

### Regret

by Edward Nickus

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REGRET

By Edward Nickus

Published by Edward Nickus at Smashwords.

Copyright 2011 by Edward Nickus, all rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the written permission of the author. All characters and locations within this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or places is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Dedicated to the desperation that got it started.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

The Mississippi River is more than 2350 miles of continental drainage ditch, flows about 1160 miles as the crow flies and for dreamers, the direct route to adventure, romance and, they frequently hoped, a quick and easy buck. For the absolute and raving capitalist, the river opened the continental interior to exploitations of every stripe. Immigration led to development, which opened the doors to anyone willing to take advantage of the dreams of those who were involved in the national obsession of the time: Manifest Destiny. Go West young man, whatever the cost. Ignorance was indeed bliss. Like ants away from the nest exploring in the garden, there were hazards.

The river's been called many things by many people: "The Nation's Aorta," "The Beginning of the Frontier," "Big Muddy," and others; some flattering, some not. Its more notable tributaries include the Platte rivers, North and South forks splitting the plains to the west; the Missouri and the Ohio Rivers, each with unexplored territories attached. This story is but one of millions in which the Mississippi played a role.

From the middle of the 18th century on, the variety of crafts plying the route was outnumbered only by the differences in the people who used it, and the cargoes that depended upon its perpetual motion. There were the Native Americans and the trappers with their canoes and rafts and flatboats. These vessels were of literally innumerable sizes and shapes. Construction materials ranged from stretched hides to the finest hand carved and elaborately decorated imported teak. There were the boats used by the freshwater privateers. They were propelled by pole-men lining the sides of the craft, each with a pole about twenty feet in length and able to, in concert with its mates, propel the flat boat in the calmest of waters to speeds nearly equal to those of the swiftest canoe. These craft held to the shallows, manned either by local operators, or by river pirates always on the lookout for the weak, the unprepared, the under-defended, the unwary, and those of wavering desire.

As the population along the continent's eastern seaboard burgeoned and civilization's requirements became more pervasive, human flotsam wafted to the west along with sturdy pioneer stock seeking more room and fewer problems featuring legal entanglements. As time passed, populations swelled the river's banks. At the outset of the river's heyday, that is, at the beginning of the 19th century, water traffic was as thick as fleas on a hound dog. This included commercial barges taking the continent's raw materials down to the French port of New Orleans and bound for ports worldwide.

The boat traffic was instrumental in the sowing of the Great Louisiana Territory and the world beyond. Anything that was available on the eastern seaboard was gaining markets throughout the continent. Although one might have to wait as long as six months or more for delivery, the market was there and was growing faster every day. St. Louis to New Orleans was now comparatively easy and fairly inexpensive. Then, along came the farmers.

As commercial traffic increased on the river, so did travel in general. No longer was relocation to the country's interior the province of adventurers and miscreants. As the increase in river-born commerce grew, so did ideas about opportunity.

This entire rococo thread loaded thousands and thousands of people aboard those triple decked, twin stacked, ornately appointed, stern wheeled floating palaces that ran the length of the river for more than one hundred years hitting a multitude of stops carrying passengers, cargo, and anything else that someone thought would enlarge their own personal fortunes.

Along with the growing, river-based economy came those whose ambitions were a little less morally and ethically oriented. They were the general group of gamblers and other pirates who, for one reason or another, were ejected from societies around the world. Some were liars. Some were cheats. In virtually every case, "something for not very much" was the goal. For those who succeeded, their version of "something" could turn into a veritable king's ransom. The prevailing hope was to hit the big one...just once.

In the early days of the river's growth, the traffic upon its surface outreached even the vaguest notion of the law and its enforcement. Still very much a part of the frontier, there was simply no way the thinly strung military postings could monitor anything outside their immediate physical presence. Even then, no one could be two, or two hundred, places at the same time. As a result, there were frequent episodes of hijacking that occurred over the length of the river. The only real recourse available to anyone using the river was to arm themselves to the teeth.

The armaments of choice varied from the family's trusty old squirrel gun, inherited from an ancestor, all the way up to the latest in cannon. Still, the best defense was found to travel in numbers. A single family setting out to settle the western territories with dreams of freedom easily fell prey to one or more of the many varieties of river-riding vermin working the banks of the "Big Muddy." Larger groups usually survived with only small losses of life and property. Fortunately for the river rats, it was almost an entire generation before word got around and travelers began considering road agents and river pirates in their travel plans.

As the years passed, thieves learned that there would have to be improvements in their methodology if they wanted to continue to reap rewards from the unwary. While the lowest of life forms still scoured the shoreline for the unable, the discouraged or the unawake, heavier thought and greater organization was being utilized at other levels. Home bases appeared for the marauding bands. There were entire cities that would aid and abet because the town's main income was derived from their successes. The quest was for a high return against a minimum investment; same game, different clothes.

Of course, greed didn't limit itself to those who had less and wanted more. White collar crime has been a fully functional portion of the civil equation from the beginning. "You got it. I want it." It was a simple formula and it was difficult to find someone on the river who didn't subscribe.

Oddly enough, the less there was to gain from any particular enterprise, the more violence was involved in the procedure. Truly meager amounts of money would set a pack of river pirates upon an unsuspecting family whose sole hopes were of a better life in a land to the south and west of the known world that they had just about already given their all to leave. Whereas, thousands could be made simply by contorting a few ledgers in an office somewhere, including enough for the several people required to cover up the activity.

CHAPTER 2

The Springer family of Philadelphia is a good example. Howard Springer was a big, burly sort of a man with rough features and hands of iron developed through years of working with brick and mortar. His wife Clara was no better educated than most working class women of the time. Her sole duties were within the home, tending the house itself, and caring for their three children. Wilhelmina, the eldest, was a demure but strong sixteen years of age, already taking over many of the household chores with her own home and family constantly in the foreground of her thoughts. Regret was thirteen and wavered between being a deadly tease and being a hermit with her thoughts in the sky. Little Jeremy was a six year old surprise. He was into everything, all the time.

Howard's family had come to the new nation at the turn of the century, during the first great migration. Europe was overcrowded and already straining its agrarian base. It seemed like you couldn't get through a whole day without someone or something making some kind of unexpected impact on your well-ordered and completely satisfying life.

The Springer family had been masons for as long as anyone in the family cared to take the time to remember. There was actually some metal working in the past, but a few burns too many had caused some forefather or other to make the switch.

Howard Springer had been the first of his family actually born in the new United States. His father had settled the family far enough outside the town and made certain they had staked enough land upon which to base the family's own brick works. The family operated the business from beginning to end, cutting out several middle men. It was the consternation of this group that caused Howard Springer to pack up kith and kin and head west. That and the fact that he was just plain tired of the trade. He'd decided, over the remonstrations of the rest of the family, that farming was the thing to which a real man should devote his life. So, with his three brothers running the business while the old man counted his money, Howard, Clara, Wilhelmina, Regret, and Jeremy took the Springer gene pool out into the North American frontier.

Their destination undetermined at the outset, Howard knew there was plenty of room out west because he'd been reading about it in Harper's magazine. The trip to St. Louis was generally uneventful. Clara became a shrew. Wilhelmina whined only while awake. Regret started a fight between a couple of boys. Jeremy got into the poison ivy in Kentucky. The wagon achieved two broken wheels that were repaired with the help of others in their party. But, mostly, the trip was uneventful. Then came the river and the choices it presented.

They had set up their camp in the midst of what to Howard seemed like thousands of others who had much the same idea as he. Open discussions could be heard at almost any time of the day or night regarding the various options available to travelers at that time and place. It was mostly hearsay. It was also about the only news there was. The occasional available newspaper was filled generally with news from back east. Besides, since Howard knew nothing at the outset, he felt he was gaining an enormous education regarding the workings of pioneers in the new American Wilderness.

Just about the time Augustine Taylor showed the world that two-by-fours were just fine for framing houses, somebody started filling Howard Springer's mind with Texas.

The abundance of pecan trees notwithstanding, Texas of that time had much to offer the pioneer. There were fertile fields as far as one could see, generally plenty of water for animals and crops, and space for everyone...except the natives and the Mexicans. These last two groups would provide problems aplenty for visitors and settlers for a good portion of the coming century.

It was to this promised land Howard Springer became intent upon replanting his brood. It was a fate-filled decision because even though Howard had listened intently to the information flowing around the traveler's common campground, and to stories told around the city, he, like too many before him, was simply unprepared. Howard's dream included mounting the family's wagon on a raft, floating as far as Natchez, then trading the raft for oxen or mules to drag them deep into their own personal dreamland. "Where" turned out to be the easy part. "How" became something of a conundrum for the whole family.

They had been encamped, with the rest of the dreamers, just outside St. Louis for the entire winter. Howard had gotten a part-time job at the local brick works, Clara took in some sewing, and the children had gotten their own worlds into some semblance of order. Wilhelmina was in love. Regret was harder than ever to find. Jeremy learned that there were some animals in the forest that just didn't want to be friends.

Wilhelmina had made the acquaintance of a group about her same age at the Methodist church they'd begun attending while awaiting the thaw. She attended Sundays of course, and usually Wednesday nights, which were more informal and designed for young people; a little Bible study, a little mingling. Also in this group was a young man named Clayton Higgenbotham. He was a twenty-one year old high school graduate and clerk at one of the mercantiles downtown. He was six feet tall, always wore a suit, and Wilhelmina was in love. When her father announced his plans for the family, she collapsed and wouldn't come out of the wagon...period.

When the roots begin to grow, no matter how briefly, it becomes much more difficult to displace the plant. The same is true of most people. Breaking the bonds of familiarity can be a traumatic experience for any family. That's especially true for the children whose life experiences are generally limited. They lack the perspective that's sometimes needed to achieve understanding. They crave stability while attempting to break the bonds themselves. The family was their social safety net. The talk and the promises can be of a better house, a better school, better weather, more money, new friends, basically a better deal all around. It doesn't matter. But, talk is cheap and those who have been around the least seem to have some sort of uncanny insight regarding pigs in pokes. On the other hand, you will easily find people who have been around but are just flat dumb, or are blinded by some inner light. These are the ones who, like Howard Springer, will just ignore some important fact or two and plunge ahead like the bull into the torero's sword. Tell the Howard Springers of the world about river pirates, land locked thieves, white water, tornadoes, angry natives, shysters and shylocks. In return you'll receive a wink and a nod and a short but sure response.

"It'll never happen to me."

"Heard about it. But, I ain't seen it."

"We ain't carryin' enough of anything that'll get us robbed."

"They're just tryin' to scare you away 'cause they know there's big money to be made out there."

"Pig-headed" would be an appropriate term. Although many of the people who made the cross-country or down-river treks were made of truly stern stuff, some even well-educated, it was almost impossible to stem the tide of righteous intention. Off they would go, hell-bent for wherever. Ask one of them about this "Oregon" for which they were bound and their eyes would gloss over and they'd begin speaking of gossamer skies, fields of wheat stretching as far as the eye could see, and kindly neighbors who lived nearby...but not close enough to make you feel crowded. Ask them about anyplace to the west or south and you'd think you were listening to a representative from that area's visitor's bureau. There'd be a lot of "High and Mighty's" and virtually no payments to be bothered with. Even those with their feet planted firmly upon Mother Earth couldn't begin to guess the trials, tests, and hardships that would be encountered along their way. This was especially true for the women. Already faced with an opposite sex, frequently their mate, intent upon single ownership and operation of the enterprise, the exterior forces that came into play truly complicated the traveler's gumbo.

So it was that spring when Howard Springer continued to.push his retinue from the solid banks of their lives in Philadelphia, out into his own personal river of destiny.

It was not a painless departure, however; Wilhelmina opted for a hasty wedding to her Clayton the day before. Clara cried, and Regret was gloomy at the prospect of having to work that much harder and being able to spend less time in the world she had created for herself. Howard's thoughts centered around the saved weight and space on the craft, and Jeremy ignored the whole thing, happy to finally get moving again.

Howard had help in the construction of their vehicle from a few of the local veterans and, although it was a bit top-heavy, it was deemed solid enough for their proposed excursion. The plan was to float during the day and camp at night. As a safety measure, and for a little mutual assistance, Howard had found another family whose travel intentions nearly matched his.

Their name was McGraw. They were a family of five. Hiram McGraw had been a farmer in New York when he and his wife Martha made the decision to pack it up and head west. The McGraw children were: David, age twelve, Colin, aged nine, and Donald, who was six.

In fact, the McGraws were something of a catalyst to the Springers' plans. Howard's timidity had already stuck the family in that camp longer than had been planned, and it had cost him a daughter in the bargain. The McGraws had arrived just after the ice on the river had broken. Since Hiram had, in his mind, neither time nor interest in waiting, they shoved off within two weeks of the McGraws' arrival in the camp.

Except for Wilhelmina, who was already wondering about her decision, and with their two rafts lashed together, a Conestoga riding each, the two families resumed their quest for a better life.

Howard and Hiram worked the paddles and rudders while Clara and Martha supervised the shipboard duties. The boys could be found just about anywhere on the vessel at any given moment, but Regret could be counted upon to be along the scuppers staring into the water, watching the whirls and swirls for some sign of her own private future.

Though they had been instructed by some claiming to have some experience in the matter, it was the third night before Howard and Hiram could actually land their less than agile craft without some incident wrinkling the fabric of their journey. One such incident occurred the evening of March 4th. That was the night Donald McGraw would die.

The rafts had been traveling at a high rate of speed courtesy of the annual runoff. This included quantities of eddies continually making their landing something of a question for everyone on board. Normally, with the men at the fore and aft positions and everyone else frantically paddling with some sort of flat thing in order to send the vessel in some preferred direction, and taking into account their relatively shallow draught, they would just sort of sidle the beast up to the shoreline. David would jump to the beach and tie the first line to the biggest tree he could find which would hold things long enough for the men to truly secure the weight of their barge against whatever current was close to the shoreline. It normally took about 45 minutes from the center of the river to the time they were actually as moored for the night.

While the men inspected the raft for flaws, the women would set up camp for the evening. The boys would find something to get away with and Regret, after helping the women set up, would frequently walk downstream to sit on the bank dreaming her dreams.

At the time, "boys will be boys" was an accepted antidote for a myriad of transgressions. The boys had taken to rising and disappearing into the local scenery once everyone else had fallen asleep. Regret did the same occasionally, but always on her own. The first night out they had felt somewhat obliged to stay in bed, but that feeling waned as quickly as the signs of civilization. Normally, they were only out for a couple of hours because time on the river, combined with their daily chores, affected even the young and vital eventually.

This night the boys were seated along the riverbank on a horseshoe shaped bench, dangling their feet about ten feet above the eddy that passed the shoreline about a hundred yards above where the raft was beached. They were staring at the reflection of the moon on the water and discussing their futures. An argument had broken out among the group as to whether Jeremy could persuade his sister to let them all have a look beneath her skirts. Eventually that argument, like so many other petty differences, waned. Time flowed with the current. The boys were in close formation along the bank. First there was David, then Colin, then Jeremy, then Donald.

Colin elbowed Jeremy. Jeremy retaliated, knocking him into David who returned the favor with something of an emotional boost. This sent Colin into Jeremy, who slammed into Donald, who then slipped into the moonlit wonderment below.

Mr. McGraw found his youngest son twisted in the ropes securing the raft the next morning. That changed everything. Everyone was guilty.

Following Donald's burial, the trip continued, mostly in silence. Things had to be done and proper grieving had to wait its turn.

Regret snorted, blushed, and found a private location when the talk turned to her marriage prospects in their new home. The men calculated, cussed and steered. The boys resumed their adventures, in a more sedate manner. At last, they camped about a half day's ride above the city of Natchez. Their plans put them at their target point the following day with plenty of time allowed for doing the necessary business and setting out for their own tomorrows without having to feel pressed.

Pierre LeDoux was a really bad man. The group he led was, to a man, really bad. They were, each and every one, liars, cheats, thieves, killers, users, and destined for hell at an unmatched pace.

When the pirates fell upon the travelers as they slept, there was no resistance. The very next day the marauders made more than $3000 selling what was left of the two family's futures. This included the money they had found hidden aboard the raft. Most of the possessions stayed on the rafts at night and so were tightly packed and ready to be moved to market.

Regret had been out on one of her nightly excursions when LeDoux himself had introduced her to the jack. She was bound and gagged and left to witness the massacre just yards away in silence.

Then there was nothing.

Along with the inference of daylight came Regret's confusion as to why everything hurt so much. She had no idea why she could feel nothing but pain. She thought she was moving as she was bouncing around inside what seemed to be a wooden box, but she hadn't the faintest notion as to where or why.

LeDoux had gotten an extra $1200 for her from a New Orleans pimp in town for an annual poker game with some old drinking and thieving friends. The flesh peddler had won more than $6000 that weekend and he looked on his purchase of Regret as just another investment during his trip to the north.

They called him Heavy Harold. This had much to do with the three hundred plus pounds he carried on his five foot four inch frame. He was the owner/operator of "Heavy Harold's Happiness Emporium" in the fabled port of New Orleans. More than twenty girls, each trained in some sensual specialty, worked for him there. Though he hadn't planned on adding to his stable while in Natchez, he wanted to impress his counterparts in that community with his attitude of impunity at spending money and, in his drunken state, just couldn't resist Regret.

She was tall for her age, bronzed by her outdoor life, with long dark hair, large brown eyes, and a body lithe as a wisp of spring air. These were Harold's images on his drunken way home while staring at the drugged body lying across from him in the coach.

Things played somewhat differently for Regret. Before she opened her eyes, she took a personal inventory. Her first impression was of movement. She was scrunched up onto a bed of what seemed to be leather, going backwards, she thought. Then came the dull ache. She began at her toes and worked her way up. She hurt just about everywhere. She could feel a coolness in the air and she acted on her decision to look just a little. Everything was confirmed. She discovered that she was indeed stuffed onto the leading seat inside a carriage across from a grotesquely obese man who snored loudly enough to wake the dead or disable the living. He had been drooling for some time.

As her senses cleared, Regret lay on the seat watching the man's spittle slowly descend to where his belly protruded, passing through a stream of sunlight on the way. She watched the light play on the effluvium and tried to remember.

The boys had calmed down following their final foray into the wilderness and she, unable to sleep among the night sounds as usual, had decided to stroll. She missed her sister, even though they had never been close. She felt sorry for the McGraws, even though that tragedy hadn't been allowed to deeply affect her own private world.

She tried moving her arms and legs, but they were tied tightly and her efforts only made things worse. The ache in her head was something beyond words. She'd had the occasional headache. This was different. The taste in her mouth was worse than a bad dream. How long had it been? She fell back to sleep more dazed and confused than ever.

"Who dis, Massa Harol'?" It was a woman's voice.

"Huh?" Harold had to look. "Oh. I got her from LeDoux." He stumbled out of the carriage toward what seemed to be the door to a brick building. "See she gets put together, Hattie. But, keep an eye on her. She may run."

"Yassuh," Hattie replied as she looked Regret over. "Ya wants I should lock her up fo' ta-night?"

"Probably ought to," came the reply as the mound passed out of sight. The exchange came to Regret through a tired and hungry fog.

"My goo'ness sakes 'live, chile. Yo' sho' looks used up," Hattie said sweetly. She knew a shanghai when she saw one. "You comes wiff me. We'll get you clean up nice."

"Can you take these off?" Regret choked as she fell out of the coach into Hattie's grasp.

"Sho' 'nough, chile," was the answer. Hattie knew the ropes were rubbing her charge raw, but she was experienced in the introduction of the younger ones to the life. Regret would learn the business thoroughly before she would be allowed to join in the trade and she hung on Hattie's every word.

Not really understanding what had happened to her world, Regret began her employment at the Emporium by scrubbing the place, beginning with the spittoons and working her way up the walls and draperies, finishing with the ceilings. She was charged with changing the bed linens and was awed at the disparity between Harold's bed and the rest. Hattie explained that such was the case because the others were just "tem'prary".

All the girls had rooms of a decent size; about eight by ten, with a small dresser, a small closet, a "personal" corner, and of course, a bed. These rooms were constantly in a state of disarray, the extent depending on the day's successes. The highest grosser had the finest room. Since most of the women who worked for Harold also lived at the house, there was always something going on.

Under Hattie's firm but kind tutelage, the time became benign. She was as safe as any woman in New Orleans could be. She had as much food as she could eat. She had to work hard, it's true, but not as hard as some. Through the diversity of the employees at Harold's, and since everyone liked her, Regret's education was nearly complete and uniquely esoteric.

CHAPTER 3

That Harlingame Hansen was born is an undeniable fact. His tracks led from the East. He "did his time" at an orphanage in Baltimore until he was thrown out for something someone else did. He never was the most sociable child in the place anyway, so he saw the eviction as an opportunity to do something that he wouldn't have been allowed to do for another two years. He had been thinking that he should be getting out of that place and starting his life. In his mind, he saw the door open to the western frontier. Dime novels had been passed around the orphanage freely and while he knew he wasn't a mountain man or probably even a cowboy, he firmly believed he could strike it rich out west. He'd read that the streets were paved with gold in a place called California. It was clear over on the Pacific Ocean. He figured he could get there no later than November.

Harley had stuffed all he had into a gunny sack, taken the $5 they gave him to get started, and set off. There hadn't been a lot of planning involved, choosing what to take, and what to leave behind. He took everything. His pack included: an extra pair of socks (stolen from Frank Thurlow), an extra pair of trousers (traded for with Willie Brown), one oil cloth about 6'x6' (taken from the shop foreman's office), and an additional $6 stolen from the administration office the night before. Harley figured $11 would get him as far as the Mississippi River where, he figured, he could hire on with someone and work his way across the plains. Harley had no real idea regarding the distance to the river, nor really its actual magnitude. Work, not education, was the primary concern at the orphanage. Except for the notion that west would be the general direction he'd be going, he was walking into places where his $11 would impress no one.

As it happened, the oil cloth was the best move. It rained every step of the way. At least it seemed that way to Harley. He decided to go mostly barefoot to save on shoe leather. He'd read about the snow covered passes and he'd read about at least one desert between himself and this place called California. After only a few days on the road, he realized his money wasn't going to make the whole trip.

