Leaving Texas

 LEAVING TEXAS

ONE

          Scores of lawmen seemed at last to be closing in on him like a set of giant pinchers. In the final moments, however, the outlaw skipped into Texas, where he rode free after that, for he was unwanted in the Lone Star country. Never had he elected to be in this state, but once in he kept riding all the way to San Antone. He slowed before the Alamo, as travelers may feel compelled to do, and contemplated stories he once heard. The old mission had been neglected since Santa Ana’s assault. He imagined a war all over it, the men dying, the women and children hiding. He was no stranger to wars and other senseless fighting. He had in fact witnessed and participated his whole life through. He rolled a smoke and rode on.

          The outlaw trotted his black pony up the main street of town, looking to livery and get the best of care for the tired animal. Always the best for the finest pony he had known. One Mexican wearing the greatest sombrero he had ever seen stood outside a livery grinning back at him. 

          “Si. Si,” the man said to everything he told him. 

          After lifting a saddlebag, he surrendered the reins to the man and walked down Commerce Street to seek lodging. He heard mention of the Menger Hotel a few times, but found instead a hole in the wall establishment without the fuss and bother. The clerk had a safe for his saddlebag. He opened up the bag for the man to inspect the contents, then had him sign a descriptive paper. Being as he was an outlaw he saw no reason to trust anyone he did not know and know well. He asked who provided a good bath and shave?

          The proprietor gave him a close inspection, from his Mexican hat to the toes of his Mexican boots. His gaze appeared hung up on the long hair. The Scottish red hair.

          “A red-haired Mexican?” he said.

          “It’s not so unusual as you think,” he said. “In my case, my mother was a Mexican Indian. My father was a Scot.”

          The proprietor screwed up his face, twisting his mustache. “What in blazes is a Scot?”

          “Bath and shave?” he repeated.

          The man told him and he stepped back onto the wooden walkway. It seemed there were ox-carts everywhere. He looked around for the barber’s pole.  Sighting it, he went into the street, crossing over. With good nature, he dodged a woman driving a buggy with a whip. He idly watched as she reigned her pony just in front of a building bearing a doctor’s sign. Then he noted too a pair of legs dangling off the buggy’s back. He ambled that way, to be ready in case she needed any sort of help.

          She appeared to be twenty or older, wearing a gown that hid her figure. Her long brown hair flew like debris in a windstorm as she jumped down. Realizing he was looking, she turned her gaze full on Red’s face before climbing the steps that lead to the doctor’s door. He continued to look on after she went inside.

          His memory stored her visage. She might have been plain in a pleasing sort of way but for a bit of a kink in the side of her face and one eye that appeared off-center.

          A man in a black coat had taken notice of the situation as well. When the man moved up beside him, his gaze took in the big nose on the man’s face, his bushy eyebrows, and dimpled chin. He did not like the mean little green eyes. 

          “I see you looking,” the man said. “I wouldn’t  interfere.”

          “I haven’t seen a thing to interfere with,” he replied. “Yet.”

          “I didn’t get your name,” the man said.

          “Didn’t get yours either,“ he said back.

          The man in the black coat introduced himself as Derek Winters.

          “And you are?” he said.

          “Red Balfour.”

          The astonished gentleman known as Derek Winters moved in front of the near giant in Mexican clothing, with his sombrero sitting atop his head of red hair.

          “I could have guessed if I had been thinking,” he said at last. “Looking like a whole army of men in one body. Of course it’s you: Mexican Red.”

          Red tipped his black sombrero. 

          “Pleased to have known you,” he said as he walked away toward the buggy with the man still resting on the back with his two legs dangling.

         From a better vantage point he could plainly see why the doctor had not already rushed out to care for the man. The man was indisputably dead with wounds from a close range shotgun blast. The indecent display made Red a bit sad and angry. He removed his jacket and laid it over the face and upper torso. He refocused his trajectory on the barber’s pole and went on his way.

          He walked in on a barber finishing up a meal, something wrapped in a tortilla and washed down with liquid from a tequila bottle. With a little burp the barber set his plate and bottle aside. After wiping his mouth on a white towel he moved to the barber’s chair.

          “Shave and a cut?” he said.

          Red sat for the man to shave his face and make his hair shorter. 

          After the man lifted the sheet off his shoulders, Red asked, “Bath?”

          “You want fresh water? It’ll cost twenty-five cents extra.”

          “Of course fresh,” Red said patiently. “While you get it ready, I will be up the street, getting some new clothes.”

          “There’s a Mexican place two blocks down. Go to the right.”

          “Thanks.”

          Red ran his fingers over his face.

          “Close shave,” he said on the way outside.

          Out of doors, his first glance was back up the street to where the buggy with the dead passenger had rested. It was gone. Red dismissed it and went about his business. The clothing store had nothing in his size. Red paid to have three outfits altered. He was instructed to pick them up in two hours. After informing the barber to delay his bath that amount of time, he returned to his room and a small table and chair before the window. It seemed a perfect time to clean his pistols. 

          As he worked, his guns lay empty on the table. A whisper of a tread in the hallway alerted Red to someone lightweight approaching. There sounded a soft knock on the door. He seized one of the pistols to point before saying, “You can come in.”

          Somehow he knew before she showed her face it was the woman of the dead man on a buggy. She looked shyly in before moving fully inside, her unnatural eye not following along with her good eye. He saw the bandage on her wrist. So that was why the doctor earlier. He waited for her to speak. 

          “I’m Daisy Plumtree,” she said. “I saw you looking when I stopped to get this wrist bandaged. Derek thought you were protecting me. If you were, I thank you.”

          Seeing Daisy was unarmed, Red lowered the pistol.

          “Is Derek a particular friend of yours?” he said.

          “Sometimes we partner,” she said. “We’re bounty hunters.”

          She gave Red a knowing look.

          “It’s fortunate for you you ain’t wanted in Texas,” she said.

          She lifted back a fold of her skirt, revealing the shotgun that was the primary tool of her trade.

          Red continued the cleaning of his guns. 

          “I plan to stay straight here,” he said. “That way I have a place to run to.”

          “I brought a business proposition,” said Daisy.

          Red smiled, though his eyes turned slightly hard. 

          “Won‘t take it, Ma’am. I find the general run of wanted men to be greatly mischaracterized. I don’t hunt my own kind.”

          “There’s lots of money in it. I have ’most twenty thousand dollars in the bank.”

          Daisy stared for a moment. She moved to leave, then paused near the still open door, giving Red a hard look.

          “Your kind did this to my face,” she said bitterly. “And more. I’d kill them even if there weren’t no bounty money involved.”

          “It weren’t my kind if they did that,” Red said. “But I’m not bounty hunting.”

          Daisy left as quietly as she had come.

          Red hurried up the cleaning and loading of his guns. He suspected his not being wanted here made little difference to the young lady. With that finished and near half an hour to kill he took a walk to look for a drink. The nearest saloon presented itself. It was densely packed. He pushed himself in and threaded his way to the bar where he bought himself a pitcher of beer. As there was just standing room, he moved near a table and after filling his glass rested the pitcher on a corner. He was about to take his first drink when a drunken man with a bald spot on his head and a loose vest came by swinging his arms. The vest tipped Red’s pitcher and dumped his beer onto the red shirt of a man sitting at the table. The drunken man continued on, obliviously. Red quietly drained his glass of beer before looking down at the beer soaked gentleman.

          “Clumsy,” he remarked.

          Next to the man sat a companion who looked annoyed. His hand slowly went to and wrapped around the handle of his gun. Red asked the man to reconsider his move. The hand held steady on the gun without moving. Then his table pal covered his hand and held it tightly.

          “Just let it go,” the pal said.

          The man relented. He returned to his whiskey.

          Red quickly put the incident aside, as he was ready to keep his appointments. After downing his drink to the dregs, he danced and feinted his way to the swinging doors. Stepping free into the sunlight, he found himself face to face with Derek Winters for the second unwelcome time in the same day. Seeing Red, Derek stepped forward rather quickly.

          “Mr. Balfour. Perhaps you could do me a good turn and take a look at this wanted poster.”

          Red sneered. 

          “What would I want to do that for?”

          Undeterred, Derek displayed the poster, putting it where Red had to at least get a glimpse of the face on it. Unmistakably, the poster depicted the man at the table of the spilled beer incident. The one with a hand on his pistol. And his name was Paul Bascomb.

          “Tell me;” Derek said. “did you see this desperate character in there?”

          Red walked on.

          “Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

          His steps took him across the alley between the saloon and the next building. Around the corner in the alley, hiding, was Daisy Plumtree, shotgun at the ready.  Red stopped. He gave the woman and her gun a hard stare. Daisy looked through him, displaying a determination if she had the chance to gun yet another wanted man.

          Reversing his footsteps, Red stomped back to the spot occupied still by Derek. He reached for the wanted poster and yanked it away. 

          “Thanks. I’ll need this.”

          He left a flatfooted bounty hunter and went stalking back through the swinging doors. Through the bustling crowd, he sought the familiar red shirt, found it, and made his way to the man at his table. This time he was sitting alone. 

          Red nodded.

          “Where is your friend?” he said.

          “Said he needed to see a man about a horse,” came the reply.

          “Is he coming back?”

          The man threw a sarcastic grin his way. 

          “Not if he sees that poster you’re holding.”

          Red folded the poster and slipped it in his hip pocket. 

          “I’m not his enemy,“ he said. 

          The two men watched for Bascomb’s return. After a minute the man in the red shirt said, “That’s him on the way out.”

          Red bowled several men out of the way, calling at the same time, “Bascomb. Don’t go out that door.”

          It seems likely Paul Bascomb could not hear those desperate words, as he strode outside, progress unchecked, straight into the ambush laid for him by Derek Winters. Red parted a cluster of reluctant patrons. He pushed three more out the door, to tumble into the street. He stepped over another fallen man as he traveled out of the saloon.

