shake his hand. “Looks like somebody just died. What’s going on?” Sam said curtly.

“I called us in here to discuss some important matters, Mr. Precker. I felt it had to be said before all of you. That way we can keep everything out in the open, no misunderstandings. First, me and Sue have an understanding. She may want to make it otherwise, once I speak my piece.” He hesitated, his gaze roving the faces for reactions. He noted Sue’s look of concern and went on with his speech. “Paul Gurky is about to sell his spread to me. I promise to be a good neighbor.”

Sam’s reaction was welcoming. “Well; I’m sure you will be. Congratulations. I am going to send you one of my bulls.”

“Wait up,” Dan added. “There’s more to this than I’ve said.”

He was determined to get it out, but words almost failed him. He anticipated the impact it would bring and he began to expect he may be forced to fight his way out. He edged between them all and the exit door before resuming his statement. “I intend to fence it. With bob wire.”

The room exploded in outrage. The four verbally assailed Dan. Sam, red, bellowing like a wounded steer, ordered him off of his property, ordering Phil and James to make certain he is shot on sight, heretofore. “I will burn your buildings and shoot every cow you own on the day you put the first post in the ground.”

After reading the dismay in Sue’s face, he strode from the house and prepared to ride.

He had in a sense thrown down the gauntlet and Sam had thrown it back in his face. He moved at a trot out of sight, hoping Sue might catch up, all but certain she no longer wanted him. After a bit he spurred the horse, galloping most of the way to Gurky’s. He had made up his mind to seal the deal before another interested party sought to step in. He came in to find that Gurky had already purchased wagons for moving. Paul met him and warmly shook his hand. “Grief told me he would send you around.”

Dan said that he had no interest in sheriffing, if he could outright own a fine spread like this one.

“Well,” said Paul, “I once was a fighter, but I’ve settled in my older age and I am not ready to take the losses and fight a range war at the same time.”

Dan gave a nod of sympathy. “Understood,” he replied. “Me, I’ve nothing worth fighting for, except when I get this ranch. I don’t fear the Preckers or anyone else.”

After walking about a bit, they settled the price and Dan took that much in bills from his saddlebag. To seal the deal, they shook hands. “How soon can I plan on taking over, Paul?”

“Give me a week. You will keep on my hands won’t you?”

“Of course, unless some want to pull out, to avoid the bullets that’s sure to fly.”

“Good doing business. You take care.”

“You, too. I hope you prosper in that new place you’re going to.”

All the way back to Del Lobo he relived the incident in Sam’s parlor. He was sure Precker meant every word. His first stop in town was the general store, where he asked Grief to order him a trailer load of bob wire. “No can do,” the store owner said. “In the first place, Sam Precker already threatened me and told me not to deal in any. In the second place, the bob wire company says they don’t have anybody willing to chance a delivery to this part of the country. They fear bandits, Indians and irate cowboys. The best they will do is drop it off at the nearest train stop, which is a good piece to the other side of Marty Zane‘s trading post.”

“Reckon I will recruit a few to help me escort my wire. Not everybody’s a lily livered coward.”

“Reckon not,” Grief acknowledged. “I can tell you how you can pick out the best men to help you out. We gonna have a festival in a couple of weeks. Me and Preacher settled on it last night. Gonna have a bit of cow roping, bronc riding and a shooting contest.”

“Sounds real good. Thanks for letting me know.”

CHAPTER FIVE

13

Paul Gurky surrendered his land a few days early. The hands were willing to stay on, but they put away their guns, in hopes that Precker would not shoot at them. They were adamant, also, that no fence would be run by them. Dan made up his mind that he would look to sign on a fence crew, once he had the posts and wire to hand. In the meantime, he looked to immediate matters, such as making the place his, by setting up a home and hanging his saddle where Gurky had hung his own.

Gurky’s house seemed smaller, now that everything that made it livable was gone. It needed a whitewash outside, and some holes patched inside. He hadn’t noticed before that the shingles were dilapidated. And the stove. Gurky left him with a rusty one that had been inside the barn. He recalled seeing it there before. Well, Grief had a few nice ones for sale. After a few hours of making assessments and notes, he had a list of necessities, all of which could be gotten while the day was still early. Before hitching up the wagon, Dan informed his men he would be gone a while.

It was a beautiful hot day for a ride. Coming to town, there was a banner on the roadside, informing that a Del Lobo Festival would be held, also naming the date and festivities. Interested parties were invited to sign up at the general store. Already the targets were getting set up and a few festive banners decorated the corral. Dan gave his list to Mrs. Grief before taking the sign-up sheet and putting exes before each event and signing his name. He was slightly amused that Jose had signed for the whole slate, as had Cortez and Medina. Then he noticed Sue’s name for some events. Why not? She lived the life men lead, mostly, and did as well. It would be interesting on more than one level to see her there.

He learned before concluding his business how to have the wire company ship the load as near Del Lobo as the trains went. He could arrive a day early and camp out until it got there. Gerald Grief figured it would take the best part of a week to get it all out to the ranch - That is, if Precker allowed him to get that far. Dan assured him there would be no stopping it, once the process got started. He helped Grief’s stocker and loader settle the items he had bought and had gotten down the road a good way, when some of Precker’s men rode in on him. “Wait up,” one whose name was Allen Simm said with authority.

Dan obliged. Sitting calmly and holding the reins with both hands, he nodded to the men. “Ain’t you from Precker’s spread?” he inquired innocently.

The cowboy told his name and said, “Howdy.”

Two riders moved closer, leaning off their saddles, to examine the goods inside the wagon. When they reached to move bags of cargo around, Dan told them to back away, if they knew what was good for them.

“We will let you go once we verify if you have any kind of fence building equipment,” Allen insisted.

His hands had not moved, but Dan seemed dangerous. “My advice is, you will back off from my wagon and get out of my way.”

“The boss said nobody gets through with any of those things. I aim to make sure they don’t.”

“You know, Allen, I recall seeing you a time or three out at the ranch. You seem level headed. If I tell you I don’t have those things on this wagon, will you believe me?”

Allen moved those words around in his head a few times before replying. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. Boss’s orders are -”

“Boss says ‘shoot’ if they try to hide anything,” the more aggressive looker said. “Don’t matter who.”

Allen shrugged. “There you have it. Now, will you let us look? Or not?”

Dan stepped down and fanned the aggressive cowboy’s horse back with his hat. “Tell you what,” he said. “I will move these things to your satisfaction. Next time, when I tell you there’s nothing, you will take my word, for these colts will answer your demands the moment you lay hands on my goods.”

“Take it easy, Mr. Avers. We ain’t going to hurt nothing. Just let us look under the goods in the corner there and we can each get on our way.”

The wagon was “clean,” as Allen described it. Wordlessly, the boys trotted off. Dan moved ahead. His mood was not so angry, but he was not about to be buffaloed.

Because the hands had the daily operations well under control and they knew the spread better than he, Dan felt free to use the next days readying the house on his own. The exception would be the roofing. He would have a crew strip off the old shingles and cover it over with the shakes he had seen at Grief’s store.

Being that busy, Dan almost forgot about the festival. The most outspoken cowboy on the ranch, whom all called O’Hara, reacted with surprise, when he saw his boss preparing to shore up the support structure to the porch, instead of preparing for the day’s events in town. Grateful when O’Hara alerted him, he invited some hands to join him in town. A few left out, right away. Dan cleaned himself Sunday church clean. Wearing a brand new outfit, he saddled the chestnut and brought out a Winchester rifle. After buckling on the gun belt, he mounted up and urged the horse to a gallop. Once in town, he left his mount before the general store.

He saw that the flow of feet and interest was at the far end of the main street. Already the first event was underway. Dan put himself in line to do tug o’ war with Tuck Grackle. The object was to see how many men it would take to drag the bouncer into a pit of mud. It had begun with a ratio of four to one. These four were dragged in and muddied, almost instantly, with Grackle laughing and boasting and downing mugs of beer. Next went five; easily disposed of. Then six. Dan made up one of the seven. He joined with Emilio Cortez and five others. At first, the seven pairs of boots went sliding. But Dan and Cortez found a groove that had been eaten in the dirt by so many feet and were able to hold firm. They dug in and made Grackle surge forward, for the first time in the event. Then the two sides paused. Grackle made to shift his feet, for traction, and as he did so, the seven caught him enough off balance to drag him forward, until he pitched headlong into the mud.

He emerged, laughing, and for perhaps the first time in his adult life feeling part of the social group. He followed the other mudded players, to be washed by a makeshift shower, made from a barrel that was provided by the store. Then, dripping, off to the beer barrel, to fill up his mug.

Substantial portions of street were roped off, to allow the children to play their running games without clashing with adult traffic. Stands had been set up to offer food and drink. It was in no way the organized affair that came to be known as rodeo, in a later day, but enough elements were present to deliver to the people a similar effect.

Near the corral, the preacher himself had begun to organize the horse race, and that is where Dan caught a first look at Sue. She had led her pony to the start line, as had Jose and four who to Dan were unknown. He and Emilio brought their own steeds to the lineup and all were a study in ignoring each other, but the attention of all was suddenly caught by Tim Medina, who intended to race as well. He had not been able to find anything the measure of the animal he had lost, but in his hands were the reins of a fine piece of horse flesh. He nodded around at the crowd and then fixed his gaze on the Preacher.

“All line up,” Preacher Smith boomed, in his best preaching voice. “The course is a simple one. Go out and around Dutchman’s Crossing and return here. First to cross the line wins six dollars worth of goods from the general store.”

Of the nervous horses, just a few had raced before. When a gun fired to signal the start, the jet black pony of Cortez leaped to an early lead. Most riders began slow, but Medina and Jose shared second place, with Dan gaining rapidly. By the time they pounded around Dutchman’s Folly, the race had become a repeat of the earlier contest between Dan and Cortez. They came into town running neck and neck, in a finish so close no winner could be called. Sue was third, followed closely by Jose. The other riders crossed over in a pack. “Ain’t no winner.” Preacher declared. “Cortez didn’t beat Avers. Avers didn’t beat Cortez. It’s a wash.”

In the meantime, the storekeeper and Evan Sweet were setting the scene for the shooting contest: the big, final, event, but for the dance. Which was in fact a series of events. The contestants owned a variety of revolvers and rifles, but most of the serious shooters brought out their Winchester rifles and their Colt 45s. First came the Galloping Horse contest.

In this exercise, a log, the size of a man, had been stood in the middle of the street. On it was tacked the white backside of a poster, with a bulls eye drawn about the spot representing a heart. A rider would gallop by the log, attempting to place a single bullet in the bulls eye.

A dozen were in the Galloping Horse contest. Of the first two riders, Cortez and Avers, a coin toss decided Cortez went ahead on his fine black pony. He trotted as far back as the width of two buildings and awaited Grief’s signal. With the dropping of Grief’s hand, Cortez urged his pony to a high speed and as he bore down on the log fired his shot at the bulls eye.

14

It was Evan’s job to examine the bullet holes and put an identifying mark on each one. He turned from Emilio Cortez’s shot and waved excitedly. “Bulls eye,” he shouted.

Dan Avers rode next, leaning low in the saddle. His pistol barked, then he confidently awaited Evan’s verdict. “Another bulls eye.”

There had been controversy when it became known that Jose had signed to participate in any events. Grief overruled the complaints, pointing out that the boy was living the role of a man and could not be disqualified for his age and that complaints based on his heritage did not apply, for none of the complainants had dared include Emilio Cortez in the protests. One Mexican in; all Mexicans in. Since it was not expected Jose could compete successfully against the grown men anyway, the protests quickly faded. It was his turn, at third, and he galloped the correct distance, wheeled the paint and rode the horse as hard as it could go. On reaching the twenty foot marker, he drew out his gun and fired. “Total dead center,” Evan cried out. “Best one so far.”

Tim Medina duplicated Jose’s feat. His hole was cut into the other, forming an illusion of the number eight.

Sue was up next. Her pony reared, then dashed up the dusty street, finding the speed it had lacked in the race. She fired her round and cantered around, bringing the pony up alongside Dan’s chestnut. She almost ignored the call that it was a near bulls eye. She looked Dan in the eye and announced, “We’ve got a appointment with the preacher.”

Dan showed no emotion. “What about your father and grandfather?”

Sue was adamant. “What they do with their lives can’t be the boss of what I do with mine.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I done moved out at the ranch.”

These five only qualified for the second run. And the second run duplicated the first. As with the horse race, the resultant tie canceled out any prize money. Which prompted the contestants to warn the sponsors they would not pursue the competition, unless prizes were guaranteed.

And so, Dan, Emilio, Jose and Tim were given their prizes.

Tossed saucer shoot. Won by Tim.

There were lines of clothespins to be shot, followed by Quick Draw. These five shooters were too evenly matched to say of a certainty which was best. And that fact provided the reason why Dan asked the others to meet with him at the end of the final match, just before the dance was scheduled to begin.

The gathering was held at the corral, but Dan spoke loudly, not concerned who heard their conversation. He explained his need of fencing for his newly acquired spread and the difficulty of procuring same. Would the gathered be interested, for a healthy price, to help Dan transport said cargo? After haggling over money, it was easier than Dan would have supposed, to persuade them all to sign on. “We five together could take on an army and win the battle,” he said, gratefully. “Now,” he added, “me and my woman have an appointment to be married.”

“Do you need a witness?” Cortez volunteered.

“We have the preacher’s wife for that,” Sue broke in. “We want some privacy for this.”

The Mexican threw up his hands. “Of course. Of course. Do you have a dress?” Turning to Dan. “And you: a ring?”

They both said “No.” But they did have a two dollar bill for the preacher. They went off to the church, joining hands, perhaps for the first time since meeting.

“Have you told your father of this?” Dan said, unconcerned but curious.

“I told the entire spread. Some wished they could bop me to make me see some sense. This pistol made them see my point. Father said he was done with me. So did Grandfather.”

She dusted off her trousers and buttoned the top of her shirt as they came closer to the church. They removed their hats and smoothed at their unruly hair. Minutes later, they stood before Preacher Smith, who held out his hand for the two dollars in as unobtrusive a way as he could. With Mrs. Smith standing by, her broom leaned against a corner, the preacher smiled. In a manner expansive, his eyes a-twinkle, he took their hands and brought them together. “In the sight of the Lord,” he began, “ you are here to cleave together in matrimony. I am not wise enough to direct you on your path in life. Only to share God’s blessing. Sue Precker; do you take this man?”

She looked into Dan’s eyes, face shining bright as a new penny. “I do,” she affirmed stoutly.

“Dan Avers; do you take this woman?”

Dan stood as straight and proud as ever a man stood. “I do,” he declared in a voice loud and firm.

“Then I pronounce you married. Kiss her, Dan.”

Shy, hesitant, they shared a first kiss.

“Then,” the preacher concluded, picking up the Book, “build you a good life, and, please, don’t provoke Sam Precker.”

Dour Mrs. Smith congratulated the lovers and took up the broom, to resume sweeping. The preacher saluted the couple as they left the room.

Outside, Dan fixed his horse at the buggy’s rear and took the reins beside his new wife. They forsook the dance, anxious to set up housekeeping. They would encounter no watchful Precker’s crew, for the day had been a holiday for virtually everybody. All went well for Dan, riding easy with his bride hugging him from the side all the way, until they came in view of the house. Sue watched with a critical eye as the buggy rolled around in front. “That horrible whitewash will never do,” she declared. “I want paint. White for the walls. Green around the winders. Green, when the roofers gets finished.”

“Make up a list. It’s yours as much as mine and I want you to like it.”

They were met by O’Hara, who informed them that more cattle had gone missing. “Have you picked out any sign?” Dan said. “There has got to be a pattern to us losing so many cows, as well as Ford’s spread losing more than us.”

“I feel like Ford did,” the cowhand replied. “Precker don’t ever report losing any.”

“I worked for Sam a short time,” Dan replied. “I didn’t see anything going on. I don’t know how to figure this out.”

O‘Hara‘s red hair appeared to flame, for a ray of sun peeped over the rooftop to highlight it. “Might be that fence wire will help. Least wise if they broke through we would have a starting point to try looking for them.”

“Thanks for your service, O’Hara,” Dan said. “I want you to spread word that I need everybody to gather here at the house, after breakfast tomorrow. I aim to have a conversation that will spell out what we intend to do with Gurky’s ranch, now that it ain’t his no more.”

As O’Hara rode off, they went inside. Sue thought the interior was fine, except where Dan had patched the holes. She thought they might bring in a professional to make them better. She loved the new stove, the fireplace, all of the furniture. Except, not the bed. “That rat’s nest looking thing - I bet Gurky wallered in it like a dirty pig. I will sleep in a blanket in the barn before I bed down there.”

The bed had seemed decent to Dan, but he began to see her point of view after staring at it a bit. “We might have to get Gerald Grief to order us one. I didn’t never see any in his store,” he said.

Next, they viewed the state of the vegetable patch, to one end of the house. The plants were too dry, but they seemed worth tending. Sue vowed to transform it and make it more productive.

During the remaining hour of sunlight they found some blankets and took them into the barn. They made a bed over some loose clean hay. The clang of the dinner bell had them joining the crew for their supper.

The hands eating at the table were simple cowpokes, who asked nothing more than steady work, their meals and a place to bunk. Dan introduced Sue as his wife and they all stood to greet her. They went down the line, saying their names. Then, all dug in, eating the cook’s great stew and washing it down with their choice of water or coffee.

Later, the couple sat on the porch to enjoy the sunset. Finally, in encroaching darkness, they lit a coal oil lamp and took it to the barn. They lounged in the hay, telling each the other of the life they hoped to build. The talk eventually came to include children. At that mention, they paused, then demurely embraced. Dan put out the light so they could go to bed.

15

Tim had gotten an advance on his pay when he signed up to guard Dan’s wire. It made the difference between sleeping in the livery stable and a comfortable hotel bed. This morning he lounged on a sidewalk bench, smoking, when Emilio and Jose appeared. Shortly, they were to meet Dan and his two wagons, with guns loaded and ready to ward off any bandits, or, perhaps, Precker’s men. He knew why their trip was no secret. He agreed with Dan’s perspective, that it might be far better to draw a probable fight out in the wild country, where the innocents could not by accident get harmed, than bring it on a ranch or in town.

He lazily came to his feet, tossed the cigarette, and looked up at the boy. Jose had come, wearing his new Levis, still wearing his yellow hat. “You must like that silly hat,” Tim remarked.

“No better than your Stetson,” came the reply.

“Good morning, Cortez,” he said, admiring the man’s pony. “You strike me as one who knows more than just a little bit about horse flesh. If you run across an exceptional pony for me, I will be glad to pay a top price.”

Emilio touched his broad brimmed hat. “I might help you a little, one day.”

The black pony danced beneath the rider. It was as if he knew they were admiring him.

They went to Grief’s café for some breakfast. The morning specialty was biscuits, with eggs and gravy. The button-eyed, pouty lipped woman serving appeared fixated on Tim. Tim ordered his biscuits, oblivious, and hoisted his coffee, drinking up and holding the cup out for more.

A stranger in town, across the room, kept turning his head, eyes focused on Jose, Emilio and even Tim. After a few minutes, in which the trio continued their meal without acknowledging him at all, the man spoke to the room in general. ”I ain’t never ate in the same room with any Mexicans.”

When nobody heeded him still, he spoke to a man in the nearest chair, “I been told I can shoot me some Mexicans when I get on with Precker’s. He’s hiring gunfighters, because his neighbor hired some on to fight him over bob wire. I hate bob wire near as much as Mexicans.”

The stranger once again eyeballed the trio, the source of his agitation. “I said I ain’t never ate no food in any place that’s infested with Mexicans.”

Tim, without glancing the man’s way, arose from the table. Ambling slowly in a trajectory that blocked his companions’ view of the stranger, he affected a simper before the man, pausing, looking foolish. His manner brought out the bully in the stranger, who made to stand up from the table, placing a hand on the table top and the other on the high rung of his chair. In that compromising posture he had no opportunity to duck as Tim drew out his gun and pistol whipped him with it. The man lay dazed on the floor. Tim motioned Emilio and Jose to join him, as he continued to amble toward the door.

In the saddle, heading out, Jose shook his head at Tim. “Why did you save that man’s life? We got to shoot him anyway.”

“It ain’t polite to kill a man before he had his breakfast,” Tim replied.

“You made a good move,” Emilio commented.

The road they followed out of town was a widened trail, with strands of trees to the sides and many downward slopes, that occasional freight wagons and a few travelers used. There would be a fork and Dan was expected to be waiting there, when they arrived. Fearless to the point of carelessness, the trio moved along quickly. Nearing the rendezvous point, a sound of gunfire came muffled by the trees. Without heed for personal safety, they thundered down on the big wagons that had been drawn up, side by side, with Dan and Sue hunkered between. The barking guns had grown silent, after two volleys, making it likely the shooters had just intended a warning, to make them turn back.

Dan and Sue sprung from between the wagons to greet their would be rescuers. “It’s obvious the danger is real,” Dan said. “So, if any of you decide to quit, you can go now and get half pay. No hard feelings.”

Emilio ignored his employer‘s words. “I think I should ride in the lead, a good ways ahead,” he said. “Perhaps my friend, Tim, would like to take up the rear.”

“Yes,” Dan agreed. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“Jose,” he added with affection, “can stay beside us.”