Lady luck smiles when she damn well feels like it and she grinned broadly upon Harlingame Hansen somewhere in Ohio. He actually thought he'd been doing pretty well, all in all. A few odd jobs on farms along the way had kept him fed and out of the rain as he slept. All he got, everywhere, when the subject of his destination arose during conversation with his various benefactors regarding the best route, was admonition. So, rather than listen to the experienced and mature, he just kept putting one foot in front of the other and the miles just seemed to be taking care of themselves.

As he topped a low ridge late one sunny afternoon, he found just what he had been hoping to encounter. What was in reality just well-worn and in places, terribly muddy, was a superhighway to Harley. There was even a bonus. A wagon train stretching to the horizon, looking like a caterpillar as the individual parts wobbled their way into the setting sun, was in transit. As it worked out, by the time Harley had reached the assemblage, they were just bedding down for the night. After a few questions, Harley found himself facing the wagon master. He was a large, hard-looking man, not at all pleased about having his duties interrupted by a stray cat.

The leader of the pilgrims beheld a particularly dirty countenance. He was, however, impressed by the boy's persistence, so he allowed him to work for food under the condition that he cause no trouble among the paying customers. Things went very well for about four days. Then, he saw her.

During all his years at the orphanage, Harley had heard stories about them, but he'd never really had anything actually to do with them. A couple of the farmers who allowed him to do a little work for them on his journey tried to get him to take a daughter or two off their hands. They were mostly, however, foreign objects about which Harley knew nothing.

He was out scavenging wood for the evening fires. She was by herself, sitting in a field of buttercups, staring out across her own dreamscape. She said her name was Regret and that she was forced to leave a perfectly good home against her will. He told her about his abrupt departure from Our Lady of the Inquisition. She was impressed by his traveling so far alone. He couldn't look away from her eyes. The entire next week included daily clandestine meetings in the wilderness which, to his way of thinking, were a good reason to try to stay with the train all the way to St. Louis.

Then her father stepped in. He didn't want his daughter straying away from the general camp, alone and unprotected, especially since she and Harley had arranged the majority of their rendezvous after dark. He assigned, much to the chagrin of Regret's older sister Wilhelmina, nineteen year old Billy Clagg to "keep an eye on her." Wilhelmina had been flirting with Billy. Regret had no use for him and expressed this feeling to Harley.

It had begun with words. It ended when Harley moved Billy's nose around to the right side of his face, a detail that did not go unnoticed by the wagon master. Lady Luck is such a butterfly.

Regret would haunt Harley for the rest of his lonely trek. Although exile was nothing new to Harley, he was inwardly loathe to separate from the others. There had been an element of security that he had never known, even though he was just an odd-jobber. As the days passed, he could occasionally see the train off in the distance; their fires at night glowing. He imagined it was her leaving the bits of bread and such for him to find. Unbeknownst to Harley, at night Regret would scan the horizon for his firelight.

Angry that the dispute with that Clagg kid had gotten him booted from the company, and disgusted with himself for, a) getting all goofy over some woman, and b) being grateful for the morsels of food being left for him along the train, he decided to leave the main line.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that, step after step, that way instead of this, he walked mostly in a daze, mostly to the west. As he topped a ridge, he could see, two or three days walk in the distance, the river. From where Harley stood gazing upon the silver ribbon and the lands beyond, in his mind he was already there. The past weeks on the road, both alone and with the company, disappeared. But the sun was setting, the day had been long, the hills many, and his bed roll was a most welcome thought as he opened it over some tall weeds.
CHAPTER 4

The sights and sounds of the city surrounded him and his hunger was temporarily forgotten. This was definitely not Baltimore.

Harley's life hadn't been entirely wasted as he grew up in "Our Lady of Confusion." In fact, once they could actually get around without a lot of trouble, every boy was used in the maintenance of the building, its grounds, and the feeding of everyone in the place. Occasionally there had been a small surplus from the school's little plot, and they had the opportunity to learn a bit about the marketplace. They literally learned by doing everything from pulling weeds to plowing a field, to doing the paperwork needed to run a business. Most of the boys could read and write at least a little, although there were a few who did better than others and so spent more time in the office than in the fields. However, cross the Sisters and you could all too quickly be getting in some extra practice with a shovel or hoe.

So it was with Harley. He had become proficient at mostly everything the school had to offer, so he felt he was well armed for the task of finding gainful employment just about anywhere. He figured that he could get a quick job, make a few bucks, and be in California within a year. The amount of time to actually get to California was something that, until his experience of the last few weeks, was somewhat different than real life. Rather than rankling over the loss of his "six weeks or so" dream, he allowed himself to be satisfied with his newest estimation of "about a year."

As he strolled with his meager luggage up to what he thought must be the main street in the city, he vowed not to be discouraged by a possible first few rejections. Twelve businesses later, Harley had to take a break. The reasons had been varied and sometimes creative: "I don't need no hep," "I don't want no hep," and his favorite so far, "You just fetch yerself outta here afore I plant my boot so far up yer ass you'll be diggin' shit out from betwixt yer teeth."

Harley plopped himself down on the shady side of the street, using up very little of the walkway. Even so, several not-too-sober individuals kicked their way by him cursing his presence as they passed. He just stared. Nothing was out there really, just weariness. He was tired. There was noise. He was resting, oblivious. As he sat occupying his own little haze, his eye rested upon a scene across the street at what appeared to be some kind of freight office. The sounds of a not too calm conversation wafted across the street to Harley's ears.

The story Harley thought he heard was that the driver of a wagon load of building materials and other household goods bound for a small town in Southern Colorado was refusing to make the trip alone. He didn't care about all the extra money. He wasn't going alone. The man doing the talking, apparently the driver, was standing next to the wagon in question, was sort of small to Harley's eye. He was maybe 5'5" tall, and he maybe carried 145 lbs. His sleeves were rolled up, disclosing a wiry toughness that came with long years as a driver. He was dusty from beard to boots. His occupation, coupled with his "bathe once a month if ya got to" attitude, made quite a picture.

What turned out to be fortunate for Harley was that the driver, and the other man who must have been station master or freight office manager, were taking quite a while to settle their dispute. It was quite some time before the idea fully germinated in Harley's head. When it finally came to him, he was on his feet and crossing the street in a single motion.

"I'll go," he stuffed into the middle of their argument.

"Oh, Christ," was followed by a brown stream of tobacco juice into the street not very far at all from where Harley's right foot was planted. The driver knew how easy it would be to meet the freight master's criteria as a "spare" driver.

"How old are you?" the agent asked Harley.

"Nineteen," Harley lied.

"Bullshit," said the driver.

"Can you drive?" asked the agent through a tough-to-hide veil of apprehension and urgency.

"Yes," answered Harley.

"Can you shoot?" The driver asked that question with a particular glare in his eye.

"Yes," Harley lied again, wondering why he would ask that.

"Five cents a mile at the end of the trip. That's about 800 miles, so that's $40 when you get there," blurted the freight master.

Halfway to California with $40 in his pocket was what Harley was thinking.

"Let's go," Harley looked at the mule skinner.

"It's settled then," said the agent. "What's your name, young man?"

"Harlingame Hansen," said Harley.

"Oh, Christ," said the driver.

"Harlingame, this is the company's best 'skinner...Crab Dates," called the agent as he sped off to something that must have been important.

"Pleased to meet you," Harley held out his hand.

"Bullshit," said the driver, sending another caramel torrent into the dirt at Harley's feet.

Harley guessed they had been on the road for the better part of three hours before he screwed up enough courage to say anything to the extra-surly and aptly named Crab, and that was only in response to a query.

"Where'd ya git a hell's-a-poppin' name like Whilyton, anyhow?" asked the driver while re-loading his cheek.

"Harlingame," came with a look of total surprise.

"Whatever," chewed the driver.

"I don't know," said Harley. "I came from an orphanage in Baltimore an' they gave it to me there. Everybody just calls me Harley." Harley was glad to be sitting upwind.

That was the entire conversation on the road that day.

"We'll stop here for the night," was all it took to get Harley up out of his seat and into the process of unhooking various pieces of harness.

"Ah'll git the rig. You start some coffee," sent Harley scurrying around collecting whatever scrub he could find to create a fire, which was woefully pitiful until Crab tossed a dried out buffalo chip onto it.

"City boy," was accompanied by another baleful stream of tobacco juice.

What Harley learned during the next couple of weeks on the road with this "plenty-experienced" old timer had Crab laughing to himself most of the time. When Crab had needed help, he had been saddled with this tin-horn kid. That the kid had picked up on virtually everything, virtually instantly, had Crab wondering if there might not be something a mite peculiar about this one, but he wasn't about to show anything more than disgust. His reputation depended on it.

While a good, organized campsite was something rather new to him, Harley could help with the driving right away, and he'd enjoy every minute of it. Pretty soon, Crab had Harley driving the whole time, while the 'skinner did day-long "eyelid inspections" on the mattress that was among the rest of the goods in transport.

The road to the blossoming town of Cojones was a simple one, mostly prairie with only a few small streams to deal with once they had crossed the Mississippi and the Platte. As the trip wore on, the conversations between Crab and the boy grew in length. The old dog and the young rooster weren't such a bad combination after all, it seemed. It was what happened about four days east of Cojones that really got old Crab's attention. It was here that Crab allowed that there might just be something out of the ordinary about this boy, for real.

They camped easy that night, leaving most everything except their sleeping and eating gear on the wagon. There was a storm coming across the prairie, bringing lightning and what appeared to be a flash flood problem with it. The animals were staked out atop a small rise along with the wagon. They didn't want to be in a hole if there actually was going to be a lot of water soon. They spent a few minutes reconnoitering an escape route, just in case.

They took pains to see that their merchandise was as well protected as they could arrange, then they set up their own shelter. It was just a couple of oil cloths draped over the side of the wagon, which in turn, served as their roof. But, during what appeared at the time as just a light rain in their general area, they thought it ample. You just couldn't really tell at first.

Harley was awakened by he knew not what. When he peeked out from under their make-shift tent flaps, there was nothing to see but black. Then the lightning danced and the surrounding plain was exposed. It was dark again by the time the thunder reached his ears. The "crack" was complicated with Crab's request for information and to deliver instructions to Harley to get back to sleep in preparation for the coming day.

"Hush!" came the whispered yet obviously urgent order from Crab a few moments later. It didn't look to Harley like he had even moved a muscle from where he had just moments ago been sleeping. He just lay there, on his belly, with his head turned away.

"Crab, what are...?" was cut off by a hand waving in Harley's face.

"Listen," Crab hissed.

All Harley could hear was his own breathing. After a moment, things began to sort: breath, heartbeat, wind, raindrops, agitated mules. Then Crab was up and gone. As he clambered out from under the wagon himself, something new appeared among all the noises. He felt it more than he heard it. It seemed to be coming through his feet.

Harley could see Crab re-tying and hobbling the mules. Turning to look out over the prairie, Harley was treated to the entire panorama by three tremendous bolts of dry lightning. In those seconds of illumination, Harley saw something that was on its way to becoming memories for the old, stories for the young, and incomprehensible to future generations. The lightning bolts had disclosed a landscape in motion. Harley barely heard the thunder roll over their campsite.

The annihilation of the Great North American Bison, much like the demise of the Native American, really only took about fifty years, both succumbing to the incursion from the east. There were at this time however, herds comprised of millions of the animals roaming the plains from Texas all the way up into Canada. It was a herd of just about that size that was presented to Harley as the lightning continued its intermittent appearances. It looked like a blanket, moving with no sure edge. The blanket seemed to be moving Harley's way, driven by the seemingly more frequent flashes of light and claps of thunder unlike anything he had seen or heard in Baltimore.

He could hear it positively now. It was a low rumbling, still as much in his feet as in his ears. He thought he could make out individuals as the herd continued to swarm. Suddenly he recognized that this boiling mass of fur and beast was heading right in their direction, the sound increasing with each blink of an eyelid.

Harley spun and ran to the other end of the camp only to find Crab on the ground, face down and still. At the notice of some blood on the side of the old skinner's head, Harley concluded that one of the mules had won the contest and he began the process of loading Crab into the wagon. The slight stature of his mentor helped out quite a bit. When the old man was tightly stowed in and among their charge, Harley did something that would be discussed around the region for years to come. He built a fire.

What a fire it was. By the time the stampede got to where a choice of direction had to be made, that is, straight through the camp, or down the ravine next to it, there was fire. Harley had combed the area surrounding the camp for wood of any size and type. The conflagration began with remnants of the evening's cook fire and grew with the addition of each element of scavenged fuel. Everything Harley could find went onto the pyre. What had begun with twigs and embers came to include all sizes and shapes of branches and even one six foot section of a dead tree trunk that had been down for ages. With the fire having grown to the approximate size of the entire campsite, wagon and all, Harley was out in front jumping up and down and waving his shirt and yelling at the top of his lungs.

It was probably a combination of the generally wooded rise on which they had set up camp and the fact that the ground sloped away from them that mostly caused the great river of animals to veer away from the exposed camp. But, whatever was responsible, veer away was what they did. During the height of the turmoil, Crab had regained himself just enough to witness the final act. He wasn't quite sure if he was dead and in hell or if that kid was really as loco as he seemed. Crab lay back down and checked through his own memories to see if he had ever heard of such a thing happening before. As a rule, you didn't just turn the herd in the middle of a stampede. Sorta one-way characters, buffalo; not too smart and usually not too concerned with whatever it was they just trampled.

As the last few hundred stragglers passed Harley's position on the point, the fire lit their profiles and Harley just sort of stopped all his hootin' and hollerin' and stared at the animals. He still hadn't come completely to grips with what had just taken place. It had taken the herd a full forty-five minutes, and more, to move past their position. He had been jumping up and down, yelling at the top of his lungs, unseen and unheard by the passersby, and he was plumb gassed. He sweat, he gasped, he rested his hands on his knees, and he still was unclear as to the magnitude of what he had just witnessed.

"Boy," came the voice behind Harley. "I weren't there when Moses parted the sea, but I sure as hell never even heerd o' the likes o' which I just seen this here minute ago."

"Huh?" Harley gasped

"Why, the way you turned them buff," cackled Crab, indicating glee with a certain version of a jig, and a stagger.

Harley looked toward the ebbing rumble and still wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. All he could see through his exhaustion was darkness and buffalo butts bouncing out of the reaches of the firelight.

"I don't know what made you do such a damn fool thing, boy, but I'm gonna see that you get paid extry," said Crab. "Why, if'n you hadn't-a done all-a yer catterwallin' an' sich, we'd be buzzard mush by now. An' that's not ta mention loss o' goods."

"Loss o' goods?" was about the best Harley could do while panting deeply.

"Well, shore!" said Crab rather incredulously. "'Cept'n fer our wages, this stuff is paid fer. An' they jist ain't no sich of a thing as insurance, out here."

Slowly coming out of his daze, Harley was staring at Crab and seeing buffalo. Crab was talking a blue streak, but all Harley could hear was buffalo. Buffalo by the ton, buffalo by the mile, buffalo on the hoof, far away eyes going that-a-way just as fast as those little legs would carry them. The image would stay with Harley for the rest of his life, and would live in the region for generations.

Harley hadn't spoken again as they settled the animals and flopped themselves into their own shelter for the night. Crab had slowed down considerably, too. He sort of ran out of words just about the time his excitement was overtaken by the pain in his head.

Was it thunder? Was it hooves? Are they coming back? Harley's semi-conscious condition was as close to sleep as he would accomplish that night.

Even though they ran across Indian tracks two different times, the rest of their journey was comparatively uneventful. Of course, after a buffalo stampede in a dry lightning storm, there are few things that could've gotten much more than a casual glance. Crab's head was getting heavier with each mile, and as they neared their destination, he spent more and more time on the mattress in the back of the wagon. Occasionally lucid, mostly unconscious, Crab just drifted the rest of the way into Cojones.

CHAPTER 5

Harley had no idea where to go with his load, so he ended up rolling the wagon all the way through the almost-a-town. It was really just a row of shanties and tents that would indeed, someday, be a town, until he reached what was passing as a livery/smithy. There he was instructed to turn around and go back to the other end of the street and talk to the town's new banker who could be found at the building site of the new bank. He was to ask for Mr. Octavius Mirabello. He was the manager of the new bank and the station master dealing with shipments coming into the town-in-the-making. He was just basically "in charge."

As Harley made his second pass through the not-yet-booming cow town of Cojones, Colorado, the mechanics of observation, as taught by Crab Dates, went to work. It's unclear why anyone would build a town so far out in the wilderness. There was nothing around for hundreds of miles, yet there were several buildings under construction here, and a dozen or so tents apparently serving as taverns or mercantiles. They were even building a new bank.

The town of Cojones was coming to be for several reasons. Cojones was at a geographical bottleneck for herds moving from the south and west, trappers coming out of the Rockies would use the village for trading, and there was talk of high grade mining prospects in the area. One group from New York had made the commitment to make it their own personal bonanza. For now, it was the cowboys and their drinking and gambling. Later, someone expected to make a lot of money from this enterprise. It should also be noted that, as many men as there were, even at this stage of the town's growth, there was a severe shortage of women. The few times that a woman had actually passed through town, there was either a husband or a scheduling problem, and there would invariably be a few fights. Someone might even be killed. But, in a town outside the law, that didn't matter much.

At the other end of this soon-to-be-town, the end Harley had entered, the end opposite the so-called livery, a work was in progress.

Mr. Mirabello was portly, balding, loud, and as Harley approached, mostly jovial in a "trying but failing" sort of way. He tried but failed to be witty. He tried but failed to be judicious. He tried but failed to be a leader. All of which culminated in a continual pain in his stomach which put a sort of sour look on his face no matter the direction of the conversation. Confusion was added to the mix as a wagon being driven by a boy pulled up in front of his new bank.

"Are you Mr. Mira...Mira...?" came the voice from the driver's seat.

"That's Mirabello, boy," said the banker, just waiting for another annoying delay, or something that was surely to drag his day even deeper into the failure pit.

"Mr. Dates needs a doctor an' here's all the stuff that was supposed to be delivered," said Harley in a quick way that let all his nervousness spill out.

Before the banker could respond, Crab hauled his battered self over the side of the wagon and landed on his back right at Mr. Mirabello's feet. As the old mule skinner tried to focus on the banker, Harley was trying to ease his predicament by keeping Crab's head out of the mud in the street.

"This boy saved yer goods from a stampede," croaked Crab. "Ya ought-a pay him extry."

"Stampede?" came out as the banker's eyebrows went up.

"Buffalo, sir," said Harley still dealing with a man who had neither plans for the future, nor need of any.

"Crab," said Harley in alarm. "Crab" came out a little louder with considerable concern attached. "Crab," yelled Harley. Then he looked up at the banker, "He ain't breathin'."

During the few days between his injury and their arrival in Cojones, a huge black and purple welt had formed on the right side of Crab's head. When he wasn't asleep, he was mostly delirious. Although Harley was saddened at the death of his mentor, one thing he had been taught was to recognize facts as facts.

CHAPTER 6

Harley was physically and emotionally exhausted as he gave his accounting of the trip to Mr. Mirabello. Mr. Mirabello had contracted to pay a $100 delivery fee upon the arrival of his supplies. Since he no longer had to pay Crab, he gave Harley an extra $20 over what the freight master in St. Louis had promised him and pocketed the extra $40.

Life was a maze to Harley. He was unsure how to properly mourn the loss of a friend and so was feeling a bit of guilt over perhaps not doing the right thing. He was also very happy to be what was, in his estimation, rich. He was also very happy to be this much closer to California...already!

Since there wasn't anything you could really call a hotel in the town, and even though Mr. Mirabello had suggested he stay at the banker's home and have a good meal prepared by Mirabello's Chinese servant, Harley wanted to stay out in the clear and clean as he'd been doing the past couple of weeks with Crab. So, with Mr. Mirabello's assistance, he put together a proper kit: bed roll, hunting knife in a scabbard, a small bore rifle and enough ammunition for a few misses, food for about a week, depending, and a mule. Harley liked the knife best. He'd seen it the minute they'd entered the store. It was under glass. It was about 14" long and must have weighed 3 lbs. The scabbard was heavy leather and it came with a belt so it could be worn handy.

Harley's search was for solitude. It wasn't that he was running away from anything, he just wanted to get away from crowds for a while. This was the boy from Baltimore thinking that Cojones was a crowded place. Crab had indeed had some effect on him during their trek. He set out to explore the hills to the north of the settlement. They weren't really hills, just huge piles of nearly round boulders sometimes reaching as high as a thousand feet. Harley felt he needed to do some planning and personal sorting, as he knew that his current situation was but a temporary one.

He made it about five miles out into the region for which the town was named and decided to set up his first camp alone. He planned to look around every corner during the next few days just to see what was there.

It took about fifteen minutes to get the mule settled and to get some beans boiling. The boy at the livery had told him where to find a nice cool sink hole and he almost stumbled into it as he made his way through the rocks. As he sat on his bed roll beneath an outcropping, he took the moment to relive his journey thus far. It was a trip not even a vivid imagination could reproduce properly.

As he left the orphanage in the recesses of his mind, for it really was very a long time ago, he thought of all the people who had helped him along on his way. The people who had allowed him to work for food when he first left the institution, the farmers who'd tried to fix Harley up with their daughters, those who had let him use outbuildings for shelter during storms. He thought about the wagon master who'd given him his chance. He thought about Crab Dates. He thought about Regret. There is where the dream lingered.

The next few days were spent just sort of wandering around the area. Every once in a while, he'd look quickly back over his shoulder. He couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he wasn't alone, but decided that must be how it feels right after a friend dies. He was enjoying clambering around on these rocks. Up high he could get a pretty good lay of the land, and it gave him a chance to think about how he was going to get the rest of the way to California.

The weather was holding nicely and was mostly clear at night, so except for the evening chill common to foothills and high plains, Harley was quite comfortable. He was continually finding himself in an amazed state due to the quantity and variety of life among the boulders.

It was due to one of these life forms that Harley's life story, hardly chiseled in granite at this point, was changed irrevocably and permanently. He was climbing around on some rocks about five miles or so to the northeast of town. He heard the noise first. When he turned his head to inspect, the unmistakable shape of what was to Harley the largest serpent hell had to offer, loomed ready to strike. Harley's surprise combined with the kind of shock and fear such a specter produces in most normal people caused him to lash out. Unconsciously grabbing his new knife, eyes tightly shut, fingers in a death grip on the hilt, he moved. He decapitated the rattler between rattles. His motion also sent him tumbling through a crack in the boulders, leaving him breathing heavily and out like a light.