          There, Derek had gotten the drop on  Bascomb. He was signaling Daisy to come forth. 

          “Stand there,” Derek ordered. 

          His partner moved in, jamming the shotgun barrel into the prisoner’s gut.  

          “Move on,” Daisy ordered Derek. “I’ve got this skunk where I want him.”

          Paul Bascomb had been a second rate robber of stagecoaches and freight wagons, mostly. His Dead or Alive pronouncement had been issued because half a posse had died in flash flood waters while chasing him. He never admitted to feeling guilty about it because they were there of their own free will. He glued a terrified eye on Daisy’s finger, tight as it wrapped on the trigger.

          Derek had never been at the scene of one of Daisy’s killing of suspects. Both felt it was cleaner that way. Which is why he vanished up the street.

          So intent was she on finishing off her prey, Daisy did not respond to Red’s walking up to her; he reached then pulled the shotgun barrel to a point high overhead. The gun went off, one barrel. Red finished jerking the gun out of her hands.

          Daisy pummeled Red with her fists. As she could not reach his chin she aimed for his nether regions. One blow connected, drawing Red’s full attention. He pitched the shotgun into the hands of Bascomb to free himself to ward off the punches. He ended wrapping his arms around her, tight as the bands of a barrel. He called to Bascomb, who had been rooted to the spot through the whole episode.

          “Better find your horse and skedaddle, friend.”

          Bascomb half turned, but he didn’t go. He could be seen to make a decision. The man was going to shoot. He lifted the shotgun and reached for the trigger. Seeing the man was bent on murder first, escape after, Red tossed Daisy aside like an empty bucket and reached for his guns. Red’s weapons spoke first, bringing Bascomb down with bullets to the chest and throat. Daisy’s shotgun spewed a blast that caught Bascomb’s killer, making Red to spin around. He sank to the street, losing his pistols. He looked up and watched Daisy reclaim the shotgun. She trained it at Red. He rued his guns in the dirt.

          “You meddler. You lower than a snake’s belly,” she crowed. 

          “You won’t hang yourself. Put that thing away,” Red‘s struggling voice managed weakly. 

          Daisy looked sidewise at returning Derek.

           “What do you think I ought to do with him?” she said.

           “Like he said; back off,” Derek said. “Ain’t no law against him killing Bascomb.”

          “That’s just it,” said Daisy. “If I let him live he gets the reward money.”

          “Look at the crowd gathering. Don’t be a fool,” Derek warned.

          With great reluctance, Daisy lowered her weapon. She stared at Red for a long minute before turning away. 

          “Let’s have a drink,” she said.

          The cronies wandered into the saloon without a speck of concern for the wounded man. 

          Red looked around at the fifteen onlookers knowing some resented the way he had been pushing them around. They gradually drifted away, all but one who wore a red beer-soaked shirt. The man looked down with a grin.

          “Some friend you are,” the man said. 

          The man’s yellow teeth had a gap where two were missing.

          “Name’s James Sweetstocking. Folks call me Sweets,” he said.

          Sweets assisted Red to his feet. Then he scooped up the pistols Red had lost in the dirt.

          “You need a doctor, don’t you?” Sweets said.

          “Slip my irons into their holsters,” Red said. “I can dig the shot out in my room.”

          But Sweets looked closely at the wound. 

          “I insist you need a doctor,” he said.

          Red could not deny the pain. He began to realize the shot had sunk too deeply to be dug out with his sheath knife. He freed himself from Sweets’ grip. Holding onto a hitching rail, Red eased himself down to lean against the post and wait. 

          “Get me one,” he said almost unintelligibly.

          He swam between consciousness and dizzying blackness, barely aware when Sweets returned with the sour-faced doctor.

          Treated on the spot, while lying across the wooden planks, he was held still by Sweets and a woman who lived with the doctor. He lost consciousness for a brief moment at the time the probe found the shotgun pellets and picked them out. He was heavily bandaged and promptly abandoned by the medical man, who by his remarks to Sweets showed little sympathy for a gun fighting Mexican. 

          Even with the doc’s best pain medicine, Red’s ordeal was unbearable. Sweets assisted him to his hotel, but abruptly left, saying he had a job appointment further west and he was about to be late if he did not take his leave. Red shook the man’s hand, recalling how he had nearly needed to defend himself over the pitcher of spilled beer when first they met. 

          Sweets had assisted him to the sidewalk and inside the main door. Red held on to the railing to help himself up the steps. He swayed down the gloomy hallway to his door. On a normal day he might not have blundered into his room to be confronted by two guns as he did. He had guessed Daisy to be that treacherous, but underestimated her timing. To Derek he gave no consideration at all. Looking beyond them, he just wanted to collapse on the bed. These two had different notions. Derek forced Red’s hands together to allow Daisy to bind the wrists with leather thongs.

          “I’ve got the law on my side,” he barely managed to blurt.

          Daisy’s coarse laugh, along with Derek’s dark smile, spoke volumes before she replied. 

          “When we get you to Las Cruces the law won’t be on your side,” she retorted.

          Derek viciously jammed his pistol against Red’s bandage. 

          “Outside,” he said. “Before you pass out and we have to carry you.”

          With a superhuman effort, Red managed to rap a hand against Derek’s face, bloodying his nose, before he passed out on the floor. Shaken and full of outrage, Derek began kicking Red’s wound.

          “Stop it, you jackass,” Daisy exploded. “You’re going to kill him and then we will be explaining to the marshal why we broke in to commit murder.”

          Derek took a step back, his anger clearly not abated.

          “He disrespected me from the start,” he whined. “I’m working on that wound all the way to New Mexico. If he dies on the way we will just blame the one that made it.”

          “Better get my buggy. He’s too big for us to manage with a horse,” she said.

TWO

           As consciousness gradually seeped into Red’s mind, he realized he was tied sitting on a stiff seat. His eyes made slits through which he peeped, confirmed it to be a buggy. He had already identified the stiff nature of such a seat without the visual aid. With disappointment he noted that the livery man was busied helping Daisy with kidnapping him. In exchange the man was keeping Red‘s pony. A mule had been harnessed to pull the buggy. The mule moved its feet and looked around as if anxious to go.

          Then Daisy rode into view on a buckskin pony with heavy haunches, tossing its small head. She looked on as Derek came forth with a sorrel to tether to the buggy. Then he hoisted himself to the driver’s seat and readied for the journey. After settling a heavy blanket over the prisoner, he saluted the livery man and signaled the mule to go.

          They managed to leave town without attracting attention.

          Eventually Derek removed the blanket.

          Red recognized the Military Road that rambled all the way to El Paso, still fresh in his mind from before. He felt grateful his wound was on the opposite side from where Derek sat. He suspected he was destined to kill the man. Being tied down made every jolt of the buggy hurt more. He gave Daisy a side-eye. She appeared immersed in her own thoughts, barely aware of Derek as a person and certainly not heedful of Red‘s thoughts.                                          

          Of the series of forts between San Antone and El Paso they knew better than to approach any. It was near the Dharris Seco River Daisy made a determination to camp for the night. She and Derek ate cans of beans, leaving Red tied on the seat, unable to twitch even. They offered him no food nor water. Later, they fixed their blanket rolls spaced far apart. She rolled a cigarette, sat back and smoked. She wondered aloud if Red should be allowed to lie down?

          Derek didn’t think so.

          She dropped it.

          As the fire weakened, she banked the ashes, then took to her bed. After several minutes she could be heard to snore.

          Discomfort from his injury, compounded by the tight rawhide, kept Red awake most of the night. He didn’t mind being chilled by a moist breeze. It felt good after the heat of the day. Near the break of day he lost consciousness, but only briefly. The seemingly endless night eventually saw a glow over the tree branches. He could not view his captors, but he smelled a fire and coffee boiling.

          Red Balfour had never been a captive before. His charmed life kept him one step ahead of such trouble, at least until now. He knew it would take some intervention conjured up by fate to keep these jackals from murdering him. They were picking up and dousing the fire, arguing about the used coffee grounds: save to reuse or pitch them. Then hitched the mule and tied Derek’s horse. 

          Sudden agony caused Red to stifle a cry, for Derek had found a pole to viciously poke his wound. 

          “Good morning, sir,” Derek said in mock pleasantry.

          The buggy was turning to go on the trail when a mail wagon bore down on their intended track and went on without so much as a nod from the driver. Then side by side, the journey resumed, Derek looking straight ahead, Daisy with her long barreled shotgun cradled at the ready, as though she expected to use it at any time. Red drifted in and out of consciousness. He knew his injury was infected but not if it could be cured. At one point they had to move aside to allow passage of a train of freight wagons.

          They had gotten beyond Camanche Creek by the time anybody who came near showed interest. As it happened, a detachment of Army cavalry had been scouting a report of Indian activity. Eleven enlisted and a sergeant. Their formation spread the width of the road. The troops halted by a command from Sergeant Bannister, who took a sudden interest in the man tied to the seat wearing a shirt wet with blood.

          Bannister in an outfit made comfortable by seasons of wearing it on the trail was about fifty. His eyebrows were grey. He had the look of one who could be both compassionate and murderous all within instants of each other. He stopped his mount a few feet away in front of the buggy, his comprehension growing, turning to anger.

          He burned a look into Derek’s eyes that made the man quail and seem to wish he were anyplace but driving the buggy.

          “This man needs a doctor,”  Bannister declared.

          He said over his shoulder, “Irving. Untie this man and see if you can help him. We’ll take him to the hospital at Fort Clark.”

          Daisy moved her pony in an effort to block Irving.

          “Sergeant,” she said, “that man is my prisoner. We are going to turn him over once we get him to El Paso. We can’t afford a delay.”

          Bannister politely tipped his hat.