After about three hours, they came to approach Marty Zane’s trading post. At the post they stopped to care for the animals. Marty ran a healthy business, serving Indians, whites and Mexicans alike. He was a one time soldier in the Union Army, who, because of a crippled arm, retired to build a business here, where he felt most comfortable. His woman was a product of African ex slave and Mexican. He was not self conscious about her and in fact put his good hand on her in an affectionate way often in the course of the day. As they approached, a middle aged Indian posing by the door, smoking a pipe with a curved stem, asked Jose to go inside and buy some liquor for him. He could not do it himself, because Marty refused to sell alcohol to Indians, so the Indian tried various ways to obtain it, and did so every single day. Ignoring the man, Jose dodged around him and the man stoically continued to smoke his pipe. He tipped his hat as Sue passed him by.

Inside, three men lounged about, bottles in their hands, leering as the travelers entered. Tim noted right away how these hombres carried their pistols low on the hip, holsters tied with a strap about the leg to keep the guns from hanging up during a quick draw - And he noted an edge of concern in Marty’s face as he and his fellow travelers returned hard stares to the three obviously professional guns. Tim was just mildly surprised when Dan walked up to the galute in the middle and addressed him. “Bud Crawford? Ain’t you dead yet?”

Dan lifted Bud’s Stetson off his head, revealing a seriously malformed pate, where a buffalo gun at one time took off a portion. The tough’s twisted grin gave an evil mien to the man. “Too bad for you.” His gaze swiveled around. “And your friends.”

Dan jammed the hat down on Bud’s head. The tough guy grimaced, but held his grin.

Tim spoke up. “They’s just three of you.”

Bud gave Tim a dismissive look that said, “Who are you?” Then his companion on the left pulled open the door that led to the post’s storeroom. A fourth owlhoot stepped forth, pointing a shotgun at the room. He motioned with the barrel for the travelers to move together to the entry door. He didn’t realize that Sue was a member and so paid no attention that a girl was apparently browsing the stock on the shelves. She picked up a sample of a cloth and held it to mask from the others that her free hand was pulling from the holster a colt 45. Before Bud or his friends summoned the wit to warn him, she jammed the gun barrel into his ribs. “Drop it or die,” she commanded.

The shotgun was lowered and Emilio took it away. He removed the shells and then swung the gun at a support post. The barrels bent. He handed the shotgun to the owner, who refused to wrap his fingers around it. So Emilio dropped it on the man’s boot.

Dan ordered the hired guns to remove the bullets from their guns, as he reacquired Bud’s hat. “Drop them in here.”

“Next,” Tim broke in, “Take off your boots and your pants.”

“Aw, no. There’s a lady present,” one particularly grizzled hombre said.

“Drop them or I will do it for you,” Sue demanded. “Just to the long johns.”

The men freely put the bullets into the hat as it was obvious more waited to be had from Marty Zane’s shelves. They were more reluctant to lower their pants. They did so, hesitantly, embarrassed, after taking off their gun belts; Jose grabbed a length of tie line and made the pants into a bundle, which he carried outside to dump into the horse trough. Emilio thought that was a good idea. He scooped up the boots and did the same. The Indian waiting by the door followed. He stared solemnly at the bounty a few moments. “I take,” he decided.

Jose readied the wagons, noting as he worked that the Indian had taken the items and disappeared very quickly. He grinned at the thought of the men in their underclothes. “We can go now, Mr. Dan,” he hollered.

Tim and Emilio grabbed up the loose gun belts, complete with the pistols in the holsters, and headed for the door. “These will be by the tree near the outhouse,” Tim said.

Shortly, they were gone.

The rest of the way to the railhead the great prairie land offered few places for ambush. The advancing season brought cooler air and unfulfilled promises of rain. Both people and animals rejoiced in the relenting of the harshest summer most could recall.

They arrived with their wagons at the rail station, to find the fencing had come early and been dumped off on the platform. The steam belching train and trail of black smoke from the stack was long gone.

CHAPTER SIX

16

At Sam Precker’s orders, the hired guns quartered themselves in Dan’s own bunkhouse, banishing the cowhands to the barn and the comfort of their own bedrolls. To this the cowhands acquiesced in gloomy silence, figuring, once the war was ended, they would simply move back in and return to living the normal way. There were seven hired guns and the three ranch hands led by Allen Simm. Simm had been placed in charge, but they all knew nobody really controlled such a group.

Simm came out on the grounds the first morning and saw the stranger handled by Tim in Greif’s restaurant, Harley Crabbe, bullying one of Dan‘s cowboys. The wiry wrangler’s leathery face did not wince before the gunfighter’s assault. He was no hand with a gun, but he was no soft touch. “I don’t carry a weapon,” he said in a voice as resolute and stern as some cowboys are said to be, “but I don’t take your kind of guff.”

Crabbe grinned, knowing he carried in a holster an instrument giving him power over life and death. “All I want is for you to give me those new boots you’re wearing. We can still be friends, once you do that.”

The wrangler, Moses Joe, told Crabbe what he thought of a man who hides behind a gun. “Take my boots off me yourself if you do want ’em.”

Simm sought to intervene, but the gunfighter brushed him off.

“Those boots won’t even fit you,” Simm argued.

“Don’t matter,” said Crabbe. “I think they’re too purty to stomp around in cow plops.”

He pulled his gun and sent a few slugs into the dirt next to Moses’ feet. “Git ’em off.”

But Moses turned his back and purposefully strode off toward the corral, where the other hands had gathered. Not wishing to appear weak before a man like Simm, Crabbe fired his weapon at something more substantial than dirt the second time. The denim material at the inner thigh of the wrangler popped, as the bullet barely went deeply enough to break the skin. But the sight of red in the palm of his hand, when he explored the wound, made Moses Joe turn around. There was a change in his eyes that made Crabbe feel nervous.

“Keep them, then,” Crabbe announced. “I don’t need any cow poop boots anyway.”

He asked Simm if he would be interested in some breakfast, while keeping a wary eye on Moses at the same time. Moses hesitated, resumed his walk to the corral.

Crabbe and Simm joined with the rest of the gang at a plank table, where they purloined the cowhands’ food and coffee. They laughed over Crabbe’s recounting of the encounter with Moses and they boasted of how Dan Avers’ company would be laid low.

Bud Crawford and a rail skinny String Gravis stayed apart, draining whiskey bottles into themselves. Both claimed being thoroughly drunk made them shoot better. Another of the gang remained aloof, refusing to engage in conversation, even unwilling to share his name. Some of the gathering pushed away the dishes and broke out a deck of cards.

Harley Crabbe recounted how he once robbed a bank and got the crime blamed on Jesse James. “Seemed, every crime in those parts was Jesse’s fault,” he grinned. “My hoss got swept away when I was crossing a river. Took my saddlebags and the money with it. I was left a hossless ‘bo on the road. Then this fella come along and give me a ride. ’Fore I was through, he give me his hoss and money, in exchange for not drilling him in the gizzard with his own iron.”

Simm looked at Crabbe, impatiently. “You playing?”

“No,” said Crabbe. “Deal me out.”

He stretched himself, then went out the door. It was Moses Joe’s bad luck to be in sight, paying attention the other way, and so Crabbe got close to him, before he saw. “About them boots,” the gunfighter demanded.

“Go to blazes,” said Moses. “Without that gun I would wrap your legs about your neck and strangle you with them.”

A devil made Crabbe fire his pistol into the toe tip of the man’s boot. It was the final spark to fuel the kind of rage that sent Moses into a headlong charge, that resulted in a bullet getting planted in his shoulder. Still Moses kept coming and Crabbe began pistol whipping him until he dropped. Wranglers and gunfighters crowded around to witness Crabbe’s cowardly acts. Bud and String told the gunfighter he ought to get back in the bunkhouse. On reading the faces of the crowd, he turned, wordlessly, and went back inside.

Moses would be alright, the men decided and the cowpokes took him in to the dinner table and laid him on it to dig out his bullet, before he came to. He awoke midway through the proceedings, but the men held him still until it was finished. O’Hara did the operating; he felt like flinging the bullet in the face of Harley Crabbe, but he dropped it instead in the spittoon.

Moses Joe would not stay down. He rolled his body off the table as soon as the bandage was tied. He was for busting in Dan Avers’ storeroom and raiding the armory. O’Hara, though looking disgusted, held him back. The cowboys continued huddling around. They had been rendered directionless and awaited the outcome of the approaching battle.

After listlessly waiting around all day, the cowboys retired to the makeshift camp they were using. As they prepared to settle in, a cowboy named Henry Jackson exclaimed, “Fire. They’re burning the house.”

The crew ran to form a bucket brigade, but the guntoters had stationed themselves at the well, to ensure no drop of water reached the house. They waited helplessly until the structure fell down and turned to smoking rubble. O’Hara could not meet Moses’ accusatory stare after that.

“Are we in the middle on this, or what?” Moses remonstrated. “If we are not involved we ought to quit and move on. Or do you think we ought to wait on Mr. Avers and allow him to hand us everything on a silver plate?”

“I know what it is you’re getting at,” O’Hara said. “What do the rest think about it?”

Henry Jackson looked at the old brown hat he held in his hand as he spoke. “I’m tending toward Moses’ point of view. Those hombres think we ain’t men because we don’t stand up to them. There’s some shotguns and pistols in the storeroom and I think we ought to break in and take us some.”

“We’ve got to be smart,” put in another cowboy, called Randy Rains. “We can’t match any of them in a quick draw gun fight. And we don’t have to. Ain’t no rule says we have to.”

O’Hara considered the words of his men. It was obvious he was moved by them. “If we do such as that,” he said, “we got to time everything just right. I’m thinking when the rider comes to say Mr. Avers is getting near, then them bastids is coming out all together.”

Moses nodded. “Their guns will be holstered and they won’t expect nothing from us.”

“Everybody a good shot with their preferred gun?” O’Hara asked. “If you ain’t, say so in advance so we can plan around it.”

Nobody spoke up, so then they made plans to break into the storeroom.

17

The wagon riders and horsemen traveled mostly without talking, all but Jose, who prattled endlessly, not minding when no one responded to him. They were nonplussed to be so near to home and there had been nothing stirring from the anticipated hired guns. With home around the bend, it was an almost eerie silence, confounding them and even quieting Jose for a change. They were met by the cowhands as the barn came into view, with a blank space where once there stood a house.

O’Hara welcomed his boss and apologized profusely for allowing Precker’s goons to fire the house. He allowed he and the rest of the crew had done the best they could, once the place was overrun by these cretins.

Dan tried to wrap his brain around the situation, but the pieces he had of the puzzle just did not connect. They all moved on to the corral to care for the animals and park the wagons. “Dan,” Emilio called from near the side of the barn. “Look over here at this.”

The newly arrived travelers learned there was a row of blankets along the wall, each one covering a likely human body.

“Oh, yeah,” O’Hara called from the corral. “We gifted you some gunmen. I reckon we ought to bury them pretty soon.”

Dan, with his hands on his hips, stared at the cowboys. He borrowed a handful of Emilio’s smokes and called his hired crew to a powwow at the corral, where he passed out the cigars. He studied each man’s face, as if seeing them for the first time, as he truly was, for he had taken the whole lot for granted, prior to just now. “I know you didn’t draw down on those fellows. But I don’t care, for all is fair, as they say, when the deck’s unfairly stacked.”

He saw that Emilio and Tim were about to ride off. “Wait, you two. I have your pay in my saddlebag. I had it the whole time, just in case I had to pay you off before we came home.”

They collected the cash, and they thanked him for the pleasure of his business, then the two rode away. Jose hung back, for he wished to speak with the boss about another matter. “I’ll get to you shortly,” Dan informed the kid.

He had his hired hands to understand that they had cut themselves in on the same pay as the rest. But it would come in the form of bonuses on payday. “Can I get some volunteers to help me bury these skunks?”

Jose ran ahead to grab up the shovels, and he gave one into each outstretched hand, but kept one to use himself. Sue stood by, and she remarked, “I didn’t like the house anyway. We got to do us some house raising pretty quick.”

“Contrary to all belief, I am not a rich man,” Dan half joked, as he heaved a spade-full of dirt to the side. “But I can get us a house load of material and stand it up.”

Henry Jackson wondered what they were going to do about the rubble of ashes?

“Put a plow through them and make that part of the garden,” Dan answered. “I plan to put a house on that rise over there.”

“How are you going to get water to it?“ Henry pondered.

“We are going to pump it with a windmill.”

This prompted a grin of admiration from Henry.

Later in the afternoon, Dan worked with Sue to set up a temporary home in the barn. It had been suggested by O’Hara that they take the bunkhouse, but Sue turned it down. “Smelly old men. I can’t live in a place like that.”

Dan knew better than to assign fence building to his men; anyway, there was too much to keep them busy elsewhere. He and Sue were pleasantly surprised when Tim returned, to announce he had formed the Fence Company of the USA.

Precker’s threat was delayed, not diminished and Dan would need some guns until that issue got settled. They wanted to include Jose, with the prattling tongue and quick hands. “How many have you got to work all together?” Dan enquired.

“There’s six,” Tim said. “I expect we can work, starting tomorrow.”

“Seven. You need Henry to keep you in bounds with the posts. I told him to check in once every day to offer advice and then to leave. Stay nights in the bunkhouse, if you like.”

Dan threw an arm about Sue and together they went into the barn, to the bed they had made. “Those folks are made out of iron,” he said. Then, “I’m going to get on those sheets and lay there until next roundup time.”

They pulled away one another’s boots and threw themselves down, shortly to drop off in the deepest sleep.

As the sun crept over the horizon on the following morning the ranch was stirring. Coffee already made, flapjacks and fried eggs for all, and Tim’s crew already hitching the horses to the wagons. Dan planned to ride into Del Lobo to find out if Grief could get up a package of house material, for there was no suitable timber for many miles. As he stuffed half a flapjack in his mouth and started chewing, Dan could hear a horse clopping that by the sounds being made had come from off the ranch. Turned out that Sam Precker had boldly come in, perhaps to check on his missing men, or perhaps to issue another famous final warning. Dan came out to find Precker and a driver in a buckboard facing the newly created graveyard. Dan started that way, until the old man’s buggy turned and Precker caught sight of him. “Well?” Dan demanded.

Precker told the driver to head out. “I seen what I come for,” he said, waving a cane at the air.

Dan watched him ride away, then spoke to Sue. “I really wish we could be friends,” he said. “This country needs to shed its gun mentality and settle everything by law.”

She scoffed. “You should know there’s never gonna be a time we don’t need guns. The law can’t help until after something happens.”

“One way or another,” he insisted. “You can’t just shoot people ‘cause you think they deserve it.”

“There‘s always gonna be someone needs shooting,” she insisted.

Dan affectionately threw an arm around her shoulders. “Going to see Grief. I’ll hitch up the buggy, if you want to go with me.”

“Sure.“ She turned away to get ready. Then had a sudden thought. “How can you buy a house, after all the money you’ve spent?”

Dan shrugged. “When I went home after Mother died, Father and my sister was already gone. I knew my old man had been burying cans since before I can remember. I dug around to find as many as I could. Turns out he laid away thousands of silver coins. I don’t know where he got most of them from. I had other thoughts than his business. I hope he didn’t rob or steal. Wouldn’t surprise me too much if he did.”

Dan went to hitch up the horse, while Sue went to make herself up for town visiting, happy in the prospect of getting a new house for herself.

The sky was dark, off to the east, as they drove out. They gambled that rain would hold off until after they came home. Dan put the horse at a quick trot, with nary a thought that Sam Precker might already have arranged for a new assault on they and the property.

The buggy soon rolled into town and they stopped before the livery to tie off the horse, not wishing to block the flow of commerce in and out of the store. The clouds were spitting, but it did not seem full showers were imminent. As the two approached the store, they noticed loud voices coming from inside.

18

Emilio Cortez and a dozen other men stood around the prone figure of Gerald Grief. “He didn’t just collapse. There’s a knife in his gut,” said the man on the floor examining him. “I recognize it as belonging to Cortez.”

Emilio had reached to his knife sheath, when the word, “knife” left the man’s lips. “So that’s what -” he began.

His gun immediately put the crowd on notice. “I am innocent. It’s my knife, but I did not use it.”

Backing to the door, he found himself face to face with Dan. He could not point the gun at his friend, but sidestepped both he and Sue and bolted for his pony. Most of those in attendance carried no weapon and the few who did were stunned and made no move to stop him. Dan could not fire on a man in such circumstances, but he knew Emilio would need to be brought in. “Is Grief dead?” he asked of the man holding him.

The man nodded. Tears suddenly filled his eyes.

Mrs. Grief arrived from deep in the store. She watched stoically as her husband was gently lifted and taken away. If she grieved at all, she saved outward manifestation of it until totally alone.

“We are going after Mr. Cortez,” Dan said solemnly. “Any men interested, meet me at Sweet’s place, in about three hours.”

He looked at Sue, questioningly.

“I’m staying to help Mrs. Grief,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I have to go home for a good horse and to recruit Tim. He’s likely the only man in the territory could track one such as Emilio.”

As he rode quietly along, Dan was in no great hurry, for he truly doubted Emilio could be found, unless he made himself known. Likely the man would stop by his own property for supplies. Then where? The Mexican border? That was a long way from here. Then, there was the rain. None had fallen, but the clouds gathering promised a real gully washer. He had his head in a fog, when Emilio himself appeared before him on the road, causing his startled horse to shy to the side.

Emilio showed trust for his friend, by keeping his pistol sheathed. Tall and straight and fearless, he eased up to the buggy, when Dan halted it. Emilio leaned over, to get as near as possible before he spoke. “You heard? I told you I didn’t do it.”

Dan said he understood but that Emilio would have to come back and try to clear himself.

“It was a woman took my knife. I’ve never seen her before, but I think I could identify her. This woman fell against me, inside the store. We got all tangled together for a minute. She looks about fifty. Medium size, for a woman, with long black tresses with a white streak that goes all the way down on one side. Wearing dark colors. Help me find her and I will gladly stand trial, if need be.”

“Won’t be no trouble to find her,” Dan observed. “Doing anything about it afterwards is the real problem. That’s Sam Precker’s housekeeper you described.”

“But, what did she have against Gerald Grief?”

“One thing comes to mind,” Dan said thoughtfully. “He was too helpful to me.”

Emilio snorted. “But that’s not enough to murder someone.”

“Sure it is, if the purpose is to start killing off anyone who has any power to help me. Framing you kills two birds with one stone. They was gambling a mob would immediately lynch you. All that’s left after that is me, Tim and Jose.”

“Precker probably still has plenty of guns,” Emilio observed, as he again mounted the pony. “But I’m game.”

“One thing about it bothers me,” Dan said quickly, to slow down Emilio’s move. “Sam Precker is a weasel in lots of ways. But this underhanded tactic seems out of character for him.”

Emilio paused. “What are you trying to say?”

“Somebody else is likely behind all of this.”

The Mexican nodded. “Then the only way to be sure is to get that housekeeper to answer questions.”

“Mr Cortez, I would like to hide you some place, until we can find a way to get at the truth. I have a lineman’s shack nobody will think to look in. How do you feel about a little vacation, while I try to reclaim my job as the sheriff?”

In the end, Emilio had to agree that Dan’s ideas were the correct ones and he made the decision to hide out as Dan proposed. Dan asked for the sheathe he had kept his knife in. “Something to prove that you are dead,” he explained.

After getting his man off to the shack, Dan went on to get two good horses. The second was for Sue to ride home, once finished with assisting Mrs. Grief. Soon enough, Dan met the men gathered to be in a posse and offered the sheathe as evidence he had been with the polecat and drilled him right through the heart. Relieved to miss the ordeal, the men retired to the bar and had drinks, but Dan had only a short beer, being in a hurry to get to Mrs. Grief.

He found Sue serving a customer of flour and beans and asked her to get Mrs. Grief into the back office for a private talk. First, he wanted to know, would Sue allow for Dan to take up the sheriff’s badge again? “It won’t be for long. O’Hara and the boys can run the ranch for a time.”

“Only if we can get someone building on our house the time we are away,” she replied petulantly.

He smiled and assured her it would be done.

As he stepped into Gerald Grief’s office, Dan could feel the dead man’s presence in a powerful way, making him wish for the wife, whose name he had not yet heard, for Grief always had only referred to her as “my wife,” to hurry in and help him settle some things, so he could leave.

She entered the room and Dan thought it was evident the force of the tragedy had not yet struck her full on. She was calm and all business. “Gerald and I were not sentimental,” she said. “We worked well together and never did quarrel, the way some folks do. Our son died when he was three. We went on the way we did because it was all we could do. Don’t ask me to miss him by crying and going to pieces. It was not what our life together was all about.”

“Yes Ma’m,” Dan said. “Anyway, I come here for more than paying respects. As you have been told, Emilio is dead. Thing is, after I shot him, he made a dying statement that he did not attack your husband. He said Sam Precker’s housekeeper stole his knife, before it happened. I tend to believe him.”

Mrs. Grief bridled at the allegation. “I have served Sylvia a lot of years. While we are not great friends, I have observed that she is gentle and has no malice for anybody. There’s not any murder in that woman’s heart.”

“Regardless,” Dan observed gently, “she has to answer some questions. This case has me ready to put on the sheriff’s badge again, so I can legally pursue her.”