Lying in the dark, in the dirt, Harley ran a personal inventory: fingers, toes, legs not broken, head not too badly battered. Still a bit hazy, Harley didn't think he'd ever been in as bad a situation as this. As he thought about someone coming out looking for him, and he knew there was no way that would happen, he became a bit frightened. When his thoughts became somewhat more lucid, and he correctly determined which way was up, his first thought wasn't of the cavern he occupied, or the knot growing on the side of his head, or even of the scrapes, cuts, and other sore spots that seemed to be just about everywhere on his body. No, Harley's first collection of recent memory was pretty much dominated by that diamondback that had caused him to jump so far so fast. It was pretty dark in the hole and daylight was giving it up fast outside. Harley thought about spending the night in the hole, freezing to death, and never being found.

He looked around his hole, thinking there might be some other way out. It was hard to figure, as little light as there was at hand. He could no longer hear the snake so he assumed it had taken its leave; the results of his adrenaline fueled reaction still unknown to him. He found he could stand erect in that hole and he only hit his head as he approached what seemed to be the only way in. As he rummaged around in the dark, no small part of his attention focused for small and violent creatures, he kept moving small metallic things in the floor of the cave. It was with a certain amount of trepidation, born of his face to face encounter of less than an hour before, that he bent down and felt the ground around his feet.

Money! It felt like money. It felt like what, in Harley's mind, were gold coins. He thought gold because of their weight. He'd never seen a gold piece. These were large, and heavy, and they kind of "tinked" when struck against one another...like money! Now he needed light. He pocketed a few of the relics and then he acted upon his only option.

As climbs go, this one wasn't so bad. There were plenty of places for fingers and toes as he made his way to the opening to the cave. It was only a bit dark was all.

As he emerged from the cleft, the first thing to gain his attention was the body of the snake, all eight feet of it, with the head just twelve inches away, poised as if to bear witness to Harley's immersion and resurrection.

Harley backed his way away from the door to his discovery thinking he could remember this hole in the rocks as being different from the other holes in the rocks. It didn't take him long to realize that once you've seen one hole in the rocks, you've pretty much seen them all. As he stood erect on the ground below, he saw it. The way the light cast shadows across the apparent face on the escarpment was perfect. It created the face of the only woman for whom Harley's heart had room. He planned to crawl right into her left nostril again tomorrow when there was light, and he would make torches for inside the cave. For the time being, Harley would have to wait. Of all the things he had, he somehow felt that time was now his chief asset.

He hurriedly buried the snake's head as a marker. Crab had taught him that "just because the bee's dead, don't mean the stinger's dull". He thought about a new hat band, for when he got a hat.

As he worked his way down and around the rocky outcroppings, he was careful to watch his back-trail. All his mind could muster was, "All those round rocks." He found, which gave him something of a shock, that he had spent the entire afternoon on the exact opposite side of the mound of boulders from where he had pitched his camp.

The firelight was welcome. The snake he burned was salty but it reminded him of Crab so it went down just fine. The beans made the stark meal a feast after his day climbing around the rocks and squirreling around in the cave. As he stared at the object in his possession, glittering in the fire-light, his mind went many places. That thing in his hand, being casually twiddled among his fingers, shiny following a wash and make-shift polishing created a considerable dilemma for Harley. He wanted back into the cave, and he wanted back in...NOW! He knew he could make a torch and he knew he'd have to do that anyway, to get a good look down inside that hole. But, he had come to know the value in getting a fresh start in the morning. Crab Dates had left quite a legacy without ever having the opportunity to witness his student's progress.

He knew, as he lay in his bed roll waiting impatiently for the sunrise, that what he had found was some kind of coin. He hadn't been too highly educated at the Our Lady of Work Your Ass Off, but money has a feel all its own. The firelight hadn't revealed much. There appeared to be a picture of someone on one side, with some kind of writing on both sides of the not quite round object he couldn't set aside. It took all night for the darkness to subside.

The sun was high and the mule was restless when Harley finally awoke. There were no dreams he could remember. After running through the "Huh?, What?, Where?" litany, and after conducting a frantic search for the item he'd fallen asleep with, Harley decided to move the entire camp over the mound to the site of his find. It was a fairly simple matter: roll up the blanket and drag the mule around the butte.

Making certain that his mule was secure and cared for, Harley started back up the rocky outcropping. As it happened, he'd spent a goodly portion of the previous evening examining his preliminary find and he knew that, due to his own ignorance, he needed a plan. He knew he needed someone he could trust. The more he stared at the trinket in his hand, the more he believed his find was not ordinary. Although he had no personal experience with the metal, he believed gold could be this heavy, thick, shiny, and yellow, and found in this place.

He had to stop and stare. There was nothing in the wall of rocks he now faced even vaguely resembling the outline in his memory. After a few minutes of wondering what to do, the little notion appeared. First, he looked for and found where he had buried the snake's head. He didn't remember exactly how the encounter had gone, but he knew for a fact that he wasn't the one stretched out on the branch drying into a hatband shape. That was Harley's plan for the snake...as soon as he got a hat.

Harley knew he was near the spot, having thought to use the snake's head as a marker. But, after a couple hours of scrambling around on the rocks, he still hadn't found the right crack. Finally, he decided there was nothing for it but to wait. Actually, there was much to do. He spent the rest of the afternoon setting up a more planted camp and searching out the kind of scrub that would make workable torches for when he finally did make it back inside that cave. The next time into the hole, and he was confident he would find it again, there would be plenty of light. He was ready for the rediscovery. It occurred to him that he should put himself in the correct position to observe the shadowy indicator. So, he wandered down the arroyo with a handful of jerky, a canteen, and the coin he had already brought out of the cache.

It was 5:50 on the clock that afternoon. Harley didn't know that, but as the afternoon waned, and the light went with it, he kept his gaze fixed to the huge pile of rocks facing him. The mule just watched.

There she was, just as the afternoon before. Harley had to blink back the tear as his memory brought her back to him. Her smile, her touch, her sound, her smell, all came flooding back as the afternoon sunlight cast a portrait of Regret on the stones before him. There she was. Harley couldn't imagine how he could have missed it during his earlier exploration. Walking toward the target, careful not to let the aperture elude his sight again, he stumbled up the rocks.

Sure enough, as he peeked over the final obstacle, there was the evidence of yesterday's encounter with hell. He left his shirt to mark the hole and climbed down the rocks for his coat, the new torches he'd made, his box of matches, and his rope. Once he had gathered the materials together, he turned toward his find, and stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn't see his personal flag. It wasn't panic exactly, but adrenaline had him and his armload of aids back up to the spot in fewer than two shakes of his mule's tail. Upon closer inspection in what was becoming a darkened landscape, he had to get a look at just the right angle or there was suddenly, no shirt, and no cave.

When he reached his hole, he dropped three torches into the darkness, keeping one at hand, which he lit to assist in the downward climb. From his preliminary perch, the hole looked deeper and even more evil with its jagged edges and pitch black recesses. As he crawled down into the dark with his one torch ablaze, he noted toe holds and other aspects necessary for a safe passage.

Standing on the floor of the cave he lit another torch and knew instantly that this was indeed something way out of the ordinary. The entrance itself was high, about ten feet, at one end of the room. The torches lit a total area that was somewhat teardrop shaped, about twenty feet in length and perhaps twelve feet across working itself into what appeared to be a point at the far end. It was a natural pocket formed by that last glacier that wandered in, stirred up the landscape, and died a leisurely, geologic death.

Due to the nearly uniform roundness of the boulders piled to form the structure, there seemed to be many individual little holes throughout the walls of the cave. As Harley noted these, the memory of a certain rattlesnake flooded back into his consciousness. The decision to poke a stick into these holes prior to thrusting in some unsuspecting body part came easily. He lit the rest of the torches and spaced them along the walls so he could make a complete assessment of his discovery.

Laid out before him, covered in generations of dust and lit only by his torches, was a page of history. Harley had no knowledge of the trek by the Spanish into the depths of the continent. What he had stumbled upon was apparently a cache of what explorers might carry for trading purposes and was stashed as weight and ungainliness became a factor.

In the shifting light of his make-shift lamps, Harley could see that there was a guard. He was a bit less aggressive about protecting his charge than he had been nearly two centuries earlier, but he had not deserted his post. Harley also noted several small wooden boxes, also covered with years of neglect, and there seemed to be a large quantity of loose change such as he had found during his initial visit.

Crab had told him not to trust anyone. He trusted Crab. He needed to find somebody to trust with this. Mr. Mirabello, being a banker and all, and his only acquaintance so far, got the nod. It wasn't a gold mine, but gold is gold and Harley figured some plan of action was necessary to keep himself whole. Crab had related several stories regarding gold and the kinds of things even normally cold sober people would do to acquire it for themselves. That's when the stories about not trusting anyone came up.

Aside from the pile of bones still wearing his rusty old armor coffin, Harley found himself up to his ears in gold by the time he'd gone through only about half of this inventory. Then the temperature started to drop. He didn't know how long he'd been in the hole, but he guessed that a good deal of time had passed. As he clambered down the rocks after leaving the hole for the night, his mind paged through the possibilities. What if someone had followed him? What if someone took his treasure? What if he were killed for the gold? However he worked it in his head, whatever path he followed, he ended up dead.

"Howdy, son," came the voice out of the dark. "A little late to be a-wanderin' 'round, ain't it?"

There was someone waiting for Harley at his camp. A neither expected nor welcome find. That, coupled with Harley's most recent train of thought caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up.

The darkened figure he faced across what would have been a fire for his coffee and dinner was visible only in faint outline under the moonlight. His mind raced: "Why would anyone be waiting for me...at my camp...in the dark...?"

"Have a seat, boy. Don't be shy," came the voice from the shadow. "C'mon. Don't be a-skeered," the voice tried to beckon.

Harley eased himself over to a rock that was about sitting size and across the cold campfire from the menacing figure.

"What-cha been doin'?" asked the stranger.

"Just lookin' around," said Harley. "I been out here a couple-a days." With this statement Harley got to his feet and started loading his supply of scrub down into the pit to burn. He was scared, and every possible evil thing that could happen under the circumstances crowded his brain. So engrossed in thought was he that he didn't hear what the fellow hiding in the dark was saying. He just kept getting his fire ready.

Something grabbed Harley's left arm and was accompanied by a noise unlike anything in his experience. It must have been a deal like with that old rattlesnake because at the first pressure on his arm, Harley swung around and that new knife of his split the stranger's heart right down the middle. He then he collapsed, hitting the ground before the dead man.

His head hurt like the time Billy Simpson had hit him with a rock back at Our Lady of Innocent Brats. First, he assessed his own situation: no apparent broken bones, just a headache. It was deep into the night and he could hardly see at all. He could hear his mule breathing. As he tried to rise, his head reminded him of what had happened earlier. He looked around and finally found the intruder, prone, with his face where there should have been embers. It was at times like this that Harley knew he needed the experience and wisdom of his friend Crab Dates. So, just like he thought Crab would do, he loaded the stranger's body up on his horse and, leading with his own mule, headed east. This was some heavy thinking time for the boy from back east. There was so much to do that depended on the veracity of strangers. He didn't like the feeling, but he was more concerned about what he would do if someone did actually cheat him out of his gold. He'd already decided that there would be no one on the earth privy to the location of the cave. After leading the corpse laden horse about five miles, Harley swatted its behind and watched it disappear into the darkness with its burden.

When he finally returned to the campsite, it was full daylight, and though he was dog-tired from the all-nighter he'd just pulled, he somehow knew this wasn't the time to rest.

He went right to work obscuring his presence in the area. He knew it wouldn't matter where he had been as he had told Mr. Mirabello and the stable boy that he'd be wandering around for a few days. He didn't, however, wish to leave sign of any regular use. It was going to be tough enough keeping his little secret to a small circle. He wasn't aware himself, but this Harley boy who had left Baltimore in such a hurry, and so ignorant, was considerably changed in the past few weeks. He had become strong in character, tough in soul, and an apparent millionaire. As he lit a small fire to make his morning coffee, he made the plan to wipe out his tracks in the area as well as the stranger's before he returned to the cave for whatever amount of coins he would take back for the banker to see. The coffee was boiling and its aroma was all there was to bring Harley back into the present. As he braved the first few sips of the scalding brew, he began to understand what he was going to have to do to protect his find and his life.

Having left the partial remains of one of his torches on the front porch made it much easier for him to find the cave's entrance at the first real light. He really didn't want to have to wait until dusk to re-enter the hole. He had made a couple more, knowing how dark it would be inside the cave no matter the hour. His work was methodical. He left the soldier to continue his watch. He packed exactly one hundred of the coins into the bag which had carried his beans and he left the cave for he knew not how long.

The next order of business involved making the place look like there had been no one around there for centuries. Basically, that meant he had to obliterate the campfire's remains and all animal and human tracks in the area. As tough as it was for someone to find who actually knew where to look, Harley figured his find was safe as long as he kept his eyes peeled, his ears didn't fill up with dirt, and he monitored what escaped from his mouth.

Now came what he thought was to be the dangerous part of the whole adventure. He had to tell someone of his find. He needed to know what he had. He had been a little nervous as he strode out of Baltimore, but, in the light of his recent experience, he couldn't focus on anything; food, riding instead of walking, Regret.

It was an afterthought, but one that he thought could be useful. It was three full miles before he bent down and cleaned that fellow's blood from his knife. The stew was getting thick but as he ambled along he figured he already had more gold than he could ever dig up out in the Californias, or anywhere else for that matter. So, with those hundred coins in that pouch tied to that mule, Harley slowly re-entered the little settlement and found his way to where the new bank was being built.

The horse just walked up to the stable and stopped. The rider stayed in his saddle. Billy Wycliff, the old man who operated the facility moved up to help. When he got close enough, he decided that was close enough and ran as flat out as he could to Mr. Mirabello. There was no sheriff in the settlement and the banker was as close to authority as was available.

Once again he had sent an idiot to do a man's job. Mirabello swore under his breath as he and Billy brought the corpse down off the horse's back.

"This man's been stabbed," Mirabello said to nobody in particular. "You can have the horse and tack," the banker told Billy as he put the man's personal possessions in his own pockets. "Bury him out back, will you, Billy? And don't forget to put some rocks on top."

"Yessir," said Billy, and he began to attend the horse.

CHAPTER 7

"Where's Mr. Mirabello?" he asked one of the men who was at the time adjusting the outside doorway.

"Billy come got 'im...oh, there he is now," answered the workman.

The short, triple-X sized man came rumbling across the main thoroughfare and stopped in front of Harley.

"How we comin', Al?" he queried the workman. "That one extra keg o' nails gonna do it?"

"Yup," came the reply. "Got here just at the right time."

"See that, Harley? Your hard work, and your heroism, has made a significant contribution to this community already," said the banker as he placed his hand on Harley's shoulder. Somehow, Harley got no comfort there. "I thought you were going to experience this place before you set off to California? You can't have seen very much in...what's it been? Three days?"

"Yeah, just a couple-a days," said Harley. Then, "Mr. Mirabello, could we talk somewhere private?"

People who have eyes that twinkle should avoid situations where a poker face would be useful. Columbus had eyes that twinkled and it took him years to get those ships from the queen. Ben Franklin's eyes twinkled and it got him exiled to France. Benedict Arnold's eyes twinkled when he sent the message that he and his army would be there within two days. That ass Jake Mellon, back in Baltimore, had eyes that twinkled when he told Harley he should take the Master's horse for its daily canter. Right then, he could have sworn that he saw a twinkle in Mr. Mirabello's eyes.

"Well, sure son," Mirabello answered. He indicated a fairly large tent pitched across the street from the work sight and after Harley tied his mule to a pile of lumber still in the street, the banker guided him by the elbow to his temporary office.

On the way Mirabello asked, "Did you ever meet Pete Thompson, before you took off from here?"

"No, sir, never did," said Harley. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," said the banker. "Just goes to show though, how tough it can be out here."

"What do you mean?" asked Harley, preparing to lie if necessary.

"Well," the banker hesitated, "about two days ago ol' Pete set out to do just what you were doing. You know, a little exploration, like?"

"What was he looking for?" asked Harley.

"Oh, you know," hedged Mirabello. "They got some stories that people chase after from time to time."

"Hmmm," was all Harley let out. "You think he's lost?"

"Oh, no no no," smiled the banker, "He probably wishes he'd have gotten lost."

"Why?" Harley parried, feigning ignorance of what he could feel was coming. "What happened?"

"Injuns," said Mirabello matter-of-factly.

"Injuns?" echoed Harley, eyebrows rising.

"Appears so," said Mirabello. "Pete came back tied to his saddle. Stable boy found him. Know what?"

"What?" said Harley.

"Now, I never have seen this done, but you just never know about those savages. Just one hole. Right through his heart."

"What'd they shoot him with?" Harley asked, knowing the answer.

"Didn't shoot him, son. They stabbed him!" the banker declared. "And they didn't even take his horse, gun, hair...nothing. Just stabbed him. Right through the heart. Amazing."

"Gosh," said Harley, his defenses up along with his eyebrows.

"You say you didn't see anybody while you were out there, is that right?" the banker queried.

"Me? Nope. Not a soul," said Harley in a voice he knew wouldn't even convince that old bitch Sister Mary Margaret back at Our Lady of Bullshit in Baltimore.

"Hmm," Mr. Mirabello made a noise. "So," he continued, "what is it that requires confidentiality?"

There was a table with a chair at each side. It was set up as a temporary desk. Mr. Mirabello was seated on one side, and Harley eased himself into the chair opposite.

"I found somethin'," he said.

"Well, let's have a look at your little discovery," the banker was becoming amused. "Did you find the Mother Lode out in those rocks?" His grin was large and as unreal as his huge fists, fingers interlaced and resting on the table in front of Harley.

Harley considered the countenance, went to his right front pocket, and laid one of the gold coins before the banker.

"What's this?" came along with an astonished, disbelieving look as the banker grabbed the coin from the table top, weighed it in his hand, gave a quick glance at Harley, then placed the coin carefully back in the center of the table.

"Where'd you find that, boy?" The banker's voice had lost whatever element of friendliness that had been present earlier.

"Out yonder," said Harley. "What I want to know is, what is it? Oh, and, how much can I get for it? "

While Harley was telling the banker that he had more, the banker was sitting, brows knit tighter'n a jackrabbit's asshole, thinking about how Dame Fortune was such a dizzy broad. One minute he was cursing the deeds that had placed him in this hell-hole, the next, someone wants to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. He chose to play this hand close.

While the banker was getting even greedier, Harley was watching his mule through the tent flaps. He noticed someone poking around his pack. Without a word, Harley was crossing the street with long strides and unknown intentions. As Harley neared the target, the man looked up, stuffed something into a pocket and started to back away, slowly opening his coat exposing the butt of a pistol.

That knife just seemed to jump into Harley's fist. He stepped one more time with his left foot, then he spun quickly to his right. He stopped spinning when he was squarely facing the man who had been going through his kit. The path of the knife, being whipped around as Harley turned, split the man's throat from ear to ear. His look was one of astonishment. He slowly drew his pistol, but it fell from his hand before it was clear of his belt. He then dropped slowly to his knees, his eyes huge and shining, his gaze a question mark.

Harley stood his ground until the man tipped over backwards, eyes still open, head mostly detached.

Bending down to retrieve whatever it was that the man had stolen from his pack, Harley noticed the small crowd. About eight people were standing around Harley, his mule, and the dead man. Mr. Mirabello was on his way across the street. Harley found what he expected to find in the man's right front pocket. As the banker arrived, Harley handed the coin to him.

"I caught this man stealin' from my pack," Harley addressed the crowd. "Mr. Mirabello here can see that what was took was rightly mine." He turned to the banker and continued loudly, "Right, Mr. Mirabello?"

"I saw the whole thing and this young man has been unjustly assaulted by that criminal who has received his reward," Mirabello indicated the body of another former employee. "Come now, young man," he turned to Harley. "I don't think you'll have any more problems like that around here." While talking and aiming Harley back across the street in the direction of his temporary office, Mr. Mirabello's eyes gave a sign to three of the men in the crowd and they went back to work on the new bank.

Harley brought the whole poke with them and as he sat across the table from the banker, he dropped it to the floor with a tantalizing "clunk." The noise didn't evade the banker's ears even though he was already re-examining the first sample that had been presented to him. The banker would first gaze through his loop, then he'd look at Harley, then he'd be back to the glass.

While the banker was examining the piece in his hand, Harley was re-running the past forty-eight hours. He'd killed a snake. He'd found a cache of gold coinage and artifacts. He'd killed two men. For the first time he thought about just how far behind he'd left Our Lady of Monotony, not only in distance, but in every imaginable way. The child had become a man while he wasn't even looking. He felt a great surge of confidence as he watched the banker fondle the coin.

"Young man, do you have any idea what you've brought to me?" asked Mirabello.

"No, sir," answered Harley blankly. Poker was played at Our Lady of Lose Your Shorts. If you didn't have money to bet, there were options. At the orphanage the boys often used their duties as money. In Cojones, Harley had the cards in his hand, but he was getting the feeling that the banker was preparing to deal from the bottom.

"Well, there's no way I can be absolutely certain at this time," weaseled the banker. "Harley," he measured his play, "have you ever heard of a Spaniard named Coronado?"

"Nope," said Harley, knowing he held all four aces and unwilling to let any cats out of any bags just yet.

"Well...the situation involves this Coronado fellow. He was a Spanish conquistador. Know what that is?" Mr. Mirabello continued as Harley shook his head side to side. "They say this Coronado started out down in Vera Cruz. Now, this was more than two hundred years ago, and stories that old have a tendency to change around a little bit, but they say this Coronado led his troops up this way searching for the Aztecs' lost city of gold. And they weren't walking empty-handed. They brought some gold of their own, for trading purposes on the way." He was now holding the coin out over the middle of the table and Harley was watching it glisten as much as he was listening to the banker's story. Mirabello continued turning the coin as the narrative continued.

"After wandering through the desert for months, they decided that, rather than carry the weight of their gold all over hell and gone, they'd hide it in the mountains, leave a guard, and return for it at a later time."

"Did they?" asked Harley.

"Nobody knows," said Mirabello as he moved the coin a little closer to his own eyes. Then, Harley dropped the coin he had retrieved from the miscreant in the street onto the table. It wasn't as shiny as the one the banker had, but with its appearance, Mirabello froze.