          “Ma’am,” he said deferentially but firm, “the man will be dead before you ever reach El Paso. It is my judgment by mere observation he may not get to the fort even.”

          She was not moved.

         “So what? The reward is Dead or Alive. I can put up with the stink of it a few extra days for that,” she said in what she may have considered a reasonable tone.

         Bannister stiffened, his gaze lifted above her head..

          “Move or be moved,” he demanded.

          “It’s the Army’s job to protect me. You dare not attack a defenseless white woman,” she declared. 

          The sergeant addressed the trooper named Irving. “Go to it. Now. Just be gentle.” 

          Irving rode a big horse because he was a big man. He clicked through his walrus mustache, urging his mount forward, crowding Daisy back. He unloaded himself off the horse, taking from a sheath a sharp Bowie style knife as he moved up on the buggy to cut away the thongs. Daisy looked as though she were fighting an impulse to employ the shotgun. Her lips moved to silent cursing.

          As the rawhide fell away, Red sighed. He might have fallen out of the buggy, except Irving was quick enough and strong enough to hold him. Irving was strong enough to lift Red and move him to the flat bed in the rear of the buggy. He told Derek to get some water and to be quick about it. His eyes cut to the sergeant to see if the sergeant’s look registered acceptance of the harsh language. The sergeant seemed noncommittal, which to the trooper meant approval. 

          He cleaned the wound as well as he could. Then Irving took from his own person a flat bottle and drizzled whiskey into the wound. Red groaned slightly. For a short minute his eyes opened and looked gratefully at his benefactor. He took some water the trooper poured in his mouth. After twenty minutes massaging Red’s rawhide indents Irving said they could move on. 

          Derek was moved to his pony at this point. His place on the buggy was taken by a young trooper who looked barely old enough to shave. Irving’s part was to ride also so he could watch over Red. Bannister told Daisy as they moved out she and her friend could follow along but to keep their distance from the buggy. 

          It was Irving who kept Red from dying the long way to the fort.

          The doctor who took Red in was a brusque military sawbones, Captain John Ferguson. He also knew his stuff. Noncommittal, looking the injured man over, except to say, “No gangrene.”

          He shooed everybody out, except the nurse, who was a peg-legged ex-field medic.

          They worked on Red’s fever and closed the hole Derek had delighted in attacking. Eventually Doc Ferguson determined they had saved the patient’s life. They left him to sleep, moving on to mundane duties in other parts of the hospital. 

            Advised by the commander that they could best be served staying in Brackettvile, Daisy and Derek took to the road again. It was a wild town they came into. Daisy walked with Derek until he made a turn and wandered into a bar. She watched him disappear inside, thinking what a burden he had become of late. She took a hotel room where she could bathe and take a much needed rest. 

          Derek on the other hand played cards until he became drunk and disoriented. He slept it off in a cell. When Daisy went looking for him he had not yet been released. It had been cooking in her brain that to share a bounty as great as this one with one who is a parasite seemed a bit foolish. Unnecessary even. She hurriedly packed up her gear and rode out, figuring she could handle Derek if he showed up. Overnight she had formulated a notion to pose as Red’s concerned friend and to steal him away once no one was looking. She trusted she could find a way to get him out of the hospital. 

          Meanwhile, blinking in the sun after half the morning spent in jail, Derek tried to find his partner. When he learned she had fled he felt at first afraid about calling her on it. He feared the woman more than any human being in his experience. But then outrage over being cheated took hold. Derek saddled his pony and rode it hard, hoping to catch Daisy at an advantageous moment..  

           On the road ahead, Daisy’s progress went unchecked more than half the distance until a group of Indians blocked the road, closing in from the wooded sides. There were seven in all. The leader was Two Feathers Crow. Two Feathers Crow was known to deal with whites, sometimes honestly, sometimes criminally. Having taken to killing soldiers of late, he was currently being sought by a band of Black Seminole scouts from the fort. - These particular Black Seminoles were a mix of Seminoles, free blacks, and escaped slaves, whose history of being together slowly had developed over the decades. They had moved to Mexico to live, until the US government coaxed them back to become soldiers fighting the Texas Indian wars.  

          Daisy pulled up and waited, knowing the result of this encounter could end to the good or the bad, depending on how it was judged by the painted Native Americans. They closed in, single file. Two Feathers Crow sat in stolid silence for several minutes, staring at Daisy’s face. He looked much like Quannah Parker, who at this very moment was en route to Oklahoma, having reluctantly given up the life of a warrior to become both farmer and spokesperson for his people. The Indian looked from one side of her face to the other and back again. At last he spoke.

          “Do you look upon me with the straight eye or the crooked eye?”

          Daisy may not have known much about Indians, but she knew something about men. He was the first ever to give her the sort of look he bestowed. This fiercely handsome man had an appreciative glitter in his eyes that spoke volumes. It also made her bolder than she might otherwise be in the situation. She said, “I look upon you with my heart. I’m told you are a man who bends before the winds of the spirits. I ask, Are they bending for me or against me?”

          “Give me your gun,” said Two Feathers Crow in a voice gentle as a mother cooing to her young.

          “That I will never do,” she replied. “Not unless you kill me will you be able to pull it from my grasp.”

          The Indian came near enough to reach from his pony for Daisy’s shotgun, but she pulled it away. She stretched taller in the saddle and pointed the barrel into his face. 

          “Don’t make me shoot,” she said, knowing all his friends were at the ready to retaliate should she act so foolishly.

          After being startled at first, Two Feathers Crow laughed. His braves also laughed. 

          “You are a loco foolish woman,” he said. “You will come with me to Mexico.”

          “You ain’t taking me to no Mexico,” she said angrily. “I’m going to the fort to collect a man for the bounty money.”

          These words of money made him pause. The Indian reflected.

          “How much the bounty?” he asked.

          “Been hearing it’s ten thousand,” she said. “But I’ve got to fetch him to Las Cruces.”

          “I too have need of money,” Two Feathers Crow reflected. “Ten thousand dollars can do much for my people.”

          “You saying you made yourself a partner?”

          “Your straight eye tells me you like me. We ride together as one.”

          “Well, Two Feathers Crow; I don‘t have any choice.”

          And so they took the back trails and evaded the Black Seminoles and came almost all the way to the fort.

          The Indians waited as Daisy rode in alone and entered the hospital. She encountered no one until the peg legged nurse happened into the hallway. He directed Daisy to the appropriate room.

           Instead of walking in, she eased the door open enough to view the man in his bed. Red lay with his eyes closed. She waited for Two Feathers Crow and two of his braves. Shortly they arrived to slip beyond Daisy, into the room. Taking no chance their intended target would make a sound, they covered his face with a pillow. Red reacted by struggling, tossing one brave against a wall. But Two Feathers Crow and the other brave overpowered him. They lifted him out of bed, toting him into the hallway with the third Indian applying the pillow. Daisy held Red’s wayward arm, trying to keep it from effectively fighting his captors. 

          The kidnappers went to the hitching rails where ponies were waiting. Within minutes they were clear of the fort, riding hard for the border, in case the soldiers would soon be relentlessly in pursuit. Rejoined by the other braves, the band made a considerable force, should any soldiers catch up to them. It was their plan to cross the Rio Grande and to follow it until the soldiers quit chasing and returned home. Then they would revert to the San Antonio/El Paso road.

          Red sat upon the pony without help and despite the pain. He knew that adding Comanches in the mix stirred a different dimension to his dilemma. He had not heard of Two Feathers Crow, but a man who boldly went into a military hospital and walked out with a patient is no ordinary man. He mentally thanked Doctor Ferguson for saving his life.

          The sun was baking. The Indians generously shared water with Red. Then his first chance of escape came. A storm of high velocity wind blew over the terrain, creating a great dust cloud so suddenly Red chose to spur his pony ahead and instantly got lost from sight. He knew where was the river, direction-wise. Red dismounted. After tying a bandana over his face he used the horse blanket to shield the pony from the dust. As expected, he found the river and waded right in. By the time the dust stopped moving Red was on Mexican soil.

          He continued to lead the pony as he searched among the trees for a setting to waylay the ones sure to come for him. Soon enough he heard two riders approaching. He moved the pony among the trees, beneath an oak. High in that same tree, at a point where the limb crossed over the only viable passage, he waited. As his pursuers passed under him, Red dropped down between their horses and pulled the men to the ground. He slammed one with a fist, spun and grabbed the other by the throat. The first Indian did not move beyond breathing. Red eased his grip on the second Indian.

          “I don’t want to kill a man in a casual fashion like this,” he said. “I’m going to tie you both up so you can get loose after I’m gone.”

          The braves, understanding and grateful, willingly allowed the tying. He pulled in their ponies and tied them nearby. After which he took to the saddle and rode onward.

          Hurting from his exertions, Red went into a copse of trees and tied off his pony. He took the blanket for his pillow and stretched out on a bed of leaves. He slept too soundly and only awakened at the approach of horses when it was too late to move to protect himself. Wiley Two Feathers Crow had caught up to him. 

          The Indians astride their ponies made a ring around his resting place, with Daisy beside Two Feathers Crow, pointing the long barrels of her gun. He looked back and sighed.

          “You got me,” he said. 

          “You have a fine head of hair,” said the Indian. “Don’t make me collect it.”

          “Tell her to put that instrument of murder away,” Red said, forcing himself to his feet. 

          “She does not use it without my say,” Two Feathers Crow said, boasting, to Daisy‘s slight frown.

          The Indian called forth the two braves Red recently spared from death.

          “You did not kill these two. You knew they could lead me to find you. Why?” 

          “I’m not a murderer,” Red replied as he jammed the sombrero on his head and prepared his pony to travel.

          He straddled the pony and gave his captors a cross look that said, “Let’s get this foolishness underway.”