Sue had stood quietly to the side, ever since learning of the charge against her grandfather’s housekeeper. Now she stepped forward. “I have to agree about Sylvia,” she said. “I’ve known her most of my life. She stays alone, like a hermit, when not working. She rarely talks unless spoken to. She is as gentle as a baby.”

Dan understood. Unfortunately, both stories seemed perfectly believable; hence there was a need to pit them against each other, until one or the other prevailed. He suggested Sue and he go alone to Precker’s spread, to question the woman, who, as he had just learned, was named Sylvia.

CHAPTER SEVEN

19

They borrowed the Griefs’ buckboard to drive to the ranch, for they just could need to ride Sylvia back in it. Dan figured that by his coming in the capacity of a law officer, Sam would not make trouble. He hoped he was not paying the man undue credit. The gate opening onto Precker’s private road had a sign with a giant “P” that one had to pass under. That letter was Sam’s brand that was put on his cows. Sue said she recognized some of the cowboys they were passing, but there were many new faces. They noted that their identities were being passed among them, but all continued with their work related tasks.

The horse was tied at the hitch rail and they were moving up the steps, when the door opened from within. A tall man with extraordinarily broad shoulders regarded them quizzically. He looked at Dan‘s newly made badge. “Are you expected? Sam is not ready for any visitors just now.”

“This is Sue,” Dan said. “Sam’s granddaughter and daughter to James. If it’s all the same to you, we are here to interview Sylvia, for a crime that’s been committed. She is a witness.”

“Who are you?” Sue demanded. “Is my grandfather all right?”

The tall man with broad shoulders replied, “Ace Crane. Sam hurt himself in a fall. He needs some of my help from time to time, as his age is a great burden, more and more. I will see if I can fetch Sylvia for you.”

He went down the hall to knock at her door.

“I used to wander in here and find my grandfather and play games while he tried to work his books,” Sue observed. “He groused, but he loved it. My father was never fun like that. I’d follow him and he would let me, but he never paid much mind to me.”

“Yeah, but he adored you; just didn’t know a way to show you.”

At that point, Sylvia appeared in the room. “You said - a crime?” she said in puzzlement.

Sylvia’s were the eyes of the innocent, Dan read. But he had to ask about her experience in Del Lobo.

She thought deeply, before responding. “Yes; I got tangled with this man. It was embarrassing and silly. But - crime?”

“The man is Emilio Cortez. His knife was taken during the incident. It stabbed Gerald Grief to death. I hoped you could know, or maybe guess, who might have taken it from the sheath.”

Visibly shaken, Sylvia turned away, at the mention of Grief’s demise. When her gaze turned to Tom, the misery in her eyes made his heart ache. “I’ve got to have an answer,” he croaked. “It’s my job to ask you these things.”

“I don’t know,” came the struggling answer. “There were cowboys, some moving, some standing around. I didn’t mark who they were, because I didn’t know anything was happening like this. It could have been anybody.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Miss. I think we’ve got the information we came for,” Dan said. “We’ll be going now.”

He was about to go out with Sue, when Sam Precker’s head poked in the room. He glared at Tom out of pure hatred. “You’re the sheriff again. Remember, when you go back to being a rancher: I’ve got forty top men working now. You’ll wear that bob wire to the very devil, when I take a notion to ride.”

Dan almost grinned. “Your man Ace gonna hold you up while you point your gun, old man?”

Sam lunged at Dan, but his legs could not sustain the effort. “I promise I will stake you, Injun style, on a pyre that burns with the flames of hell,” he said.

Precker unexpectedly went to the floor. He was gasping for air.

“Grandfather,” Sue cried and rushed to him.

As he fended her away, Ace came into the room and lifted him like a child. After he laid Sam on his bed, Ace came back to make certain nobody could break into the bedroom to agitate him further. Dan and his wife were almost out when he arrived. “I am pleased to have met you,” he said. “But, I beg you: don’t come back.”

“Thank you, Mr Crane. We plan to keep away as much as possible,” Dan allowed, before following Sue to the buckboard.

They went beyond the gate and were about to cross a low bridge, when a rifle report sounded and Dan recoiled as a bullet sunk into his back. He fell over, losing the reins to Sue. She guided the wagon into the growth along the side of the road. She grabbed a rifle to point at the attacker.

When no subsequent shots were fired and after waiting much too long, Sue did her best to drag him behind the seat, to lay him down on the flat bed. As the two struggled, a cowboy rode up and offered to help. “I work for Mr Precker,” he said, “but I will be damned to see a man get back shot and not offer a hand to help him.”

Together they got Dan moved and lying face down. “Thank you, thank you,” Sue cried gratefully. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Naw,” the cowboy replied. “Wouldn’t want it to get back to Precker.”

At that the cowboy leaped on his pony and went quickly away.

Sue ripped Dan’s shirt to see that the slug had ripped across his back, in a way that did damage next to the bones of the spine, without going into the body and without moving the bones comprising the spine. Dan writhed with pain, his breath quick and shallow. She could do no more to help him; therefore she took to the driver’s seat and made quick tracks to Del Lobo.

The street was almost deserted when the wagon disturbed the dust and came along to the barbershop. Sue jumped down to crash open the door and demand to have her husband looked to. The barber looked up from the coffin he had been setting up on a gurney for Gerald Grief. “Shot? By Precker?”

“I don’t know. Where is your wife?”

“Gretel,” the man called to the clinic room. “Gunshot wound.”

Gretel was a tiny woman, wearing clothing made for a boy. She took a medical bag to the wagon and climbed in. After cleaning up the wound and examining it closely for a time, she concluded that, “The wound in time will heal. God alone knows if your man will outlive the pain. I have a special chair to loan him, as long as he needs it.”

After bandaging the wound and instructing Sue how to keep it clean, she had her husband bring the wheelchair. Dan himself said nothing, through the whole ordeal. Gretel reluctantly handed over her last bottle of laudanum. “Don’t know why Grief ain’t got more, after I asked for it a month ago,” she said thoughtlessly.

Sue gave Dan a healthy swig of pain medicine. “I’m putting him up at Miss Laverne’s Boarding House, if she’ll let me,” she said. “Our home was burned by some dead gunfighters.”

Miss Laverne was hospitable. She was a large old black woman. Her boarding house was the cleanest, best run business of its kind in the territory. She was also knowledgeable in the art of healing.

20

Tim found it odd to see cousin Sue coming, following the fence line, alone, this far out. He gave her a friendly wave and continued tromping the pile of loose dirt around a newly installed post. His crew was down a ways, digging more holes. “Hello,” he said, happy for the distraction. “Out riding for pleasure? Where is Dan?”

“Dan is in town.” She let the horse taste the struggling grass at its feet. “Got his self back shot. I come to let you know.”

Her words incensed Tim, like almost no others could. “In the back? Did you kill the one who did it?”

“Couldn’t see him to shoot back,” she said. “The cowardly bastid hid. It turned most important to get Dan some help.”

“Yep.” Tim was seeing James Precker as he gazed across the land, for James was the lone back shooter he had ever known. “Any idea at all who it could be?”

She could read the look in Tim’s eye. “I don’t know, except it almost has to be somebody that works for Grandfather. Don’t be going after somebody when there’s no proof. You just might be wrong, you know.”

Tim backed down. “Sure. I wouldn’t disrespect you by going off the handle. But I aim to get me the man regardless who it is.”

“I know,” she agreed. “No matter who - If there’s proof. There’s more. Emilio’s knife was stole from him and used to stab Mr. Grief to death. Dan got Emilio to wait out at the lineman’s shack, while he wore a badge and went looking for facts.”

After a few minutes more, Sue rode away. Tim moseyed up to the fence crew. After explaining about Tom and Gerald Grief, he gave them the choice to continue the work on their own or not. Any who wished to accompany him would be welcome. Jose sprang to the ready. “Wait for me,” he cried.

The rest allowed they had no expertise with guns. They would be a hindrance. Tim agreed and waited patiently on Jose to unhobble the paint and get ready to go. “Where to?” Jose said.

“I want Emilio in on this,” Tim answered.

They found Emilio chopping wood, despite the fact he didn‘t intend to be there long enough to use it up. He shrugged, when his friends saw him. “It’s boring,” he said simply.

After Tim explained everything, Emilio was exasperated. “Dan took that bullet for me,” he complained.

He took them inside to drink coffee. He poured water over some cups, to rinse off the dirt, before pouring. Jose in particular appreciated the brew, as he felt an insatiable craving to eat and drink nearly all day long.

“Sue mentioned Precker has forty good men,” said Tim. “I figure a dozen or so might be near about the house and barn. The rest should be at work. Of the twelve, only a few are likely real gun hands. If we three ride in there, we have a chance to take over long enough to try and get the back shooter. That would be James Precker.”

“Now, wait,” Emilio objected. “If nobody saw the man, then you can’t kill James. You may hang if they find you murdered an innocent man.”

“I’m going to make him talk,” vowed Tim. “Are you riding with me?”

Emilio went out to his pony, saddling and preparing to leave, while the other two gulped their coffee. They soon enough proceeded to Precker’s spread. Tim was gambling that Sam knew nothing of the ambush against Dan, so would be off guard and vulnerable. They boldly passed the gate, paying no heed to the few cowboys they went by as they came up to Sam’s house. Leaving the horses tied at the hitch rail, they stormed into the house without warning. Both Ace and Sylvia filled the mouth of the hall, blocking access to Sam’s room. Tim left the others to stomp up the stairs, seeing who might be at the top. All the rooms were empty. As he made his way down, he could hear Sam’s outraged voice and Emilio telling him what they came for.

Sam had squeezed between his domestics to take command of the situation. The notion that anyone from his land had back shot any man had him fighting mad. He cursed Emilio for a lying dog and threw in ethnic slurs. Emilio told him firmly that they intended to talk to James before leaving. It was then that Sam looked up and noticed Tim. “You disgrace to the blood,” he said, his eyes nearly popping out of his head, “I should have guessed you were at the heart of this. James has always denied being a back shooter and I believe him.”

“Why don’t you let him tell us he’s done nothing wrong?” Tim demanded. “Or is he going to hide inside your skirts the rest of his life?”

That last made Sam pause. He hated being painted that way. “Ace,” he spluttered, “Get James here. I don’t care where he is and what he is doing. Get him here now.”

Looking somewhat wounded to be ordered outside of his hire, Ace nevertheless complied. He grabbed his hat and went searching.

Tim came to the bottom of the stairs. “Dan was off my property when shot?,” Sam said. “That means it could be any polecat at all. That’s the whole of it. So next, when James comes in here, we are gonna settle the circumstance of Juan’s death and how he chanced to die. And when you learn you have been mistaken about it, I will see you off my property and in hell before I let you rile me or bother him again over it.”

“I could easily turn on you, Grandfather; ‘cause you set the whole thing in motion back then,” Tim said forcefully. “But I’m holding it all in for him. Don’t get in my way when I decide to act, for I won’t be particular who gets hurt once I start in.”

“That Indian stole away my daughter. He had to die,” Sam insisted.

At that point the talking halted, as James poked his form through the door. His eyes widened when he recognized Tim, for Ace had been particularly tight lipped about the cause for his summoning in the middle of the work day. He was followed in by a new hand who wore the moniker, Jess Parker. He and Jess appeared to be particularly close friends. “Well, now,” James said, having the look of one who had much rather be on branding iron duty just now.

He cast a side glance at his father.

“Let’s have a talk about back shootin,’” Sam said to both men. He explained how these three men had come in, accusing James of back shooting Dan and his rebuttal that shut it down. He pointed to Tim. This one still wants to accuse you of another back shootin’ in a case that I’m sure you know all about.”

James balked, replying angrily, “I told you all about it a long time ago, Pa. I ain’t telling it no more.”

“And I say you’re telling it now, so we can set this varmint right,” came Sam’s rejoinder.

Jess Parker sought to divert the argument by jumping in and saying, “I saw the man that shot Dan Avers.”

In an instant, the new man controlled the entire assemblage. “I heard the gunshot,” he said. “I was riding near there, to see Avers went out for real. I heard the shot and made for the cover it come from. And I got there too late, but I saw the man in the far distance. It war too far to describe the man, but his horse was an exact match for the black pony outside.”

His weasel eyes gleamed maliciously.

Emilio put himself before the man, at perfect draw distance. “You liar,” he said. “I’m just about positive you are the one that shot Dan. Maybe you took my knife, too.”

Jose and Tim also squared off, which weighted the odds against the Precker side. Sam pressed forward to put himself in the middle of it, at which point he gasped and dropped to the floor.

21

“Don’t count me finished yet,” Sam snarled, fierce as ever, to the concerned company, despite Ace lifting and carrying him off to his room. “Put me down,” he could be heard to demand as the door shut . Then, silence ensued.

The five left in the room contemplated gun play, but James could be read prepared to back down, with Sam out of the picture. Jess was an unknown quantity. “I believe you two are coming with me, to face a judge,” Tim ordered.

Jess looked about to make his play, but in the final instant relaxed and allowed Jose to lift his gun.

James attempted to argue, but surrendered his weapon in a short order.

The prisoners were taken to their horses, after Tim’s advising them to act casual before the hands that were scattered about between them and the gate, for the prisoners were likely to be the first killed in the event a fight should break out. But, as the riders approached the ranch exit, Tim signaled a halt. To James he said, “I been mulling it over and I don’t have evidence against you. It appears your friend may have acted alone. That’s all for a court to determine. You are free to turn back.”

Emilio nodded. “I read it the same,” he said.

James immediately turned back.

When the four neared Del Lobo, Tim advised Emilio he should hide out, as before, for now. “There are plenty of Grief’s friends still think you stabbed him.”

Emilio reluctantly headed off to the outrider’s shack, prepared to wait it out, temporarily. “But you let me know as soon as my name is no longer under suspicion.”

They came through the street, barely noticed. Mrs. Grief was at the front of the store when they walked in. When Tim presented Jess Parker, she noted that she had seen the man a few times, but did not recall if he were present when her husband was killed. Tim took him to the jail. He came back to her and said they would need a real judge, in this instance. They made up a message and telegraphed a request. Then Tim and Jose went to order steak dinners. They would look in on Dan, after it was confirmed the circuit judge would eventually arrive.

Tim methodically cut up and devoured a great steak, thinking the whole time of James Precker and hoping the man was not getting away with a second back shooting. He offered Jose his baked potato. The kid readily moved it to his own plate. The only thing on this great Earth preventing Tim’s killing James was enormous respect for Sue. He rued the day that he met her. He sat back with a smoke and watched Jose devour the meal, followed with asking for a coffee refill from the woman with eyes for Tim. He knew she was interested, but did not feel inclined to be encouraging about it.

When they went into Miss. Laverne’s boarding house, they found Dan getting his wound cleaned by Miss. Laverne herself. “Got to be very tender. Got to keep it very clean,” she was softly saying.

He was in the wheelchair, leaning doubled over. Despite taking repeated doses of laudanum, pain marred his face. He listened quietly to Tim’s tale of how they took Emilio along and confronted the Preckers and why they arrested just the cowboy named Jess. “Where’s Emilio, now?” he asked.

Sue smiled, when she heard about Emilio. She had always been fond of him.

They talked on for a while. Then, Tim picked up the tin star from the bureau. “I’m borrowing this,” he announced. “Jose is my deputy.”

Dan declined to argue. “Do us proud,” he said.

“I aim to question the prisoner some more,” Tim said.

He motioned to Jose and without further ado went out the door. He walked straight to the jail. Brushing past others in the building, Tim put himself inside the cell and had Jose lock it. Jess, lying languidly on the homemade bed, scarcely looked around. “Get up,” ordered Tim.

The man’s eyes made a lazy turn to Tim, while the rest of him scarcely moved. “What for?”

Tim picked up the bed on one side, which caused Jess to tumble onto the floor. The bed went over on top of him. “Get up,” Tim shouted.

Jess launched himself at Tim, pushing him against a wall. Tim set the heel of a hand against the man’s chin and shoved, until he lost his grip. Tim’s fists worked against Jess’s body, until Jess swung a roundhouse right, connecting with Tim’s jaw. Tim’s weight crushed the bed as he somersaulted across the room. Jess went on top of him, pummeling his face. As Tim struggled to get up, Jess managed a chokehold. Tim’s fingers dug at Jess’s eyes, causing the man to release his neck. He caught Jess with a left uppercut, then leveled him with a straight right. He stood over the crumpled body, saying, “You gonna git up?”

Jess defiantly lay still. “What you want, anyway?”

“I got to have your confession, before the judge arrives.”

Jess’s sneer, by way of answer, stoked the rage in Tim’s heart, but as he began to glean that Jess would fight to the end, without admitting to a thing, he knew he must try a new strategy. He aimed his blackest thoughts at Jess for a few minutes; then turned on his heel and had Jose let him out.

“What are you going to do, now?” Jose said.

“Going back to Precker’s ranch. You can stay or go.”

Jose grinned. “Where you go I go.”

The cowhands were amazed to see them come in. They watched closely, but respected the badge, enough to at least wait on orders from the boss. Tim informed Ace, when he opened up, they were there to see Sylvia. Polite as always, Ace said it was her decision to make, whether or not she met with them; he would ask.

Tim knew, when she glided in from the hall, Sylvia did not like him coming back to question more. “It’s something different,” he said. “I want for you to come into town with me. I have something simple for you to do and then we will bring you right back out here. I promise it will be the last time I bother you about this. I won‘t say more, in here, because I don‘t know if somebody can listen from some other part of the house.”

“If that will be the end of it, ok,” she said, resignedly.

Once they had Sylvia inside of Grief’s store, Tim placed her, as near as her memory allowed, at the spot she and Dan got all tangled up. As he asked her to go over the incident, while trying to remember who was present, he had Jose opening up the door that hid the jail from sight. Jose had a script to follow and he went to the cell, to inform Jess that Sylvia had identified him as the one that likely grabbed Dan’s knife. “Ah, you’re a liar,” the prisoner replied.

“No,” Jose said urgently. “Look down there, where she’s shaking her head yes, when Tim asks her if it’s you.”

Jess peered intently at the couple in the distance, his features reacting with outrage, as she nodded her head repeatedly to words said by Tim. “Her working for Precker,” he muttered, imagining an act of betrayal. “Both are gonna pay.”

“You got to hang,” Jose asserted.

“Her word proves nothing,” Jess hissed. “I got proof I was at the creek, fishing, with James and two more of us, when Grief died.”

“You didn’t say that when we arrested you.”

Jess sat down on the wreckage of the bed. “You didn’t ask. All you wanted was somebody to hang.”

He lay back and shut his eyes.

CHAPTER EIGHT

22

Days later, the circuit judge held a conference with Tim inside Grief’s office. “Mr. Medina,” he said, declining even to sit, “I am not going to waste our time. You haven’t a case against this man. I order you to release him immediately. The one man I could give a trial to is Emilio Cortez. Bring him in and we’re in business.”

In a matter of just a few minutes, the judge had traveled and Tim was left in a quandary. He believed in Emilio’s innocence, but the badge on his chest was indifferent to Tim’s belief. “Come, Jose,” he determined. “Let us get Dan’s opinion.”

Dan in his wheelchair kept his back as straight as possible. He had sworn off of pain medicine and so he grimaced any time his body even twitched. He listened to Tim’s account of the visit with the judge, his expression becoming grim as he neared the end. He looked at the face of each person in the room. None had wanted to be faced with this outcome. None wanted to confront the man. When his gaze returned to Tim, he hesitated a long moment, before he said, “Arrest him.”

“He might not like that,” Jose blurted.

“He won’t,” agreed Dan.

Tim placed his hands on Jose’s shoulders. “That’s why I am going for him on my own.”

Insulted, Jose slapped at Tim’s hands. “You would be crazy to think so,” he insisted.

“You would need to carry on for Dan, if I don’t make it back,” Tim explained. “I won’t trust it to anybody else.”

“I’m still a kid. I can’t be a sheriff anyway.” Jose headed to the door. “So let’s go.”

“First, we release the prisoner. If he wants to fight, once he’s free, it’s a good start.”

The two men walked back to Grief’s store and to the jail. Tim rattled the key against the bars. “Hey, bud. Get your boots on and get out of there.”

Jess gave Tim a suspicious stare. He pulled on his boots and came to his feet. “Judge gave me my walk?”

His attitude shifted to cocky. “Give me my gun and get me my horse.”

His gunbelt passed from Jose to Jess, as well as his pistol. He strapped it on and looked haughtily to Tim. Tim squared off. “You can walk or get carried out,” he said in a measured voice.

After a tense couple of moments, Jess turned and started for the exit. “Your hoss is at the livery,” Tim said at his back.

He instructed Jose to pull the blanket Jess had used and put it out for Mrs. Grief to get washed. The kid went in and Tim slammed the door behind him and locked it. “I can get Mrs. Grief to let you out, in thirty minutes,” he said with a grin.

“Never again going to trust you,” Jose complained, hanging on the bars.

“Emilio is too much your friend,” Tim said. “I don’t want to worry which of us you would lend your hand to, at the end.”

He spoke with Mrs. Grief, briefly, and he turned to go and collect his horse.

Tim rode purposefully, willing himself not to think. He tried to look upon himself as a badge, and not a Tim Medina. Following a course to keep himself hidden from Tom’s ranch hands, he studied the building black clouds, looming at the horizon. “Blue norther,” he said to no one.