"How much is it worth?" asked Harley.

Pieces started piling up in Mirabello's head; the two coins and how this kid was willing to kill for his find. He optioned for partial, potential truth.

"Well son, it looks like you may have stumbled on that very gold cache," Mirabello tested the water. "And it's up to us to keep it safe for you and your future."

"How much do you suppose it's worth?" asked Harley for what he thought must have been about the hundredth time.

"I'll have to see about that," said the banker, trying not to give up that there was a difference between gold by the ounce and gold as historical artifact on the world market. "How many of these coins do you have?"

"I got this bag here," said Harley. "But I got some more." Harley didn't like the situation, but he was pretty limited as to where to go and what to do. "I figure I could set up a spread, build a house, an' just live pretty good on it. What do you think, Mr. Mirabello?"

And I'll take the rest off the top, is what the banker thought as he said, "Well, that may be a little lofty, but, I'll see what I can put together for you." Then he continued, "We've got to find a safe place for your treasure."

"I got a safe place," said Harley. "Just how many o' these here coins will it take for a full set-up; you know, horse, tack, food for about a week an' such?"

"Well, I guess," Mirabello was thinking again, "how about if I hold about ten of 'em 'til we can get an accurate count?"

"Fine," said Harley. "I feel like travelin' a bit."

CHAPTER 8

The deal was done. Harley left Cojones with a full kit, an idea in his head, and a bag of gold coins. He knew he didn't trust the banker already. There was nothing in particular but, had he been a sailor, Harley may have mentioned the pathetic cut of the man's jib. So, his idea was to find St. Louis, get an opinion from someone with nothing to gain to prove the veracity of Mirabello, or to protect his back. Either way, he was feeling nearly giddy for most of the trip. He had a cave full of gold. It was more than he would ever need. More than he could ever want. The only dream that seemed to elude him was a reunion with the face on the rocks.

For his own part, Mirabello had plans. He was literally delirious with thoughts about how his employers would reward him for securing such an amount of hard cash for their coffers. His dreams included thoughts of Rome, Paris, London, Berlin, Vienna, and "anyplace," which was quite a satisfying thought. Anything that got him out of this Godforsaken country would suffice. But the extent to which all things so foretold kept him smiling all the way to New Orleans where he expected to meet with someone who would go from anger at the desertion of his post, to literal gaiety at the prospects he would present, gave him great satisfaction. Family favor would again be his. He ignored the idea that such a greener as this Harlingame Hansen could in any way disrupt his plan.

"If that child thinks he can fox Octavius Mirabello, he'll find he's hooked the bigger fish," was a thought that flew for only one distasteful moment through Mirabello's dreams of wealth and luxury.

Harley was the first to return to Cojones and he chose to set up his camp outside of the small town-to-be rather than risk exposing his stash of what the man in St. Louis had confirmed was indeed Spanish in origin. Harley had tried a bank, a goldsmith, and a jeweler. He was getting entirely conflicting opinions until a man, who appeared to be a customer in a jewelry store, called him aside. The man sent him to the "rich" side of town to a friend who, he said, would pay him well for the coins.

The result of that serendipitous meeting was that the man, a collector and agent for others, made a flat offer. After Harley had spread the full bag of coins on the carpet in the man's parlor, and the man nearly dove right through the floorboards in his efforts to get closer to them, the agent looked up at Harley and said, "Young man, this find is extraordinary. Do you have any idea what you have here?"

"Nope," said Harley, still playing his hand. "Just some old coins I found."

"Old coins," the man chuckled as he echoed Harley's statement. "Yes. Well, son, the fact of the matter is, you're rich."

"Me?" Harley braced himself for the shenanigans he thought were sure to follow.

"That's right," assured the man.

As Harley was sitting in the man's office waiting, he was dreaming of a future that was apparently his now, rather than after a trip to the Californias to rip the bricks out of the streets. He was rich. The man had said so. But, he wondered, what is rich?

***

Harley spent the night at the famous Milford Hotel. That is, after getting the grand tour from Mr. Sillicot, his new agent and benefactor.

On the trail back to Cojones, he made another decision that would have lasting effect. He knew he'd have to be patient. He knew he'd have to learn to shoot. He knew he'd have to keep a clear eye for slickers like Mr. Mirabello who, as it turned out, never did return to Cojones.

When Harley was in town to post instructions, desires, and more questions for Mr. Sillicot, he met the man who was to be the new banker. His name was Carlo Martuccio. The Martuccios were from New York City and were heavier into commerce than crime. But, as everyone knows, an opportunity is an opportunity.

Mr. Martuccio was visibly put out after hearing that Harley had made arrangements for the management of his fortune already, for the family had had visions of extreme wealth when Mirabello had shown them his sample of the booty. Harley was able to temporarily mollify Mr. Martuccio somewhat by promising to make his transactions through the family's bank, even though his agent was in St. Louis. In fact, Harley had a proposition right off. He wanted land. He took Mr. Martuccio around the area he wanted. It was a very large portion, about five miles to the north and about seven miles east of town; some hills, some grazing land, some forest, several small streams for watering a small herd. Harley showed him where he wanted his home. In all, it was about ten thousand acres.

Within three weeks, ten wagons that had followed the same trail Harley and Crab had followed not that long before, rolled into Cojones, and after the drivers and teams had the chance to wash off a little of the trail dust, they followed Harley out of town to the planned site of his home and ranch. Harley figured a thousand head ought to be plenty. But, he was still young and would soon get some practical advice.

The next few years were quite an education for the boy from Back East. He thought he'd learned a lot from the old mule skinner while they were on the road for those first few weeks. As it turned out, Crab bent the twig, the tree grew, and the town flourished. Cojones was becoming a crossroads for cattle being driven from the Southwest to Abilene or wherever. This brought cowboys with money. That brought some elements of commerce. These things in concert brought gamblers and whores.

Cojones was becoming a regular metropolis. There was even talk of a rail spur. More and more of the town was being constructed of permanent building materials. Harley's own ranch was the jewel in the local crown. The main house was grand when compared with houses anywhere, even Mr. Martuccio's. It had two floors, five bedrooms, a salon, a parlor, a kitchen, a sitting room, a room that was scheduled to become a library, a dining room large enough to accommodate fifty guests, and outbuildings for people, animals, and tools. Harley had laid in some livestock. There were a few chickens and pigs, about a thousand head of breeding stock, and someone to manage the whole thing. He himself had built a line shack out in the rocks near where he had camped the night of his discovery. Harley spent very little time himself on home or property related projects, except one. He transferred his historical bounty to a complicated, hard to find, hard to open compartment in one of the crevasses he dug out in the floor of the cave. He left the guard on duty.

He had become just ornery enough to rub it in. He had come to have absolutely no faith in that Martuccio fellow. In Harley's eyes he was just another big, fat, blood sucking idiot. So, Harley thought he'd have a little fun. Martuccio, for his part, was appropriately surprised when Harley showed up at the finally finished bank with some business to do.

"Mr. Martuccio," said Harley with a mischievous grin, "I have something I'd like included in my files."

"Certainly, Harley," said the banker ingratiatingly. Had he been a snake his tongue would have been flicking and his coils roiling. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," began Harley, "considering the tendency around here toward abrupt departures from this life, I thought it'd be best if I left some directions to my find in a safe place."

The banker's eyes bulged and his mouth began watering at the thought of having those very same directions in his possession. Such a thing would indeed square his accounts with the family and, hopefully get him out of this hell hole. Being assigned to Cojones, no matter its importance to the family, was indeed punishment duty.

"Here," Harley said as he handed the agitated banker a sealed envelope.

"Are there any instructions?" asked Martuccio in a halting, choking voice.

"Just that this envelope should pass to whoever inherits my estate when I die," said Harley. "Now, I'm going to New Orleans for a couple of weeks. I've been doing nothing but work since I got here and I got an invitation from some business partners. Mr. Martuccio, thank you for your time. I'll ask you to give Wedge any help he might need while I'm gone. He has it pretty much under control, but around here, you never know."

"So true," echoed Martuccio. "What sends you to New Orleans, in particular? If you don't mind my asking."

"I read about it while I was in the orphanage," Harley explained, "Since I got this invitation, there's no reason not to go."

"And I'll see that this little jewel gets a nice safe resting place in the safe," said Martuccio, patting the envelope in his hands.

The trip itself was as uneventful as a journey of that distance could be. Most of the way his mind lingered on the orphanage, and especially of the three or four other boys in the place that he could actually think of fondly. Other than them, he hated the place in its entirety. But now, he was off to play in the playingest place in the hemisphere. "Maybe next year I'll take a trip to London or Paris," he thought in the saddle.

Harley checked his horse into a livery not far from the Fontaine where he was advised to stay. In fact, upon his arrival, he found that his rooms had been reserved for him by his friends in St. Louis. Harley had to inspect because this was, without any doubt, the finest place he had ever been in, not counting Mr. Sillicot's home in St. Louis. It was a genuine Four Star hotel. It even had a barber in the lobby and there turned out to be a bathtub right in his room. He nearly got whiplash, shot, and slapped as he couldn't keep his eyes off the ladies wandering throughout the place. All through the first three days in town the women flirted with his young ruggedness, men hustled the apparent bumpkin, the night lights dazzled his senses, and the liquor flowed as Harley tested every petal of the flower.

Finally, as had to happen under the circumstances, Harley's hormones began to wail.

He had received plenty of free advice upon his arrival in New Orleans. Mr. Sillicot had left several instructions and some insight in the form of a letter waiting for him when he checked in to his hotel. There were also the names of a couple of gentlemen in the true Southern Tradition. They were the ones who had gotten Harley started. They taught him to dress correctly. They showed him where to eat. They introduced him to a few of the correct people. They introduced him to some serious alcoholic concoctions, and finally, to match Harley's own thoughts, they showed him where he could get laid and probably live through it without having to either marry the wench or visit the doctor weekly.

He was directed to a very fancy building on Quincey Street. The building was, like most of those surrounding it, three-storied, whitewashed, and they almost all had at least one wrought iron balcony. This one was recommended by people who had thus far treated Harley squarely.

As he reached up to knock on the door it opened as if knowing he was there. The opening revealed a scene so foreign and, consequently, so exciting to Harley that his mind conjured delights beyond his experience, which was nil. He simply had no idea what to make of the place. There were curtains everywhere, even where there weren't any windows. The predominant wallpaper inside was fancy red fuzz. There was a bar along one wall. There was a huge painting of a naked woman on the wall behind the bar. She was lying on a couch and had a flimsy hanky in her upraised hand. There was a well-dressed black man serving drinks to other men around the room. Harley slowed down after a couple of minutes and his first drink and turned to notice the six other men in the room with him. A couple was standing at the bar. Another couple was standing near the wall opposite the bar. A couple was on a sofa, each man drinking and talking with women in various stages of dress.

"You must be Mr. Hansen," said the aging but not unattractive woman who had let Harley in when she returned to the room.

"Yes, ma'am," said Harley as he continued his surveillance.

"Mr. Crookshank, Mr. Willigan, and Mr. Sillicot each took the time to alert us to your arrival, so we've been able to plan a bit," the woman said.

"Plan?" puzzled Harley.

"And all compliments of our mutual friends, Mr. Crookshank, Mr. Willigan, and Mr. Sillicot," said the woman.

"You know Mr. Sillicot?" asked Harley in wonder.

"He's one of our best friends and most respected clients," she giggled.

"An' who's Heavy Harold," asked Harley as he read the sign over the picture behind the bar proclaiming the proprietor of the establishment.

"This is his place," said the woman. "It's the nicest, cleanest, and most sought after appointment in the city of New Orleans," she said proudly. "Another drink?"

"Yes, ma'am, please," said Harley as the woman signaled the bartender.

"Mr. Hansen," came the woman's voice behind him as he was taking the third sip of whatever the concoction was, "Please allow me to introduce you to your hostess for the evening." As Harley turned she was saying, "Mr. Hansen, this is Miss Springer. Miss Springer comes to us from Pennsylvania and..." Her voice left the room as Harley's eyes beheld what he perceived to be a dream. Then his mouth opened, his jaw very nearly reaching the floor as he realized he was again face to face with the face that had gotten him through every single scrape he'd encountered since...well...since he'd gotten into that fight so seemingly long ago as he accompanied that wagon train.

"Now, Tammy," said the madam, referring to Regret, "take good care of this gentleman, properly now, ya hear, and we'll get you that little something extra we talked about, all right now?"

Her words were unheard by either Regret or Harley.

"Tammy, honey..." said the woman, somewhat nervously as she thought she sensed her protégé's reluctance to participate in her first full adventure. "Let's not be shy."

"Come home with me," said Harley without having taken his eyes from hers.

"Yes," she said.

"What?" said the madam, whose eyes had gotten very large.

As Harley and Regret moved toward the door, the madam's concern became very animated and much louder.

"Tammy, honey," she quivered. "Where y'all goin'?" Then to Harley, shouting, "Sir, sir!" Then back to Regret, "Honey, you know Harold ain't gonna put up with you leavin' just like that. Mister Hansen," she followed Harley's back, "your friends are gonna be in big trouble with my owner...I mean the owner, an'..."

All of the woman's fretting just bounced of the backs of the departing couple, both dressed formally, as they paraded down the street toward Harley's hotel.

"Let's find a preacher," said Harley as they walked.

"Yes," was her answer.

That was their last verbal exchange all the way up to the "I do's."

They had packed his gear and she was wearing a pair of his trousers and boots; anything to get herself out of that gown they had strapped her into.

As they pushed their way out the front doors of the hotel, a figure awaited.

Heavy Harold had gone to pieces when the madam told him what had happened. She was expected to live. As he stood there in the street facing the hotel's facade, cigar clenched tightly between yellow teeth, face red with rage, bulbous body wrapped in pistols, all he could see was Harley and Regret's blood in the street.

"Where you think you goin' with one-a my girls, boy?" Harold called out as he saw them exit the hotel.

Harley's impression of the fat man before him was quizzical to say the least. "She's my wife," Harley said, as he started forward.

Harold's hands moved toward his pistols and at that same moment Harley released his armload of packages and began his turn. The smile was on Harold's belly as he stood there watching his insides spill into the cool New Orleans street. Harley and Regret were on their horses and riding as Harold slowly folded into the dust.

As the pair, along with a fully loaded pack mule, finally got onto the road heading north, they stayed mostly quiet. They watched from cover at the top of a hill what they presumed was a posse directed to their apprehension rode slowly by. Although Harold wasn't held in particularly high esteem by the local law, he had run one of the fanciest houses with some of the fanciest women in town. There had been a waiting list for Regret's favors so it was mostly the hired guns of Harold's friends and customers who were out searching the darkening landscape. Since their limited payrolls didn't really allow them access to the likes of Harold's place or his women, they weren't tremendously motivated.

That was fortunate for our generally green pair, because there really wasn't much in the way of protection for several miles around. If someone had really wanted to find them it could easily have been done. When their hunters turned around a bend and were lost to their line of sight, Harley led Regret and the mule down the slope and west into Texas.

Although seemingly mostly flat, Texas had lots of places for Harley and Regret to hide a campsite. That first night they didn't sleep at all. They sat under the stars and shared their experiences beginning with the day he was expelled from the wagon train. She told him of the river trip, her family's end, her capture and servitude. She had been noticed one day as she hid in the scullery with her duties and that night was to have been her debut performance. But, in a most timely fashion, Harley's new and powerful friends from St. Louis had intervened on his behalf.

Regret was equally astounded as he told her about Crab, the buffalo stampede, the snake, the gold, the ranch, and...just everything. They spent hours laughing and crying over their wins and losses. Now, Harley's only concern was that someone involved with Regret's former employer might have something to say about the whole thing.

The rest of the trip back to Cojones was pretty much an event of sharing hopes and dreams. Harley shot rabbits for meals, and once, a deer. Regret demonstrated the skills she had picked up working in Harold's kitchen. Her introduction to the hamlet of Cojones was of greater note, however.

They had bypassed the town upon their arrival in the area and both were impressed when they were shown around by Harley's foreman, Wedge Donovan. Wedge had come out with the goods for building the place and, after showing Harley a way to keep from being screwed by the bank as the property took shape, Harley had asked him to stay on. Since there was nothing really for him to go back to, he agreed.

While Wedge was seeing to the stock on the ranch and basically doing all the work, Harley took Regret touring. He got fairly emotional as he showed her her own profile in stone, the key to the location of their wealth. They discussed how it could be used as a shelter should that become necessary. He showed her the line shack where they eventually spent more than one night together. Her introduction to the town was an education as well. Harley likened it to a chicken coop with Martuccio as the head weasel. All in all, their first few years together were as idyllic as life in such a location could possibly be. They had each other and let the town have itself. As a sort of bonus, Harley even sent Wedge to New Orleans to have a good time, and to learn what he could about the aftermath of his escape with Regret.

Wedge was basically in charge of the whole operation. Harley had bought the place as a front. Regret loved it because it was a home. But, in the real world, it was Wedge's efforts that made it work. Efforts for which Harley paid him well. He even gave Wedge the option on any actual business they might do. Those times he needed to be away, Harley and Regret made sure to stay close by. That wasn't too difficult because Regret had come to love the garden she had planted and was becoming a regular homebody. As it has a habit of doing, time passed.

They went to no pains to participate in the economic growth of Cojones. They mostly just sat back and listened to Wedge's stories about the increase of herds that came through the town on their way to market. Wedge would occasionally have doings with the trail bosses. Sometimes either Harley or Regret would make the trip into town to visit some mercantile or other, whichever was still in business at the time. Although the war in the east didn't really reach Cojones, the sale of cattle at astronomical rates was something Wedge used to buffer his meeting with old age and inactivity. The army's need for horses increased dramatically as Manifest Destiny continued to fuel the migratory steamroller that determined the shape of the still infant nation. Life, in general, was good for the Hansens.

As much as they came to love their home and the life they shared at the foot of the Rockies, they weren't exactly hermits. As Harley had to keep reminding Regret, they were rich.

They made a trip to St. Louis so Regret could reunite with Wilhelmina. They hadn't been all that close as children, but they were all that was left of their immediate family. It was the first Wilhelmina had heard from her family since they put into the river so long ago. It had been an emotional meeting, finally ending with Wilhelmina and Regret in tears as she and Harley headed to Pennsylvania to complete the family reunion. That was a fairly maudlin affair as they, too, had heard nothing of their younger brother Howard since the day he had put his family on the waters of the great river. Afterwards, Regret explained to Harley how she had never really liked any of her relatives and they had never really liked her, so that trip was the last time they were ever mentioned by either.

They took the time to see the big cities. They went to London, Paris, Vienna and Rome. It was something Harley had wanted to do ever since reading their histories in his classes at the orphanage. But, as is frequently the case, dreams and reality rarely have anything in common. It was their time together that had the real meaning. Those places were just places. They could have been anyplace. It turned out that they were indeed happiest upon returning from whatever fantasy had lured them away.

Regret had come to love their "Lover's Lair," as she referred to the cave where Harley had originally found their nest egg. He showed her how he had hidden their gold. She'd taken to spending time there on her own. She'd even gone so far as to set up housekeeping there. There was a small table, a couple of lanterns, two chairs, a bed for them when they chose to use it, and a small cupboard filled with necessities, including a fifty gallon water keg. They had even set up the remains of the Spanish guard so that he would stand in the corner, still guarding, but out of the way.

It could be said that Cojones celebrated the end of the War Between the States as heartily as anyone, but, given the town's high level of daily drunkenness, it would have been tough to prove. Things in general did sort of rush right on after that. The railroad sent a spur right into town. It was a little doing of the Martuccio family. They had one of the owners by the economic balls. That works every time. It was, they figured, their town. They knew that the railroad brought regular people, and that created a regular economy which they could milk like a fat cow.

A cobbler even moved into town. Harley couldn't figure the guy out. He guessed that anyone growing up with the name Eustus had enough problems. Regret and the cobbler's wife hit it right off. Being of similar ages and two of the few women in town who weren't working their way across the continent on their backs, they tied closely, quickly.

The Mayweathers, with the Hansens' assistance, built the town's first cobbler's shop. It was an impressive structure, considering its location, with the work area on the ground floor and a fairly generous living quarters on the second. Regret simply never came into town without spending some time with Maybelle Mayweather. Harley just couldn't seem to cotton to Eustus. Not that he disliked the man, he just couldn't get a feel for him like he usually could with others he met. But the cobbler never caused him any trouble, and Harley was grateful for another woman Regret could enjoy time with. It was Maybelle Mayweather who cared for Regret after the horse threw her and she lost the baby.

CHAPTER 9

Harley had been in Cojones for nearly thirty years now and although growth had been the rule throughout the west, and the migration had been slowly but surely cutting in on range lands, in all that time nothing had happened to upset his apple cart. The town had grown to where it could handle the transit of thousands of cattle each year. The railroad spur had arrived along with a kind of civilization. Although he and Regret had never successfully produced children, they were quite happy with each other.

So, it was with open arms that former Confederate Army Major Jonathan Winslow was welcomed into town. He told the story that he and the eight other former fighters for Mr. Davis would just be around for a short time. Their main interest was to tie up with one of the main herds or, failing that, maybe get a stake together and go all the way to the Pacific Ocean and start everything all over again.

Well, that Major Winslow was indeed a gentleman. The men were well behaved and hard workers whenever they got a deal. There were no big fights, no apparent intolerable drunkenness, and they chased no one's wife, so they were all, time to time, able to land some kind of part-time employment around the area.

With Harley and Wedge staying in the general vicinity of the ranch virtually all the time, trips into town for whatever various supplies fell mostly to Regret who was happy to go because the journey always included a visit with her friend Maybelle, and now, Maybelle's nephew who had been sent to apprentice to Eustus. It would give her a chance to hear the latest and basically, take a day off.

When things are consistently in a state of growth, attitudes are up. People buy things. People do things. Their whole state of mind is one of promise and hope. Things are constantly in a state of "different." Even so, even amidst the hustle and bustle of a burgeoning town cut out of the middle of nowhere, there was an element of routine. People usually went someplace the way they usually went to that place. They'd show up at one of the town's drinkeries, saloon is too high-tone a word to apply to most of the places in a town where one could achieve some sort of alcohol based refreshment, at a regular time and for a fairly regular cost. There seemed to be some underlying order belying the apparent confusion. It was all this general confusion that was the perfect cover for any group of desperadoes looking to make a quick buck and get away before anyone noticed. There being no sheriff or marshal yet assigned to Cojones, mostly because no sheriff had lived longer than eleven days in the town, things were pretty much taken care of by the people directly involved, and they were usually small matters.