           The riders continued the trek on the Mexican side of the river, but soon were looking to crossover at the town of Ojinaga, where the road on the Texas side made travel easy. They bought a few supplies, visited with the friendly townspeople, and crossed into Texas. In the encroaching evening the sky played showman with vast displays of lightning and dark as night thunderclouds. 

          By morning the storms had passed on eastward, leaving the riders dry and the day increasingly hot. The Indians had done away with the war paint and wore trousers and shirts they picked up before leaving Mexico. They might have passed for Mexican travelers to the non critical eye.

          The whole time, Red watched the play between Daisy and Two Feathers Crow. He noted how they bundled together at night and how she seemed to go against her nature playing a subservient role to a man and liking it. The Indian proudly watched his woman ride by day, with the shotgun cradled as always, ready for action at every instant. Red was near his pre-injury strength but tried not to show it.

          On a sunny morning the riders overtook a contingent of cavalry escorting a covered wagon. In the wagon was a politician’s wife traveling to make a medical appointment in El Paso. The leader of the troopers was Lieutenant George Baker. He hailed the strangers then asked them to identify themselves. 

          Two Feathers Crow gave him a false name. He improvised a tale of a family reunion and a wedding in Del Rio. But the Lieutenant was suspicious. Not wanting to endanger his charge, he allowed them to pass. Once they were out of sight, he sent a scout to report the strangers to a contingent of soldiers on patrol about five miles northeast. It would be up to the commanding officer if they were then intercepted.

          The Indians were perceptive. They read Baker’s face and knew they would need to take evasive action right away. They returned to Mexico and set up camp about half a mile from the river. There they would wait out the army.

          Lounging, smoking, Red offered tobacco to the others. The braves became friendly with Red. They joked about his red hair and Mexican sombrero. They noted that he had regained his health. They fully believed only a bullet could bring down such an individual as he. He felt they would have preferred he be released. Being good warriors they kept that opinion to themselves. Only Two Feathers Crow had the authority to make such a decision. 

          In turn, Red called the braves his brothers and promised he would never harm a one of them. Two Feathers Crow witnessed the camaraderie in good spirits, certain his braves could not betray him. Daisy showed her disapproval in various small ways, but had come to take all her cues from the Indian she gratefully loved. Red inwardly smiled each time he heard the Indian refer to Daisy as “Straight Eye.” 

          They waited out the Army a full three days, knowing how persistent was that entity’s desire to control the so-called red man. Two Feathers Crow sent out two scouts. After they returned camp was broke and they again moved out. 

          Red never tired of marveling how vast was Texas. Having seen just a portion, knowing how much was left to see. He wondered about his pony back in San Antone and he felt sympathy for the tailor still holding his clothing. That his hot bath was lost was the only given.

          He was constantly sizing up his Indian captor, who, although several inches shorter in stature, exhibited a heroic frame with unlimited stamina. He did not wish to fight him. He in fact could have been an admirer in separate circumstances.

          He crushed a smoked down butt, missing his cigars. 

           He had become fond of the nag his captors selected for him to ride upon. It was a pinto and too small to be carrying a normal size man very far, but somehow bearing up under the near three hundred pounds he presented it. 

          The nearer they came to Del Rio the more traffic appeared beside them in the road. Because they dressed “civilized” no one appeared to feel threatened. At one point a man rode in among their ponies and came up beside of Red. 

          “You look good,” the man said. “I see you’ve traded your pony for a coyote meal.”

          Red had instantly recognized the man for wearing the same red shirt he had earlier known him for. Looked like the beer might have been rinsed out.

          “Look around, friend,” he said. “And then ride on. You are not safe to be here with me.”

          The cowboy visually swept the figures on horseback. On picking out Daisy Plumtree, his shocked eyes met Red’s. 

          “Well. Nice meeting you again,” he said. “Got to hurry on.”

          The cowboy spurred his pony into a gallop to quickly vanish up ahead. 

          Two Feathers Crow steered closer to Red. 

          “Who is that man?” he said. 

          Red honestly shook his head.

          “You know,” he said, “I met him in San Antone. He’s been something of a friend to me but I don‘t know a thing about him. I told him to ride on to avoid complicating things.”

          Two Feathers Crow gave Red a long stare.

          “You are an educated man. Why are you an outlaw?” he said in puzzlement.

          Red grimly smiled. 

          “Why are you out on the trail, not working on a ranch or in a store?” he said.

          The Indian grunted. After a few minutes he drifted back to Daisy’s side.

          They were nearly on Del Rio’s outskirts when a band of hard-bitten men came forward to block their passing. In their midst rode Sweets - the man in a red shirt. 

          ‘Texas Rangers,” the leader announced. “I’m told one among you has been kidnapped and is being taken out of the state. That’s not acceptable to the law.”

          The Rangers waited in place as the leader slowly moved up close. He confronted Two Feathers Crow. 

          “I am told you are holding the red haired man against his will,” he said. 

          “Not true,” the Indian replied. “The man is free to leave us. He has never requested to do so.”

          The Ranger looked over the rest of the Indians. His eye picked out Daisy from among them. 

          “How about her?” he said. “Does the lady ride against her will?”

          The Indian scoffed.

          “Of course not. Straight Eye is my woman. She came to me freely. She does not wish to leave.”

          The Ranger asked Daisy, “Is that so, Ma'am? That you don’t wish to leave?”

          “Of course I don‘t, ya dumb bastid. Take your gang and get on your way,” Daisy retorted. “We’re just doing the day’s business.”

          Still looking them over, the Ranger said, “You Injuns probably left a reservation illegally.”

          “No,” said Mexican Red. “These men have never been on any reservation. They are Mexican Indians and will soon return home.”

          “What are they doing here?” the Ranger asked.

          “I invited them,” Red replied. “We ride as friends. As soon as my journey ends they will be departing.”

          The Ranger returned to his fellow rangers and conferred with them briefly. Afterward, he sat tall in the saddle and waved a hand at Two Feathers Crow and Red. They slowly drifted away.

          Two Feathers Crow regarded Red with a curious stare. At last he said, “We will fight to see who will lead my braves. If he who loses does not die, it is his choice to ride or stay. If he stays, both shall lead.”

          Red pointed to Daisy.

          “First, she loses the shotgun, at least until the fight is over,” he insisted.

          Two Feathers Crow lifted the gun out of Daisy’s arms. He passed it to a brave. After, he lithely slid off the pony’s back. 

          Red stepped off the Pinto. He moved into the middle of a ring formed by the braves on their ponies.

          Two Feathers Crow slipped off his store-bought clothes and came forward wearing a loincloth. His knife had a deadly glint in the bearing down sun.

          Red slipped the knife out of the sheath of a brave of the two he had spared from death. He regretted the need to fight, but it was a sign of respect from Two Feathers Crow that it had to happen. 

          The adversaries slowly circled, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. Two Feathers Crow made the first lunge, easily evaded by Red. When Red countered, his lunge was interrupted by the Indian grabbing his elbow and stabbing the air between them. Red leapt away, then, spinning, kicked the Indian’s rib cage. Two Feathers Crow stepped back to maintain his balance. Meeting the challenge, he charged straight at Red, knife poised to strike. 

THREE

          Red blocked the Indian’s charge. As he grabbed Two Feathers Crow’s wrist, Two Feathers Crow grabbed Red’s wrist. Locked for the moment, until the Indian slid his foot behind, tripping Red. He came down with Two Feathers Crow on top of him. Stll their knife bearing arms were locked. Red shrugged and used his arms and shoulders to heave Two Feathers Crow away. He fell on top of the Indian and could at that moment have stabbed him to death. He allowed the Indian to struggle back and pretended to be held in a stalemate until at last they had to aree to quit fighting.

          Two Feathers Crow held his tongue until after he had regained his “civilized” clothes. Then he stood before his men and his woman and spoke calmly and deliberately. “My position as leader has been cut in two by this man; by my brother, Mexican Red. You henceforth will obey this man as you would obey me.”

          He had not sheathed his knife. He ran the blade edge over his palm.

          Seeing this, Red ran the knife he carried across his palm. As a sign of blood brotherhood they joined the cuts together.

          “There goes the heftiest bounty of my career,” sighed Straight Eye Daisy as she claimed her shotgun. “Damn damn damn.”

          But she approached the new boss and said, “No hard feelin’s. What I did was strictly business. Except the part where I enjoy killing varmints. I guess I’m glad you’re not one of them any more.”

          Red tipped his sombrero. 

          “This day you became my sister,” he said. 

          Then he returned to speak with Two Feathers Crow.

          “My brother, I am honored that you would share your role with me. Right now I have to get back to San Antone to reclaim my pony and a bit of personal property. Tell me of your plans for the future. I promise I will find you after my business is over.”

          The Indian showed sorrow, but he sat up proudly to tell Red, “You are a man. You will do what is right and I cannot fault you for it. We intend to settle in Mexico, at the point of our last crossing. It is too much unfriendly in the United States.”

          He saluted Red, who saluted Two Feathers Crow in return. 

          Red faced the braves he had been friendly with. 

          “Until we meet again,” he said.

          The man whose knife he took refused to let him give it back. He thanked the man profusely. He turned the faithful pinto and rode back down the San Antonio - El Paso Road. He looked around just once to watch the Indians fade their ponies into the wilderness. 

          Progress was slow. He knew the little pinto would burst its heart open to serve. He took to walking more and more. 

          Red could live off of the trail. He had no need of supplies, although he wished for tobacco and coffee. He bummed the occasional meal and a smoke from travelers met on the way. Then he went inside a saloon he found in what was barely a settlement. There was no money even for a drink, but his eye was on the card table near the door.

          “I’ve got a pony to play for stakes,” he said.

          The four men sitting haggled a price after seeing the pony. Red didn’t mind it was little. He rarely lost at poker. On one of those rare occasions, after thirty minutes, he stood and addressed the men. “Been a pleasure,” he said. “Take care of him. He’s a good little pony. Needs some oats if you got any.”