He soon came upon the shack. Weeds were bending, and a few birds fought against the wind. The front was fast approaching. Then came a rush of cold, as huge drops spattered him. He closed his horse in the stable and made his way to the door. He called out just before he pushed the door and stepped inside.

Emilio was frying a skillet of diced potatoes and boiling a pot of coffee. “Saw you coming, way off,” he said, as he gathered two cups and poured out the coffee. “Wondered why. Did you come to tell me I‘ve been cleared of the charges?”

Tim accepted the coffee. “It ain’t that simple,” he said matter of factly.

He sipped at the coffee in tiny amounts to avoid burning his tongue, listening to the now deluge hammering the roof. “Raining like hell,” he added, watching a drip form at the center of the room. “Cold, too.”

Emilio portioned out the barely softened potatoes into two plates and shoved one at Tim. “I hate these kind of storms,” he said.

He broke up some cornbread that had been cooling on the table.

Both men studied their eating, as the storm abruptly eased and tapered off. When they finished, Emilio cleaned and put away the skillet and the dishes, as Tim rolled a smoke and watched him work. Finished, Emilio produced two fine cigars. “Try one of mine,” he said.

“Thank ya kindly,” Tim replied.

He stuffed the rolled tobacco in his pocket and lit up the cigar. “You know how to live,” he told the Mexican.

When his cigar was half smoked, Emilio said, “You cannot arrest me.”

Tim casually looked at the wet spot made by the dripping roof. “Judge’s orders,” he said.

“You know how eager they will be to lynch a man who murdered Gerald Grief. And you know how many of those people already resent me, before it happened. It won’t be like that casual trial you were given. This time there will be blood. That’s why I’m not going with you.”

Emilio cracked the door to look out. The landscape was dark, but the rain had moved on. “You can get back before dark, if you leave now.”

“Take up your saddle from the corner and get ready,” Tim ordered, his voice no longer that of a friend. “Jose will likely be here after a bit. I don’t want his involvement.”

Emilio smiled. It was a grim smile, as he liked this halfbreed. “If I ride for Mexico, will that make you not arrest me?”

But Tim wore tightly the responsibility that comes from his badge. “Get the saddle to ride with me, or strap on those guns.”

Emilio had been going about with his suspenders showing. He slipped a garment over them before taking up the gunbelt. After adjusting it all, he donned his hat. He nodded at Tim, following him outside.

They positioned themselves on the side that hid the horses and they squared off. “You might be at a disadvantage, the way the chimney smoke‘s blowing at your eyes,” Tim said, “Want to move?”

“This is fine,” Emilio replied.

“See that water dropping from those hanging leaves?” Tim advised. “When it drips three times, I’m going to make my draw.”

The drops seemed to hang on eternity.

Drip.

A clap of thunder signaled more storm approaching.

Drip.

Far in the distance, an approaching rider could be heard.

Drip.

23

Emilio Cortez turned to face the oncoming rider. It is not certain if he had time to recognize the man as Jose, for he at that instant dropped dead to the ground. Jose jerked his paint to a stop and leaped off, right at his expired friend’s side. After confirming the death, he looked at Tim, with tears in his eyes. “I can’t be your deputy,” he sobbed. “I won’t kill my friends.”

Tim had hardened his stance, to the point he felt justified. “You damn near killed your horse,” he said, “riding it like that.”

He went to look for a spade. Then he and Jose took turns digging. During the course of their labor, the rain splattered them a bit, but moved off, allowing a late sun’s return. “Make it extra wide,” Tim said. “I aim to put his saddle and guns with him.”

After Emilio was laid to rest and covered up, Tim asked Jose if he would deliver the news to Dan, as he himself had another job to do before he came home. Jose did not bother to enquire what Tim had planned. He simply mounted the paint and slowly rode away. Tim hoped the kid would come around, in the future. He considered him almost as family.

He put a lead on Emilio’s black pony and took him away from Dan’s range, with a goal of releasing it when he reached a canyon he knew of, about thirty miles off. It was an area where wild ponies roamed. He shivered with the cold, but kept moving even at dusk. He was sure Emilio would approve of his action, for it seemed a sacralige to allow another man to take his pony.

When he released the black it seemed confused at first. After he slapped the pony to send it on its way, he discovered a rattlesnake, coiled and alerted to a man who just might be hungry. He was in no hurry to get back, purposely taking his time in order to heal his bruised mind a bit. He made up his camp and cooked snake meat, then prepared a smoke. After a time, he lay back and went to sleep.

When Tim awakened, the rain had returned. He picked out a tree to hide under, where he managed to stay mostly dry. The downpour lasted long enough, Tim stayed the night there.

When finally he straggled into town, he was greeted with smiles and friendly waves. He waved and grinned in what looked an almost grimace and went straight to the boarding house, to report to Dan. Mrs. Laverne greeted him as he came in the hall. “He’s doing much better,” she said.

“Good enough to wear this badge?”

Her smile looked mysterious, as she gave no answer back. “He just took a bath,” she said. “But you can go on in.”

He knocked anyway and only went in when Sue opened up and invited him. “How is the back shot man today?” he said.

“Come see. You are ging to be surprised,” she replied.

It surprised Tim to see Dan dressed, getting on his boots with no help. “You are as tough as your reputation,” he said.

He took the hand Dan offered, shook it, then stood back. “You have seen Jose?” he asked, gravely. “You know my story?”

“Sue and I are grieving the loss of a great man. Sad that he could not let himself cooperate with the law.”

Dan finished pulling on the boots, came to his feet and stepped around a bit. “First time I’ve dressed,” he explained.

Tim pulled the badge from his pocket and held it out.

As Dan studied the badge, Tim feared his friend had lost a hankering to sheriff. He was right. “I’ve got to run my spread,” Dan began. “My back is ok now, but I’m not ready to push the law anymore.”

He pushed the badge back to Tim. “It’s up to you.”

It was the first time that Tim’s affection for the man wavered. “You sent me out to take a man you knew would rather be killed than brought in and likely lynched. Next time somebody shoots you in the back -”

Tim pocketed the badge and stomped out, a look communicating his disgust to Mrs. Laverne on his way. He went to Sweet’s livery to ask if he knew where to find Jose. Sweet enthusiastically wrung Tim’s hand for a time before answering him. “Jose. He looked like a wounded deer. Went home to be with his family. I offered him back his job with me, but he said, ’No thanks,’ and went right out of town.”

“Maybe that’s the best thing for him,” Tim said. “In case anybody wonders, I still am the sheriff.”

It seemed to Tim, Jose ought to live with his mother. He might look later for a different deputy.

He felt he owed it to the fence crew to explain all that was happening, and he went to Grief’s store to pick up some things they might need. Mrs. Grief helped him out and he soon went to the site he expected the men to be working. The nearer he came, the more signs he found that something was wrong. First, he found two horses, wandering on their own. He found wire, strung out and chopped to short lengths. Then there was the sight of vultures - at least a dozen. He knew he was not going to like what he was about to come upon.

A short time later, Tim found O’Hara and they recruited some hands to help bury the fence crew. As they stood before the row of graves, Tim thanked O’Hara and the others. “This time,” he told them, “Precker’s got to pay.”

“It would take the army to confront all his men,” O’Hara said.

Tim nodded. “Except I believe them to be mostly cowboys, not gun hands. Well, Dan needs you to keep running his ranch. None of you hired on to fight. So I will go pick through Dan’s brains for a spell.”

He went first to what everyone still thought of as Elmer Ford’s ranch. He found the spread more wonderful than ever. Whatever else Elmer did, he left some youngsters who were dedicated to the place. He couldn’t help complimenting their mother, when she met him at the door. She sent him to the barn, to find Jose moving hay. He leaned upon a rail and watched him at work. After he had finished with the entire pile, Jose gave him a morose look, as he leaned the pitchfork against a wall. “I’ve brought some bad news,” Tim said.

24

Jose took in the horror, as presented by Tim, and he said, “Ok. I got to be your deputy again. For them.”

After that they approached Dan with the news. “I’m well enough to shoot, but I can’t sit a horse,” he said, after digesting Tim’s story.

“Well -” Tim explained that the superior numbers they were facing made it necessary to use smarter tactics than simply shooting it out with them. “I‘m trying to think like a military man,” he said. “I was in hope you could help in that way, at least.”

Dan thought about that a minute. Then he said, “One thing is the stream where ranchers water the cows. It crosses his range. You might take that away from him”

“How is it a good idea to do that?” Tim wanted to know. “How would I do it?”

“Just at the bend, before the water gets to Precker’s land, is a low bank that a big enough blast could turn the stream to my place. Maybe. It likely would take half a case of dynamite to make it that powerful.”

“So,” Tim said, “we need to do that. And we have to keep out his cows, until he gives in.”

“I think I can talk Sue out of taking a part, to keep her from accidentally killing her father, or him her.”

Sue, looking more vulnerable than ever before in her life, gave Tim a grumpy nod. “Sorry,” she said.

“It’s just me and Jose, for the time being,” Tim acknowledged. “I guess we best get us some dynamite.”

“Be careful out that way,” Dan advised. “Sue has told me the land off to the side belonged to Emilio. He left some family, she thinks. I would steer clear, if possible.”

Tim assured Dan he would look out for Emilio’s family and he took Jose off to get some dynamite. First, they bought a pack mule from Evan Sweet. Mrs. Grief said the two cases she had were ordered by two would be miners, who then failed to claim it.

Tim paid for both. “Why don’t we see if Mrs. Laverne has two beds and a bath, so we can sleep first, then leave out at sun up,” he suggested to his young deputy.

“Ok,” the deputy agreed. “You go there, if you’re ready. I will meet you later. I got to go back in the general store. She got these candy sticks I like.”

Tim stored the dynamite with the pack mule and horses, in Sweet’s livery stable. Thinking maybe a few shots of whiskey might relax him enough to better rest, he went through the swinging doors and, without taking stock of those already drinking, “bellied up to the bar.” He had just received his whiskey, when a voice he recognized as belonging to a Precker cowpoke began to slander his heritage. “My heritage is your boss, you horse tick,” Tim said matter of factly, lifting his glass to drink.

“You were running bob wire. That makes you Sam’s enemy, whatever you are. I aim to end it right now.”

Tim could not recall having heard the fool’s name. “I am placing you under arrest, bud,” he announced, as he did so stepping back from the bar.

Thirsty cowboys and city folk alike scattered, leaving Tim and he alone. “What’s the name to go on your tombstone, in case you make a fight of it?” Tim inquired.

“Wake Hollister. I killed Will Jones and the Cheyenne Kid, both at once, in a draw the middle of the street.”

“Ok. You’re fast with a gun. I won’t embarrass you by killing you, if you back off and return to your drinking.”

Hollister was squared off and ready to pursue the goal of killing his man and would have none of it. He had done talking and was about to make his move.

“Draw then,” Tim barked.

Tim’s bullets cut into his man almost instantly. Wake Hollister completed his draw and shot up the mirror behind the bar before he keeled over dead.

Tim finished his whiskey. Then he told the bartender to take care of the body and send his bill for everything to Sam Precker. He was about to step off the plank sidewalk, on his way to Mrs. Laverne’s boarding house, when he realized two more gunmen were closing in on his backside. Without waiting to guage their intentions, he pulled his two guns and at the same time wheeled to face them. “We don’t want the streets full of dead cowboys,” he said.

The gunmen stopped instantly, each wearing the lean hungry look of winter wolves. The one to Tim’s left broke into a deferential smile. “We just coincidently walking the same way as you.”

His pal eagerly nodded. “Coincidental,” he affirmed.

Tim put away one of his guns and used his free hand to lift theirs, tossing each one in the dirt. “You can pick up your weapons at the jail, first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “I suggest you get back to the ranch just now.”

Tim put away his gun and bent over to pick up the ones on the ground, expecting he would get attacked in that vulnerable position. But the gunmen had lost the will for the moment and were turning back to drink more at the saloon. “Hey, you mugs. I said ‘ride.’”

The one that had spoken first replied, angrily: “We can’t go back naked. Give us our shootin’ irons; then we’ll go. Won’t be no more trouble, honest.”

The second gunman showed the wide blank stare of one attempting to appear neutralized.

Tim opened up the guns and dropped out the bullets. He gave them their weapons, then wordlessly turned his back and walked off. He did not expect the first gunman to do what he did next, for he had given his word. The man began taking bullets from his gunbelt and shoving them in the cylinder. His partner, after a short pause, followed suit. By the time Tim had gotten across the street, the gunmen shouted and moved into the street. Tim turned around, cursing himself for being careless. No further words were said. The two men separated, taking their stand twenty feet apart. Tim tried walking to their side, but they moved around, preserving the same separation. A strong autumn breeze whipped gunman number two’s hair, making it appear to flow. His mouth wore a small grin. The first gunman’s teeth were clinched, his fingers opening and closing. Tim might have been carved marble, for he could not be detected for breathing, even. His eyes had quit blinking.

On a single impulse their three hands were filled with iron. The first gunman received a mortal wound just below the heart. As he pulled his gun and shot his first man, Tim threw himself at the ground and as he rolled his gun barked four more times. The second gunman pitched forward, his throat gurgling blood. Tim came forward, to check the man’s vitals, in time to see the man shudder and die.

Tim was not pleased that his presence had drawn more blood to Del Lobo. He felt the good people deserved better. He thought that after this he should go to the preacher before leaving out, to discuss if he ought to continue on as sheriff. He returned to the boarding house and let Dan know what had just happened. He did not feel like being sociable, so went to join Jose, to lie in a nice bed and get some rest, even though there still was an hour or two left of daylight. He had almost fallen asleep, when Mrs. Laverne began pounding on the door. “Mr. Medina, you have a army outside,” she announced, “wanting to kill you. Don’t you let them do anything to my boarding house.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Laverne.” Tim had lifted his head off the pillow, instantly alert. He looked at the other bed and saw Jose leap into action. “Tell them I said take it to the corral or some place else and I will meet them there.”

CHAPTER NINE

25

“They gonna wait out in the street,” Mrs. Laverne announced. “You go out there and tell them not shoot bullet holes in my house.”

By now, Tim and Jose had dressed. Tim believed that the way to control a mob was to make the quarrel between the leader and himself. “Don’t say otherwise,” he told Jose. “Could work.”

Jose frowned, but followed Tim’s lead. They each shrugged as they went past Mrs. Laverne, as if apologizing for getting her boarding house involved in this. She stared after them, insistant that they steer away that mob. Tim stepped outside, ahead of Jose. He looked over a crowd of fifteen. “What seems to be your problem?” he said, searching faces in an attempt to identify the leader.

“It’s your problem,” replied a hard bitten cowboy, who looked like one who eats cows whole, without first butchering them. “We figure there’s just the two of you left in the fight over wire. We figure the fight to be almost over.” The cowboy stepped forward. “We figure to hang you,” he added.

“Does it matter to you I’m the sheriff?”

The cowboy looked around to address his friends. “How about it, boys? Make a difference?”

The fifteen guffawed and chortled. “Nope.” “Makes no difference.” “No difference.”

The cowboy spread his empty palms, grinning broadly. “Guess not.”

“Me ’n’ the kid could take out three or four, if you decide to press this. You first.”

Weighing their options, the cowboys paused, while off at the outskirts of town, sounds of gunshots, punctuated by hollering rebel yell type shouting, and pounding hoof beats, from faint to growing loud, signaled the return of the cowboys from the cattle drive. It had been building in volume before anybody noticed it was coming.

And then the street became filled with cowboys, thirsty and raucous. There was a little shooting, but mostly they respected Del Lobo’s right to remain intact. A group intermingling with the Precker bunch, before they realized there was a quarrel going on, began butting in. “I’m sorry,” said one. “We didn’t mean to bust up your fight.”

“What is it?” said another. “Why an entire gang against the sheriff?”

“This is about bob wire, and who wants to run it,” said the hard bitten leader of the gang. “This man wants it; Mr. Precker don’t.”

The first man, whose name was Lake Stevens, said, “Why, you better learn to embrace the wire. Along the trail up north, it waren’t just sod busters fencing the land. Cows was fenced in, too, to keep ours from spreading the ticks to theirs. Bob wire is coming, no matter who opposes it.”

“Not here. Not yet,” replied the other. “The boss said no wire and we aim to put an end to the notion, here and now.”

“I don’t think,” said Lake, “you men number enough to take the sheriff. They’s more than twenty of us says so.”

Jose walked up to the hard bitten cowboy and lifted his gun. “You get it back when you leave,” he said.

Just like that, the crowd dispersed and went to the saloon. All but Lake Stevens. He lingered, to ask Tim about one Dan Avers, the owner of Paul Gurky’s spread. “I have his cow money in my saddlebag.”

Tim explained how Dan came to be living in Mrs. Laverne’s boarding house. Lake gave him his thanks and followed directions how to get with Dan. Tim let Jose know that he would hold off dynamiting anything, for the returning drovers’ new point of view might sway Precker from opposing the wire. “Ok, but I am still riding out,” Jose answered. “I want to find Emilio’s people to explain what happened.”

Tim smiled at Jose’s yellow hat. “Good on you. I hadn’t made up my mind to go there, just in case I would be made to fight my way out. The less killing I got to do the more I like it.”

They were met at the door by Mrs. Laverne. She filled the opening to block them out. “Go sleep at Sweet’s stable,” her otherwise silky voice barked. “Ain’t nobody allowed to bring any shooting here.”

Tim backed off, properly intimidated. He asked Jose how he liked his hay.

Jose shrugged, pulling out one of his candies and pushing it in his mouth. He nodded his head in an accepting way and went in that direction.

Evan Sweet had an open door policy, meaning anybody at all could walk in and take their own horse, or walk into his quarters, with everything on the honor system. He was nowhere to be seen when they went in and spred hay for beds. The hotel might have been fine, but they both preferred getting a good rest, instead of having to force the clerk to let them have a key. The air streaming in was cool, so they borrowed the bedrolls that Sweet kept to sell. The night passed without further incident. In the morning, Jose rose up when Tim moved to pull on his boots. “You gonna eat?” Tim said, as they stepped into Sweet’s quarters to throw down a few coins for the use of the hay.

“I got to get going,” Jose replied. “I don‘t know what kind of people I will be dealing with.”

Tim didn’t wait on Jose to prepare himself to ride out. Instead, he set his course to devour some breakfast. He had gotten a bit spoiled to eat café food, when the chance presented itself. He was pleasantly surprised to come on Sweet himself, having biscuits and chicken. He scooted himself to the table and watched his friend tear apart the meat, burning the tips of his fingers. He laid out the meat in chunks, to go back and eat as it cooled. Tim signaled the pouty lipped woman with the button nose he would like what Sweet was having.

“I’m glad I run into you,” Sweet said, pausing in his eating. “There’s something I want you to help me puzzle out.”

He popped a savory chunk into his mouth, ate it, and swallowed down some coffee. He looked at the biscuits and dunked one in a bowl of honey. “Well,” he began, “a week before he was stabbed, Gerald Grief mentioned something about an informer filling him in on a bunch of rustling that has gone on for several years. He was just getting started, when Emilio happened in, and he clammed up. There was never any other chance to ask him more. It bothers me that he gave Emilio a look, half scared, half dismissive. It’s been troubling me and I want somebody to tell me if what I am guessing may be correct.”

“Well,” Tim slowly replied, “I think I see where your thinking is.” He received his coffee and made way for the platter with the chicken and biscuits on it. “Looks kinda like Emilio may have done that stabbing. I just saw Jose leaving out to pay his kin a visit. I hope he don’t run into something he can’t answer up to.”

Sweet spoke with his mouth full of honey biscuit. “You gonna follow him?”

“No, I’m going to pay Precker a visit.”

Sweet snorted. “I don’t know which could be worse.”

The livery man had cleaned his plate and left just a bit of grounds in the coffee cup. He wished Tim a blessed day, dropped two bits on the table, and ambled away.

Tim continued his breakfast. He did not react at first, when the woman serving the chicken came to him and stood with her hands folded, lips slightly puckered, wide eyed, staring at his face. He finally looked up and spoke. “Chicken is good. You make it?”

She shook her head and her loose hair moved about. “I’m Kathleen, she said. Do you ever do anything besides sheriff?”

“As a matter of fact,” Tim responded a bit too gallantly, “I’m looking for someone to teach me how to dance. Mind if I take you to the weekly hoedown?”

26

Jose did not know one hundred percent how to find Emilio’s spread. He knew the general way, by what folks had said, and was trusting to luck he would soon get there. Once he found the river bend, as had been described to him in town, he knew to veer to the left, at the fork in the trail. His horse was trotting along when he topped a rise and saw a gate down below. As he rode in, he began to see corrals and cows. He had not known Emilio to be a true cow man. He rode further, until a great hacienda came into view. He marveled at how large it was. His mind had pictured some modest dwelling, with a shake covered roof. Instead, the orange tiles and stuccoed walls bespoke elegance. Off to the side, he saw cowmen, pushing cows into one of the corrals. When they looked around, he waved to them and kept up his pace to approach Emilio’s house.

The cowmen kept looking in his direction as he tied the paint at the rail and dismounted. He knocked four times before the great door partially swung open. An olive face with black button eyes peered cautiously out from inside a dark vestibulo. The young woman smiled, uncertainly. “Si?”