The local bank was not to be excluded from all the fun. A Mr. Crenshaw had been sent to manage the bank following the reassignment of Mr. Martuccio who had taken to using the bank's funds as his own. Since then, prosperity was the word that best applied to Cojones, and the bank had a piece of nearly all the action.

Although Regret did spend most of her time with Harley either at the ranch or out chasing clouds, which was one of their favorite things to do together, she had also put her fingerprints on virtually everything that could even remotely be construed as positive for the community. As a result of the thirty years or so that they had been living in the area, and because of all that they had done to improve the place, Harley and Regret carried a certain mantle among late comers as well as the old timers. Harley still couldn't get anyone to believe his story about a certain buffalo stampede, but it remained the story everyone wanted to hear. So, every blue moon or so, he'd tell it, and get just as pissed as ever when everyone in earshot started laughing.

"It just don't happen thataways," was the most common retort.

Harley and Wedge were in the barn doing a little work on those various "little things" that seem to go without help for years, yet they keep being necessary for some little thing or other, and when you find them, they don't work because their condition is continuously ignored. They heard the yelling mixed with the sounds of horse and buggy but they couldn't make heads or tails of what Mr. Mayweather was saying. They shared a couple of laughs at his expense as the buggy came closer. You'd think that, coming in at about two hundred fifty pounds, Mr. Mayweather would have had little trouble communicating anything, anytime, anyplace. It was leather and hooves, rigging and wheels, and Ol' Eustus yelling at the top of his lungs.

Harley and Wedge crowded the door to the tack room and laughed even louder at the approach of the oncoming visage.

"Harley, it's Regret, downtown," was all Harley heard as soon as the cobbler's voice breached the din. He didn't wait for the story. He was riding before Mayweather had come to a complete stop. As he drove his horse, his eyes burned; tears, fears, and desperation filled the twenty minutes to town.

PART 2

CHAPTER 1

He was born of a salesman who just couldn't stay put and a young woman who, in her dreams as in her life, just couldn't say no. When he left her immediately following her announcement regarding their impending child, she was filled with despair. This was no time and no place to be with a child and without a home and husband, as she knew would be the case as soon as her parents learned the truth.

He had told her they would be together forever, through thick and thin. That became: "As soon as I get us a stake out west." Being fifteen years of age, she well knew the stories that had circulated among the other girls her age, and guessed the consequences. One simply did not have a child out of wedlock. She knew the worst had to happen. She was correct in her belief regarding her parents' response. They took her out of school and sent her to a relative's home in a small town near the Mississippi River. She was enrolled in a "special" school for unprepared young women. When the child came, she wrapped him and ran.

She wasn't too clear about why she had taken the child with her in her escape from "that place," as they all referred to it, but she felt that no matter where they ended up, anywhere was better than there. She had gone about ten miles up the road when reality edged its ugly way into her thoughts. She couldn't go home. She realized that, whatever circumstances appeared, she couldn't deal with them if she had a child in tow. So, for his own good, and her own, she left the small, quiet boy on the porch of a home that was apparently well tended. She felt there was some potential for the positive because there were flowers planted all in a row, and a whitewashed picket fence. They may not be rich, she thought, but at least they have a home. She kissed him and cooed to him. With tears rolling down her shiny cheeks, she only looked back once as she made her way into the darkness.

They decided to keep the small boy, as they had none of their own. The woman begged and pleaded. The man acceded. They named him Marcellus, because it sounded aristocratic, and gave him his own last name of Porch because, according to the man, a man needed to know the truth of his own heritage, however humble, lest he live a lie throughout his life. They fed him daily, churched him on Sunday, and by and large, gave young Marcellus a life that would be envied by most. He grew up in a time and place that was entirely conducive to being a young man with no shortage of intelligence or imagination.

Like many children of the time, mostly the boys to be sure, who spent their every unfettered moment staring at the wonders offered by the river, Marcellus Porch wanted to be a river boat pilot. Not the pilot of some freight barge; Marcellus wanted to get to it as the pilot of one of those gloriously huge, stern-wheeled, ornately bedecked, fantastically lit floating palaces that cruised his line of sight and smacked his imagination around like a polecat plays with a field mouse. He wanted to run a Mississippi River show boat. He wanted the biggest, fastest, fanciest boat on the river, but then, so did everyone else who let their dreams include the waterway. To get the picture right, he wanted it full of gamblers, fancy women, cotton, and every manner of river-born goods. He wanted to be known to all the biggest and brightest personalities that plied the Mississippi. Such were the dreams of an eleven-year-old boy on the early nineteenth century banks of that giant river.

Marcellus spent a great deal of his time away from school either at the river dreaming his own version of the future, or just hanging around the loading docks where he watched the real action at virtually every hour of the day and night. It was indelibly etched in his mind that there was absolutely nothing useful that could be learned about the real world sitting in the classroom listening to Miss Talmadge drone her lessons. During his time at the river he was also free of the prattlings of the other students in the class. They were all, in his opinion, either dumber than newborn mules or just oafish bullies and prissy little Mama's Boys who actually needed the kind of education being provided by Miss Talmadge. Marcellus, being neither as large, as strong, nor as good looking as many of the other children in the area, chose to spend his time with his dreams.

Then, one day, it happened. Just after his fifteenth birthday had passed as usual, that is, without celebration, he witnessed a sailor being thrown off one of the larger boats at the dock in town and the accompanying tirade from the bos'n regarding the man's behavior, parentage, and bemoaning the shorthandedness in the crew. The bos'n laughed a hearty laugh when confronted by Marcellus and the suggestion that he, a mere stripling, could be an able replacement for the hand so recently discharged. Once the bos'n had dried his eyes and calmed down somewhat, he had a chance to think about his own situation. The boat needed another hand. It was the bos'n's responsibility to see that those sorts of things were appropriately handled. Given a moment to think about it, he doubted the Captain would care who those hands they were as long things got done and the schedule was maintained. To be sure, the kid couldn't possibly be any worse than the drunken bum he had just put ashore. The deal was done. Marcellus Porch had his first assignment on the river.

Marcellus found himself working longer, harder hours than he ever had before. He was, nonetheless, in his own version of heaven. He also found a considerable amount of abuse from the other hands coming his way as a result of his age and diminutive stature. The other hands on the boat had a great deal of fun at Marcellus' expense and he swore that if ever he had the opportunity, they would all pay dearly for their efforts.

He carried cotton bales while in port. He loaded and unloaded luggage while finely dressed gentlemen and their ladies strolled the decks or waited in their cabins for the boat's departure. He swept and mopped those cabins, occasionally finding a bit of money left behind by someone who had so much of it that they weren't as conscious of its value as was Marcellus. His ace in the hole was his craftiness. That is a trait which has been known to easily best education when circumstances went outside the usual.

Frequently, instead of being where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing, he found his way someplace where the captain needed someone to be. The bos'n noticed this and laid on extra duties to keep Marcellus from making the captain think there was too much down time for the crew. Fortunately for Marcellus, the captain noticed, too. It was the captain's ego that got Marcellus out of the scuppers and into his personal service, which included a fresh set of whites daily. Marcellus was then able to spend a great deal of time on the bridge, which was exactly where he believed he belonged in the first place.

After only three years of playing Cabin Boy, Marcellus shipped out of Memphis as bos'n of a freighter. He learned a lot about the machinations of the freight business during this posting. Another five short years and he received his first posting as Captain-Pilot. This was mostly due to the dirt he had compiled on the company's warehouse managers up and down the river. Every observation counted in some way. But, he was more than happy to let them know that bygones could be bygones, should the possibility of a posting to a boat of his own present itself.

It did. They did. He did.

It wasn't the most glamorous boat on the river, but Marcellus had learned the dual values of patience and persistence and that knowledge served him well for, he kept a diary. It was not the log that the company and other officials had access to, but a personal set of notes and numbers. This accumulated set of facts was to serve him well and often, for just two years later, the company commissioned the building of the biggest, fastest, most ornate boat that had ever plied the waters between Cincinnati and New Orleans. It was to be called the "Ace of Spades." The Ace was triple decked, stern-wheeled, double boiler equipped, and its main trade was to be gamblers to fill her cabins and casino decks, travelers to fill the salons, and a multitude of trade goods to fill the hold. As with others who had gone before, there were the usual Captain's Benefits. These were the sorts of things that motivated the other captains in the company to recommend that Marcellus be given the command. His diary had indeed been useful. So, at the unusually young age of twenty-seven, Marcellus Porch became the captain of the finest river boat to ever ply the river; that same river of his boyhood dreams.

Most of the pilots on the river had at least one regular woman in each of the various ports of call up and down the waterway. Some even shared when there turned out to be some convenient reason. Captain Porch had women all to himself in seven different ports with full-blown families in three others. It was his various personal enterprises and frequent far flung travel requirements that made it all possible. Depending on the run, he even occasionally had the opportunity to take one or two of his seven children along for a ride in the wheelhouse. The children loved the life in the wheelhouse and the apparent power of their father. And their company made Marcellus feel more like a real father.

As the railroad laid on mileage, Captain Porch found his boat a little less full of those commodities necessary to maintain his lifestyle on each ensuing trip. This was the twist in the road that slowly spelled the doom of Captain Marcellus Porch.

The Martuccio family of New York City was a group of entrepreneurs whose interests were many and widely held. They did very well buying low, selling high, and knowing exactly when to do it. One day, a very small wheel in their enormous accounting machine noticed a leak in the Martuccio money bucket. It was not a particularly large leak when put up against the whole, but a leak that had, over the past seven years, spilled more than $75,000 somewhere out into the world. Upon closer inspection, a pattern developed. It seemed that when anything was shipped by riverboat, something went wrong; not seriously wrong, but wrong nonetheless. There were always the usual shipping problems. Of these the family was aware and they understood. But throughout their empire, there were no problems that occurred with the consistency of those encountered on the river. The reports were of damage problems, theft problems, space problems, and timetable problems. So the family sent Mario to investigate.

Mario Martuccio was the only remaining son and he was not someone Papa was exactly proud of. This was to be his last chance. He had been caught more than once dipping into Papa's money belt. That he did it was less of a problem for Papa than the fact that, not only did he get caught, but that he didn't even try to evade discovery. Now, he was being sent out to make sure there were answers to all the questions. He really didn't care himself, but he knew that if he didn't settle the situation, access to the family's moneybags would be denied...permanently!

Most of the people Mario talked to during his quest were downright eager to help, thinking about some reward or other and considering all the money the Martuccio family had spent with their firms. The rest, if not at least amenable, were easily persuaded to part with whatever information they possessed. Money or threats worked all the way down the line. Following the trail of inconsistencies all the way down the line led, within ten days, straight to the riverboat called the "Ace of Spades."

Marcellus had worked hard and schemed diligently to achieve his current status and position. As a result, his attitude was that his presence was worth considerably more than his employers allowed. His response was to divine a system to enhance his captain's salary with those things and amounts he considered simply his just due. After all, in his mind so many shipments were so large, and there were always problems on every shipment, so he was inclined to believe that he had a clear road in the manufacture of salary enhancements. When something he wanted or could move at a decent profit came aboard, he simply appropriated whatever amount he considered his fair share. His feelings were that by taking small portions over a long period of time, no one would notice. He had his current position and his diaries to prove that it was done throughout the system.

So, he was quite surprised one evening, while underway as he was on his customary turn about the decks, when he was confronted by a total stranger who introduced himself as Mario Martuccio. The exchange was fairly predictable: accusation, denial, each with an increasing intensity. As the captain turned to end the proceedings, no one saw the stranger hit the captain on the top of his head with a lead weighted sock, boost him over the rail into the furiously churning paddle wheel, then slowly walk away as if his stroll about the deck had been quite boring.

CHAPTER 2

It was as cold that night as it had been in living memory. The alternating sleet and snow combined to make it particularly dark as well, full moon notwithstanding. It was so cold, in fact, that Frankie had decided to hole up rather than continue running. He had found a crack in that huge pile of rocks and had wrapped himself fully in his bed roll and oil cloth, only occasionally opening up a little hole through which to relieve himself. A frozen puddle had subsequently formed in such a position that if he didn't move before thaw, the pee would trickle down the slight incline and back into his hastily constructed shelter.

On the other side of that huge pile of rocks, Earl McGruder and his troops were still on the move. There was a lot of grumbling going on in each man's head. They were each and every one of them quite willing to let the little weasel freeze his ass out in the snow rather than being subjected themselves to this ridiculous chase in these Godforsaken elements just to satisfy someone who had a hell of a lot more faith in the general program than any of the three of them. But, Earl had promised a big ticket and there seemed to be proof in the scrap of paper they'd found earlier in the evening. They'd been following Frankie, whose actual identity was unknown to them, ever since they'd caught him listening in on their plans back at the line shack.

One of the boys had been chasing a rat around the place with his .44. As the rat ran up into the rafters, a line of holes followed until it shook one board enough to dislodge a small scrap of paper that had been stuffed up there somewhere. As it drifted to the floor, they all gathered around to see what it was. They placed it on the table and stared hard trying to decipher its meaning. As they were engrossed in the scribbles, they heard a noise outside unrelated to the weather. When they went out to investigate, Frankie made his break through the underbrush. They had succeeded in capturing his horse, which Earl shot, saying that it didn't matter, that the interloper wouldn't be needing it anyhow. The chase was on.

Frankie had lost Earl and his bunch two ways: 1 - he was afoot and they were ahorse, which means that they overshot him in their search several times, and, 2 - you couldn't see your hand in front of your face in the weather. Storms like this weren't exactly unknown in the area, but they were infrequent and in Frankie's situation, it was a timely accident. As he watched the bunch go shooting off into the blizzard in search of him, he had the chance to sneak back for a moment to retrieve a few things from the corpse of his faithful Knothead.

Frankie believed his current position was secure, and he wasn't far from wrong. Earl and his men were headed north up the east side of the butte while Frankie had gone up the west side to find the cubby that became his bed. It was so dark and so much snow had fallen that particulars were simply indiscernible.

It was then that the storm broke. The snow became rain. The temperature rose a good fifteen degrees, the vicious wind abated, and the frozen puddle of pee melted and ran down into Frankie's bed roll. As short a time as he had been holed up, it seemed like there must have been a full quart ready for delivery. Happily for Frankie, he was a light sleeper and bolted upright in time to avoid a full half of the accumulation.

Frankie straightened up to his full 5'7" to survey the situation. All he could see or hear was the snow and rain all over everything. As he bent down to reconstruct his kit, he said "Damn," mostly under his breath. After all, what's the point of bitching if there's no one around to hear it? He thought about Knothead; a basically squirrely nag, but pretty dependable, generally.

CHAPTER 3

"Now that it's not so miserable, we ought to be able to find that peckerhead, easy," shouted Earl at his men as he sensed their negative attitude toward this present endeavor. "It's just a matter of time, now."

"Hell, he could be anywhere," whined one of the members of the partially frozen, thoroughly wet, and no longer excited gang. Each of them had in some way decided that it just wasn't any big deal that someone had been outside the line shack. The comment drew a near-death-inducing glare from Earl.

"He's in those rocks," said Earl as evenly as he could muster over the wind and what was left of the rain. "I know he is. There ain't no cover around an' there ain't no way he coulda made better time than we just done".

Frankie had climbed to the top of the pile of rocks by this time and was looking down upon Earl and his men during this exchange of opinion. He watched for a couple of minutes before his pursuers disappeared behind an outcropping, riding with their backs to him. His first thought was about the time he had until Earl and his men made their way around the pile of rocks to his current position on the other side.

He decided that going into town was the only answer. He could enlist the aid of the local sheriff. Then he thought, "Those boys are awful desperate about somethin'. I bet there's somethin' big goin' to happen. An' if I clean it up, I can probably get..." As he was thinking, he was clambering over the crest of the butte and down to the side Earl and his men had just left. And just as his mind got to, "I can probably get...", his foot found no step.

It was pitch black everywhere as Frankie regained consciousness. As he sat there, his mind went back to the days on the river with his father. He remembered being allowed to steer the big stern wheeler if he had been especially good, or his father had been away for a particularly long period of time.

It had been tough growing up the son of a riverboat pilot. That was made most apparent when the other children were generally bigger than he and used this advantage as an opportunity to give vent to their own, private world of misunderstanding, jealousy, and frustration.

Unlike several of the bigger boys, Frankie saw his connection with the river as simply an amusing moment, a temporary little game he could play with his father that would take up the time it takes to grow up when he could become his own dream...a Texas Ranger. In Frankie's mind, those were the real men in the world; the frontiersmen. It was this end toward which he spent nearly every waking moment hoping, dreaming, and planning.

When his father stopped coming by, nobody could say why. The news from the Company that father had two other families sent his mother into a spin that would make a tornado look like molasses in winter. About the time Frankie was seventeen, the money went away, his mother had become way too familiar with liquor, was working her way toward sailors, and Frankie decided it was time to go. Frankie had at one time thought about contacting the other families his father had constructed, but came to the conclusion that there would be no particular point in doing so. It was time for him to hit the road. It was time to go out and meet the world.

So, with some money he had saved from doing odd jobs around the neighborhood, and some he had stolen from his mother as she was passed out from too much drink, he built a stake over a period of just a few months. He bought what he thought to be the clothes of a frontiersman, along with some guns and the required tack and such. He got a package deal at the livery. Then, without so much as an "adios," he headed toward what he thought was Texas to join the Rangers.

What Frankie couldn't put together as he sat in what was the most sweetly appointed cave he'd ever been in was that he'd had a run-in with the leader of the small army that was chasing him once before. It was in Wichita, just after he left home. Earl was drinking and cheating at cards, something at which he was practiced, in his own way. He was doing quite well since he worked it to be playing with a bunch of greeners. Then, Frankie sat in for a couple of hands.

He wasn't a pro by anyone's standards, but he had learned more from being on the river than just sitting on Daddy's lap. Even though he regularly lost at gin rummy, they were playing poker. A game cherished by 99% of every riverman he'd ever met, including his father. He knew for a fact that virtually every deck of fifty two cards had but four aces. When Frankie was dealt three and Earl came up with four, cowboys started hitting the floor.

Just as Earl was about to pull the trigger on Frankie's future, somebody started kicking the hell out of people at the bar. The commotion caught Earl's attention just long enough for Frankie to disappear beneath the table. He looked up in time to see a steel, pointy-toed boot catch Earl square in the middle of his left calf muscle. When Earl started to go down, Mad Dog's other boot made quite an impression on Earl's head. The look on Earl's face made everyone in the saloon laugh, including Mad Dog Martuccio himself, who promptly forgot what had started his rampage in the first place. When they dragged ol' Earl out into the street for the tar and feathering generally reserved for those card cheats who actually survived discovery, Frankie scooped up the money on the floor, collected his horse, and didn't stop until the horse just wouldn't run anymore.

While the other boys' dreams were out on the river, Frankie had always wanted to be a Ranger. But the actual facts were against it. He just wasn't, anything, enough. At 5'7" he was too short. The average store clerk could blow his nose faster than Frankie could draw his pistol. That he was about as brave as one of the jack rabbits on the Texas prairie helped not at all. So, after the Rangers had laughed him off as just one more wannabe, rather than be downhearted about the world, Frankie decided to start up his own vigilante unit.

He'd call them the "Range Riders." His idea was that they'd comb the frontier seeking out and destroying evil wherever it could be found. This led him to the conclusion that if he had the capture of some really bad man under his belt, the right kind of men would come looking to join him. These are the dreams of a young boy growing up reading dime novels in a lonely home.

Frankie recalled that during his time among the Rangers, there had been a lot of talk about trouble up in Colorado. Apparently a group of toughs had pretty much taken the place over and there was going to be some action before long. Frankie pounded his head as if to dislodge the one little bit of information that would lead him into history. The facts swirled by: sheriffs didn't live long there, rail spur, questionable economic set-up...Regret. That was it. The town was called Regret, Colorado. Frankie packed up, tied down, asked directions of the guy working at the livery, and followed his finger.

CHAPTER 4

Precilla Faraday could out drink any ten mule skinners between Nova Scotia and Juarez and had at one time or another proved it. Her clothing was of deerskin overlapped by buffalo hide and moccasins, all topped off by a brace of flintlock pistols and a huge knife she called her "Tennessee Toothpick" at her waist. Precilla thought lowly of anyone who'd use either revolving pistols or repeating rifles and she herself preferred to hunt with bow and arrow only. She could out cuss, outfight, and, as aforementioned, out drink any ten trappers. And she could pilot a riverboat. It was something she had learned on her pappy's knee.

When Precilla was just eight years old, her father never came back. There was no word, except that he was gone, apparently fallen overboard during a trip. There was some money saved, but her mother went through that like chili peppers through a cowboy. Within a year, her big brother was sent to live with an uncle in Colorado to learn the shoemaking trade. His letters became more and more infrequent over time and soon she and her mother didn't even hear from the uncle anymore.

Precilla's mother played the "Widowed Wife" routine to the hilt. When all the other pilot's wives tired of her, basically letting her know that she should let it go, she tried working. She took in sewing, she took in laundry. She soon tired of this and began taking in sailors, no one else being at all interested in her company. She loved the men talking of adventure in faraway ports. The men loved her after a few glasses of wine. She only drank wine, her upbringing being a little too high for the rough texture of the whiskey the men consumed. Precilla kept pretty much to herself during this period. She had lost interest in her mother's life, the men she brought home, and the increasingly angry tirades against her father. The money was scarce, she knew. Her mother's behavior was erratic at best. Precilla began wondering how she would ever get out of the apparent hole they were in. Then, one day, it happened.

The day after her sixteenth birthday, Precilla was wandering around the waterfront, looking into the store windows along the docks, when she bumped into a man. She had been staring so intently at the finery on display that she hadn't noticed him approaching from the opposite direction. He had been staring into an adjoining store window and hadn't noticed her approach either. She begged his forgiveness. He begged her pardon, and noted her beauty. She blushed. He began asking things about her that no one had ever before bothered to question. What was her name? Did she live alone? Could he give her a ride home in his carriage? What was she doing in the streets alone when there was so much danger about? She could only blush and answer in one syllable words, nods, grunts, and giggles. He asked if he could call on her as she was stepping down from the ride. She told him she would be happy to meet him somewhere. The young stranger had strummed her heart strings steadily from the beginning.