          As he neared the exit, a man standing at the bar spoke out. “Hey mister. You walking? I got you a job if you’re going all the way to San Antone.”

          Red did a pivot that sent him in the man’s direction. 

          He was a beefy character with a battered hat, wearing overalls. 

          “Let me buy you a drink,” he said.

          “And a smoke,” Red said.

          He placed his foot on the rail and bellied up to the bar. 

          “Rye whiskey if you got it,” he said. 

          The barkeep reached for a bottle and a glass. 

          “Name’s Boerm,” the beefy one said. “Walter Boerm. I run freight. Helper died on the trail of a sudden ailment of bullets. You ain’t afraid to fight is ya?”

          “No, sir. Situation is, though, I’ve lost my guns,” Red said slowly. 

          “Afraid I can’t work you then. I need someone that shoots quick and on target.”

          Red pulled the colt out of his neighbor on the other side’s holster.

          “Pardon me, friend. I’ll give it back,” Red said. 

          The gun’s owner, a rail of a sodbusting looking man, threw up his hands.

          “Sure, mister. I’m not looking for trouble.”

          “Come outside,” Red insisted. 

          Boerm and everybody except the card players followed Red into the street. Red asked for a coin. 

          “A penny will do.”

          He accepted the coin and showed it around as proof the penny was undamaged. With his gun holstered, Red pitched the penny as high as he could. Before the penny hit its full height he had the gun pointed, sending a bullet dead center. One of the men ran and picked it up. 

          “He shot that damn penny all right,” he said.

          “All right,” Boerm said. “I’ve seen enough. No need to waste more bullets. You can have a loan of one of my pistols. We ride out of here just after one more drink.”

          The man gratefully accepted his gun back as they walked back to the bar. 

          The man seemed as if a bell had rung in his head. 

          “Ain’t you Mexican Red?” he asked.

          Red smiled and patted the man’s cheek. He rolled his smoke and leaned against the bar with the drink in his hand. 

          As he and his new boss were leaving, Red had a word for the one taking over his pinto. “Be good to her,” he said. “I’m going to miss that horse.”

          The man nodded. “I know a little girl looking for a pony like that.” 

          Two wagons were already hitched up. Boerm took the rein in the front and headed out. Red followed. Their cargo was packed in barrels. Red had no curiosity what was in them. He followed all of Boerm’s instructions to the T. All went well for about fifty miles. Then a man suddenly appeared before them bearing a shotgun.

          “Alright you varmints; climb down and walk away from the wagons.”

          He got no more words out, for Red’s bullet flew past Boerm and straight into his left eye. Boerm turned around.

          “You get a bonus for that,” he said appreciatively.

          Red nodded. He rolled a new cigarette. He also kept his gun out, for he doubted the man had acted alone. He had the acuity to look around, especially at the road behind. Within minutes two more figures came on the road, this time to the rear. Red’s gun barked without hesitation. He rarely missed any target, as the two would have known had they lived long enough to find out. He called to Boerm that he thought they should inform somebody to pick up the bodies littering the way. Boerm agreed. 

          “How are you on bullets?” he asked. “I have plenty.”

          “Need more,” Red responded. 

          Boerm slowly warmed to Red. He was not in a habit of befriending anyone aside from his wife. This new helper was the exception. He began to talk. He talked about leaving his home in Germany to escape some bad relatives, his coming to love Texas, where a man could stretch his mind and his muscles endlessly. He could tell from the first that Red had read everything he had read, except it was in English. He hinted about making Red a full partner. Red did not respond to the affirmative, but did not outright refuse. 

          When they arrived in San Antone and parked the wagons for unloading, Boerm paid Red off on the spot.

          “Take a bath and buy some clothes,” he advised, as he dismissed Red. “Be where I can find you if you want to work more.”

          Red’s immediate agenda was to do just what Boerm said. He remembered where the barber’s pole decorated the street. He walked in to a surprised barber, his expression flat, noncommittal. 

          “Need a hot bath. Then a shave. I’m going to fetch my new duds as you’re heating the water,” he said.

          “Dang,” the barber exclaimed. “You’re gonna need extra scrubbing. Seventy-five cents for the package.”

          Red found an understanding tailor still holding his clothing. He flipped the man an extra fifty cents. 

          He eventually felt clean and fit enough to go on with things. The next step was to reclaim his pony. He hoped for the stable man’s sake there was nothing preventable wrong with her. His new boots clomped on the wooden walkway and his anticipated renewing a friendship with his pony was building. On the street ahead he saw the man standing just as he stood the day Red first approached, under the huge sombrero. He saw the head, big and round, turn to look his way. He saw the livery open up and the man disappear inside. Red moved relentlessly forward.

          The heavy plank door proved to be barred from inside. It was no hindrance to Red’s determination to breach the walls. He went to the end of the structure and picked out a sideboard with enough crack to allow a finger grip. His powerful hands ripped the board to small pieces. The exposed next board pulled away easily. One more taken out and he went inside.

          Then slowly, deliberately, he went down the stalls, examining horses. He whistled. An immediate whinny and hoofs against wood sent Red all the way to the end. His pony desperately pawing to get to him. Red let the stall open and lead the pony out. He hugged the pony as the pony put her neck about his shoulder. Had Red been a sentimental man he would have cried. He still did not see the man but didn’t care, because he had what he came for. He found his saddle. 

          Red let himself and his pony out into the sun, where he saddled her and rode to the hotel where he previously stayed. When he came into the lobby, the clerk turned from ruddy to near white on seeing who just entered. Red towered over him to ask for the belongings he left in the safe. The clerk’s entire body shook so violently he could not fit in the key. The outlaw took the key and brushed the man away. As he worked the lock the clerk ran out the door. Red could hear his feet pounding on the wooden walkway. As he had suspected from the instant he saw the clerk’s face, the safe proved empty.

          He walked down the street on the walkway, looking into each door he passed, all the way to the marshal’s office. He found the clerk cowering behind the marshal, who calmly sat with his legs cast over his desk and a cigar in his mouth. He looked with lazy eyes at Red as he said, “Trouble?”

          “That’s him. The man that wants to rob me,” the desperate clerk sobbed.

          “Now, hold on, Cousin Elroy,” the marshal said quietly. “Let the man speak for himself.”

          “Marshal, if that weasel is your cousin, you ought to know better than me that he’s a lying weasily skunk. He kept my belongings I left in his safe. I want it all back, along with the saddlebag.”

          The Marshal arched his eyebrows, unmoved.

          “Proof?” he said.

          Red weighed the probability he would become a wanted man against the loss of several hundred dollars and some varied items he needed or treasured. He tipped his brand new sombrero and engineered a small grin. 

          “Perhaps I’m mistaken,” he said. 

          He walked back to the hotel and found the key to his old room. Inside, it was apparent the room had not been touched since his last time there. All the debris from working at the table remained. He opened the table drawer. The signed list of property left in the safe was there. He held the paper a long moment before folding it and stuffing it in a pocket. It might come in handy later on, but the money was gone. No need to make a further issue with the Marshal, who likely shared some of it.

          Although it was early still, he needed a good rest from time spent on the trail. He lead his pony back to the livery stable and turned her over to the same man who had earlier been hiding. 

          “Take extra good care of her,” he instructed.

          “Si. Si,” the penitent man said, trying to smile.

          Back in his room, he set the pistol still borrowed from Boerm on the tabletop as he sprawled on the bed, wearing his new boots. 

          He awakened once after dark to the sound of steps outside the door. But after a pause the steps moved on. He rose from his slumber at almost ten o’clock the next day. He woke with a huge hunger. 

          At the Star of Texas Café he ducked his head getting inside. Breakfast, after coffee, was tortillas, with eggs, onions, peppers, sausage, and cheese. 

          Then he dropped in Boerm’s business office. 

          “When are we leaving out?” he said.

          “Three days. One hour before sunup. I’m bringing three wagons back. Already got a second helper. But you’ll be number one. You’re going to be my partner yet.”

          “I will be on time. You can depend on it,” Red said, making to leave.

          Boerm waved him off and turned to an invoice he was writing.

          The best place to pass time was at a card table. There seemed a good place up from the café. The San Antonio Lilly. He casually approached a table pulling out his money. 

          “Will two dollars get me a place to play from?” he asked. 

          “It could get you a hand or two,” one bearded gent answered. 

          Red immediately got lucky. He gained enough stake to keep him in the game for a while. He gathered his cards and sat back as poker-faced as the rest of them, when he saw a familiar countenance in the bar mirror. He threw his cards on the table. 

          “Play this hand without me,” he said, scooting back his chair and moving through the room with the air of a riled grizzly bear. 

          He came up behind the man whose face he had seen in the mirror.

          “Pardon me,” he said, tapping a shoulder.

          As the man turned, it was obvious he was experiencing severe pain. Then Red saw his neck wore a brace and one arm was in a sling. Derek Winters‘ eyes reflected surprise followed by fear. The last person Derek wanted to see was Mexican Red. Rendered incapable of speaking, Derek stared with dread as Red stood with folded arms looking him over. 

          “How are you feeling?” Red said.

          Not waiting for an answer, he gave Derek’s arm a pat. When Derek did not respond, he put his palm to the side of the man’s head and gave it a shove. 

          Derek’s moan could be heard throughout the saloon. 

          The man standing nearby at the bar said, “That’s no way to treat a man whose horse threw him down a ravine.”

          “Oh? How should I treat a mangy skunk then? Shake his hand like this?”

          He grabbed Derek’s hand but a higher impulse made him refrain from giving it a pull.

          “Consider yourself lucky I’m in a good mood,” he said and he turned his back to rejoin the players at the card table.