“Ah -” Jose was not sure how to begin. “Buenos diaz,” he said. “I’m Jose, deputy sheriff from Del Lobo. I don’t speak good Spanish.”

“It’s ok,” she said, in perfect English. “I will understand you. What do you want?”

“I have bad news. About Emilio, who was my friend.”

“He was your friend? Is he dead?”

Jose removed his hat. He twisted it up with his hands as he stood staring at the woman, who was so beautiful. “He would not let himself be arrested, and so he and the sheriff both drew their guns. I came here to let you know and say I am sorry.”

The young woman pulled the door open more. “His cousin will be here presently. Please come in and have some drink.”

Abashed, from being in her presence and for bringing such bad news, he let himself be led to a sitting room, which was lighted by a lamp at either end of the rectangular space it presented. The elegance of Emilio’s house added to his discomfiture. He marveled that she had accepted the news he brought so stoically. Perhaps she was schooled to only break down in private.

“Would you like some cool water?” she asked. “I am afraid we are out of anything else, except for tequila and coffee.”

“The water is good,” he replied.

He stared wistfully after her swaying form, as she went for the water. Until now, he had not really thought of himself as a fully formed man. Meeting this woman changed all of that. As she smiled when handing off his drink, he felt the blood rush to his face. “Ah. Water,” he said, in an almost stutter, lifting it to quaff a swallow and then another.

She took a seat across from him and looked with those black button eyes at his face. “My name is Lena. What is yours?”

He set down the glass, before he spoke. “I am the deputy: Jose.”

In that, he had exhausted his conversational skills and he hoped the man they waited for would arrive sooner than later. He nervously picked up the glass, to drink from it again. The polite expression she wore seemed like so much more to the confused young man. When finally sounds could be heard of someone entering the foyer, pausing long enough to hang his hat, Jose immediately came to his feet. When the door swung open he looked up with awe at the great figure who presented himself out of the hallway.

Red Balfour, the offspring of a Scot and a Mexican, stood just over six feet in height, with hair near as red as the roses in the garden. His was a combined Indian and Scottish face that was handsome and bespoke a strong character. His chest and shoulders were broader than had been Emilio’s. He wore the two guns at his sides slung low, after the way of a gunfighter. He busied himself taking off the chaps he had worn, working with the cows, in the rough land at the far back of the spread. Casting them aside, he looked for the first time at the young visitor so nervously eyeing him.

Jose did not like what he perceived in the man‘s face. He sensed that here was a tornado about to be unleashed, an unstoppable killer, if provoked. He felt like a raw kid again. Nevertheless, he spoke up. “Mr. Sir,” he began. “I got news you not going to like to hear.”

Red’s expression told the kid to spit it out. He alone would decide what that news merited.

Jose wished he were on the paint, riding for all he was worth in the direction of Del Lobo. “Mr. Emilio - my friend - He’s dead.”

Red stared with expressionless, nearly grey colored, eyes. After more than a minute, he said to Jose. “Who are you?”

“I am Jose, the deputy sheriff of Del Lobo,” Jose replied meekly, taking but small comfort from the knowledge the gun in his holster could stop such a man, given the right circumstances. “Mr. Emilio was shot while resisting to get arrested, by Mr. Tim Medina, the sheriff.”

“You play any part in it?”

“No,” said Jose. “Because he did not know which side I would choose, he put me in jail. I did not know myself, which man to back, Senor.”

Red looked for his bottle of tequila.

Lena swiftly went to a cabinet and removed a half full bottle. Red took it and pulled the cork with his teeth. She gently took the cork to place it on a table. The big man looked into the space before him. “My cousin. Dead. I never thought any man but myself could outdraw him.”

He suddenly turned to Jose. “He didn’t bushwhack him, did he?”

“I don’t think so. Mr. Tim is not like that.”

“Well. You told me.”

Jose took that as an invitation to leave. He thanked Lena for her kindness and offered to shake hands with Red. Red waved him away.

Outside, Jose slowly trotted the paint up the path. Three cows, gotten loose, crossed before him, exposing their branded flanks. One had Elmer Ford’s mark. The other two, Paul Gurkey’s. “Here, here, we can’t have you looking at that and riding away.”

The words were spoken by a cowboy, come to herd the cows to a pen. Jose dug his heels and urged the horse to a hard gallop. The cowboy calmly lifted his rifle and took careful aim. He squeezed off a shot. Jose received the bullet, yet kept his seat and rode on. He was aware that three were taking to the trail after him. His wound made him weak so that he slid off the saddle and dropped to the ground. A cowboy tossed a rope around him and rode back to the house, dragging him the whole way - then sat in the saddle and waited for one of his companions to summon Red, to decide how to deal with this kid. The cowboys carelessly overlooked that Jose still owned one good arm, and the arm could move his hand to the gun he wore and then help it point to the cowboy sitting over him.

Despite the increasing painfulness of his wound, Jose reached his gun and threatened his tormentors. “I would put that gun down, if I were you,” said the cowboy holding the rope. “You might live a little longer.”

“But probably not,” laughed the second of the cowboys that had chased him, as his boot struck Jose’s gun hand and knocked the weapon free.

27

Jose looked up, through pain-filled eyes, at Red, standing over him, wearing a bemused look. “Aye,” the man acknowledged. “He has our secret and he can’t take it from here. For the time being, we will shackle him in the barn. Soon I will make my decision what we will do with him.”

He was dragged away, kicking weakly at his captors. They took him into the blacksmith part of the barn and fitted him with shackles, then laid him down on some hay in the loft. The long chain on the shackles they secured on the overhead timber. Jose stared at the timber and the chain, briefly, before losing consciousness. He slept soundly, until the sun slanting through the opening began to burn his face. He realized that the bullet he caught had penetrated and exited without causing life threatening damage. He was no longer bleeding much. He was helpless and frightened. He had not had such a feeling since the days when Elmer thrashed him for imagined transgressions and for being Mexican and left him in the dirt, to recover on his own.

It was another hour, before he heard Lena’s voice and saw her moving toward him, carrying a tray and a pitcher, of food and drink. She watched him eating and before leaving, said, “I’m sorry.”

Jose felt even worse, because she had not offered hope. Despondent or not, he had an appetite, because he was a kid. He ate all of the food and would have eaten more. But then he had to find a way out of this situation. By the time Red returned and stood before him, thinking, deeply frowning, he had a proposal to make. “Mr. Red?” he said, attempting to be engaging. “May I ask of you something?”

The only change Red exhibited was in the eyes. They communicated willingness to listen.

“Mr. Red, I don’t have to be a deputy no more. I don’t have to be in Del Lobo. If you want I can live and work right here. Or I can go to Mexico. California, even. But I don’t need to die, just because I saw some funny marks on some cows.”

Red gave the kid a thoughtful look. “Thing is,” he said, chewing on the words, “nobody could watch you all the time, to know if you keep your word. I can’t tell whether or not you are a liar.”

Jose held his silence, hoping the man would relent in some way. Red spoke again. “I thought last night of cutting off your tongue. But, what if you can write? So, cut off your fingers. But, you know? One cannot tell where to stop cutting.”

Red pondered a few more moments. “I don‘t know,” he said. “Later today I will make the decision.”

“Ok,” replied Jose at his retreating finely tooled boots. “Thank you. Please consider the things I offer you.”

All alone, Jose studied the shackles and chain. Even if there were tools at hand he doubted he could break free, on his own. His wound made him suddenly feel tired. Without further thought, he drifted into slumber for the next thirty minutes. He was roused by two men ripping open his shirt to examine his wound. They allowed as how they should sear the wound on both sides. “Get a branding iron,” said the one who was also the cowboy that had shot him. His name was Armando Garcia.

Jose waited in intense anticipation, until the man returned. “Hold him still,” he instructed Armando and another he had brought along to help.

Jose reasoned that if he were to lie still, the intense pain would be quickly and cleanly administered and begin to subside much more quickly than if he wriggled and fought it. It was a thought he could not adhere to, once the heat neared his body. He bawled as loudly as any steer and fought just as hard, feeling the heat closing to his body and then the unbearable agony, the smell of seared flesh. In the end, the result was attained; the victim left to moan.

He was aware when Lena came to apply some healing salve and he held himself still until she finished. Nothing eases such pain but time. He was healthy young. It soon would begin to pass.

Finally he was eating again and now sitting up. He spent much of his time wondering when Tim would come looking for him. Armando took to sitting with him, in the odd moments he could get free. Once he brought Jose a few donuts - “bear sign,” he called them, because of their resemblance to bear poop. He had taken a liking to the kid and in the course of their interactions, told him, “We are not bad. We take the cows, but that is our way. Red says his family has gypsy blood someplace. I don’t know. It’s how we live.”

Jose appreciated the company. He avoided asking if Red really would kill him. Which he was to learn, soon enough.

One day Red had Jose’s shackles removed. He walked the kid to a corral crudely made to imitate corrida as practiced in Mexico. He further brought him to a darkened stall, where was lodged a fierce bull, an import from central Mexico. “See the muscles of the shoulders? The long, sharp, horns? He is nearly five years old. The same bull that damaged James Precker. It was loaned by Emilio for some festival at Del Lobo, when that happened. You know what happens with such a bull? You know what is corrida?”

“It’s bullfighting,” Jose replied.

“I want for you to move around the ranch today, to get your body able to go like before the bullet wound. Tomorrow I got a surprise to give to you. You got to dance with Toro.”

Jose gauged the fierce eyes, the strength and likely agility of the beast. He told Red he had no will to engage such a fight.

“Ah. We challenge him all the time. What is different from the events in Mexico, we never try to kill him. Such an animal is scarce and too valuable to murder him. I will show you how we play the game, in the morning.”

Red went to the house, leaving Jose free to wander. The first thing he noticed, there was no horse about that he might escape on. He smiled inwardly, a bitter smile. “Why didn’t Tim come look for me?” he wondered once again.

He ambled to the cook shack, hungry for donuts. Like everything else on the ranch, the building where the cook worked was elegant. It was very clean, in a way that suggested that it was scrubbed once or more every day. The cook wore a mustache that drooped to his collar bone, peppered black and grey. He wore a tall hat and his shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. His smoke was a thin cigar, such as Jose had never seen. Cookie rested his hands on his hips. “Breakfast is over, chico. Besides that, there is nothing of it left.”

The kid stood his ground. “Donuts?“

Jose’s pleading eyes softened Cookie’s resolve. He lifted the lid off a clay jar and reached in. His hand pulled out two donuts. “Yesterday’s,” he said. “Still good.”

The cook watched the kid devour one and then savor the one left much more slowly. He apparently saw something he liked in Jose. “Are you looking for a job?” he offered.

Jose was flattered. “But, I am a gunfighter,” he protested, weakly. “I don’t know what to do with food.”

“You could work here, but keep your gun handy, for the ones who complain,” Cookie said. “You might live longer, gun fighting, than eating my food,” he added, “but it hurts less.”

Jose said, “If Toro does not kill me tomorrow, I will ask Red to let me try.”

“All right, chico. Let me know tomorrow.”

Cookie turned to his pots and lifted a great one, for a task Jose did not wait to observe. He walked outside, aimlessly for a bit, until Armando came into view. He watched as his friend moved cows from a corral, to push them to a building herd that soon would move out, for sale at a location the man refused to disclose. “We let our customers care about changing the brands,” he informed Jose. “They like doing their own work.”

CHAPTER TEN

28

Jose continued to sleep inside the barn. He never considered escape, because he could not out walk men on horseback. He had eaten a fine dinner, such that the fullness helped him feel drowsy. “Where is Tim?” was on his mind, as he drifted off.

But there were no thoughts for Tim when he was roused in the creeping daylight, given a chunk of last night’s beef for breakfast, then hustled out to the bull pen. He was wide awake, after the fashion of the young, as Red schooled him in the movements of the matador. He was shown how the bull charges the flag and not the man. “Wave the flag. Taunt him: ‘Toro. Toro.’”

Red showed a few flourishes, to make a show for the cowboys watching. “Just one thing,” Red cautioned. “He’s an experienced bull and he is not stupid. Be wary and quick.”

After that, he was hustled inside the house, to a room that had huge closets. Red opened one up and from inside began handing out outfits for Jose to examine for fit. Fifteen minutes later, he walked out, looking the part he was to play, in black and gold. But he felt foolish in such garb, particularly when he looked into the crowd and saw Lena and two other women, dressed festively, carrying bouquets of roses. There were more cowboys than he would have imagined. He went as in a dream inside the bull ring, where he discovered there were men on horses, taunting the bull, poking him with cruel lances, until he was properly enraged, and then they moved aside and Jose was there, alone, before the dirt pawing animal.

But, he had noticed from the first that the bull’s sharp horns were wrapped up so they could not rip into his body. He felt somewhat better. He only wished the sharp hooves had been removed from the equation. He moved forward, holding out the flag. “Toro,” he managed, weakly. Then, in a strong voice: “Toro.”

Toro paused, regarding the kid with what Jose judged to be contempt. Then trotted closer. It made a brief foray, but bounded back, to study the kid more, as it seemed to Jose. He presented the flag, shouting, “Toro. I am here.”

Then came a charge. The flag passed over Toro’s lowered head. The bull turned, making a tight circle, almost catching the kid with a padded horn. He began to suspect the bull had been learning that the man bearing the flag might be the real object to pursue, based on the bouts from the past. As the bull moved off to regard Jose from a distance, the kid became aware the crowd was cheering for him. He acknowledged their support and waved the flag at them and at the women in particular. The bull saw the hated flag in action and made a full run at it. Jose had discovered in the crowd big black eyes, gleaming white teeth, ensconced in a face of indescribable beauty, among the women, in the seconds stolen by the spectators. It seemed a time to show off. Almost too late to react, he discovered the vicious animal was bearing down; at the same instant put the flag at arm’s length, away from his body. Toro’s padded horn caught his forearm sending him spinning, crushing his vanity.

Jose almost went down, but his feet somehow danced him into an upright position. He faced the bull, renewed as a worthy adversary. “Toro,” he shouted, desperately. “Hey. Come and get me if you can.”

He furiously waved the flag, hopping on his toes, working to build up rage. Toro looked at him mildly and walked to the gate, ready to go home. To the bull, the old stuff had apparently lost the quality of interest beyond the moment. Jose could do ought but gape, as the crowd variously cheered or disbursed. Jose looked to see if the black eyed one watched him still. Indeed, she threw her roses into the ring for him. Before he could approach her, Red, who had just entered the ring, congratulated him and said he should come change his clothing. Jose strutted off the field, feeling he had won some respect, this day.

Red’s demeanor toward him had visibly softened. He felt it was a good time to approach him about Cookie’s job offer. Red scoffed at the notion. “I am going to make you one of us, my friend. When the herd moves next week, you will be moving it. In doing what we do, you will hang along with us, one day, when we get caught.”

“Then, I will have back my horse and guns?”

Red ran his hand over the top of Jose’s head and down his face. “You can get them now,” he said. Red called on Armando to help Jose claim his possessions.

His stuff had been crammed into a corner inside the bunk house. He was still adjusting his gun belt as he came out and went looking for the paint horse. Instead of leading Jose to a stable or grazing range, Armando gave him a strange horse and said they would ride to seek out the horse. Jose was puzzled, but so long as he could expect to have it back he could be patient.

The rustler cowboys who were completing building the herd for driving to the place of sale were the ones Armando approached, until one always grinning hombre pointed off to the side. “There. In the draw, riding a paint. He saw some mavericks in there. I don‘t think you can take the horse, though. It‘s John Marvick.”

Armando became concerned. “I think you better not go in there. Marvick’s a killer. He’s the best gunman here, but for Red, who is the best man with a gun in the whole world.”

Jose had recovered his pride, this day. Having back his gun made him feel invincible. “He waved Armando off. “I just want to talk,” he said, riding straight into the draw.

He immediately met Marvick, about to come out with the cows. “I don‘t need help. You can back off,” Marvick said, pushing ahead, until Jose’s mount became nervous and balked.

“I said, get out of the way,” Marvick barked.

“Return my horse to me, “ Jose demanded, steadying his mount.

Marvick paused a brief moment. “It was yours? Thanks for this fine animal. But get out of the way.”

“You will not pass upon my horse.”

Jose let his actions show he was ready to draw down on the man. Marvick’s lightning draw was too slow. Jose’s bullet caught Marvick’s shoulder, causing him to drop his gun. He retained his seat, on top of Jose’s horse. “Get out of the way,” he reiterated.

Jose spurred his mount and launched himself at the bigger man, dragging him into the weeds and rocks. Marvick fell on his wounded shoulder and gave a slight groan of pain. The kid was all over him, until Armando showed up and dragged him away. Jose pulled himself free and claimed the paint. “He can ride the other one back,” he said.

Not waiting for Armando and not caring about Marvick, he rode back and led his horse into the barn. He put him in a stall and found a resting place, to wait, in case he would need to defend himself and his property. After a half hour passed, it was Red who came looking for him. The big red head stood looking, with his hands on his hips. A bemused grin played at his lips. “You bested John Marvick. Was it a fair exchange?”

“He had his chance to draw,” Jose said, cautious, not knowing how Red was taking the news. “I could have killed him, if I wanted to. I just wanted my horse.”

“What would happen to me, if I wanted that paint?” Red said, challenging.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Jose replied humbly. “I just started liking you.”

Red offered his hand. “You, my friend, are promoted. Wherever I go, you go. Keep that gun handy. Meet me in the house, once you take care of that horse.”

As he walked away, Red said, over his shoulder, “Don’t ever take a notion to try me. I never hesitate to kill my man.”

Jose was not bothered. He saw the two of them in agreement. As he wandered toward the barn, he saw the one he thought of as Black Eyes coming his way. He had originally thought of her as practically a child. Now, he could tell she had a few years on him. Surprising himself, he felt confident, relaxed before her, with the ease of a long time friend. “Buenos tardes,” he said. “I’m Jose. Would you walk with me as I care for my horse?”

“Buenos tardes,” she said. “I am Linda. Lena’s cousin.”

She fell in beside him and in the barn stood by while he brushed the Paint and fed him. It was during this encounter Jose knew he was never going to leave the ranch and that he would defend the institution with his gun, if necessary.

29

Tim’s time spent with Sam Precker took him nowhere. He had been torn between arguing for bob wire and insisting Sam turn over the men that butchered his fence crew. In the end, he left, with nothing resolved. He knew Dan would like to hear a report, but he also knew Dan would be interested to know Sweet’s story about Grief and Emilio. He felt a good deal of remorse, filling him in about rustlers and having to include Emilio’s part in the story. “I reckon Jess told us the truth,” he concluded, sadly.

“The rest of Emilio’s story could lie out at his ranch,” Dan ventured. “Now I think on it, that ranch seems pretty mysterious. I don’t know anybody that claims they ever saw it. Could be he’s our rustler.”

“I’m waiting for Jose’s return. He might bring us some clues.”

The Avers’ new house had been thrown up and Sue wanted to be there with Dan as the finishing touches were added. They were going home on the morrow.

He was walking in the street to check in with Mrs. Grief, when Sweet hailed him from the livery stable. He was excitedly waving his arms, coaxing him to hurry up. Before Tim could close the gap, Sweet could no longer contain his news. “I’ve got you a horse,” he blurted.

Tim gave an indulgent look, but he was hesitant to believe such an animal could appear at Sweet‘s livery. “Where would you find a horse to replace mine?”

“Just have a look at her,” Sweet urged.

Tim felt reluctant to disappoint his friend, but it took something truly special to fill the hoof prints of the horse Precker’s men murdered. “Take a look at this beauty,” Tim said enthusiastically.

Then he saw her. Tall, rangy, narrow of body, made tough by whatever campaigns an erstwhile owner had engaged. He looked into the eyes, with the whites showing, and instantly had to own her. “What’s her story?” he said, amazed to find this fine horse unattached.

Sweet shook his head. His fngers stroked his chin. “An army scout came by here. He was beat up, as if he had the spirit whipped out of him. Said he was full of arrow holes, bullet and knife holes. He didn’t expect to live much longer. He shed a tear when he gave up Pepper, for sixty dollars, and almost made me cry. He said he was going to get some bottles of whiskey and drink his self gone.”

“I’ve still got some money Dan paid me,” Tim said solemnly.

He went to the horse he had come in on and lifted his poke out of the saddle bag. He paid the money and also told Sweet to take the horse that’s outside and see it gets a good home.

“You sleeping in here again?” Sweet wondered.

“Most likely. I soon plan on settling in town, if I get a suitable place. Did that army scout go in the saloon?”

Sweet told him he had. He accompanied Tim as far as the horse Tim had been riding, took the reins and took him inside.

Tim wandered slowly into the saloon, acknowledged Grackle, at the far end, and bellied up to the bar. He took on a tall beer and then turned about, an elbow on the bar, beer in hand, and looked about. There were a few unfriendly faces and some friendly waves from those who had sat on his jury. His gaze noted how the scout sat at a corner table, facing away from everybody, head slumped, half consumed bottle in one hand. His buckskin outfit had a battered look that bespoke years on the trail. His grey hair had been hacked shorter by a Bowie knife, but still was long and unkempt. As Tim looked on, the scout lifted the bottle to his lips, seemingly dedicated to drinking it dry, in as short a time as possible. Tim bought a bottle of the same stuff, then made his way over to the table. Plunking it down before the scout and easing into the next chair, in one smooth motion, Tim said, conversationally, “Tim Medina.”