As she watched the carriage wend its way away from her mother's house, she stayed on the worn porch for some time. He seemed to be impressed when she told him that her father was, or at least had been, a riverboat pilot. He seemed truly concerned when she told him the company considered him lost on duty. He smiled when she told him she was nineteen. She spent that entire night awake, considering his comfort and her excitement.

The following evening she dressed in her best and met him at the restaurant he had specified. It was the best the city had to offer and it was on the docks. Dockside in the evening was all gaiety and parties and she had been quite swept up in it all. She loved the feeling she got from champagne. They were to see much more of each other in the coming days.

After three weeks of romance, he proposed. She accepted. She didn't know what he did for a living but there was always money, he treated her like gold, and he was eager to show her something new and exciting whenever the chance presented itself. His name was Ralph Faraday and after the short ceremony in her mother's house, an event for which her mother had promised to be sober, they boarded a riverboat for a trip to New Orleans. They never made it.

Precilla learned her husband's profession within the first five minutes aboard the boat. Ralph was greeted by an obvious acquaintance who was less than pleasant in his manner. She wondered why Ralph hadn't introduced them. She felt hurried to their cabin. His explanation was short, somewhat terse. He had obligations. She would have to understand that if they wanted to live with any comforts at all he'd have to work at what he knew best. She'd just have to understand. She should relax, he told her. Everything would be fine, he had said. Things did seem to be fine. When they were together everything was wonderful. When he was working, she would find other things to do. She learned her place in the social structure of the riverboat on the third evening when a woman in the First Class Salon suggested that gamblers and other criminals should all be locked up forever. They were, she said, a blight on all humanity. It was a boring group anyway. Everyone in the room was much older than Precilla.

By the fifth night, Precilla was much impressed with her husband's abilities at work. He had handed her $5000 to keep for them, kissed her cheek, and shut the door behind himself as he literally flew back to his "office."

The knock was persistent. Someone was at the door. Did Ralph lose his key? She came all the way back slowly, having been deep in her own dreams of their future. It was the Captain. Her husband had been caught cheating and had been shot through the heart by the man he had cheated. There were witnesses. She would be allowed passage to New Orleans because the tickets were paid, but he requested that she confine herself to her room for her own protection. She chose to leave what had become for her a floating coffin, in Vicksburg.

She wasn't entirely out in the cold. She did have the $5000, and another $2500 she found while packing her things and going through his. She was comely, pleasant, witty, charming, quick to smile, gregarious, and an easy mark. She was on the inside, exactly the opposite of what she was on the outside. It was all a show, albeit inadvertent. She was also alone and wore the fact like a billboard. She had to fend off every hustler and shill on the docks when she stepped from the boat. After two days in the hotel, just as she was leaving the dining room, she met the man from Denver.

He was in town to enjoy himself after selling several thousand head of cattle up in Abilene and he was traveling because he expected to find a wife to take back home. A Southern Belle was his original intention, but this young widow had him spellbound from their first exchange. She thought it didn't really matter that much. At least this one had a house and a future. Denver might as well have been Baghdad as far as she was concerned. Even though she thought this might truly be the right choice, she never told him about her money and, to his credit, he never asked. She was thinking that whatever happened, she still had her money.

Her new husband had all the plans laid in. They would go north to St. Louis, then cut across with a wagon train until they got to the Platte crossing. They would then leave the train and cut south to his spread.

It turned out he was a drinking man. It turned downright dangerous when he chose to include himself in a little poker game when they were only four days out on the trail. The whiskey did flow. He killed the farmer who called him a cheat with the first shot. The second shot, fired by the wagon master, went right through his brain.

Again, Precilla was alone. Again, she scrounged what money she could from her husband's belongings, only this time she gave it to the farmer's family. She had plenty of her own, at least for the moment, and it seemed like the right thing to do. She was told she could stay with the train as far as the next settlement, if she could keep up, and if she wanted to, but that was all. There was a serious shortage of women out in the territories and the wagon master didn't want to have to deal with that for the next four months. The other women on the train thought it would be fine to just dump her on the trail where they were. She was just too damn good looking for them to tolerate.

When the wagon train reached a small mud-walled village the wagon master called Ft. Wallace, Precilla decided it was for the best that she was taking her leave of the stares and the talk.

That's when she met the cowboy. To her, he was what she had hoped to be getting all along. He was tall, roughly handsome, smart, apparently educated, strong, kind to her, understanding of her plight, and gentle in his offer of assistance. She sold her wagon and mules and most of the goods inside adding to her private cash cache and she and her cowboy were off toward New Mexico Territory within a week.

She thought the wagon they were riding in was full of his personals, although it was never uncovered during their time on the trail. That's where he had put all of her worldly possessions at the beginning of the adventure. That's how he had described their planned journey together. She loved the thought. They were four days out on the trail, going up into and, she thought, over, every mountain on the continent when she learned that his words were wind born and bred.

They were camped for the night. The horses were staked. The fire was burning brightly, but to Precilla it only accented the location and his looks. Just as they had cleaned up from their dinner of bacon, beans, and coffee, she heard a noise. It was like a bird call, but if that were true, it was the only bird awake in the area. It sounded so near and so large. There was a rustling in the brush just out of the firelight. Then she saw, up close, the first Indian she had ever seen that was not attached by some umbilical like system to any fort or trading post. This one didn't look at all either drunk or happy.

Her cowboy got up and greeted the intruder like an old friend. He offered his hand but it was refused. She heard them talking but could not understand what was being said. Voices were occasionally rising. Arms went up and down. There was a lot of pointing at the wagon. The cowboy made a motion as if dismissing the visitor and the visitor, with an obvious look of outrage enhanced by the fire, departed the campsite the way he came in. The cowboy called Precilla close and told her there was no time for talking, they had to get on the move immediately. As she moved to pack the things scattered around the campfire he told her there was no time for trivials.

Just as he had gotten the horses into their harnesses and he and Precilla had climbed aboard, and just as he was about to whip the team into motion, an arrow pierced his chest. He just sat there. The look of astonishment on his face became a smile as an unseeing eye fell upon Precilla. She still had no idea. Then, he fell forward, off the seat of the wagon, and she was left in the campfire light to ponder recent events, alone.

It turned out that there was no time available for anything. The decision had already been made. A group of six natives surrounded the wagon. One jumped aboard and started to drive. She turned to her right as if to jump to safety but there was a particularly large brave right at her side that prevented the move. To her reckoning, they must have traveled at least twenty miles, having been on the move throughout the night. They went through pitch black valleys, up incredible slopes, through forests, and across large meadows. Just as she was thinking she could honestly take no more, she spotted a light ahead. It grew to include lodgings that became teepees with several fires around the area.

As the wagon entered the encampment there was a tremendous uproar. Precilla was immediately surrounded by people of all ages, all of them rifling through the wagon looking for that thing that was just for them. The people were rummaging. The children were screaming with delight. The dogs were barking in concert. It seemed to Precilla that the party had been expected. As she watched the tribesmen emptying the wagon, she realized there wasn't one thing she could see that would remind anyone of anything useful to any household. They were pulling out rifles by the box along with cases of ammunition which were all put to good use in celebration. It must have been upwards of a full hour before anyone took any notice of the passenger in the wagon.

White women weren't held in very high esteem by the people of any of the tribes in those days. Those few Indians who actually went in for stealing white women usually just put them out of their camps in disgust when it was learned just how comparatively useless they were. They didn't work like Indian women. They didn't follow instructions like a woman should. They didn't please the men willingly as a woman should. The ate too much. They complained incessantly. They generally just took up space that could be occupied by someone useful to the community. White women, in the eyes of the tribespeople, were a complete waste. Precilla was still alive because she had come along with the wagon full of weapons. It was her long blonde hair that saved her from the rest. Blondes were an anomaly among the tribes and they therefore held some kind of mysterious standing, although no one was exactly sure what kind of standing that might be. It was decided that Precilla could live among them as long as the tribe could tolerate her. She was able to do her fair share of the work, and she didn't get in anyone's way. The tribe just didn't know if she was good luck, bad luck, or just dumb luck.

That's about how it went for more than three years. The time floated by Precilla. At first it was all a dream. There was nothing real about anything around her. She could breathe. She could eat and care for herself. No one seemed to much notice what she was doing, until she had been with them for about four months when she seemed to snap out of her trance. Then, rather abruptly, she began surprising them at every turn with something she could do that wasn't usually accepted as the kind of thing a woman should be doing. She watched closely and learned well. She learned all the things that anyone would need to know about not only surviving in the world, but how to use the world as a personal resource. The older men were always in some state of amusement at what the white woman could do. She became very good at hunting, trapping, riding, shooting (with the rifles stolen from her cowboy's wagon), and reading the world around her. She became so good, in fact, that she was becoming somewhat unpopular with many of the men because she was showing a knack at things they had to work hard at to get right. The jealousy was boiling to the surface when the tribal elders came to her and asked her to leave. They told her it would be for the best if she were to rejoin her own people. None of the men had taken her so there were no ties. They said she belonged in the white world and that's where she should go to find her future.

It was quite that simple. She had her own pony and enough truck to get her pretty far before she'd need to use her wiles. Some were sad to see her go, most were not. Nonetheless, it was down the trail and out into the bush she went. Being entirely unsure of her direction, she let the horse do the deciding. For Precilla, going home, to that place where there was but a drunken dock rat in the guise of her mother didn't even get considered as an option. Besides, she still had all that money from before she was taken captive with the wagon.

She chose a basically solitary life, going into towns or outposts only when she felt she actually needed to. There'd been some abrupt changes in her life over the past few years and she wanted to do a little reflecting. Then, one day, while wrapping up a campsite she'd been using for about a week, a man by the name of "One-Eye" Charlie Lamb happened along.

He was known to most of his mates as "One-Eye" because that's what he had. There was some vague story that got around concerning an eagle on a mountaintop. There was another that included a whore in some swamp in Louisiana with a fingernail file.

It was One-Eye who told Precilla about the rendezvous.

The annual trapper's get together in the low valleys of the Rockies attracted nearly all of the people who chose life in the mountains during their few years of existence. Most were trappers and hunters, many were also gamblers, hustlers, sellers of cheap whiskey, and expositors of the latest, newest do-dads available anywhere.

It was at her first rendezvous that Precilla learned of her tolerance of alcohol. Most said it was because she was so big. At 6'2" in height, she was already taller than most of the men around, and weighing in at 165 lbs., she was strapping tight. At that rendezvous is where Precilla learned to read men like a trail. They weren't all after only one thing, but mostly...they were. Themselves first, a woman for the pleasure, second. That's how she saw that men tended.

She also learned how to gamble at the rendezvous. It cost her some, but most of the cost could be chalked up to educational fees. There was no real harm done and Precilla really began enjoying herself for the first time in a long time, among this rowdy and various crowd. By the end of that first meeting there wasn't a man to be found who didn't respect, or fear, and desire Precilla Faraday.

At the end of the rendezvous, when she parted company with the group of men with whom she had stayed the closest, she decided that maybe North was the way to go, as had been suggested several times by one of the trappers in from Canada. She figured she had about two months to get there and get settled in for the winter. She knew she had to make tracks, but the way this trapper had talked about the Northern Ranges, you'd have thought he was just there taking a day off from Heaven on Earth. After about three weeks on the trail and making real good time, she came to a place called Deadwood.

CHAPTER 5

Mad Dog Martuccio, his real first name was Paolo but he hated it, was a man who left his family back East following an altercation with his father. The elder caught the younger in the elder's private stock of whiskey, with the family strongbox wide open, and one of his father's whores in his lap, neither wearing a complete outfit. The elder gave the younger twenty-four hours to clear out or he would be treated just like any other shovel of street scum. This gave Mad Dog a great rush of personal motivation. There was no one in the family who cared. His youngest brother had even been sent West to tend a family holding just to get him out of Paolo's reach. Him being gone would be music to every ear on the estate. So he was sure to leave his own mark on the way out the door. He again broke open the strongbox, this time emptying it. When the house was empty, he set it ablaze. He sang as he walked his horse out of town.

Paolo became known as Mad Dog due to his general demeanor. He was a little larger, a little louder, a bit more obnoxious, just more disgusting all around, not only than anyone else, but more than was necessary. If he knocked you out with one punch, he'd put a couple more on you because nobody goes down with just one.

When Paolo had left his home in flames that day, he didn't have any idea where he was going. It created quite a trail. He had gone to New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Boston, Richmond, and in those towns, even in the nation's capital, he found pressure coming from the family's need to avenge Paolo's precipitous action on his way out the door. Finding serious obstacles where there had always been open doors angered Paolo. Reacting like a cornered dog, he sprang to the West. He didn't believe the family either could or would follow him out into the territories just as he was waking up to the idea that there was a whole continent out there for him to conquer. He figured he could get run out of a town a day and not use the same town twice in a lifetime. He was looking forward to some big times as he rode through Pennsylvania, Illinois, down through the Western ends of Tennessee and Kentucky, then out across the plains.

He had plenty of time to think during his journey. He really didn't give a damn about the family's business except for the money it had put in his pockets. He even had to cheat to get his hands on what he thought was enough of that. He didn't like the way the organization was set up in the first place. It reminded him of what he had heard others say about their businesses; that there was a general and the rest were a bunch of slaves. You do what the general says or you wind up in the local idea of a stockade. He really didn't like his other brothers either. He thought them a group of silly sycophants, except for Arturo. He was growing up to be pretty larcenous. Both were evil to the core, so they had some pretty high times together. But, when it came right down to it, he knew that Arturo was just another one of the old man's puppets.

He had to admit, he was having a good time traveling through the country. Petty robberies kept him in food and he added to his cash supply a bit as well. He tried his hand at cheating greeners at poker, and was about as successful as he had been in the city.

Mad Dog had been harassing the small rail head where his little brother was holding court as the local banker when he had the local boot maker make a special pair for him. This was a set of fine bull hides with heavy steel and fancifully engraved toes that would soon become a sort of personal trademark of his very own. That's how he felt about them and, in fact, word was getting out. It wasn't long at all before nearly every town had someone in it who had a story to tell anyone who'd listen about those boots and their operator.

When he had commissioned them, his intent was to use them on anyone who stood in his way. They were indeed metaphorically perfect for Paolo "Mad Dog" Martuccio; always on the prod, forever small time. He was so engrossed in his own little world he simply passed it off when he heard that his little brother the banker had sent a telegram about him back home.

He spent his time in a leisurely fashion, sober and drunk, casting lazily about for some harm to do. It didn't matter how petty the offense, just so it screwed somebody up. Once, a preacher had berated his actions in public. In retaliation, he rigged a bucket with about 25 pounds of mud so that it would dump its entire load upon the preacher's head as he entered the rear door of the church. But, as usual, Mad Dog's ability to do something right was tempered by the quantity of alcohol connected with the event and this time he put it together all wrong. His timing was bad to boot. As it happened, the entire bucket, mud and all, came down on the top of the head of one Miss Eulla Thompson, organist for the First Episcopal Church of Kansas City as she was going into the building to practice for an upcoming event on the church's calendar.

Eulla, at that time of year, always came to practice at usual times. You could set your pocket watch by Eulla's appearances. She got great satisfaction from her starring role in the annual presentation of Handel's "Messiah." She had worked for years getting the sound "just right" on that old pile of boards and canvas the preacher called an organ. When the people filled the pews, which was as natural as this was the local event of the year, Eulla Thompson just got goose pimply all over.

Eulla recovered from Mad Dog's error, mostly. She did have some trouble playing the organ after that, and her virtue seemed to waver occasionally. She kept telling people about the cattle drives she'd been on.

There was such a row following Eulla's beaning that Mad Dog decided, following a few shots at the local saloon, that gone might be the place for him, at least for a while.

CHAPTER 6

She had at least heard of the place, once, at the rendezvous she had just left. There had been some mighty large talk about this particular neck of the woods. So far the trip was worth the time, but, this particular place had the reputation of a skunk on the loose in the big house. As she rode down the main street that first day, she noted nothing but saloons, both of wood and canvas; a couple of laundries, apparently being run by Chinese families; a hotel of sorts, a marshal's office of sorts, mud everywhere, and seemingly every drunk had been issued a weapon. All this put together meant there was money to be had if one could get it quick and get out alive. Precilla was confident she could do well in this rat hole someone had taken the time to name Deadwood.

It was cold, with winter closing in, as Precilla studied her hand. The potbelly in the corner took some of the bite out of the temperature and the walls kept most of the wind out. If you kept your coat and gloves on, it was just about comfortable. Pretty much everyone had found their own little place to be for the night. Just as the hand was filled and the betting got serious, some joker ran in and shot the player directly across the table from Precilla, right in the back of the head. Then the player on her right, they'd been referring to him as Mad Dog all night, jumped up and kicked the shooter, lifting his left kneecap right out of his trousers. That's when the whole place literally exploded. People were evacuating that saloon, one of the sturdier buildings in town, like it was on fire for the last time. Some who had noted the commotion and had come to check it out, saw Mad Dog assailing everything in sight with some wickedly-toed boots and were back outside with the next swing of the door. Precilla just sat in her chair, back to the wall, and watched it all happen; theater for one.

Mad Dog, was indeed making a mark in the local fabric. He thought he was sure to win big just when some sodbuster had stopped play. It was as if that first kick had set off some sort of perpetual motion device. Following that first kick, he started putting the toe to anything that looked like it had even been alive at any point in history. Inanimate objects as well as people were flying all over the place as splinters and screams of pain filled the room. Those on their way out got it in the backside. Those on the way in weren't so fortunate. In just a very few minutes, when the room had become clear of all upright citizens, all that Mad Dog could see was Precilla, seated at a table with lots of money, some his, stacked on top.

Mad Dog stomped up to the table and bellowed like some neutered buffalo calf.

Precilla answered with a measured and calm, "One step closer and I'll introduce your insides to the outside."

Though this slowed him down a touch and put a quizzical look on his face, Mad Dog recovered his senses quickly. He took two steps back. He then brought one of those steel toed boots right up through the center of that card table splitting it cleanly in two. The force of the attack set poker chips and money and cards flying all over the room and sent the table halves spinning neatly in opposite directions.

Precilla sat motionless through the episode. Her pistol was in her lap and pointed directly into the middle of Mad Dog's chest.

Again Mad Dog looked a bit quizzical. A woman had never gotten the drop on him before and he just plain didn't like the idea. He determined that the next one would go right up through the middle of that woman's chair. He didn't figure there was a woman who could actually handle one of those horse pistols, so he discounted its presence totally.

Mad Dog took one step forward, and was about to apply the necessary force to accomplish his goal when Precilla introduced his insides to the outside; namely to the floor, the walls, and just about every other exposed surface in the place.

The judge called it justifiable homicide. Nobody said anything about her taking Mad Dog's boots. Most were just happy to see them leaving town. Although there were a few who grumbled over their whiskey glasses, nobody was there to challenge her when she rode out of town with all the money she'd been able to find in the vicinity of the action.

As she had been told, Deadwood was a moving community, but this time south would be the way her trail headed. The weather was well on its way to becoming totally inhospitable and she decided warmer was better. She rode until she came to a small rail head called Regret, somewhere in the south of Colorado, she figured. A nice, quiet little town and, after a few days at the local tables, she learned to her surprise that there was a shoemaker named Porch living there, and there was trouble brewing.

CHAPTER 7

Elwood Porch made boots. He also made shoes and just about any other leather oriented gee-gaw that someone might request. Given the gist of the need and use, Elwood was proving to be a veritable leather working impresario. He made, for example, some rather unusual boots for a man who called himself Mad Dog. He thought the request strange, but the boots were truly fine, and though he was never paid for his work, he was well satisfied with his efforts and with the knowledge that the man was on his way out of town. Elwood did, in fact, pride himself not only on the general quality of his work, but in his ability to create masterpieces where there was once but a flat piece of animal hide. He had even been contacted to make a pair of boots for the famous Kit Carson. Even though Mr. Carson neither paid for nor picked up the completed pair of boots, word got around. Elwood was still not a happy man. Even though he had achieved an element of notoriety for his abilities with leather, even though he had a very nice accounting with the local bank, and even though he was about to inherit his uncle's estate, something was missing.

Elwood had been sent to live with his uncle on his mother's side, Eustus Mayweather, when he was just ten years old. His mother had decided that every boy needs a trade in this world and the Mayweather's, following some correspondence, had made the offer. So off little Elwood had gone, to a little town out in the middle of nowhere called Regret to learn the cobbler's trade. This was over his father's disappointment that his mother simply wouldn't listen to a single word regarding Elwood following in his father's wake upon the river.

Eustus Mayweather had been a cobbler in the town since before it was even a whole town. He had tried to start up a shop in Texas but found that avenue closed.

When Eustus and his first wife, Eulla, had moved from St. Louis to San Antonio, Eustus had promised much. He had saved his money and they had been able to stay in hotels along the way, and had been truly enjoying their lives together. When they arrived in San Antonio, Eustus had hit the streets looking for a job. He was soon disappointed that in such a large town there could be such a shortage of gainful employment available. Even though he had graduated from the prestigious Arthur Winton College of Cobbling in St. Louis, there just didn't seem to be a need. One thing San Antonio had in abundance was boot makers. His high-falutin' credentials just didn't seem to carry much weight in that part of the country. In fact, more than one of the shop owners he talked to suggested he use his diploma for something useful, like kindling.

After two short months, Eustus and Eulla were out of cash and even out of a home. They stayed under a tree outside of town most of the time. They begged for food from the local mission and hoped something would turn up.

One day when Eustus was wandering around town aimlessly, hoping that his hope would turn something up, it did. He witnessed a beating. Apparently some cowboys were unhappy with the way they had been fed during their last drive and they were expressing as much to the drunken man who had been their cook at the time and was now laying in the street taking physical abuse for his lack of effort on their behalf. When the dust was about to settle, he heard them wonder aloud among themselves as to who they would get as a replacement for their trail chef. This caused Eustus to react. It was an act of desperation, but Eustus had once been told that sometimes you just had to make things happen. So he approached the men, told them he had heard their complaint and offered himself and his wife as replacements. He told them one salary would be enough for them both. They agreed. The foreman agreed. The deal was done.