          The players were sheepish but it was obvious their sympathy was with Derek. Nevertheless they continued to play. Red’s luck was with him and he walked away at the end with over a hundred dollars. He glanced at Derek on the way out, noting the man was passing out drunk. He regretted his mistreatment of a helpless soul, even a Derek. “Don’t be a Derek,” he told himself.

          He went into a general store and found all he needed to go fishing. He stocked up on food goods and tobacco. A short time later found Red going up the river to scout a quiet spot for camping. A diligent search brought him to a quiet bank where he could build a fire for coffee and set himself up comfortably to dip his line in the water. He poured himself some coffee twice before having enough. For tobacco he had a nice bunch of cigars. He kept a burning one in his mouth as he set up the fishing line and settled back to catch a few - or not. It was the sitting and fishing that mattered most instead of the catching.

          Leaning back, cigar burnt down and discarded, he eventually fell asleep. When he awoke he set fire to another cigar and leaned back again, watching the water stream past. He recalled fishing as a boy with the Mexican Indian who was his mother teaching him at the same time the history of his people in Mexico. She had little regard for the Spanish, who were like the Americans, claiming every worthy thing for themselves. She made a horrible figure sitting on the bank beside him, for a jealous suitor had cut off her nose when he learned of her union with the Scot, Robert Balfour, who was Red’s father. Red had intended killing the man once he grew up, but the Gringo soldiers killed him first in a raid.

          After his mother died from pneumonia, a priest took him in, to give him shelter and an education. Red loved learning. He soon exhausted the reading afforded him by the priests. He learned to borrow books in the town, which were not so many, but there was a greater variety than one might have imagined.

          One cloudy day Red witnessed the ambush murder of a high ranking officer. The bandits who killed him mistook Red for an adult, because he already had a greater physique than the average man. They gave him a choice: become a bandit or die on the spot. They outfitted him with pistols and included him in attacks on soldiers and robbing institutions and individuals. In time Red broke away to form his own gang.

          He sighed, remembering. Jumping ahead, there came to his mind’s eye the visage of the one woman he could have loved. Of all the willing women he had known, this one scorned him. He felt a pang brought on by his wanting to ride to see her. Maybe one day he could stop by and wish her well. He stood up and went to rekindle the fire. 

          He spent a second night before breaking camp.

FOUR

          He thought he recognized Daisy’s  - Straight Eye’s - pony in front of the hotel. He was very careful to approach the room without the clunk of boots and not creaking the floor. Standing to the side of the entrance, he eased the knob around until the door moved. The hinge made the softest creak. 

          “Red. Come in,” said a gravely voice inside.

          “Not unless you push the shotgun out butt first,” he said.  

          “I thought we got beyond all that,” she said.

          A moment later, the butt poked out. Red grabbed and pulled.

          Still cautious, he came into his room where Straight Eye waited, wearing Indian buckskin and her hair done up like a squaw. His expression asked all the questions.

          “I need help,” she said. “Soldiers caught my husband, after killing off his men. I think they took him to the fort. Since you’re his brother it’s up to you to get him loose.”

          Red sat on the bed. He lit a cigar. After he smoked it down a bit he said, “I don’t know what I could do. The law’s got him now. They’re not going to just turn him over to me.”

          Straight Eye‘s look called Red a fool.

          “I know that. We’re going to bust him out.”

          Red sighed. He stared at an ugly knot in the wooden floor. Eventually he looked up.

          “He’s headed to a prison or a reservation, most likely. They don’t normally execute men like him. You’ve just got to have patience.”

          Straight Eye moved to the door. 

          “I’m going to a good hotel for now. Tomorrow I expect to hear something different from you than what I’m hearing today.” 

          Red sat still once she had gone. He came to Texas to be free of the law. He did not owe Two Feathers Crow his own freedom when the Indian had committed criminal acts of his own accord. Acts that the law would not excuse. Sooner or later he would have had to pay. Anyway, the penalty should be less severe if he cooperates now. His blood brother was on his own. 

          He returned to the saloon where he had won his money. This time he just sought a drink or three. The house whiskey was smooth. He was considering taking a seat at a card table when a duded up cowboy came from the crowd and proceeded to grind his boot into the top of Red’s brand new boot. 

          “Oops,” he said. 

          Red pushed him away.

          “Is that how you pushed my friend, Derek Winters last time you came in here?”

          Red turned back to minding his business. Sometimes when you ignore a fool the fool finds another target. Not this time, though.

          The fool slapped at Red’s drinking hand.

          Red‘s backhand found the man‘s face.

          “I know you ain’t Derek’s friend,” he said. “He ain’t got enough money to buy a friend. Meaning he paid you to attack me. Whatever he paid, it ain’t enough.”

          The man’s face was red on the one side. 

          “Stand and draw,” the man said, moving into his best stance for slipping the gun he wore out of its holster. 

          “I would like to buy you a drink,” Red said in a measured voice, still belly to the bar.

          “Turn around and draw,” the man demanded, reaching for his gun. 

          Before he even touched the gun butt Red nailed him between the eyes with the loaned gun from Boerm. After watching the man fall he addressed the crowd.

          “You saw him pick this fight. I tried to avoid it. He wouldn’t let me.”

          “That was Lester Brown you killed,” one of the drunks said. “He was my friend.” 

          “Then you can bury him,” Red responded.

           The drunk ran at Red with his clenched fist before him. Red sidestepped and the fist hit a bystander’s jaw. The brawl was on. Red plowed through the mayhem, blocking, bumping, and pushing until he was clear of the saloon. He walked to the Marshal’s office and walked in. 

          The Marshal looked as though he had moved not an inch from their last confrontation. This time there was no cigar in his mouth.

          “There’s a hell of a fight going at the saloon up the street,” Red said. “Started because I killed a man that pushed me into it. He went for his gun. I drilled him.”

          The Marshal clicked his false teeth. 

          “You did?’

          “Shot him between the eyes.”

          The Marshal slung his feet to the floor. 

          “Gonna go see,” he said. “You wait right here until I get back.”

          “Can I have a cup of that coffee? Makes it easier to wait,” Red said. 

          “I’m not locking you up, but don’t make me have to look you up later,” the Marshal instructed.

          Pouring his coffee, Red said, “You got my word.”

          He dropped into the Marshal’s chair as the lawman moved resolutely outside. He slowly drank the worst, oldest, coffee he had ever tasted. After twenty minutes he grew tired of waiting. Finally he dumped the dregs from his cup and sauntered casually to the saloon, where it became apparent why the Marshal had not yet returned. There were pairs of fighting men still having a go, wrestling, tossing, punching - The Marshal was having none of it.

          Red bypassed the Marshal and began going from fighting pair to fighting pair, dumping pitchers of cold beer on them and breaking them up. When at last the Marshal ventured in he examined the dead man.

          “Why, it’s Lester Brown,” he exclaimed. “Fastest man in San Antone with a draw.”

          He looked around at Red.

          “Mister,” he said, “if you beat Lester like it looks like you did, you could only have beat him if you drew when he wasn’t looking.”

          “Well,” Red replied, “if he was looking elsewhere how would I have shot him between the eyes?”

          “Ain’t no explanation you could give that will save you from hanging,” the Marshal said. 

          “Dammit, Marshal, you are ruining another state for me.”

          He drew his gun and smacked the Marshal’s head, putting him out for the present. He waved his weapon at the beat up patrons, motioning them behind the bar. As he slowly backed out he warned the men against dying needlessly.

          As he took his pony to saddle, he asked the stable man about Straight Eye. He figured if he had to leave Texas he might help her and Two Feathers Crow on the way. He took her pony and saddled it. He tossed the man his money, believing the man served him well after the initial treachery. The man grinned and gave him back a “Gracias.”

          He had learned from the stable man where Straight Eye could be found. Turned out her money was not good enough to rent a nice hotel room, not when she looked like a white squaw. She stayed in a flophouse even lower on the scale than Red’s hotel. She was nursing a bottle of rye whiskey, but dressed and ready for the trail. She let Red know she was just waiting on him; she knew he would not let Two Feathers Crow down.

          “We just might have a posse chasing after us,” Red said. “If you’re going with me, you’d better ride.”

          They chose their path off of the standard route, making progress slower, but hopefully throwing off any posse. It was Red’s belief the Marshal didn’t know any good trackers. 

          Camping in the nighttime, Red had occasion for learning that being a squaw had altered Straight Eye’s perspective on what it means to be a white versus being nonwhite. He thought it made her a better person. He also figured her pairing with such a man assuaged much of the bitterness that made her a wanton killer. 

          Eventually Red judged it was safe to travel on the road. When they were near to approaching the fort, Red selected a remote spot to make a camp, believing no human would discover it even by accident. He instructed Straight Eye to wait here up to a week. Then, if nobody came for her, to give up waiting and go somewhere alone to start a different life. He rode on and soon came to the fort. 

          He sought the commander and was directed to his office, where he offered his services as an Army scout. The commander, a seasoned and intelligent man, sent Red with a lieutenant to be indoctrinated.

          After impressing the soldiers with his abilities Red was issued clothes that did not fit. He stuck an Army cap in his pocket for identification purposes. He and a unit were sent out right away, lead by the lieutenant. After a few days riding they returned 

to the post. His casual questions soon revealed that Two Feathers Crow was indeed a prisoner being held for trial. The military court would likely send him to prison, for he was listed among the incorrigibles. He befriended the guard by sharing his cigars and holding casual conversations. One time he slipped the guard a drink from a whiskey bottle. After looking carefully over the grounds, he “accidentally” spilled his cigars before the guard. The guard bent to help and was cold cocked. Red lifted the latch and urged Two Feathers Crow to come out. When the Indian stuck out his head, he blinked at the sun for an instant. Red slipped the Army cap on Two Feathers Crow’s head before they ran together to the hitching pole nearby.