The old scout regarded him through glazed blue eyes for a long moment. Then he spoke. “Asa Warren. ’Preciate the bottle.” He noted the badge. “Ain’t nothing wrong, is there? I ain’t done nothing since I got in town, but drink, off to myself.”

Tim put his finger before the old one‘s face. “One thing you done, mister. You sold a horse. (The finger came down) I come to thank you, because she’s mine, now. Anything I need to know about her?”

The scout growled, somewhat like a riled grizzly. He sat taller in the chair, as he belittled the fool that would fail to at once recognize that animal for what it was - the finest bit of horseflesh the sheriff would likely encounter in his lifetime. He continued to extol the virtues of Pepper, until Tim withdrew his question and heartily accepted that assessment.

The scout calmed and continued to speak, less stridently. Slowly he let his chin nearly meet with his chest. After a few moments he was barely mumbling his speech. “I took her away from a man that didn’t deserve her. Stole her, I did; for the hombre that first had her was the biggest, toughest, man alive. I outran him on Pepper and hid with the army, until he had to give up looking. The man sort of dropped off of the Earth, after that. But, as long as you ride Pepper, be on the lookout for Mexican Red. Because he’ll kill you for his horse back.”

Tim and the scout sat in silence, with the old man taking frequent deep drinks from the bottle. Tim slowly finished off his beer and then took his leave, going back to get better acquainted with Pepper. He thought he might have picked up the name of Mexican Red a time or two, but what matter? The man was likely dead, if no one had heard of him in a while such as the scout spoke of. Besides, no man could claim the title of “Toughest Man Alive.”

It did not take long to determine that Pepper had high intelligence, but was headstrong at times, and a greedy eater. He took her for a long ride, out to Dan’s place, and looked in on the house building, where a lone carpenter was nailing down the final cedar roofing shingles. After that he went so far as to look for O’Hara, out on the range. He thought he would do Dan a favor and see how the hands were doing, in his absense. Apart from losing a few more cows, they were keeping it all up. They wished Dan would hurry home. They wanted some pay. He assured them Dan would be home sometime in the next day.

On the way back, Tim began to worry that Jose might be in some kind of trouble. Problem was, the kid was often hard to predict. He might be back home, to have time with his mother. There seemed no reason to go looking for him. -

It had been creeping into his thought that the girl who served him his meals when eating at Grief’s café might be a good match for marriage. He had ignored thoughts of her in the beginning, even ridiculed the notion later on. But she had slowly moved up in his estimation and he now contemplated more than a simple friendship. When he met Kathleen at the hoedown, he intended making his feelings known. Grief’s store came in sight.

The store, the hub for news, held some breaking, when he walked in. The source of the conversation was Jess Parker. When he joined the men pressing up to get in a word with Jess, Jess saw him and stepped forward. “Sheriff,” he said, “I done left Precker’s employ. It’s weighed on me, the way his boys killed those fence men. But it ain’t Sam I turned agin. Thing is, Sam may talk mean and threaten a lot, but I have seen it’s his age crossing up his mind and he don‘t follow through. The one that’s running that ranch is James Precker. Every ornery thing that happens is tied directly to him. I just couldn’t take any more.”

Being skeptical of the man, Tim questioned his whereabouts at the time of the murders.

“I went with James that day, to look at some bulls. How would I know he established his alibi that way? I considered us friends, until I saw for myself, the man’s just no good.”

Tim relented. As they shook hands, he asked Jess to stay close, for he may need him to testify, in case there was a trial.

30

Red, who was called Mexican Red by many, had in his time killed perhaps fifty men. He couldn’t be sure, because he never considered the victims important enough to remember. After he parted ways with his gang, made up almost entirely of the remnants of Tanner’s Gang, he, bringing along Armando, found himself welcomed into cousin Emilio’s home, although it had never been his intent to settle here permanently. The ranch was just a temporary respite, until after the law and others of his enemies gave up searching for him and moved on with their activities. His cousin’s death allowed him to experience the sense of ownership of a property for the first time ever. Already he had found pleasure in living among relatives and friends without looking over his shoulder, ceaselessly. He was too comfortable and that brought uncertainty about future moves. Tempting thoughts of turning honest plagued him. If he were to make it happen, today would be a good one to start, for this morning he had sent the cows off to be sold to James Precker. Any evidence left around here could easily vanish. His ruminations emanated, as he drank thick sweet coffee and smoked one of Emilio’s cigars, on a high balcony that overlooked the range. Armando and several others would prefer to be moving. He thought with amusement of Jose and compared the kid to himself at a comparable age. He might need to be wary, dealing with that one.

He thought, flickeringly, of women. Red had known a few loves, yet none had kept him interested for longer than a few months. None, so far, burned with the kind of fire he demanded. He was patient. One day -

Not being one to moon over the rustle of skirts or the softness of women’s flesh the times it was his lot to be by himself, he busied himself pulling on his boots, considering the best way to turn his ranch respectable. For it was his decision, suddenly arrived at, to make it happen.

The people of the ranch had avoided Del Lobo, as per Emilio’s dictates. Now, it all was to change. Anyway, the gremlin inside him wanted to meet the man who had bested his cousin in a gunfight.

He called on Lena to summon Armando, Jose and a few others. And he told them, all but Armando, to scrub the whole place of any sign of illegal activity. Armando was to go explain to James the days of cow stealing were ended.

As the ranch buzzed with this new kind of activity, Red strapped on his guns, put on his sombrero, and went out to saddle up his steed, a fine horse that showed signs of Arabian heritage. “We’ve got to ride, mi angelito,“ he said. The horse snorted as he tightened the cinch, then reached around to give a friendly nip to his pal. Red slapped at her face and then put the bit in her mouth. He was about to mount up, when Lena found him and asked what he was planning for himself this sunny day. He swung his leg over, and said, “Going to town. I will return before it gets dark.”

The beautiful girl watched until he vanished up the trail.

The morning was pleasantly warm for the time of year. Red set a leisurely pace, since he enjoyed long periods of solitude. He was fairly well educated and he enjoyed naming off the creatures that he encountered along the way - and feeling a sense of kinship with a hawk, squawking from high up a tree. His single goal this day was to inform the townspeople of his existence. He was going to be legitimate for a change.

It seemed a sleepy town he rode into, with a bank building under construction in the space between Grief’s conglomeration and the hotel. He paused before Grief’s store, after he noticed that a small sign on the window proclaimed, “Jail Inside.” He believed that if there was a jail the sheriff must not be far off.

He knew from Emilio that Mrs. Grief ran things here. She had in fact become more assertive, with the absence of her husband. Her voice could be heard above the noise as he walked in and his eyes picked out faces, for reference. Figuring she would be the one to ask about Tim Medina, he respectfully waited until she was free of distractions from the customers before he approached her. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” he said. “I am seeking the marshal, Mr. Medina. Is he anywhere about?”

She took in his Mexican hat and clothing and studied his flaming red hair a second too long before responding. “If he is in town, two likely places to look are the livery stable and the saloon. I wouldn’t bet on one above the other.”

He courteously thanked her and turned on his heel to go follow her suggestions. Thinking a beer couldn’t hurt, he went first to the saloon. His bearing and size would have drawn attention anywhere; the red hair and Mexican dress made him a figure they would never forget. He ambled toward the bar, nodding amiably when someone caught his eye. “Good day, Mr. -?” he said to the barkeep.

The barkeep said his own name and asked if he could know his name. “Red,” he was told.

As the barkeep began to pour a tall beer for the man, his whole expression turned from intrigued to shocked, as in knocked for a loop. “Can I say it out loud, without your getting all offended, if I point out, you’re the one that’s knowed as Mexican Red?”

He said it loud enough that all activity stopped and every pair of eyes turned to take in the great outlaw, as they wondered what had caused him to make a visit to Del Lobo. He looked around the room, at every face. “Glad to know you,” he said.

He took the beer and downed a good long drink. Grackle, it turned out, took exception to one so physically dominating. He came forward, with one hand extended. “I’m Grackle, the bouncer.”

Red responded to the hand by shaking it, then held on, when the bouncer increased the pressure, seeking to crush Red’s fingers. Red slowly exerted more and more strength, until Grackle’s hand caved and he went to his knees.

He looked up with awe written on his face. “I - I’m glad to know you, Mr. Red,” he said, wincing with pain and very slowly coming to his feet. Anyone familiar with symptoms of hero worship could read it flowering in his facial features.

Red nodded before returning to his beer.

“What brings you here, Mr. Red?” the barkeep asked, emboldened by the reception his first statement received.

Red hooked a mild look into the man’s eyes. “I’ve got me a spread nearabouts. I’ve gone totally honest. My hands will stop in town, regular. They are Mexicans, black folk and a few Anglos. I expect you to treat all of them well.”

He aimed a telling look about the room.

Nearly half bowed their heads, likely from guilt.

“That goes for all of you,” Red said, sternly.

Red drained his beer glass, flipped down a coin and went outside, where he found Evan Sweet right away. He learned from Sweet that Tim likely could be found in Grief’s café, because he was courting the woman who helped in the kitchen and served the food.

He discovered Tim riding his chair backwards as he thrilled a rapt Kathleen with the tale of how he shadowed his own posse. Red stood to one side, listening to the story. He laughed, slightly at Tim’s braggadocio, but forgave him, seeing he did so to impress a lady. At the narration’s conclusion, he stepped forward. “Might I intrude?” he said, as he pulled back a chair and held it, awaiting the acceptance of his self invitation.

Tim still wore a grin as he looked up and took the man in. “Sit,” he said, expansively. “Something I can do for you?”

Red slipped into the chair and signaled he wanted coffee, by mimicking holding and tipping an imaginary cup to his mouth. As Kathleen left the table to fetch it, Red answered, “No.” He leaned forward to look in Tim’s eyes. “I just want to meet the man that killed my cousin.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

31

Tim threw himself and his chair around, to better face the red head. “Emilio?” he queried, to make certain of the proper victim.

Red’s hard eyes bored into his. “That’s the one,” he said levelly.

Tim returned a stony expression. “Do you want to hear how it happened?”

“I just wanted to meet you,” Red responded, rising, to go. “I came to town to make it known, I inherited his ranch. You will see me around from time to time.”

“Mister -?

“Red.”

“Red,” Tim said. “Emilio broke a few laws. He was involved in some shootings. There was some evidence of him rustling cows. I trust you will avoid those kinds of mistakes.”

Red was half turned to leave. “Don’t worry. I may have been a criminal in other territories. Here, I am legitimate. I plan to stay that way.”

As he took steps to go, Tim called after him. “My deputy rode out there. Can you tell me how it went with him?”

Red grinned. “He works for me now.”

Kathleen had returned with Red’s coffee. “You owe me,” she said.

Tim told her he would pay it for the man.

Red stepped along the wooden walkway. He was ready to ride home. He had yet to get clear of Grief’s, when he discovered the sheriff’s mount hitched at the end of a line of horses. Pepper recognized him at the same instant. She tossed her head and pawed the earth. She nuzzled him as he stroked her nose. It had been in his mind to go home. Now, he wanted to find who claimed to own his horse. He began asking people on the street, until one of them replied, “Why, that’s the sheriff’s horse.”

At the same time, he noticed Tim in the doorway, looking on with an amused glint in his eye. He stared back for several long moments, as Tim’s look of amusement expanded. Suddenly Red threw back his head and laughed. It was more than a hearty laugh. It was a deep booming laugh, heard all up and down the street, causing outside people to look around and inside people to come outside. The laughter settled into light chuckling as he found the horse that carried him to town and mounted it and rode off to home, leaving the town to marvel over this extraordinary new citizen.

He had in his moment of laughter gifted his horse to Tim, to keep until or if he had to some day kill him. In which case he wanted it back. His mood was light, for he considered that his visit had been a success. As he neared the ranch, he met James Precker, who had been on his way to seek a meeting with Red.

“No reason you can’t say what you have to say here,” Red commented.

They dismounted and took the shade of a tree. At first, James spoke aimlessly, as though reluctant to get to the heart of the matter, which Red already read as a whine that the steady influx of neighbors’ cows was ended. He ended Precker’s blather by informing him that his ranch was going straight. At first, James insinuated that a ranger he had wind of might be interested to know of Red’s true background. Red bluntly informed him he was dancing with a grim reaper, to talk so. James backed off and presently took his leave at a hard gallop.

Red somewhat wished that Precker had pressed it to a lead riddled conclusion. He ruefully considered that he would likely never be fully domesticated, and it was hounds such as Precker that made it so.

He made his trail to Cookie’s shack and knocked gently before walking in. He found the cook pulling bread from an oven, round loaves, golden crusted. “Got any beef left over, Cookie?” he said respectfully.

Cookie exploded in profanity, before relenting and telling his boss he had saved him the best steak ever and would he sit at the long table and wait for it to be seared.

“Don’t get it too hot, please,” Red pleaded.

He poured a glass of tequila and sat with it to await the steak. His horse outside of course signaled his whereabouts and it was no surprise that Armando should discover it and then walk in. The tall man with a droopy mustache that followed on his heels was a different matter. The man’s boots made heavy stomping noises. The stranger failed to remove his hat. “El Paso,” Red exclaimed.

El Paso could be seen to grin behind the mustache. “Hello, boss man. You’re looking prosperous.”

Red shrugged. He could see the man had something in mind, rather than just renewing an old friendship. “I got a good situation and settled,” he said. He gave the man an appraising look. “What have you been up to?”

El Paso took a chair, uninvited. “I kept the gang from breaking up,” he confided. “We just been getting enough to keep us going. Until now.”

Red sipped his tequila. “How did you know I was here?”

“I stopped in Del Lobo for supplies. You ought to have heard all the talk you stirred up, after you left there.” The outlaw was rearing the chair back on two legs. “Made me want to make you rich, once I knew it was you they were talking about.”

“There’s no bank to rob in Del Lobo. Yet,” Red said cautiously. “But, no matter. If there was it would make no difference. I’m going straight.”

El Paso let his chair down when Cookie came in with a platter of steak and potatoes. He looked on as Red began devouring great chunks of warm red meat, but shortly resumed making his pitch. “How would you like a cut of thirty thousand dollars?”

At the mention of so much money, Red paused and looked up. He liked the sound of it. He shoved a fork in a potato chunk. He liked the sound of it, but, thoroughly skeptical, he commented, “You must be speaking Chinese, because I don’t understand you.”

The outlaw guffawed. He looked at Armando, who had earlier been informed of the caper he was plotting. Armando, grinned, anticipating the scene when Red finally grasped El Paso’s meaning.

Red concentrated on cleaning his plate. There was a deeper reason for his dancing around in this conversation. He knew El Paso’s nature and he did not trust or approve of him. Particularly now, when he appeared to control the gang riding with him and so could be immune to efforts to keep that nature under control. “I am out of guesses. Who has that kind of money?”

The outlaws eyes were burning as he described the railroad that was adding a line to Del Lobo. Beyond that spur, the trains continued on to east and west. El Paso and his men had kidnapped a railroad clerk, long enough to bribe him into disclosing a payroll shipment to the mining town, located at the foot of the hills, seventy five miles to the west.

Red was dubious, still. “A cargo like that would go under an armed guard. Even with help from us, you likely don’t have the force necessary to take it.”

El Paso laughed until he started coughing. “I got that figured out,” he bragged.

He cut his eyes at Armando, who looked away, seeming uncomfortable in the extreme.

“What about it, you big galute?”

Red addressed Armando. “What about you? You going in?”

Armando hung his head a bit. “It’s too tame around this place,” he said defensively. “I’ve got to get back on the road.”

“Sure,” Red responded. He turned to El Paso, who had gotten out of the chair and was prepared to go. “My answer is no. I’m asking that you never come here again, for I don’t want to draw the law. No hard feelings. You, too, Armando.”

32

He wondered if Jose would choose to go with Armando. He discovered him riding with Linda and wondered no more. That kid was in love. Still puffing Emilio’s cigars, Red finished the day, reading from Leatherstocking Tales, until sleepiness overtook him. He was certainly letting this easy life make him tame.

The following day, he took Jose to follow a herd of wild horses, to capture and offer to the cavalry. They returned empty-handed. After they put up the horses and were looking to get some of Cookie’s harsh coffee, they turned at the sound of a rider coming full gallop and not slowing until his approach brought him within feet. He fairly leapt out of the saddle. They had recognized Armando long before his feet hit the ground. He scrambled up so close, Red put out his hands to hold him away. “Take me back, boss,” he babbled. “Take me back.”

Red gave a mock sigh. “Don’t you want a cut of thirty thousand dollars any more?”

Armando’s eyes were wide with horror. “That El Paso. He’s crazy. I don’t want to be hung for the things he’s done.”

“Put up your horse. Come drink coffee.”

When the repentant Armando took his place at the table, Jose told how good it was that he had returned. Armando looked at him for a bit, before sipping the scalding coffee. He turned to Red. “I got in a card game with some of the gang, during which they told me - laughing about it, mind you - how he murdered a family of five for no good reason. He killed a marshal in east Texas just because the marshal asked him to move his feet that were blocking the walkway. The whole gang is made up of dead men who haven’t been hanged yet. But I don’t aim to be one of them.”

“What’s that gash below the ear?” Jose said suddenly.

Armando put his hand over the wound and then held it before his face to view the blood it picked up. “El Paso promised to cut it the rest of the way if I tell anybody about the train robbery.”

Red told him not to consider it further. The robbery and the outlaw gang were no concern of theirs. The hired men went to the bunkhouse and Red went home. He helped Lena move some furniture around before taking to his chair on the balcony, to drink and smoke. He took up Leatherstocking for a time. Then Lena came in to offer company. He figured she was lonely since Linda became attached to Jose.

She told Red she was considering moving to Mexico. She wanted to send a friend of her family to take her place. “Do you know this woman enough to recommend her?” he questioned.

“Yes,” she said.

He agreed it would be okay.

The following day, Lena left out, riding with a contingent of Mexican cowboys, all proudly dressed in traditional Mexican finery. Red watched them go until they were out of sight. He considered that Lena had been the heart of the household. It would be difficult to replace one such as she. He was certain the loss of Emilio had weighed on her decision, despite the fact she had hidden her feelings so well. Turning his thought to matters of the ranch, he pondered where to look to buy a few cows to upgrade the line of stock. He considered visiting the nearby ranches, starting with the one owned by Dan Avers.

He gathered Jose and Armando when it was time to call on Dan. Jose took them by the quickest route. He began talking as they went, buoyed by the prospect of a meeting with the man. Red let him babble. Armando was strangely reserved. Red did not break in on his thoughts, although he was curious to know their content. After a time they went beside the wreckage of bob wire fence, strewn where the fence crew had been murdered. The riders were noted by O’Hara, who greeted Jose with enthusiasm. He escorted them to Dan’s house and then knocked on the door for them. Sue put out her face and smiled with surprised pleasure when she recognized Jose. After a warm greeting, she asked him who were his friends. Red stepped forward, explaining that they now were neighbors and he was looking to buy some bulls. He saw no cause to mention his blood ties to Emilio. She led the visitors to where Dan labored with a carpenter to build a cabinet. He stood up and accepted a handshake but Red noted his eye movement when Dan laid his gaze on Armando.

He waited tolerantly while Dan and Jose exchanged words about other times. Then he explained to Dan how he wanted to build his herd. Dan listened patiently, then told Red that only Sam Precker might have what he was looking for.

After an awkward attempt at small talk, Red thanked Dan and allowed as how he had to get on the trail, if he intended to get with Precker this day. He looked at Armando then said to Dan, “Armando has done a bit wrong, as I have, but we ain’t wanted by the law around here. He hasn’t done you or yours harm, has he?”

Dan stared into Armando’s face, mirroring contempt. “No. He just held a town for hostage with some pals until we ran them off.” He turned on Armando. “Where‘s El Paso keeping these days.?”

Armando said, “I don’t ride with him now. It‘s all I‘ve got to say.”

“You see?” Red said to Armando and Dan together. “We going to be friends after all.”

The two continued to face off, until Jose spoke. “He’s my friend,” he told Dan. “He’s okay.”

Dan slowly eased back some. “Sure, Jose. If you say he’s a friend let him be okay.”

Armando’s lip curled. He followed Jose out and Red nodded at Sue as he went through the door after them. They went straight to Sam Precker’s house.

Sam was in his bedroom, recovering from a fall, suffered while descending to the second tread on the porch steps where he tripped over his own feet. He was awarded a bruise on his forehead and a gash on his cheek. Also, his right arm became dislocated, when he tried to catch himself by grabbing the rail. His hip was sore enough that he could not stand up on his own. He bade Ace to prop him up high and then show the visitors in.

The old man stared at the trio, sizing them up. He spoke to Jose. “You I know,” he said. “I hope you have a good reason for coming here.”

Jose deferred to Red. “He’s come to buy some bulls from you.”

Ignoring Sam’s infirmity, Red explained how he came to own his ranch. He hoped to improve his herd. Sam brought up the high incidence of rustler activity, suggesting then that Red might ought to save his money. In the end, Red insisted and Sam relented. He asked Red to give him time to corral a few and they could then discuss a deal. Before they could take their leave of Sam, James filled the doorway. He and Red exchanged some dark looks before the younger Precker spoke. “What are you doing here?”