When Eustus returned to give Eulla the news, she was somewhat unsure of the idea. Out on the range for months at a time didn't seem to be the thing that Eustus had promised prior to their wedding. But he talked her into it, promising bigger and better things to come. They joined the drive at a place called the Double-Z, so named for the local terrain, which was criss-crossed with ravines and creeks for miles across the Texan desert.

The company was Eustus, Eulla, twelve wranglers, their foreman, various working stock, the chuck wagon itself, and 5000 head of the scrawniest cattle Eustus had ever seen. It was not long before the reality of their situation set in.

Eulla's cooking was prized. Eustus' cleaning and other attendance was acceptable. However, in this group where the eldest was the foreman at 46 years, hormones soon had their way and the wranglers wanted a little extra from the only woman within a hundred miles in any given direction, and the only white woman within a thousand. A few of the boys had smuggled in some whiskey and that did nothing for the situation both Eustus and Eulla then faced. There was nothing Eustus could do. If he made any comment at all, he was very likely to find himself looking down the business end of a .44 in the hand of a drunk and angry cowboy. Eulla was afraid at first, then she began to enjoy the attention and the thrills. She ended her personal relationship with Eustus and began enjoying the men, usually one at a time. She loved the lies they told her and the promises they made.

She soon tired of the same old lines and the same old, and young, men and just left one night, out in the middle of nowhere, riding off with a hand no more than eighteen years old. To Eulla, it was a matter of the least negative option. She tried to put the endless abuse and humiliation she had endured in the trail camps behind her and she tried to forget how her husband had just watched it all happen. She would be a long time weathering this storm.

There were problems right from the first. Eustus didn't cook all that well and he couldn't keep the memory of this bunch's former cook out of his mind. He kept seeing himself laying there in the street with his teeth strewn around, and blood dripping from one eyebrow. Fortunately, there wasn't all that much involved with making biscuits, boiling coffee and beans, and burning meat. Where Eustus probably saved his own life was in his ability to repair the wrangler's boots while on the move. They had all bought some cheaply made boots with whatever was left after their drinking and womanizing, and these boots often just fell apart at the seams. When it became known that there was someone along who could deal directly with their real problems, Eustus was given the regard any useful person would be given. While this was all fine for the time being, his peace of mind, and his personal safety, he still missed Eulla and the dreams they had had together.

When they reached Kansas City and Eustus had been paid, the first thing he did was to arrange a divorce from Eulla on the grounds of "desertion." She had certainly been through a tough time, but she did, after all, run off with some cowboy and Eustus just didn't feel the need for this kind of lingering problem.

As it turned out, there was quite a need for footwear specialists in the city at that time. It didn't take Eustus long at all to save up quite a nice little nest egg and even meet another woman.

Her name was Maybelle Wilson. Maybelle's family had been in the area for more than 45 years. Her father, though not rich, had done quite well clerking, then managing at the local "5 and Dime." Since Maybelle was their only child, they were very happy to see her set up with a man of Eustus' apparent caliber. He had been somewhat vague about a previous marriage, but Maybelle's father had seen the divorce certificate so he was at least settled on that issue. Her parents could see that he was kind to their daughter. That is to say, they believed he hadn't been to jail and she said that he didn't beat her.

It went very well for about two years when Eustus sat Maybelle down and presented her with his idea of freedom and life on the frontier. It really didn't take a lot of effort. They had been talking sorta sideways about that sort of thing, off and on, for some time. Nothing really to make of anything, it was just casual chatter. But now, Eustus had cast his lot. The challenges had been given. Maybelle, rapidly approaching her thirtieth year, well knew that if she didn't do it now, it would never be done. The plan was laid. Eustus gathered his cash supply, went to the other local merchants he knew to get their help in setting up a strong traveling rig, and a departure date was set. They were going to leave the end of the line to happenstance.

So it was that on a balmy spring day, Eustus and Maybelle set out on a journey that was the beginning of their real lives together. To Maybelle it sometimes seemed like their months on the trail were just too much. It was too hot. It was too cold. They worried about the animals, the water, the wagon, and everything else at one time or another. There was indeed a lot of time to think on the trail. They sometimes traveled with a wagon train that would allow it. Sometimes they just followed along. Every once in a while, Eustus could make a little cash doing some repair work on some boots or some other leather thing. All in all, they were enjoying their time on the road. They met many people and had many good times. Then they began to hear the talk of winter and decided it might be for the best if they were to settle a little more solidly until the season passed.

As they approached the foothills of the Rockies, the air began to have that winter crispness. It had a bite, especially at night as the stars oversaw the season's onset. They decided to stop at the first town they came to and just take their chances. It turned out to be a small town called Cojones. Only a few places could actually be called buildings, they were mostly tents or, weather permitting, just a board across a couple of beer kegs and the opportunity to sell something. The place turned quite a trade, being the closest thing to civilization for hundreds of miles around.

Eustus started out in the back of what was passing as a General Store, repairing boots for everyone from prospectors to cowboys to other travelers and anybody else who wandered in with a hole or a broken stitch. Cojones was a stop for several herds coming up from the south and the wranglers often needed some kind of leather work done.

Business grew rapidly, as did the town, partly because of the work of the wife of one of the old timers in town and partly because the railroad sent a spur into town. Everyone was surprised, but no one complained when the railroad showed up. Though Cojones was in line for some of the herds, no one could figure how such a small number of cows could rate a whole rail head in what was still the middle of nowhere. But then the spur attracted the attention of a few more herds, which saved miles and money, based on the weight per head of cattle, shipping from Cojones rather than making that 800-1000 mile drive to either Abilene, Kansas City, or Dodge City. With the herds came the cowboys, and the cowboys brought their paychecks and a thirst for many things, including new boots.

Maybelle was ecstatic about a friendship she had struck up with a woman who had visited the General Store one day. Her name was Regret Hansen and she lived on a spread outside of town with her husband Harley, who had been there for some time already, and who was connected with some local yarns about a lost gold mine or some such. Eustus didn't generally pay much attention to such stories, anyway. Maybelle and Regret became as sisters. Eustus and Maybelle would occasionally go out to the ranch, but mostly not. Regret's husband didn't seem to have a lot to say to anyone besides his wife and their foreman. But they all got along all right whenever they were together and Harley even told Regret he wouldn't mind if she were to invite the Mayweathers out to dinner more often, which made Regret shine. It was hard to find real friends out in this world and she and Maybelle had struck a chord. Maybelle was the leader in the movement to get the town renamed "Regret" following her heroism during the time those renegades destroyed half the town and killed more than fifty men, women, and children, including her best friend in the world.

Meanwhile, Eustus had been making money hand over boot. His deposits got the attention of the local banker. He became well known regionally for his ability to make, if not the fanciest, certainly the sturdiest and most comfortable boots in the whole North American Continent. Soon he raised his own building and soon after that, he and Maybelle started talking about a home outside the city, which was still somewhat rowdy and even dangerous at times.

For about fifteen years, things were just about as idyllic in Cojones as this life could ever be. Then the place started to show some wear at the edges. There had never been much of a need for law in the town because the trouble was so often so small that it was pretty much handled between the disputing parties. As the town grew, so did the crime rate. It was mostly disorderly, drunken fun that was going on. But every once in a while there'd be a killing. Then there'd be a lynching. Then things would quiet down for a short spell. Then it would all happen again. The banker/mayor had several times written to the territorial governor requesting a marshal be sent in and for a time things eased up again. Those marshals the governor had been kind enough to send unfortunately had a tendency to get themselves killed within weeks of their arrival. This happened five times before the banker/mayor quit getting replies to his pleas to the governor, which suited the banker/mayor's purposes and intents perfectly.

It was just two weeks following Regret's funeral and the official renaming of the town that the Hansen place became available. Harley Hansen and his foreman had been out on a buggy ride, for a reason no one could figure since each had for years been known to prefer a horse. It was about a month before a trail bum had brought word to town that two very dead bodies were about ten miles to the Northwest of town and it looked very strange. According to the stranger, and corroborated by a couple of the townsfolk who volunteered to go have a look, the whole wreck was at the bottom of a deep ravine. The men and the horses had been shot. Maybelle convinced Eustus that the price was right and he saw that there was nothing in the world Maybelle wanted more than her best friend's memory. So that deal was done. Harley Hansen had left no will following the death of his wife, so the courts just put the estate on the block "as is."

It was right after that Eustus heard from his sister, who had taken up with a riverboat bum. She wanted Eustus to take her son on as an apprentice. Unlike the rest of the family, Eustus had never felt ill of his sister for running off with that man. His own misadventures had taught him that you just have to take your chances. They had had good times together when they were young, and he felt only affection for her. So, the deal was done. He even sent traveling money for the boy. As it turned out, he wasn't disappointed in his decision.

The boy wasn't big, but his fingers were magical. Soon, Eustus was merely was an overseer. His nephew Elwood was the champion boot maker of all time, and the shop was becoming known throughout the territory. Elwood's work was soon making more than twice what Eustus had done during a busy time. It was not only his work, but Elwood's management of the shop made it more profitable by the day. People were coming from all over to get their boots and shoes made at Mayweather's.

While the fame and growing fortune all made Elwood feel a bit exhilarated, he missed his home and his family. When he got the news that his father was somehow missing, it set him back for a couple of weeks and he was ready to head on back to the fold. He was delighted when he heard about his sister's marriage. He never did hear from either her or his mother again, even after several attempts on his part. All of this caused him to give himself up to his work. There was no social life for Elwood Porch. There were no women for Elwood Porch. There would never be family for Elwood Porch. But the shoes and boots continued to be superior in every way.

Then came the day when Elwood decided he wanted in on the real action. He asked Eustus if he could buy the business. That deal was done. For as long as Eustus and Maybelle lived, they would receive a percentage. When they died, since Elwood was about the closest thing they had to a son, he would get the whole kit and caboodle, including the store downtown where he already was in residence, and the ranch and all the holdings thereto pertaining. He got the same deal in their will. It was a kind of "whichever comes first" kind of a deal. The town's banker/mayor was all too happy to be a participant in a deal this large to the local area. This suited Elwood just fine. He hadn't spent too much of his time out at the ranch. They all lived over the store while he was growing up and when Ol' Man Hansen died, some suggested it was foul play, and when the Mayweathers moved out to the ranch, he just stayed on in the apartment over the store.

Then the accident happened. It couldn't be said that Elwood loved the Mayweathers, but they had been very good to him, and fair to a fault. As much as he missed his parents and his sister, the Mayweathers had taken very good care with his upbringing and education. It did look a might strange to other folks around the town that just three weeks after signing their everything over to Elwood in the event of their deaths, Eustus and Maybelle Mayweather were found in a wrecked buggy, shot with pistols, as their horses had been. Elwood closed down the shop for more than two weeks following this tragedy. He didn't care what everyone was saying about him because he had no truck with them anyway. It was just the change and the way it happened that moved him. Since the latest in a string of marshals was recently dead himself, there was no one to investigate and rumors were that that was just how Elwood thought things ought to stay.

CHAPTER 8

When Sally Thompson came to town, things really began to get weird for Elwood.

Sally couldn't wait to make her getaway. Ever since her mother had been hit on the head by a bucket of mud, her life had been a hell. First it was the holy-roller, then it was the maniac. She never knew which one she would be facing from one day to the next. She got to where she just couldn't take it anymore. Kansas City was a bustling town and she saw herself playing nursemaid to someone who didn't even know who she was half the time. She felt she was being stifled. She wanted out into the world where things were exciting and romantic and she could become rich and she could get away from her crazy mother. So, when she broke, she broke cold.

She raided her mother's secret savings cache of what turned out to be nearly $1000. The decision to go to New Orleans was easy. She had read about how people lived in that city and it seemed to her that there was more life there in one day than in a dozen lifetimes where she was. She packed what she thought she would need while thinking about traveling light, and made her way to the docks. She had purchased her ticket the day before and made the docks with just ten minutes to spare. Her feeling of elation was complete as the riverboat pulled out into the current and headed South.

During her both literal and figurative trip, Sally met several dashing young and old men who wined her and dined her and promised her many things in return for a favor or two. Having been cloistered all her life, Sally broke out of her shell in a large way, enjoying every bit of the trip and having quite a time with the favors portion of the ride. She was using them as much, if not more, than they were using her. For a little free fun, they were providing a crash course in what it could take years for the average person to experience. The younger men were teaching her how to flirt to win. The older men were teaching her what to do with money should she come by any. They were all having a marvelous time. By the time they reached New Orleans, Sally Thompson was well acquainted with the requirements of succeeding in the big city and her first steps down Bourbon Street were confident ones.

With all she had learned on that one trip, it was no time at all before Sally Thompson had gone from "one of the girls," to madam, to being the owner of her own pleasure palace. She knew there were indeed many ways to skin a cat, a Cajun, a cowboy, or a politician and she was sure her girls were all well versed in the art of information extraction. It would be easy to rob a drunken cowboy who wouldn't ever figure out where he lost his poke when confronted for payment the next morning, but information was a commodity that was worth a hell of a lot more than what some nearly broke cowboy's pockets might carry. The police were all her personal friends and as she had something on nearly every one of them, she had very few real problems. If there was any kind of trouble, she could expect ten to fifteen of the local police to show up and clear the place out. Finding girls to work for her was easy as she had developed a reputation for running one of the better, and cleaner, houses in the area. This got her some of the higher class gentlemen and other people who knew things that were really worth something to someone. But, with all the subterfuge and other hijinks going on, Sally still had a liking for counting the quick and relatively easy money that just seemed to roll in.

It was that way-too-drunk banker from someplace out in Colorado who was bragging to one of the girls, trying to show her just how big he was in other areas, who mentioned that there was a shoemaker in his town who was to inherit a ranch that had a lost gold mine on it from a man named Eustus Mayweather. What Sally knew of her mother's past caused this name to stand out. Sally's mother had married that cowboy she ran off with without worrying about any divorce or anything and had been pregnant with Sally when her new husband had been shot while cheating at poker. She had heard vague references to a first marriage and the name Eustus Mayweather came up every once in a while. Now, here it was again, connected to a lost gold mine. It was like putting a burr under a saddle.

As she packed to make her move to this little town called Regret, she believed she was going to collect her birthright as the only daughter of Eustus Mayweather's first wife. In her mind, she had clear title to whatever there was out there in the Rocky Mountain foothills. She wasn't going to let any pettyfogging cobbler steal what was clearly hers. For though she could be the daughter of any of a dozen different cowboys, "Lady of the Manor" was how she now regarded herself.

It was midsummer when she loaded up her entourage of three men for the hard work and some degree of protection, and six of her girls. She deposited her money with the banker on his way out the door of her business. When she arrived, certain things would already be in motion.

The trip was long, hot, dirty, dry, and basically looking like a bad idea after only a week on the road. The girls were as happy to have the men along as the men were to be on the trip, even though one of them died accidentally along the way; something about not being greedy. So it was with mixed emotions that the troupe rolled into the small Colorado territory town of Regret.

While the girls waited in the wagon, Sally scouted around, found the barber who owned the newest and biggest saloon in town and struck a deal for her girls to work the place and stay there as well, rent free. While the girls moved in and the men started drinking, Sally found the bank and checked up on her money. She was relieved to find everything in order. The banker also suggested hiring someone to press her claim, as everyone knew Elwood and in spite of what they might think of him, no one knew her. She agreed to allow the banker to handle the matter.

Her next move was to confront Elwood. This was a little more difficult, because he really didn't care to discuss the Mayweathers with anyone. As far as he was concerned, the will would be read when the circuit judge came through in a few weeks and that was all there was to it. He didn't even flinch when she announced that she'd be moving into the ranch, since she thought it her right. She gave Elwood the story of her mother and Eustus, which caused Elwood's eyebrows to up a touch, but still got no capitulation. She tried flirting, but got no response from Elwood. So she started calling him "Dead Wood." She thought him a true toadstool, no matter what anyone said about his boots.

As for Elwood, he started making shoes and boots and other leather things, like before...but not. He collected payment whenever possible and continued to be quite comfortable living over the shop in town. He even began looking forward to some trail crew or other "hurrahing" the town just for the diversion. It was also true that he didn't care much one way or the other about the contents of the will because he was doing quite well, some would say on the road to wealthy, in his own right.

As Sally began getting the ranch house into living condition, dusting this, cleaning that, she had just cleared a place for herself to sit and rest amid the project when a new cat jumped into the bag. As she was dusting and inspecting a vase that had been on the mantle ever since Harley and Regret had brought it back from their trip to Europe, a portion of a note, quite old in appearance, and not addressed to anyone, it seemed, fell out of its wide mouth. The note was torn along the right edge, crusty to the feel, and barely legible. But what caused this particular fragment to stand out from the rest of the flotsam leftover from Eustus and Maybelle's and Harley and Regret's lives, was the word gold. The note read:

To find the gold,

east to find

four from the

from the

watch for

variety.

local

The first thought in Sally's mind was that the rumors of some kind of lost gold mine had to be true. She decided to keep news of her discovery to herself for the time being and redoubled her efforts in cleaning the old place up, thinking there had to be a second half somewhere and she should be the one to find it. That way, if by some stray chance she should be denied her rightful inheritance, she would still have the inside track on the gold. After a few days of rummaging around in the old house, she decided that even five day old dead fish smell better. She'd been into every nook and cranny in the place and she had found nothing more. She was infuriated, frustrated, and downright aggravated.

She had visited the bank fairly regularly and was beginning to feel she had the banker as an ally. They'd go over the probability of her ending up with the estate, what portion Elwood would be willing to fight for, and she'd quiz him on the factualness of the gold mine stories. She got him to tell her more about the mysterious Harlingame Hansen, whose ranch was the object of so much attention. He said nothing about the Hansen file in his safe.

CHAPTER 9

The only reason Earl McGruder and his men hadn't robbed the bank in Regret was because they were in the employ of Sally Thompson. They really didn't mind the thought of a juicy little bank out in the middle of nowhere, in a town with no law, just sitting there waiting for someone to come and eat for free, because they were paid well in cash by Sally, and in occasional favors by her girls. However, Earl thought there might be another way to skin a gold mine. He figured that once Sally took it from the cobbler, he'd just up and take it from her. She wasn't a gunman and he wasn't a whore, but he'd shoot her in the back if he must to get his hands on all that gold she said she was going to get. Now they were out in the middle of the bitchiest storm he'd seen in years, chasing after someone who knew too much already, no matter what he saw or heard inside the cabin.

Frankie had spent what felt like hours sitting in the rocking chair that was part of the decor in the cave and thought about the next move. There were a few tattered slips of paper on the small table next to the chair. It was too dark to see what was happening. Frankie had only three matches when he regained consciousness and those had been used too freely. He found a torch with the third. He noted the way out in the light that third torch afforded. He was disappointed, while its age kept it burning, there was only a little more light than would be produced by a candle. He felt pretty secure where he was, but he knew that if he was going to accomplish his main goal, he was going to have to make something happen.

It was deep into the night when he found his last handhold out of the cave. The fall left him with only a few bruises, so mobility was only limited to how well he could get around in the mud and slush left by the evening's storm. His plan was to return to the gang's cabin, look around inside to see what he could see, and head for sanctuary in the town. It had a lot to do with what the gang was up to. As his head rose just above the rock, he could hear what he thought were voices. Good fortune comes in odd packages at times, but if it comes, you've got to take it.

"He's up in the rocks, boys!" shouted Earl to the gang above the wind and the occasional spattering of raindrops, just a hundred feet or so down the slope from Frankie's cover. "We'll just have to milk him out."

"He's meat if I find him first," said Jason Quentin with that perpetual question mark look on his face.

"Not if'n I gets my sights on him first. There won't be nothin' left for nobody else," countered his twin, Jackson.

"You dogs just tree him," hollered Earl. "He's mine. We'll just go back to the north end of the butte and squeeze him out like pimple pus."

With this, and under Earl's direction, the gang split up and rode up each side of the rocks in which Frankie was hiding, intending to meet at the other end. That time, plus the time it would take to give the rocks even a cursory search, put wings on Frankie's feet. At least he didn't break any bones falling down the rest of the way as he slipped and bounced his way down the rocks. Once he had collected himself, he headed directly back to the cabin where he had first encountered Earl and his men.

He had been hoping for a warm, dry, place to sleep. Maybe even a place to get Knothead out of the weather that was coming in. Luckily, he looked in one of the windows before he knocked on the door. Two of the men were bragging about the men they had killed, a couple were sleeping on the floor next to a potbellied stove that was looking mighty warm. Frankie could see someone standing on a chair and a couple more sitting around a small table. Then someone said, "What's that?" and they all gathered around the table staring at something. As Frankie moved to get a better look inside the building, he kicked a bucket that was hidden from view in the darkness. The noise caused everyone inside to look toward the window as one. They hesitated just a second in that position, then they all broke for the door. By this time, Frankie was already trying to get aboard a nervous Knothead. Finally up, he kicked the horse and just as they were about to reach cover, a rifle sounded and Knothead went down. For some reason, Frankie grabbed his bed roll before breaking into a dead run away from trouble. Finding that butte and falling into that cave was the sole explanation for Frankie still being alive.

He passed Knothead with only a glance. He was way more concerned with the prospect that someone had stayed behind. The light was still lit inside the cabin. The door was open. There were no sounds. There were no animals around. The scene was much the same as what he'd seen through the window earlier. He looked to the table and saw a scrap of paper. As he grabbed it up to have a look, he heard noises. In his haste, the piece of paper went into his pocket and he headed for the door.

"Probably some sort of evidence," he thought, as he made his way into the brush that closed in on three sides of the cabin.

"You boys have a look around," spewed Mean Earl, now feeling challenged. "I'm goin' inside." This sent half the gang off in several directions, beating the brush around the cabin. Frankie was about a hundred yards away by this time and they didn't ride out that far in their efforts.

The scrap of paper that had been knocked loose from up in the rafters of the shack boded loftier rewards, thought Earl, than those promised by that whore in town. But, he knew he had to play the game, for the time being. Now he believed he had been dealt high card. There was coming a time for that trump to be played, "But," he thought, "not just yet."

He didn't understand the scribblings on the paper. Before they were interrupted, he only had the time to note that it was torn and that there appeared to be some sort of signature at the bottom. He began thinking about the stories he'd heard about some old coot that used to own the place and all the rumors about this guy's lost gold mine. Something told him there was more than just a ranch at stake.