          They freed the ponies and leaped onboard to ride as hard as they could goad their mounts to gallop. The getaway was clean. Within the hour they approached Straight Eye’s camp. Warily they approached, fearing accidental shotgun discharge if she panicked before they could identify themselves. Two Feathers Crow urged Red to halt for a moment. He made the animal call he had demonstrated for his woman for just such an occasion.

          “Come on in, Two Feathers,” she cried out, sounding both relieved and grateful.

          While Red waited in the leaves and branches of a tree, Two Feathers Crow and Straight Eye experienced a heartfelt reunion. 

          “My brother has done for me what no other could have accomplished,” the Indian said in a loud reverential voice. “Come, Red Balfour, and let us smoke together before we ride.”

          Sitting back, passing a cigar of friendship between them, Red mentioned the braves the Indian had been riding with. 

          “They had no mercy. Just kept shooting and shooting,” replied Two Feathers Crow. “My horse was killed. Before I could get up and defend myself the soldiers had me.”

          His countenance was sad. 

          “We ride alone together,” he said decisively, puffing deeply on the cigar.

          “If we ride together it will not be so that we endlessly fight the soldiers,” Red insisted. “It is my desire these days to move to another state or territory. Some place to build a ranch. If your heart desires the peace I seek, then, yes, we will be together.”

          “There are still many soldiers that need to die. I cannot kill all of them.”

          The Indian reflected grimly. 

          “I learned when I was a prisoner,” he said, “that the wars between the Indians of Texas and the United States are over. The soldiers now have repeating rifles. Because of this and because the soldiers killed or otherwise took away a thousand Indian horses the Indians made peace. Quanna Parker buried his hatchet.” 

          They smoked more. Then Straight Eye fed them the hares she had trapped and made into stew. 

          The food was surprisingly good. Red had to hand it to her; Straight Eye was more than just a shotgun wielding murderer. As they finished the meal, Two Feathers Crow seemed a bit more expansive than his normal stoical demeanor. He called Straight Eye to him and held her closely. 

          “It will be good to raise my child in such a place,” he said. 

          Red was shocked to see Straight Eye actually blush. Replying to his friend’s words, he said, “It is said. It is so. We have to break camp and go now. The soldiers will send their very best to track and chase us.”

          It was decided to cross the Rio Grande until the soldiers grew frustrated and gave up. After much persistence they approached a settlement in Mexico where they could bide and make friends with some humble farmers, who barely could eke out an existence. Red tried to give them twenty-five American dollars but the leader was too proud and rejected the help. On the contrary, he insisted the travelers accept what the farmers could provide. The Americans labored in the field to pay their way. 

          Two Feathers Crow felt enamored of the farmers. He soon moved among them as a fellow farmer, although he had not been in farming ever in his life. He and Straight Eye began to gather materials for to build a hut, with help from all their friends. As work on the hut neared completion, the Indian felt he and Straight Eye needed one trip across the border to fetch back farming supplies, seed, and foodstuff, such as flour and canned goods. Red remained with the farmers for they needed his help moving oversized rocks from the soil. He was more than happy to lend his labor.

          Ruben Guevera, the elder, became fond of Red, inviting him to share the meals his wife, Lupe, so inventively prepared. Ruben spoke no English but Red recalled enough from his childhood to communicate with him. There were times the poor man appeared to struggle with arthritis but his work produced as good a result as a younger man. Together the men in the settlement were successful in making the earth more plowable. Red took his turn at the plow and also helped sow the seeds. 

          When Two Feathers Crow and Straight Eye failed to return after a reasonable time, Red went looking. He knew which trading post the Indian had in mind and so recrossed the river and went there. The post was run by a man with eyes so pale blue as to seem almost white. His natural white skin had the hue of mild jaundice. From a height of just four foot nine, he looked up at Red with a thoughtful expression. 

          “They were here alright,” he said. “They bought enough goods I had to sell them a packhorse to carry it all. The woman had a stash of hundreds of dollars. I couldn’t make her change, so she gave me the difference.”

          “What kind of people been showing up around here?” Red asked.

          “Ordinary folks. Nothing Special. Except a short time after they left I saw some black skinned soldiers. Looked to be used to some hard traveling, They watered up,” the man said thoughtfully. “I sold one some dried beef.”

          “Any clue which way the soldiers would be headed?”

           “Most likely Fort Clark. That’s where they are stationed,” the man said. 

          “That’s a fair ride. I’ll catch them, though,” Red vowed. “Thanks, friend.”

          Red kept his pony stepping quickly with breathers to save wearing her out. He thought more highly of this animal than most people he met. Midway to the fort he saw the soldiers on the road ahead. They had gotten anxious to disembark for a rest and kept to the road to shorten the process. Their Lieutenant looked on as he rode in among them. 

          “Name’s Red Balfour,” he said to the Lieutenant. “Want to know if you’ve seen an Indian with a white squaw.”

          The Lieutenant was James Arrowhead. 

          “Are you looking for Two Feathers Crow?” Arrowhead asked. “If so you can quit looking. He’s dead.”

          Red pulled up one of his cigars. As he bit the end and put fire to it his eyes roved, checking out their ponies. He didn’t see the bodies. 

          “His woman?”

          “We caught up to them at the river. Shot him in the middle. She broke loose. In the chase she come on a man doing his business in a bush. She took his horse. We caught up to her and turned her over to the law. They might have already hanged her.”

          Red turned to ride. 

          “If you didn’t see it they might not.”

          This time he stretched out his pony and flew all the way into the settlement where they had a sheriff and a jail. After bursting in he didn’t waste his energy on the niceties as he questioned the men he came across until he got the facts he wanted. The men were just friends of the sheriff, playing checkers and drinking coffee. 

          “Sure, mister,“ a straw-haired scarecrow with freckles said, “we don’t mind telling. No need to be violent about it.“ 

          His pudgy-faced friend nodded.

          The sheriff had left just a short time ago, taking her to the hanging tree about a mile out and the man whose horse she stole was drinking in a little establishment a few doors down. They told his name.

          “Just ride out north; take a right at the fork,” said the scarecrow.

          “Likely she’s already dead,” the pudgy-faced one said.

          Red thanked them.

          The little establishment had a canvass sign across the front. “THIS IS FREDS DAMN PLACE.” Red approached the man he thought must be Fred. He placed his money on the bar and waited while the man poured a finger of whiskey. With the whiskey poised in the air, he said, “Which man is Harry Snake?

          The barkeep, who was indeed Fred, said, “You mean Harris Nake? That‘s him on the floor asleep against the wall.”

          Red tossed off his drink, slapped down the glass and moved to stand over the man. Looking down, he prodded Harris with his toe. Harris made a snoring sound, shifted his position, and slept on. Red’s toe pushed a little harder. The man’s eyes drooped open, red from excessive drinking. He stared blankly. Then he realized that a very big stranger in Mexican clothing kept prodding him with his boot. He cringed. Terror defined his features for a moment. When nothing further happened to him the man sat up. 

          His wire rimmed glasses were askew, one lens cracked. “What cha want with me?” he said through a jungle of coarse copper hair.

          “I want to buy your horse,” Red told him.

          The man’s eyes roved, almost spun they were that busy. “What for? You can buy one better from the livery down the road.”

          “It may keep a woman from getting hanged,” Red said. 

          “Oh,” Harris sighed. “Oh,” he said. “You don’t want to bother. This woman’s different.”

          He gave Red an exaggerated wink. “White squaw,” he confided. 

          Red deadpanned. “Name your price.”

          Harris calculated. He was visiting a chance to make money off a near worthless horse. The woman became less consequential to the equation. He decided to try the man.

          “Thirty dollars,” he said, stuttering it out.

          Red pulled out his last thirty dollars. 

          “Sign a paper,” he said.

           He regretted what he was about to ask of his pony. In all their partnership she had not yet let him down. He silently apologized in advance. Turning her out on the street, he urged the pony to run her heart out.

          At the fork a slow moving freight wagon had the way blocked. Red walked his pony until he found an opportunity to crowd around it. The driver was a good natured oaf who urged him on, apologetic for taking the whole road. Red waved back as his pony quickened the pace. Soon her hoofs were thundering over the last stretch. Ahead stood a massive tree with perfect limbs for one or multiple hangings. Beneath one impressive bough were the Sheriff and his men on foot. A rope with a noose hanging down. Their mounts were off to the side. On a chestnut stallion sat the star of the event, with two men controlling the horse. As he neared he could hear Straight Eye’s voice. The words were not clear but the invective could not be mistaken. He smiled.

          The hanging committee likely thought Red must be in a hurry to enjoy the festivities. For they showed no concern as he came riding in. He swept off of his pony and approached the sheriff, reaching for his bill of sale inside his pocket. The sheriff was Calvin Dobbs, a man of great stature and strength. He had a bully’s carriage, a face molded of sarcasm. He did not like for the stranger to get in his face that way.

          “What do you want?” he practically bellowed. “Can’t you see we are conducting law business?”

          Red backed off a step. 

          “I apologize for getting too close,” he said. “What I have to tell you should save the young lady’s life.”

          “She turned her back on the white race. That’s reason enough for this - Mex,” the Sheriff sneered.

          “You haven’t even given her a trial. Where’s a judge’s order?” Red demanded, “Anyway, I’ve got something that proves she is not a horse thief.”

          As he was speaking, Red’s line of vision encompassed the five assistants, measuring their potential to be dangerous. Most were naked of their gun belts. Straight Eye had fallen silent in the instant she recognized the red haired rider come storming in. She was willing to put her trust in his ability to save her.

FIVE

          “I don’t want advice from a Mex about my job,” the Sheriff said, elbowing past Red and stalking across the turf to where both chestnut and woman waited. He instructed an assistant to feed him the rope. The line came down to let the noose into the Sheriff’s up-reaching hands. Red closed on the man and reached over his head. He pulled in the noose and slipped it around the Sheriff’s neck, tightening it. 