“Why do you think I would come here?” Red countered.

James weaseled. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Red crowded the man away from the entrance, leading Armando and Jose to the horses. They were about to mount up when a commotion caused by several riders gave them pause. The riders blocked their way as the leader, sheriff Tim Medina, hopped down and strode up to Jose. “What are you doing here?” he demanded to know.

Jose gave Tim an innocent look and moved to get on his paint horse. “Leaving. With my boss and my friend,” he replied.

Tim stood back, allowing Jose to get upon the horse. “I couldn’t help wondering. I’m here to arrest some of Precker’s men and I hoped you had not moved here. I wouldn’t want to fight you.”

Tim nodded at Red. “The judge gave the go ahead to arrest some men who murdered a fence crew on Dan Avers’ property. James may resist it, but he should count himself lucky his name wasn’t on the list.”

Red nodded back. “Not my problem,” he replied.

The three set out for home.

33

Jess Parker clutched the list, as Tim and he approached the Precker house, leaving the rest of the posse to wait with the horses. They met James on his way out. Tim confronted him by blocking his route, with his itchy hand brushing the butt of his gun. “You are the man I need to speak with,” he drawled.

James attempted to look bold, although the shift in his eyes betrayed him. “S - Speak away,” he said.

Tim allowed room for Jess to push the list at James. “These men,” he said. “I have an order from the circuit judge to arrest them for murder. Too bad you are not one of them. Yet.”

At first, James avoided the list. “What do ya want them for? Spitting on the walk?”

Tim good-humoredly turned his head to look at Jess, turned back and pinched James’s cheeks, as one tweaks the cheeks of a little boy. “Are you taking me to them or not?”

James pulled back and attempted to step away from Tim. But he was boxed in. “You can find them yourself,” came his surly reply.

“I don’t need you. The posse can recognize these men. We are going take a ride and sort them out,” Tim said, adding, “Anyone not wishing to get hurt had best stay out of the way.”

Sheriff Tim and his posse began to search and to question the innocent hands they came across. There eventually was a man who gave them something to go on. He told them that the list encompassed a portion of the crew that was detailed to round up the horses being offered to the cavalry. He pointed them the way, off to the horizon.

The wanted men numbered four. It had been noted by posse members that none of them had been into town ever since the incident. In a short period of time, a rider was seen pushing two horses west. The posse kept him in view, as he led them to a pool of horses and the men keeping the horses rounded up. They kept moving in, until both cowboys and posse had become mixed together and Tim’s group were looking at faces. The men they mingled with had no leader among them at the moment and so no one spoke up right away. Then, a cowboy, who was slim and tall beneath a large hat, spoke up. “Who do you want, sheriff?” he said in a surprisingly deep voice.

Tim passed the list from Jess to the slim cowboy, who did not seem surprised when he read off the names. He paused in thought for a moment, before deciding to cooperate. “They’s just over that dip,” he answered.

“Much obliged,” Tim said. “Anything we should know?” he asked, as he was planning to ride.

The man’s assessment was, “They ain’t going easy, and they are good with their guns.”

Tim gave his thanks, then spurred Pepper ahead, planning to not give more advance notice than he had to. The horses made thunder over the curve of the ground, moving in close, before the men recognized them for a posse. Four hands grabbed for four guns and the men received a volly from Tim’s posse, bullets that blew them out of their saddles. Tim was kind enough to lay the corpses over their ponies and haul them to Sam’s house to get properly buried. He tied their horses at the hitching rail, trusting James would find them there, and he took the posse home.

In killing these men, they had possibly buried the last chance to tie James to the crime. Tim still felt certain he would get James in the end. He would never just gun him down, out of deference to his daughter, but when his duty as a lawman enters the equation - Tim smiled. He would definitely get him.

He had made substantial progress with Kathleen. After he discharged the posse, he went to Grief’s café, both to eat and be close to her. She brought him what had become a customary cup of coffee. “We’ve got chicken today,” she said.

“Seen the preacher today?” he asked.

“No. His wife fed him today.” Kathleen sat down at the table. “Why?”

“Thought if he had the time he might marry us up.” As he spoke, Tim handed her a ring he had been carrying.

She was dumbstruck to have such a piece of jewelry in her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she uttered.

“It was Mother’s ring. Gave to her by my Father,” he said solemnly. “I want you to have it.”

Kathleen handed back the ring. “Put it on my finger,” she said.

Tim took her warm hand in his. With the other hand he slid the ring on her finger.

She got up. untied her apron, and threw it down on the table. “Let me tell Mrs. Grief what we’re doing,” she said.

Tim wolfed some chicken and followed it with swigs of coffee before leaving the table and waiting near the door. Kathleen came back and took Tim’s hand and pulled him along, toward the church. Tim indulgently went along with it, proud that she thought of him well enough to be that eager.

Preacher Smith was in his study, working over the sermon meant for Sunday, when they located him. Kathleen began explaining the purpose for their visit and in the middle of it the preacher left his desk to usher them into his church. Mrs. Smith’s watchful eye saw immediately what was happening and she picked a few flowers from the window box. She made a bouquet to give to Kathleen. Preacher Smith read a verse from his Bible before beginning his informal wedding talk. Virtually the same words he had spoken to Dan and Sue came from his mouth and he pronounced the couple ‘wed.’

Tim shook Kathleen’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.

“Kiss her,” the impatient Mrs. Smith said in her grating voice.

The newlyweds hesitantly embraced for a second. As they began to separate, they gave each other a peck on the lips. Happily, foolishly smiling, they paid the preacher, thanked him, and Tim walked his wife back to her job. He explained how he had to make a report to the circuit judge just now, but he would be back to visit with her in a bit.

He knew the judge had taken to conducting business from the hotel. Tim found him there, lounging in a maroon edged grey robe, drinking whiskey. In his right hand he wielded a home made fly swatter, keeping it at the ready, just in case a pesky fly resumed bothering him, as it had earlier. He looked at Tim expectantly. “What news?” he said.

“In a way it’s good. It’s also bad,” Tim drawled. “We found the suspects, but they made a fight of it. We killed them all.”

“Saves us the cost of a trial,” the judge observed. “Not that I’m one to advocate for the killing of any prisoners. What’s the bad part?”

“I still want to nail James Precker,” said Tim.

“With no evidence -” the judge began without finishing his sentence.

Tim stared at the law books piled on a table near the judge. “He’s going to make a slip,” he said grudgingly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

34

“Armando, why are you dragging tail like that? You get more surly each day, and nobody can talk to you.” Red had studied Armando closely, looking for a sign of illness. His man appeared fine, but for the hangdog look he wore on his face all the time of late. “I should have sent you to Mexico with Lena,” he groused.

Armando made a concerted attempt to buck up, but failed miserably. When Red pressed him ever more forcefully, he finally admitted he had not gotten over the brief time he recently spent with El Paso. Armando said, “I done some bad things in my time, what with robbing banks and stage coaches. I killed someone on one of those stagecoaches, but he would have killed me, so I don’t feel guilty about it. What El Paso plans is the worst kind of thing I heard of. But I ain’t one to rat on someone. I can’t be forced to do that, even by you.”

Red let the matter drop. They continued to make the spread over and soon enough bought those bulls from Sam Precker. Then Red received a telegraph message, brought all the way from town by Tim himself. He knew Tim just wanted to look around, but he was grateful enough to have the message that he did not mind. He was advised by the message to greet the train with horses and a buckboard by the water tank up from the spur getting built for Del Lobo. Katy Ramirez, the woman to replace Lena would be let off there, along with her escorts.

He did not disclose the content of the message at first. It was two days later that he mentioned to Jose and Armando what he intended to do. Armando had a curious reaction and he quickly walked away. This time Red stalked after him.

“Alright; let’s have it. What is El Passo planning? Something to do with that train?” he said, grabbing Armando by the shirt front and pressing him against a wall.

Armando only wrestled with his scruples a few minutes more before his resistance caved in. “There is a switch,” he said. “It’s there for the future, for the engineer to throw when he wants to go on the track to Del Lobo. El Paso is going to throw the switch and the train is going to go on the trestle that they’re building and crash into the ravine, sixty feet down.”

“Dios. The passengers, the crew - officers guarding the payroll. All will be dead. Unless we stop them, before they have the chance to move on it. Where are they quartering, Armando?”

“They have got a camp beyond Marty Zane’s. Got ‘em a shack to shelter in and everything, with an armed guard where a rider has to turn in”

Red pulled Armando back from the wall and held his shoulders at arm‘s length. He understood the misery in the mans eyes. “Thank you, my friend. Now tell me; are you going to fight beside me?”

“Of course,” he whispered.

Red turned to Jose. “And you?”

“I will fight,” Jose said dramatically.

In the early next morning, as the crickets still were retiring for the day, they left out, riding hard. As they went past Marty Zane’s trading post, Armando explained that the camp was off the trail and through some rugged terrain, where the low hills rose above the plain. There was a canyon of sorts and in it nestled the outlaws’ hideout.

After an hour of tough riding they came near the narrow mouth of the canyon, but stopped short when Armando cautioned about the guard stationed high in the rocks. The men dismounted and pulled the horses in behind some boulders. Red advised the others to wait here as he made off to climb behind the lookout, slipping a knife from its sheath as he went up the grade. He was quickly out of sight.

Armando and Jose relaxed. They had such faith in Red’s abilities as to expect just a short wait. The older man rolled himself some tobacco and calmly sucked in the harsh smoke. Jose pulled out his gun and inspected it, keeping his hands active. Fully ten minutes had passed by the time Red returned, using the same route by which he had gone. Slung over his shoulder was the unconscious guard, who, when he laid him on the ground was seen to have some knots and gashes on his head, caused by Red’s fists. “Get us a rope, somebody, and we’ll tie him,” he said.

After they propped the man against a rock and stuffed his own torn off sleeve in his mouth, they edged up to have a look at El Paso’s lair. It was a crudely thrown together shack, with a stove pipe trailing smoke above the roof. Behind it were the horses, serenely corralled. Two long horizontal slots served as windows. Red observed that they would not be able to see him if he slipped down the slope to approach the end of the building. It was a gamble, for the horses could startle and alert the men inside. He made sure of his matches and then gathered dry brush in the crook of an arm. “You wait here,” he said. “If they start shooting and you get the chance, kill them.”

Red was a huge man but he was lithe on the slope, his feet sure and silent. He approached the shack without incident, until one of the horses snorted nervously. Frozen in his tracks, Red waited to see if the outlaws would react to it. When no one did, he crept to the wall and positioned the dry brush against the clapboards. He helped himself to more handfuls of it that clung together in clumps within easy reach. Instead of immediately setting a match to it, he moved near enough to the first window to be heard by those inside. “El Paso? Hey in there. Throw out your guns. Come out with your hands up or I will burn you out.”

El Paso’s voice wafted out, harsh and purely braggadocio. “Balfour. Red. What are you doing out there? Come inside and have some frijoles. I need to talk with you, old son.”

“I hope you have a watch and know how to tell time. I give you one minute to pitch out those guns,” Red said.

There came back no further response as Red studied his watch. The waiting time quickly ticked away. Red stood with his watch in one hand and the match in the other. The second hand ticked off sixty marks, prompting Red to squat over the piled up brush and use his thumbnail to ignite the match. The smaller weed portions caught and spread the flames, igniting the larger bits until creating a hungry inferno that licked the clapboards and quickly raced up the wall. Red watched the burning with satisfaction, noting how quickly the boards turned black and chunks fell away. Fully a quarter of the house quickly became a conflagration with heavy smoke billowing to the otherwise blue sky. There was coughing and choking from inside. “All right,” El Paso said, sounding as though he were strangling.

The door sprung open, followed with guns thrown to the ground and choking hombres leaping out. They had bandanas covering their faces. Red kept them covered as Jose and Armando rushed in to take up the weapons.

There were five owl hoots altogether. El Paso put out his chest and looked defiantly at his captors. “You weak sons of pigs,” he said. “When you defeat a man you kill him. If not, he finds a way to kill you. That’s a promise. I will kill all of you.”

Red moved the pistol to his other hand. He deliberately towered over El Paso, his calm eyes deciphering the maniacal passion written in the prisoner’s face. His free hand cupped El Paso’s jaw, enveloping it as one might grip an orange, and lifted him up, his arm reaching a near forty-five degree angle off his body. He released the hold, pushing away, causing El Paso to drop on his heels and continue to the ground until his back slammed against the dirt and his head was snapped back against it also.

Rage made the outlaw heedless of the gun as he rolled and gathered himself like a lynx to pounce at the larger man. He was no longer a human but a ball of fury coming forward. The piston that was Red’s arm met his face and sent him back to sprawl unconscious at the other outlaws’ feet. “Fetch some rope,” Red said to Jose.

The gang was eager to get tied up and avoid getting leveled by this near giant, with Jose and Armando happy to comply. While the horses were being readied, Red gave some stern words. “It takes some yellow skunks to do what you were plotting. I don’t know if you are likely to hang but I’m sure the judge will want to hand you some sentencing that will make you regret such evil laid plans. Jose; ain’t there a pack mule back there? If there is bring it out here. We’ll sling El Paso over it and haul him back like a sack of spuds.”

35

The outlaws all were allowed to walk inside the jail with the exception of the leader. Hogtied and gagged, El Paso was dragged from the street by rope and pitched inside without regard which part of him took the brunt of landing. He ultimately lay still with one cheek on the wooden floor and his eyes fixated on the grain of the wood. “It’s all right for you men to untie each other,” Red said after turning the lock.

El Paso lay very still, even after the boys freed him from his bonds. The others may have thought he was sulking. But that was because none of them saw what he saw. He was studying a crack running the grain of the wood, about two feet long. He thought he might be able to get his fingers in deeply enough to tug a sliver up out of it. The resultant hole just might allow the rest of the board to be persuaded out also. The plank was wide, but it would be necessary to pull two or three before a body could fit through to the crawl space beneath it. After the outer door was shut and locked and he knew for sure they were alone the outlaw finally looked up. The anger that had put him in his banged up condition was unabated. But self control was essential if he were to get out of here. There was a window of sorts at the back of the cell, to let fresh air in, just six inches high. He kept watch on the window until it no longer let in daylight. In this time he had spoken no words and his gang, being uncertain how he would react to what was said, bided in silence.

He rested on his back until he was sure the businesses inside of Grief’s building had shut down, for the nails in the planks were sure to groan as they were being pried out. Finally, he moved. He crouched over the damaged wood. After a few minutes the sliver surrendered to his prying fingers. By now the others were crowded around, helping in any way they could. One remembered the loose leg on the bed and twisted it off. They made a pry bar use of the leg and in a short order had a section of floor nicely torn away.

El Paso lowered himself between the exposed joists and moved in the dirt along the skirting until he found a crawl entry hole. A lattice cover, meant to keep the varmints out, had to be kicked away. He barged through, emerging into a black night between two buildings. He stealthily poked his head around a corner to see if the saloon was open with customers, knowing a thirsty cowboy is not mindful about his horse possibly getting pilfered by horse thieves. The other men were scrambling to keep up as El Paso undid the line on a fine horse and flung himself in the saddle. He was down the street a good piece by the time the rest of the gang found mounts of their own. A suspicious cowboy emerged through the swinging doors and sounded an alarm. The outlaws had seated themselves and were ready to go as one of their own wheeled his horse and attempted to run over the shouting man. It was a fatal diversion, for the patrons streaming out on the street had guns drawn and promptly sent a volley of shots that brought the rider down. The rest of the thieves rode away.

They followed a darkened road, with the crescent of moon slipping through the trees. The goal: To reach Marty Zane’s Trading Post, where they could stock up on guns and supplies. It was on El Paso’s mind to get more horses and leave these with Zane with instructions where to return them. He had precious few moral standards, but horse stealing was a sin in his book.

They traveled carefully in the dark night before coming to the post. El Paso walked up to the door of Marty’s quarters, pounded with a fist and demanded Marty come out. Marty’s shotgun poked out first. “Who is it? My woman needs her rest, hard as she works. I’m tired too.”

“Guns. Supplies,” El Paso said.

Marty squinting at him in the darkness let the gun barrel down. That was a mistake, because El Paso grabbed away the shotgun and punched him to the floor. “I don’t let fools point their guns at me,” the outlaw said.

Marty’s woman came to the door bearing a lantern and a pistol. As soon as she realized her man was down, she pulled the trigger, plugging the man unlucky enough to be at El Paso’s side. Before she could get off a second shot El Paso leveled Marty’s shotgun and blew her down. Then he took her gun, stood over Marty, and said, “You’ll want revenge. Take this instead.”

Marty looked back impassively from his spot on the floor, ready to accept his own bullet. There was no more fight in him.

The men watched without sympathy as the leader finished him off. They were anxious to break into the trading post to take what they required so they could hit the trail before daylight broke. They had plans to dig out the bullet lodged in their comrade, once they found a place to camp for a rest. El Paso left them breaking open the door. It was his intent to prowl through Marty’s personal belongings. He threw drawers and clothing about until he discovered the chest behind everything. Paper money. So many large bills had him guessing he had come into thousands of dollars. He hurried to transfer the bills to his saddlebags while the others were inside collecting things.

Supplies were piled outside of the building until Marty’s horses were brought around, saddled. The stolen horses were turned loose to roam. They took to the unsettled land on the westward side and found a sheltered site inside a woodland to set up a camp. Taking turns at sentry, the men slept, tuning out as best they could the groaning of the wounded comrade. When the sun came on full, that comrade was held down and the lead was dug from his flesh. Fed whiskey throughout the ordeal, he became too drunk to sit his saddle until they tied him on. He was to ride slumped over the rest of the way.

To a man, when El Paso made a fateful turn, the outlaws knew he was focused on revenge. To kill Mexican Red or else Mexican Red would finish El Paso. They were on a course that would bring them to his home for the fatal encounter, for the cagey outlaw knew Red would not be a part of the posse that was to inevitably form once the trading post murders were discovered. Red had performed his duty, rescuing the train from destruction, but he was sure to leave the justice ordained by society to the law and would get back to his own affairs, for he was not known for civic-mindedness.

Pushing their mounts to the limit like a miniature army on the move, they came on Red’s land much more quickly than anyone could have imagined. By the mid morning light they boldly rode onto the land. When they saw working cowboys they shot without mercy, not slowed a bit, closing on the big house.

So unrelenting was their progress they encountered no resistance, coming up to the great house. They came off their saddles and clambered up the steps to crash into the foyer. After searching every room and declaring it empty, they moved the horses to the barn. The men invaded the cook shack and killed Cookie. After eating their fill of his food they took up positions to await Red’s arrival. El Paso knew that the discovery of dead cowboys littering the way would spur Red to come straight in, thinking he could overcome anything. What they missed was a pair of tiny feet in slippers and a body in a satin gown leaving out the back door, running for cover.

Linda knew every stick and twig for miles around. It didn’t take long for her to map out El Paso on the porch behind a huge vase, one man at the corral, one next to the watering trough, another one or two in the barn. She rushed with her information to be along the trail for when Red came riding in.

And soon they came riding in.

The sky became cleared of even the wispiest clouds. No breeze stirred. A day such as this if in full summer might have been an unnatural scorcher. Still it felt unseasonably warm. Red, Armando, and Jose had been prepared to get out of it and settle in for a day of rest, until they happened on Linda and her important information. Red asked her to remain hidden “until after we clean out this nest of rattlers.”

Red took his men behind the house. From there they would move around and take out the two at the porch and watering trough. The barn would be tricky. It was hoped that once the men inside found themselves alone they would give themselves up. Red demanded El Paso for himself. This time his intent was to make this their final encounter.

36

Hector Ramos was the first cowboy to return for dinner. His thoughts were of Cookie’s stew and scalding coffee as he approached Cookie‘s shack. He made a quirky looking figure, with his great paunch, colorful shirt, big mustache, and a guitar slung over the shoulder. His keen eyes caught sight of the boss trudging around the end of the house, close under the eaves. “Boss,” he said. “You chasing chickens?”

Red waved his man back as at the same moment bullets flew around Hector and his horse. Hector hit the dirt and moved on his hands and feet, looking like a bug seeking shelter. He regretted not loading his gun since the time he emptied it at a charging bull. The boss, he knew, could use his help right now. Then he noted the approach of both Jose and Armando. They seemed focused on the watering trough. Jose to the left and Armando to the right. Then Jose stepped out in plain sight for the man hiding. When the man raised up with his gun, Armando plugged him from the other side. They immediately turned their attention to the barn.

Hector thought if he made a target of himself the man on the porch might expose himself to Red’s aim. He impulsively slipped his guitar off of his shoulder and held it up in the air, stepping out and shouting, “Don’t shoot at me. I got no bullets.”

El Paso’s reply was to pour bullets into the guitar neck until the body dropped off. He then aimed at the hapless cowboy’s torso. It was the diversion Red needed to charge from his position at the house corner, with his guns blazing. He cut El Paso down before he could assign a bullet to Hector. Red put a boot to the outlaw’s body. So great was his strength the dead man rolled over on his back, his eyes fixed in a vacant stare.

The men inside the barn made a fight of it in the beginning, but once they learned they were now alone, they called out their surrender and pitched out their guns. They begged Red to turn them loose for old times‘ sake.