          Using the rope to pull the man around, he said, “Your way of saying ‘Mex’ sounds unfriendly. I’ve evidence you are going to look at.”

          The Sheriff tried to find his gun, but Red’s free hand blocked it. He put the Sheriff between himself and the two assistants that had their guns.

          “Are you going to listen to me or not?” Red demanded.

          “You’re strangling him,” one alarmed assistant exclaimed, coming forward to help. 

          The assistant swept a look at his companions.

          “Come on,” he said. “He can’t fight against all of us.”

          In the hesitation and confusion over the situation they forgot to restrain Straight Eye on her horse. She kneed the sides of the chestnut and urged him to run. She raced up the road on the powerful stallion and quickly went out of sight. 

          Red slung the sheriff to the ground, who landed with the length of the rope slipping over the tree limb, piling on his body. In the same motion, Red produced both of his guns to point in the men’s general direction. 

          “I hate needless killing,” he said, “but it wouldn’t pain me to see the lot of you dead right now. That woman is innocent of a crime as I can prove, but you are dead set on taking revenge on her way of life and don‘t want to hear me.”

          The Sheriff was getting up, untangling himself from the rope.

          “I’ll see you dead, big man. Ain’t no place far enough you can hide,” he said.

          “I’m about to go,” Red said. “If I see any of you behind me - Well. See that prickly pear? The one on the right pad on that cactus?”

          “I barely can see that,” the assistant who had almost charged Red declared.

          Red holstered one of his pistols. 

          “Tell me to draw,” he said.

          “Draw.”

          Red’s hand moved quicker than the eye could follow. In an instant his shot picked off the prickly pear, knocking it loose at the base where it had been connected. 

          Red looked each man in the eye, resting last on the countenance of the Sheriff. 

          The Sheriff pulled off his hat and slung it on the ground as hard as he could. 

          “Got damn you Mex. She had the stolen horse. That makes her guilty automatically.”

          “I’m through wasting time with you,” Red said, pulling from his pocket the bill of sale for the horse. “This shows the horse was mine but I gifted it to the woman. Promise me to end this now and I will let you keep your trigger finger.”

          He allowed the paper to slip from his fingers.

          “Well?” he said. “What’ll it be?”

          The Sheriff put his hands behind his back. 

          Red gave him a full minute. Then he relented.

          “Sheriff, I don’t want to harm anybody today. So I let you off of the hook. Just don’t shoot at my back when I ride off.”

          The two armed assistants were quick to shed their belts and guns. Sheriff Dobbs waved him on. Nodding as if to say, “Good day,” Red slowly made his way to the road. He sought to follow Straight Eye but her trail had mixed with a dozen trails. Almost a quarter mile down the way, he stilled the pony and scoured the terrain, taking the moment to fix a smoke. The cigars had run out. He set the pony for a stand of trees where at least he would be less a target should the Sheriff and his men come as a posse. In the dappled stillness he moved slowly, until a voice to the side spoke out. 

          “Hey, Red. Come untie me.”

          From the thicker growth Straight Eye emerged on foot, disheveled but with a smile for her savior. He stepped down to free her, looking into the foliage for a sign of her horse. 

          “Gone,” Straight Eye told him. “Brushed me off under a limb and kept going.”

          She turned on Red and hugged him quickly, then backed off. 

          “Them bastids was makin’ a party out of hanging me,” she said. “I just wish you had saved my man as well.”

          “Where will you go from here?” Red asked. “Name the place. I’ll get you there.”

          “To the home Two Feathers and I were making,” she said. “I’ll want to raise our child the way he wanted to.”

          “It’s a tough life you’re asking,” Red said. “Without a strong man and no close by family you’ll grow old before it’s time. If that’s your choice I’ll bring you there and see you get settled and stocked up with necessaries. Then we’ve got to get you some animals.”

          Then began the slow traipse, making plans as they went, and becoming less worried about Sheriff Dobs with passing time. The trading post had a nice pony and a sturdy mule. The trader told Red to come back in a month if he wanted a few chickens. They were able to pack the mule with canned goods, flour, and other necessaries. They paid with Straight Eye’s cash money which had miraculously survived all the travails of the unsettled life.  

          Soon again they crossed into Mexico.  

          The settlement was unchanged, with the poor huts and sparse fencing. They exchanged waves with the men working in the field. After tethering the animals they agreed that a pot of coffee sounded mighty fine. She prepared the pot as Red built a nice fire in the pit. They soon had the pot boiling. Straight Eye was pouring their cups when someone knocked on the door.  

          It was grave-eyed Ruben Guevera, short, rail thin, mustachioed patriarch with a curl of a smile on his lips. 

          “Senora,” he said. “Senor.”

          He energetically waved his arms and hands until they understood to follow. Ruben coaxed them like a sheepdog moving its flock all the way to his own residence, where he lived with Lupe and four children. They came inside and greeted Senora Guevera, who tended a great pot over the fire and nodded at the children, the youngest of whom were tended by the older ones.

          He ushered them through a curtain to a bed, then proudly stood back to allow the astonished Red and Straight Eye to view a warrior sitting up, looking back at them. Then Ruben discreetly stepped out and closed the curtain behind him.  Straight Eye uttered a cry. Rushing to his side. 

          “I thought you was dead,” she sobbed.

          Two Feathers Crow reached out and pulled her to him. 

          “They didn’t know how long I could stay down and how far I could swim,” he said simply. “By the time they gave up and went away I was in the weeds crawling toward home. I was lucky Ruben’s cousin found me before I bled to death.”

          Red saluted his blood brother.

          “We now share like wounds. We are truly brothers,” the Indian said.

          The Indian slipped back the blanket enough to display the assaulted flesh. 

          “I will be out and farming in a day or two,” he said. 

          He gave Red a look that said, “I have something special to share with you.”

          “Ruben’s cousin, Porferio, brought a newspaper he found dropped on the trail a few days ago,” he said. “He doesn’t read English but he brought it for me.”

          He pulled from beneath his pillow the scraps of print that survived the adventure of being passed from hand to hand and now arrived at the intended target, Red Balfour. A headline from the mid center columns read: “Amnesty Offer to Red Balfour.” 

          “Territorial Governor Axtell made the offer in an interview with Santa Fe reporters. The governor has invited Balfour to come to the capitol after discoursing on the Robin Hood-like exploits of the famous outlaw.”

          The suddenly beaming outlaw carefully folded the paper.

          “I will need to keep this,” he said, “because you never know when some bounty hunter who didn’t get the news will come along.”

          “You don’t need to stay and help us,” Two Feathers Crow said. “I want my brother to go, to make peace with the territory he comes from.”

          Straight Eye intervened to say, “You are going to help move my husband to our home, you big galute.”

          Two Feathers Crow thanked his woman with his eyes.

          “Yes,” he said. “Help me out of this bed. We will walk together.”

          Joining to help him, Red and Straight Eye moved Two Feathers Crow’s feet and legs off of the bed. On his own he lifted himself standing. With one arm over Red’s shoulders, he walked. Ruben and Straight Eye closely followed hovering like concerned parents. Soon they had Two Feathers Crow comfortably settled in his home.

          Red discovered the coffee was still hot. He offered to pour some for all, but only he ended indulging. At last he was finished and he was ready to go. He went before Straight Eye and told her, “I wish you the best. Our getting acquainted was definitely an experience.”

          She replied, “You helped me out of a scrape or two after I nearly killed ya. Bless you, Mr. Balfour.”

          Red gave Two Feathers Crow a deep look of appreciation. Their hands gripped tightly and he said goodbye. He took to his pony to cross for the last time the river that separates Texas from Mexico. 

          Soon he had regained the San Antonio-El Paso road, riding easily, trusting no one wanted him badly enough in Texas to go to the lengths required to catch up to him. Turns out Sheriff Calvin Dobbs didn’t see it the same way. He had a man who could read sign as well as the next. They put their heads together and figured Red just could be in the vicinity. As it happened their paths converged two miles north of Van Horn. 

          Riding in from the side, Dobbs’ man, Joe Coe was the first to make visual contact. He alerted Dobbs, who had been cradling his rifle. Dobbs immediately pointed his gun and fired. A tufft of hair exploded on Red’s pony. Ripped flesh on the rump turned red. She threw Red off and galloped away.

          He rolled to see two horsemen thundering at him, guns blazing. Red pulled up his own pistols and fired back. 

          Dobbs and Coe continued to charge. A bullet parted Coe’s scalp and his hat went flying. Knocked unconscious he slipped out of the saddle. His foot became trapped in the stirrup. The hysterical pony ran as hard as its legs could carry it. Nobody paid attention to the man getting dragged to death.

          Dobbs ran out of bullets at a critical moment. He veered away, now fearing for his safety, with Red running after, merciless now that he had been provoked. He paused in the middle of the road to take his most careful aim. The shot he fired caught Dobbs in the shoulder. It was enough to knock him out of the saddle. 

          Dobbs sat up watching Red approach. Both his shooting arm and his pistol were useless. Red stood over the man and sighed, turning again good humored.

          “Ain’t you a mess,” he said. “What do you think I should do with you?”

          Dobbs scowled, trying to bear up under the pain. 

          Red’s pony came ambling back, knowing her boss would address her wound. She nuzzled Red from the back. 

          “Tell you what,” Red said. “It’s my good nature to round up your pony and set you on it. After that I’m sending you home but I’m keeping your shooting irons.”

          True to his word, he hefted the Sheriff onto the saddle. After being sure he could ride, Red sent him on his way. He thought the man was struggling to say “Thanks” at the end but could not force out the words.

          He turned to his pony and took a medical kit from a saddlebag. He found the sulfanilamide and worked the powdery substance into the pony’s flesh wound. She quivered nervously but her trust was so great she made no resistance. At last he mounted her and was on his way. Finally leaving Texas, feeling good about it.