“Men,” Red said, “I’m taking you in. What keeps me from letting you off is I know you to be vile, sneaky coyotes. You would kill me right now just to get free and for that I don’t blame you. It’s that innocent family up the road that you would meet and murder and rob. To let you go is to in effect help kill those innocent souls. Jose, tie their hands together in front of them. I’m assigning you and Armando after that to take a well earned rest. I’m turning these varments in myself.”

He shortly took the prisoners to Del Lobo.

In the morning of the same day, Dan Avers had found himself looking at Sue in her apron, putting salt bacon in the pot of beans cooking on the stove. It was his attempt to study for a clue why he had lately begun to sense distancing from her, despite the fact that this should be the happiest part of their existence together. For she carried his child. They had all they needed in life. The future was aligning in their favor. And yet her eyes seemed to look through him and she rarely smiled at him anymore.

Dan took the leftover salt bacon and wrapped it for her. After carefully putting it away, he caught her arm as she passed him in the open floor. “It’s a beautiful time for us,” he said, holding her close.

“Got to get our fence built,” she replied.

“Sue, do you regret marrying me?,” he said.

She looked him in the eye and then away at the window. “I love you,” she said. “It’s just that -”

His fingers tightened about her arm, until she pulled it away.

“What?” he said. “Tell me anything. If it hurts, I’ll live. I won’t be angry or strike back over it. Just tell me. It’s hurting me more to not know.”

“Well -” Sue gave him an accusatory stare. “You are known for being brave and doing the right thing. But once I got to know you better, it seems you avoid taking chances. You rely on Tim and others to do what I would have expected you to do. I thought at first it was the injury holding you back. It seems, though, it‘s just an excuse -”

Dan spent the rest of the day taking stock of the fencing and organizing the material. He gathered the short pieces that the murdering cowboys had created and put them in piles for later use. Still troubled, he dawdled, reluctant to go home and face his wife just now. He was startled from his reverie by the sound of a fast approaching horse.

He watched Sue scramble off her pony and approach in a hurry. “I’m on my way to Grandfather,“ she said. “I got a message; he’s dying.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

She refused. “I think there might be trouble if you go. Right now I just need to see him, let him know I love him.”

He felt incredibly sad for her as she galloped her pony away. Now seemed the time to go home and wait.

Sue’s pot of beans Sat on the warm stove, ready to eat. He dished out a portion and sat on the porch with it. He was still sitting there when she returned, shortly after dark. She came up to Dan on his chair and hugged him. “He fought against it all the way,” she said. “Madder than a wet hen because he had no control.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Dan said.

“He said to raise our child to be like him.”

“He had points I admire,” Dan allowed.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We are going to raise little Dan to be like you.”

“And I’m going to live up to your expectations for me,” he said. “I went through something with the death of my sister. I think I’m over it now.”

“Are those beans still hot?” she asked. “I have never skipped any meals, whether sick, grieving or what.”

He lit the lamp for her and sat with her at the table. As Sue spooned beans into her mouth, she asked Dan what he did today. He told of organizing the fence and preparing to build it, if he had to do it all himself. “I believe you could do it by yourself,” she said.

They fell silent for a time, still at the table. “I’m going to miss Grandfather,” she said at last, hiding a tear that formed in her eye.

She lay on her side that night, facing the wall. Dan felt it best to leave her alone right now.

By sunup, they were up doing chores. O’Hara stopped by on his way to breakfast. He reported that cow thievery was no more. Now they could build a herd. “Wait up,” Dan said. “Sue and I will eat with you.”

In Del Lobo, Tim awoke from sleeping with his new wife. He looked around the room, for her side of the bed was empty. Sitting on the bed, savoring the night that just passed, he congratulated himself for not passing on the lovely passionate woman who chose to be his bride. They had started out ignorant together but they proved to be fast learners. She appeared just then, bearing a tray that held two coffees and some ham and potatoes.

“I’m gonna get a pot gut living with you,” he joked.

“There’s talk at the store that Sam Precker just died,” Kathleen said.

“Sam’s my grandfather, in case nobody told you,” he said.

He shortly went out to have a ride over, hoping there would be no trouble if he paid respects to the old rascal. He met Red coming out of the hotel, pushing two men ahead. Red hailed him and explained that he had gotten to town too late to turn his prisoners in. So they slept in a hotel room.

Tim said he would lock them up, then explained about Sam. “That puts the ranch in his son’s hands,” Red said. “I can’t think of a worse man to have for a neighbor. Who would have that ranch if the son left sudden-like?”

“Sue. Maybe both of us together, if she was of a mind.” Dan snorted.

“I’m going to hand James to you,” Red said. “You see, Sam only owned the ranch. He thought he was in charge, but James made everything that happened take place behind his back. Sam’s meanness mostly was talk. A lot of what James did was against the law. Including a hanging offense.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

37

Tim smiled. “Give it to me,” he said.

“James was buying up stolen cattle, changing the markers on them. Selling them. Cousin Emilio was his biggest supplier.”

Red explained the whole operation. As he turned to go, Tim said, a bit too casually, “When did you first know what was going on?”

Red waved. “I will be at the ranch,” he said.

“See ya soon,” Tim replied.

He prodded his prisoners to step on over to the jail.

It seemed a rotten idea to arrest James the same day as his father’s death. He thought it best to keep this information to himself, until at least tomorrow.

There was nobody on guard when he came up to the house. He went right in through the open door, to the center of the room, where a plain wooden coffin held the body for display. Sam’s features were relaxed, perhaps for the first time in his entire adult life. Tim closed his eyes for a moment to wish his grandfather god speed on his journey. The room’s silence was broken by the tick tock of the clock. When he turned to leave, he could hear boots scuffing outside the entrance. He walked out anyway.

Ace, with his broad shoulders bowed, had waited outside, allowing Tim a moment alone with Sam. Tim realized this and felt gratitude for the kindness. He clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder as he passed him by. He was unwrapping Pepper’s rein, prepared to lead him to the trough for a drink before taking his leave. He saw James and two toughs watching him from a distance. When finished at the trough he and Pepper approached Sam’s son. “I am truly sorry about your father,” he said.

“He’s no concern of yours,” James said. “Get off of my ranch. Sheriff or not you aren’t welcome here.”

Tim mounted up. “I plan to be coming back for one final visit,” he said. “Don’t go nowhere.”

He urged the pony forward without waiting to hear a reply. Instead of returning to town he went straight to Dan’s place to offer Sue condolences, but secondarily to confer. He would want some backup when it came time to arrest both Red and James.

“What do you want to arrest Red for?” Dan asked, when the meeting took place. “Didn’t he reform the rustler situation at home and didn’t he rid the territory of El Paso? I’d say let well enough alone.”

“It ain’t for the sheriff to say,” Tim said. “A court ought to make that call.”

“I will back you, if that’s your decision. But I won’t like it,” said Dan.

“You will?” Tim said, gratified. “I am glad that you say that. Since I lost my deputy I’ve felt mighty alone.”

Tim was at the door when Sue asked him to bring Kathleen by one day. Perhaps a friendship might arise from it. He appreciated that and he tried to apologize for arresting her father. “A cow thief has to be punished,” she said. “I would be unhappy if you let him or Red get away.”

It seemed a good idea to confer next with the judge, who would know how to dot all the “I”s and cross all the “T”s for this situation. He was certain his ideas were correct, but needed to hear it officially.

Mexican Red did not truly believe that Tim would come to arrest him, after all he had done for the community. Only if Tim showed up for the purpose would he take the threat to heart. He had gone home, but he soon left out again in a buckboard, with Jose tagging along. The buckboard led a string of four horses. The mission was to greet Katy Ramirez and bring her home. It was foolish to expect her to be a housekeeper like Lena, but he hoped for the best.

Jose had problems of his own. He asked how old one had to be to consider marriage.

Red gave him a wry grin. “As soon as you feel like you’re a man, it can be time,” he said.

Jose replied that he sometimes felt ready, but could not make a final decision.

“You are gaining in wisdom, more and more,” Red said. “You will make the right choice.”

They traveled in silence after that until the landing and the track came in sight. After a wait of just thirty minutes the train chugged into view and came to a noisy stop. Katy and three Mexican cowboys stepped down on the platform, arms loaded with their belongings. The caboose man waved to the engineer. The engine whistle blew; it chugged and the cars began rolling after it.

Katy was tall and slim. There was a power in her black eyes such as Red had never seen before. “Seniorita,” he said, doffing his hat. “Let us be going. We can talk while we ride.”

Katy was agreeable and the group shortly began the journey home. The cowboys harmonized in Spanish, grateful to get home. Red quizzed Katy about her experience and was satisfied with her answers.

“Lena told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already,” she said. “She told me how lonely she was since Emilio died. But I don’t need a lot of company to be satisfied. I can take people or leave them, it’s the same to me.”

“You are young and beautiful. I don’t know how you fought the men away. You needn’t worry about that here. I will protect you from it,” Red said.

The power he had noted in her eyes from the first turned on him. He quit speaking, feeling quite powerless all of a sudden.

“You won’t protect me, Signor Balfour. I can do that myself,” she said sternly.

Red looked straight ahead. “Of course,” he mumbled. “How do you like our country so far?”

The day was late when they arrived. Katy expressed approval on viewing the house from the buckboard. She was even more impressed when she toured the inside. “Elegant,” she said more than once.

Red left her in her room, saying, “Rest up. I will have you notified when dinner is served. We have a brand new cook and I don’t know yet what to expect from him.”

“No matter. I am hungry enough to eat whatever it is,” she replied.

He went to the balcony to smoke. He looked out on the ranch but really just saw Katy’s eyes. Which was troubling, as this woman was a stranger. He sunk into the world of tobacco, barely aware of ought else. Still, her eyes. He mentally cursed Lena for sending Katy.

Notifying Katy to have dinner was a task Red trusted to no one else. He lightly tapped her door before swinging it open. She had gone sound asleep. Red smiled grimly. “She is so lovely,” he found himself thinking.

Katy stayed in her room until a late eight o’clock. She came out, fresh and somewhat annoyed. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she said when she saw Red.

Red shrugged. He offered to take her to the cook shack and get her fed.

She said, “Listen. I have seen the same look that’s on your face since I was barely old enough to begin to look like a woman. I was kidnapped one time and assaulted for weeks before I killed the man and escaped from his friends. I am always fighting away the men. Don’t let me be your enemy. Just let me work.”

38

Dan’s hand was on Sue’s belly. “He’s kicking the walls to get out,” he said.

Sue told him, “Better answer the door. It’s sure to be Tim.”

“Yes. I think he wants to take Texas Red today.”

Dan buckled on his gunbelt and then opened the door. “I’m ready,” he said.

They took their leave of Sue in a still morning, riding easily, knowing that being hasty can lead to foolish mistakes. By the time they came on Red’s ranch they began to see the ranch hands lined along the route, staring and wishing they had not been instructed not to cut the lawmen down. Dan watched for Jose and Armando. It turned out both were on Red’s porch, likewise staring and wishing. Katy met them at the door. “Yes, I will tell him to come,” she said.

The lawmen moved inside after she went up the stair, reasoning that the cowboys outside might not stay out of a fight, regardless of any instructions they received. In just moments Red appeared on the stairs, dressed as one expects a Mexican gunfighter to be dressed, all in black and silver. His red hair, thick and wavy, his large hat dangling against his back. His boots struck the wooden planks in deliberate steps and his spurs jingled with each step. His gun hand hovered above his shooting iron.

The lawmen put some distance between themselves. A long pause then with all three gauging the others. Katy from the head of the stairs said, “Don’t shoot each other.”

Red ignored her. He stepped down to the floor, staring intently at the determined lawmen, taking his stand and putting each adversary at thirty degrees from his guns.

“Red,” Tim said. “I arrest you on a charge of rustling. Surrender your guns.”

“I went straight and this is the reward?” Red said. “I thought the laws were about justice.”

“The court decides what’s justice,” Tim said. “I just deliver the goods to be judged. I ask you, don‘t hold it personal agin me.”

Red drew his guns so quickly that neither lawman had a chance to react. Each gun barrel pointed directly at their hearts. “I don’t trust a court that could have a judge so hard nosed he won’t examine the truth,” he said. “What assurance do I have that I will be treated fairly?”

“I know this judge personally,” said Tim. “I trust him completely. Put down those guns and let’s go.”

Red grinned at this point. He moved to a mahogany stand at the wall and placed his weapons on top. He turned, waving his open palms in the air. “You’ve captured me,” he said.

At this point Dan stepped forward. He spoke to Tim. “We may have to shoot our way into and out of Precker’s place. Red’s presence could equal it out.”

Tim got the point. “One more item for the judge to see in Red’s favor. How about it, Red?”

Red picked up his guns. “Whenever you get ready,” he said, holstering them. “Let’s find out if Armando and Jose want to ride with us.”

Nobody had a reason for waiting. They immediately set out as a group of five. When the Precker ranch came in sight they paused to decide how they would come in. Ride abreast, separated, at full gallop, guns drawn, all agreed without much discussion. At the last moment, Dan spoke to Tim. “Let’s take James in alive if at all possible.”

Tim, tight lipped, spurred Pepper into action. His comrads followed suit and the riders bore down on the quiet scene before them. There were cowboys in their path who up until now fancied themselves toughs, but each knew the capabilities of the ones that so boldly rode and respectfully got out of the way.

They leaped from their horses and came up the steps, about to break down the door if necessary. First, Tim pounded the heavy slab with a fist. Sylvia and Ace together tried to hold the door when they saw there was a gang with guns in their hands. Red crushed them against the wall and held the door until everyone passed into the foyer. As Red eased back with the door the outraged couple came out spluttering and calling Red a bastid. Tim waved to them to calm themselves and listen. He asked politely, “Is James at home today?”

“We are not at liberty to answer that,” Ace said, straightening his jacket.

“No matter,” Tim said. “Let’s search the house.”

The one logical place if James were home, Sam’s bedroom, drew the entire assemblage. Tim burst into the room. At first it seemed he was mistaken. The toe of a boot seen at a curtain bottom reaffirmed the original assumption. He grabbed the arm of the man hiding, dragging him into the open. James Precker cringed, not even certain why Tim had come for him

“Precker,” Tim said, “I arrest you on a charge of rustling cows.”

On this day James had not bothered to wear a gun, being in the presumed safety of the ranch house. He stood helplessly as his captors waited for him to move. Suddenly he lunged at the door and Jose who stood in the opening. He grabbed for Jose’s gun. Jose managed to keep control as James continued out the door and began running toward the exit. His legs carried him into the open ground into the midst of a group of range hands. Attempts to approach individuals were fended off, his hands unable to make contact with the guns he reached for. Desperation led him to the barn and the acquisition of a hay fork. When Tim and his deputies followed him inside, he faced them off, threatening to send its prongs into anybody close enough.

“I’m not going to hang,” he said.

Tim confronted James, quietly holding his revolver, waiting. “You can’t get away,” he said.

James came at them thrusting the hay fork. Each stepped away, prepared to shoot if necessary. It was then that James realized there were five horses hitched nearby. Tossing away his weapon, he approached Red’s pony and attempted to mount up. Red whistled. His pony evaded James to trot up to his master. It was then that James Precker pulled his knife and ran straight at Tim. Tim waited until the last instant before firing. His bullet would prove fatal.

Tim watched the life fade from his eyes and be fixed in death’s stare. He did not rejoice the way he had imagined he would. He insisted on moving the body to the house, where Ace took over, saying he would see to the burial.

The lawmen faced the cow hands. “I am sure the law will award the ranch to James’s daughter,” Tim said. “You all are invited to keep on if you like. Thank you for not interfering with us doing our work.”

They all were set in their saddles, ready to go, when Tim spoke to Red. “I’m unarresting you,” he said. “The judge is all but certain to dismiss any charges you might have faced. Why waste the time?”

Red insisted they would meet the judge together. So they traveled together, until Red’s men peeled off and headed home. Dan likewise. In the end it was just Tim and Red guiding their ponies to the livery and walking from there to knock at the judge’s door.

The meeting was brief and Red walked out a free man. He shook Tim’s hand. Tim stood on the walk and looked on as the big man went to fetch his pony. He stood, still, until Red had gone out of sight.

39

Home, Dan admired his new house, proud to have had to build it for Sue. She would have liked Elmer’s house and lived in it without complaint, but he knew how she cherished having her own so much more. He waved to O’Hara coming in for the day as he tied up his pony and marched up to the door. Sue was pulling off her apron when he stepped in. She had finished her tasks early so that she could give all her attention to her man.

Dan was quiet at first. Then he told how her father died. “Tim did everything any man could do to keep him alive for trial,” he added at the end.

“I believe it,” she said. “I trust my cousin.”

“Have you thought about the fact the court is likely to award you possession of Precker Ranch?”

Sue nodded yes. “You know what I have been thinking? That I share the ranch with Tim. He and Kathleen can treat it as their own. We can be neighbors.”

Dan liked that idea. “We’ll raise my boy here. When they have one of their own, the two can grow up together.”

He mentioned Red. “He must be a happy man, being on the good side of the law for once.”

But Red was a troubled man. He had everything he had set out to gain. Everything, except -

Katy met him at the door. “Your house is in order,” she said. “I want you to inspect it frequently. I work at it very hard. I want to be appreciated for it.”

“You know, we could be friends. It would make our time together pleasant instead of a standoff each time,” he said.

Her deep fathomed eyes bored into his. “I am what you see. If you are not happy with what you see you may send me home to Mexico.”

Red removed his hat and hung it up. He unfastened his gunbelt and draped it on his shoulder. “I won’t lie to you, Katy,” he said. “I knew with one look you are the woman for me. I promise you can trust me to keep it to myself after this moment. If you need me for anything I will be on the patio upstairs, smoking.”

Red sat still, watching the light fading, savoring one from the last box of cigars. He loved his ranch. The fine home. “But what’s it worth?” he muttered. “Without her.”

Restlessness drove him down to the bunkhouse, where many cowboys were gathered, jawing and listening to music provided by some. He cut out Armando from the bunch to converse on the side. He asked how his friend liked living here.

Armando swiveled his head a few times, allowing his eyes to fix in brief instances on portions of the beautiful unnamed ranch. “It’s good here,” he said.

“You told me not long ago you need to be on the road,” Red said.

Armando began to look melancholy. “Still true,” he said.

Red clapped him on the shoulder and wandered back to the men enjoying camaraderie. He asked someone if he had seen Jose. “They took the buggy that way,” the man said, pointing.

After a little quick walking he found Jose and his lady parked, spooning. “Hey, you, Jose,” he said. “I need to talk with you.”

Jose leaped from the buggy, unsure wheather to be embarrassed or proud. But he would always give Red his attention and respect any time he sought it.

“Jose,” Red said, “You are a man, no doubt about it. Soon you will be married and in need of a home.”

Red turned his face to the great house built for Emilio Cortez. “See that?”

Unsuspecting, Jose said, “Yes?”

“It’s yours,” Red said.

He produced a paper from inside his clothing. “Here is the deed. I know you will take good care of it.”

Stunned, Jose walked back to the buggy. He held up the paper for Linda to see. “Look,” he said.

Red had by this time walked back and met Armando who waited with their ponies. They mounted up and hit a hard gallop in the direction of Del Lobo, where they intended to have some drinks and in the morning get some supplies before heading to the west coast.

They rode past Kathleen and Tim walking home. Red and Tim saluted one another in passing.

Tim was explaining to his wife how he intended to ask the town to build a sheriff’s office with a real jail. They came into the small quarters they shared where they could get comfortable in private. She asked did he want some coffee and he said he would get the stove going. He stoked the ashes until the hot coals reignited before putting in a few small pieces of wood. Kathleen made up the pot and set it to boil. At that time a knock sounded at the door. Kathleen responded and stood aside when a stranger to her filled the doorway. A man with very broad shoulders. Tim saw the man and asked him in. “Surprised to see you, Ace.”

Ace stood just inside, stiffly. “Good evening, Mr. Medina. I have something of great importance for you to see. It’s a letter.”

“We are making coffee,” Kathleen said. “Won’t you stay and have a cup?”

Ace said no; that he was expected back to have dinner with Sylvia. He and she had gotten close.

Tim approached and accepted the letter.

“Sylvia was organizing James’s belongings and she discovered this letter from him to your mother,” Ace said. “He apparently thought better of mailing it and hid it among some unrelated documents.”

Tim moved near the lantern to read.

It read in part:

“My dear sister Jane,
I have taken all blame for Juan’s dying. Father doesn’t suspect how it happened and I swear I shall never be the one to tell him. That would be for you to determine, if you want him to find out. Your son saw me just after I took the shotgun from you. I am sure he thinks I am the one that pulled the trigger. But I swear I will keep your secret, no matter what happens. You can be free to make the abusive bastid out to be a hero to Tim.”

Tim collapsed into a chair. To a concerned Kathleen he handed the letter. After a few minutes, she said, “Ain’t it good you didn’t celebrate his killing. He was a common rustler, nothing more.”

“Tomorrow I got to tell Sue,” he said. “Ain’t that coffee ready? I sure would like a cup.”

Free short stories and novelettes

Friday, August 21, 2020

MY SELF DESTRUCTIVE LIFE

Tuesday, August 4, 2020

You Were My Hero

Saturday, August 1, 2020

MEXICAN RED

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