As he entered the shack, he noted no change until his attention went to the table. His eyes glazed over and a note of panic entered the arena. He thought of the suddenly important document fragment as his and it had been stolen. He felt violated and someone was destined to pay for the intrusion with their blood. He bolted out of the shack firing his pistols into the ceiling, sending splinters everywhere until he cleared the eave. The others returned in a few moments wondering what all the shooting was about. They were nearly as irate as Earl after having been exposed to a wild goose chase during the worst weather in a decade and they were ready to roast whoever was responsible. Earl was shouting orders before they were completely grouped. He was beyond cheating anyone out of anything. All he wanted to do was to kill that weasel who had snaked him. He sent the Quentin twins to the ranch to apprise Miss Thompson of the recent turn of events, of their find, and their loss, going back to the back shooting solution. The rest of them went into town, the only real haven within a hundred miles.

Frankie could hear the gang ride by him on his right. He had been staying just off the main track into town during his escape, and he realized he would have to be creative with his entry into a town with this bunch after him. He didn't think they had seen him too clearly during the night, but he didn't feel any need to press the issue.

CHAPTER 10

Elwood Porch had just laid down for a well-deserved night's sleep. He had worked an extra five hours into the night on orders for the local folks who usually had to wait in line behind cowhands whose needs were usually more immediate. He was satisfied with his progress that evening, and he was bushed. After trudging up the stairs to his apartment, he prepared for bed as usual. He got out of his work clothes and into his night shirt, blew out the lamp on the night stand, then settled into his nice, deep, goose down mattress, and curled up under the comforter that would protect him from the fierce weather that had been hammering the area.

As often as a new issue was available, Elwood would read dime novels until he was tired enough to sleep. He read stories about Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickock, and other Early American Heroes. Every night, Elwood Porch went to bed knowing that the passion and fire of the American Frontier had passed him by, and that he was destined to live in a gray world; no yin, no yang.

Even this Sally Thompson woman and her ridiculous antics couldn't be perceived as adventures. They were merely an annoyance that would soon pass.

Then he heard it again. Something from the real world was beckoning him from his dream. He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming when he heard something down in the shop. He wondered why anyone would be down there at this time of the night. He didn't keep any money down there. His mind flashed on someone walking up the stairs. He eased out of bed gingerly, put on his robe and reached for the pistol he kept in one of his bureau drawers. It was mostly a show piece, and in his state he didn't think to check whether it was loaded. He couldn't even really recall whether he had any ammunition for it in the first place. He did know that he'd never fired it. He felt a small thrill mixed with dread as his grip tightened on the doorknob. He placed his ear to the door to listen. He believed he could actually hear the creak-creak-creak of someone's steps as they advanced up the steps. The sweat on his brow appeared out of nowhere as he steeled himself to open the door just enough to see. He felt the noises grow fainter when the door was opened further. He could smell leather, but, nothing like he had worked with in his shop. He was familiar with a fair variety of hides and their peculiarities as a result of his vocation, but this one was new to him. Elwood left the comparative safety of his room and peered around the corner and down the stairwell, the tiny pistol leading the way.

What Elwood expected to find as he looked down the darkened stairwell was a trail bum on the prowl for some quick and easy cash. What he got was 6'2" of buckskin clad woman. She wore a cross-brace of pistols at her waist and there was a huge knife in a beaded scabbard, a floppy sombrero hanging from her neck on a latigo, boots that looked somehow familiar, and, she was the spitting image of...sort of...

"Well, howdy Big Brother," Precilla said loudly.

"What?" was all Elwood could produce.

Precilla flung her arms around him. The gun in Elwood's hand stuck out like a bad broke arm.

"But," said the astounded Elwood. That was followed by, "I got a gun," as menacingly spoken as he could muster with this woman clinging to him.

"You mean that little pea shooter?" asked Precilla. Then, offering some direction where it was clearly needed, "Step back a might, so's a gal can see ya better." She ignored his attempted control of the situation by grabbing his elbow, steering him back up the steps and saying, "Let's go into your room where we can make some light. There, that's better," she said, as she lit the lamp on Elwood's night stand.

"But, who...?" was as far as Elwood got as he sat on the bed across from her in the chair.

"Don'cha recollect yer own darlin' little sister?" asked Precilla with a little bit of feigned hurt in her voice.

"It's true. I have...had...er...a sister whom I have not seen for some time. Last I knew, she married a river man. I haven't heard from her since." Elwood started to stammer. "B-but tha-that w-was a lo-lo-long t-time ago, and it doesn't make her y-you...I mean tha-that doesn't m-make you h-her." He was totally ferlubbergated by this time. Elwood felt like a loose shoelace. Confronted in his home in the wee hours, in the dark, by a buckskin and weapon brandishing woman was a pretty serious shock to Elwood's evenly patterned and sedate life. Now she claimed to be his sister. She was wearing enough armaments to lay siege to any castle in the world. His mind raced with images of himself and his little sister as they played around their home. He could her see across the table. He could see her in the swing just before he began pushing.

"So...I hear you're a big man in town; got lots o' money," said the intruder. "Got yer own shop. Folks around here don't seem to know you too well, but they think just as well o' ya, an' highly of your work. That an' the fact that they never seen ya kill nobody. Why, I'm downright proud o' what you been doin' here, an' now with Uncle Eustus dead an' all..." She cocked her head to listen to the group of men who had just ridden into town.

"You're...p-proud...of me?" Elwood could now include exasperation to the list of feelings that were rolling over him at the moment. "Who are you? What do you want with me? How'd you get in here?" The questions just started flying from Elwood's lips.

"Now, settle down, Big Brother," said Precilla. "I been in town about a week now, just sorta gettin' the feel o' the place. An' the way things are lookin', I showed up just in time," she said while shifting her weight in the chair that wouldn't hold still. "As to how I got in here," she whipped the huge knife into the air, "I just slipped this here Tennessee Toothpick into the lock and...snap," she demonstrated a twisting motion, "slicker'n a fresh chewed deer hide." She heard the noise, but couldn't really tell if it was inside or outside noise.

CHAPTER 11

The banker's name was Giovanni, after his grandfather, and Mario after his father. His last name was Martuccio. One of his brothers had made some trouble in town a while back, but he was gone now and Giovanni had assured everyone he wouldn't be back. The job he was assigned at the bank could well have saved his life, considering some of the things that were going on back home. Being the runt of the Martuccio litter, he needed protection from two of his older brothers, who were both inclined to beat on anyone who couldn't fight back. Such is frequently the fate of the weaker in the animal kingdom. Even when Paolo had left home for a healthier climate, there were plenty of others both in the family and out who had plenty of time in their days to harass little Giovanni.

Papa Mario sent Giovanni out to Regret because he was the only one of his sons he could trust out of his sight. He was also the best educated of the group and would be able to know when and what to communicate back home. It was very simple to arrange. As it turned out, there was a bonus in the action. It made Giovanni administrator of the estate that was the apple of their eye in the first place. It was looking like their years of investment and patience was going to pay off at last.

Once the obstacle of the former banker, a suspected thief, had been removed, and along with it a busybody sheriff, the road was clear. That their truly largest mountain to climb was blown clear in the cross-fire was strictly good fortune. All Papa had to do was send a couple of telegrams and call in a couple of favors.

"Be more than just the banker," Papa had said. "Become one of the people. If they believe they know you and can trust you, it will be much easier to achieve our goals in Regret. Be a civic leader. Don't just tend accounts, be a friend to the people. We will even be willing to go soft on someone who can't make a payment or who's had a bad crop year. Of course, keep us well informed of any opportunities that may come along."

So, it was with great interest that Giovanni read the tattered note that Sally had deposited in the bank's safe. She naturally had the object in a sealed envelope, but Giovanni felt it would be necessary for him to see for himself whether it contained anything the family needed to know. He was equally enamored of a copy of the entire note that had been deposited years before by the originator, Harlingame Hansen. He had sent a copy to Papa to figure out, for it had made no sense to him at all. Giovanni reported everyone on Monday, whether there was something going on or not.

The Mayweather Will would be read officially in 8 days. That's when all would be known. Until then, it was with the Mayweathers' lawyer in Denver, who would be coming in on the train with the circuit judge. The lawyer wasn't all that reputable of a soul, but then, no lawyer of the time was. At least he wasn't in the soup with any of the scoundrels after whatever was in the will. Giovanni didn't know if Elwood or the lawyer had any inkling as to the meaning, or even the existence, of the note. He was having a tough time waiting to find out. Even though Giovanni was small, and was always picked upon by the other boys in the neighborhood, he found he could get a little back by being cruel in his adulthood. This was how he exercised the power of the bank in Regret.

CHAPTER 12

Frankie counted ten buildings beginning with the livery on his side of the street. There was a ravine running the length of the town behind the buildings to his left, and across the street there were about the same number of buildings. His view was blocked quite a bit by the rocks behind which he was hiding and his desire for secrecy. He saw the group of men ride by him in the night, their silhouettes blurring through the moonlight. His plan was simple. He was going to slip through the gully, come up and into an alleyway, locate the sheriff's office and get things straightened out before there was any more trouble.

As far as sneaky plans go, this one had its upside. It was simple, therefore easy enough for any idiot to remember. It's down side included an entire scenario playing out in the town that was entirely unknown to Frankie. Although the town usually had as many as one or two hundred people in the area going about their business, with the recent deaths of three pillars of the community and one sheriff, they were keeping mostly off the street these last few days. That Earl McGruder and eight other men wanted him dead, that the only sheriff in this town was the latest in a string of dead ones, and that he was totally unprepared for what was coming, just made him less prepared for the immediate future.

He was sitting up in some rocks and could see about halfway down the street before his vision was cut off. It would be light soon and he certainly didn't want to get caught out in the open in broad daylight.

While he enjoyed the protection of the night and his concealment in the ravine with its bushes and rocks, he could also hear several men walking around and talking. He couldn't make out anything specific, but he recognized the bad attitude.

The sounds of boots on the wooden walk receded to his left and right as he peeked around the corner of one building to see what he could see. There they were. Two men walking away from him and a group sitting across the street and down a ways. They were talking amongst themselves in the hushed tones that are seemingly required in the quiet of the early morning.

He saw the leader of the bunch come out of the building that was the sheriff's office, according to the sign in the lantern light. Frankie had never seen twins before and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. He'd heard of such things, there just hadn't been any where he lived. It was surely something he'd like to see up close, but he knew this wasn't the time to be exposing his curiosity.

Earl had been thinking about things in general. He liked to use the sheriff's office as his own. It aided his feeling of superiority to be behind a desk. It reminded him that he was a leader with whom one would have to reckon. He thought about Sally Thompson, who had hired his bunch in a deal he had negotiated. It had been two months since they had started working for Sally Thompson, and while they had been well cared for, they were still waiting for the bonanza that was promised. These men were not of the patient stripe. He didn't like the banker, either. He came on as a smooth operator, yet always losing at poker in the saloon and having the money to come back the next night, or week. There was something that, to Earl, was just kind of greasy about the guy, which, coming from Earl McGruder was saying something. He wasn't all that sure about the men in his command, either. They were just a bunch of assholes who couldn't make it any other way because of their attitudes, egos, and low I.Q.'s. "Hell," he thought, "I just brought 'em along to cover my ass. Who needs 'em, really?" He'd only seen a couple of them under fire, and they weren't all that impressive.

As he was returning to his men, the sun was on its way up and the Quentin twins were riding into town. He began to think of ways to deal them all out of the game.

"She said don't do nothin' 'til she gets here," said Jason before his horse was fully stopped.

"She's plum pissed about the paper an' she said she's gonna have yer hide." Jackson was laughing.

Earl was seething. It was a short fuse lit by a bitch-woman who was going to die before the day was done.

"Didja find him?" queried Jason. The men just shook their heads but Earl glared a look that would have peeled the skin off an onion.

"This place sure is quiet," opined Jackson. "Where's the saloon?"

"All right, hold it," yelled Earl. "I want this place searched. We'll go house to house, store to store if we have to. I want that little bastard."

"Aw, Earl," said Jackson, "we been ridin' all night and the boys is tired..."

That's all the further he got. Earl turned in a rage and in a steadily rising voice said, "I don't care if you're fallin' off yer horse tired. You're workin' fer me, not yer mommies. Now, I want that little asshole. When you find him, bring him to me. I want to show him his own heart while it's still beating."

With that, Earl headed back into the sheriff's office to settle down and figure his next move. He needed to prepare for a guaranteed confrontation with that Thompson whore.

Out in the street was not the place to be today, thought Frankie as he started trying back doors. He found one open, and as silently as he could, he settled down in the front of the shop so he could see out the window and still surround himself with protection from view. He looked around his lair. He could smell the new leather; he was now able to see most of the tools hanging around the shop in the growing daylight. From his vantage, he could see clearly down both sides of the street. He found he could wedge himself between a couple of boxes and keep a close eye on his surroundings and not been seen himself.

As he was finally settled into his little cocoon, he thought about the piece of paper that he had taken from the line shack where he first encountered Earl McGruder's gang. His examination showed that it was but one part, probably about half, of a larger piece of paper. It was the right side of the page and was very neatly and gracefully handwritten. There was no sense that he could make of the words. What he held in his hand read:

face the

her face

front, two

left, one down

snakes of all

trust not the

authority.

It was signed, simply: Harlingame Hansen. There was nothing sensical he could see so he thrust the note back into his pocket and returned his attention to the street. He noted with some satisfaction and relief that the men weren't as enthusiastic as Earl about breaking into every building in town. A couple were already in the saloon. He saw one of the them to his left point at the saloon and say something to the group with him. Together they walked across the street and entered the saloon. That put the leader in the sheriff's office, six men in the saloon, and two he couldn't see.

CHAPTER 13

The half of a note that Sally had stashed in the bank's safe, together with the half that Earl claimed to have lost, would cut through a lot of unnecessary red tape in the acquisition of funds. She didn't give a hoot about the ranch. She wanted the gold of the legend. She asked around when she first got into town and was given a pretty good idea of what was actually happening. They all told her about Ol' Hansen. Some said he was crazy. They laughed loudly every time he told the story of turning a buffalo stampede. Over the years, this rankled. They had asked for it. But, he was a clam when it came to the stories of his gold mine. No one could get him to talk about his wife, for whom the town had been renamed. There were a few around from back then, but mostly the people were newcomers, or cowboys on the prod, or farmers who minded their own business better than anyone on the earth.

Sally had every expectation of horning in on, if not taking over altogether, the inheritance. She figured the note as an excellent hedge, or at the very least, a marketable item.

Sally just wasn't sure, and that made it all the worse. She thought she could smell a double cross in the works. Was she being set up as the target? The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She wasn't all that happy with the way her hired hands were holding up their end of the deal. She was at first distressed when the men she had brought with her from New Orleans had bailed out. They wouldn't say as much, but she guessed Earl and his boys may have said something that might have sent the boys on their way. She thought she'd need some toughs, and they were that. Then her girls started complaining about the way they were being treated by Earl's men, and how they all wanted to be treated extra special. While she thought she had an idea about dealing with Earl, she didn't know Frankie Porch had come to town. She didn't know anyone named Precilla. The coming day was going to bring her more and bigger surprises than anything she ever got from a riverboat gambler back in New Orleans.

Sally hated playing the waiting game. There was nothing worse, after all she thought she had been through and subsequently made of herself, than not being in control. There were too many loose ends in this game and she had every intention of ending the play before anyone else had the opportunity.

It was coming on light as the two cowboys rode up to the house. She had been up all night and was waiting on the porch as they rode up to the big house. The news they brought was disgusting.

"Tell Earl I'll see him in town shortly," she told them, and they headed off.

CHAPTER 14

"All right, mister, hold real still." The voice fuzzed through his head. As Frankie looked up through sleep ridden eyes, he found himself nose to nose with one of Precilla's pistols.

"I can explain," he stammered.

"And I said hold still buster," Precilla said, pushing the weapon a little closer to Frankie's nose. Then, in a louder voice she said, "Elwood, you can come down now. Let's see if'n we can identify the colors on this varmint."

"Who's this?" asked Elwood as he joined the others at the front of his shop.

"If you'll just let me explain," Frankie said, while Elwood was grumbling something about the town needing a new sheriff.

"Who is this?" he asked again. "What are you doing in my shop?" he aimed at Frankie, along with, "What's your name?"

Frankie was trying honestly to answer all the questions but each answer was cut off by each succeeding question.

"All right," Precilla directed to Frankie, "I'll give you just ten seconds to open up or I'll introduce yer insides to the outside." This thought put a bug-eyed look on Elwood's face.

Frankie started to sweat. "Porch," fell out of his mouth. "I'm Frankie Porch," he breathed. Then he fainted.

He regained consciousness on a bed in a room he'd never before seen. There was light coming in through the window.

"Elwood, he's awake. C'mon in here." Precilla looked into the next room where Elwood thought he was preparing himself for the coming day.

Elwood returned to the bedroom, fully dressed, and ready to start cutting leather and nailing soles.

"What's he say?" he asked Precilla.

"Nothin', really. I don't think. I was waitin' for you, came her reply.

"Who are you and what were you doing in my shop?" Elwood demanded of the bundle on the bed. Then he added the threat, "And it better be good or this buffalo woman'll hang your hide out to dry."

"My name is Frankie Porch and I'm here to shut down Earl McGruder's operation...whatever it is." With this simple start, Frankie got on a roll and the words just started tumbling out of his mouth. "...and I might be the sheriff for a while and then I'll start up the Riders, and...", it all came in what seemed like one breath and pretty much left the others in a cloud of dust.

Elwood and Precilla just stood there through it all, sort of limp, mouths open in wonderment. They looked at one another, then back to Frankie, then back to each other as if hoping for some kind of guidance or perhaps the solution.

"Did you say Porch?" Elwood knew that was exactly what the stranger had said, but this was becoming cumbersome and he hadn't slept all night. The few moments passed like hours.

"So...where you from?" Precilla broke the silence.

"Memphis, originally; my father was a riverboat pilot," said Frankie.

"A riverboat pilot?" echoed Elwood. "What is his name?"

"Captain Marcellus Porch." It was three part harmony, disbelief included.

"Just like a man," Precilla spewed. "We pro'bly got kin all up an' down the river."

"Oh, no," a light went on in Elwood's head and he backed away from the others. "You two are in this together. You're both in it with her," he aimed at Frankie. "I didn't really care before, but I do now. It's the principle of the thing and you won't win. Now, get out of here...both of you. Leave me alone. My life was just fine until you two showed up, now everything's all wrong."

All of this noise occurred while Precilla hovered over their captive and Elwood was backing toward the door making it all seem so insincere.

Elwood's face was all red—sweaty, shining and his eyes were bulged out.

"Now get out of here, both of you. I've heard..." by Elwood was shut off by the appearance of one of Precilla's pistols directed toward the bridge of his nose. It became very quiet again.

"If we ain't lyin', an' I know I ain't," Precilla was concluding as she holstered her weapon, "we all got the same daddy." She was feeling sort of philosophical now. "Foul fortune has flung us apart, and now, that same fickle feline has brung us together where we belong. We each been down our own roads since the seed got spread, but, now is now. We can stay right here. We may not all stay here, but we can stay here. An' it's time you used yer head fer somethin' besides poundin' leather an' fiddlin' with them whores across the street."

This exposure caused Elwood to turn three shades of red, then ash white.

"Don't bother denyin' it, Elwood. I been in town near a whole week now, an' I think I got the place figured.. Precilla had control now for sure.

Elwood's befuddlement broke momentarily. "Well, if what you've been saying is true, why'd you break in here at the crack of dawn like some thief? Why not use the front door in broad daylight like most folks do? And, if you've been here so long, why haven't I seen you? And..." Elwood was cooking, but Precilla was right there.

"Because I seen right off how things are goin' around here, that's why," said Precilla. "That Thompson gal's after the ranch and the gold and she don't care if you're still breathin' when it's all over or not. That's why she done hired that bunch of prairie leeches. They got guns and they'll be happy to use 'em on whoever she says."

"What gold?" drew a confused picture on Elwood's face. It seemed to him that there were just too many surprises happening all at once.

"An' if'n we're kin, how come you're so tall an' me an' him ain't?" came a muffled voice from the direction of the bed.

From the day Elwood had gone to live with and apprentice to his Uncle Eustus to when they figured they never would hear from Pa again, there had been very little communication among the family. Elwood did his job. Pa disappeared. Ma went south. Then, he never heard from her again. Then, the deaths of friends and family. Now, this.

"What gold?" Precilla couldn't believe he didn't know.

"That's right. What gold?" said Elwood flatly. "I can follow an' almost believe a lot of what you've been saying. But I don't know about any gold."

"Well, the word on the street has it that Ol' Sally Thompson and that banker fella are makin' plans with some kinda map she's got, an' how they're gonna deal you plum out,, said Precilla.

"Map? What...?" Elwood tried to start.

"...or somethin' like that..." Precilla was saying when Frankie tried to say something.

"Maybe I've got...?" was as far as he got.

"You got nothin' yet, Pally-o," Precilla set him straight. "You just lie there real still while my brother an' me gets things straightened out."

"Brother," was a quiet expulsion of air from Elwood, echoing what Precilla had said. He still wasn't caught up with the day's events, and it was just begun. She did bear a striking resemblance to the little girl from his childhood...though considerably larger.

By this time, the sun had crested the butte outside of town, and there were a few brave souls milling about the place doing their morning things. There were a few shopkeepers sweeping off the wooden walks in front of their stores; if they had one. The barber was sweeping yesterday's hair out into the muddy street. A sometimes bustling little backwater rail head was waking up.

"And you still haven't told me why you snuck in here like some thief if you're really my long lost sister." It was a pretty brave remark, for any time of the day. But Elwood was feeling tired and confused.

His usualness had been shaken by the appearance of someone claiming to be his long lost sister, and some trail bum who says he's his brother, and by the revelation that there was gold hooked up with the inheritance of the Mayweather's estate, and that the woman known around town as Sally Thompson was quite ready to kill him for it all if necessary. For a moment he wondered why all of this couldn't be happening to someone else.

"Look, Elwood. I been nosin' around, like I said," Precilla tried to calm him. "People been talkin' all over the place, like you might-a had somethin' to do with Uncle Eustus an' Auntie Maybelle dyin' like they did, so's you could get your hands on the gold."

"I never," said Elwood, suddenly too tired to say more.

"Oh, I believe you, but the town's a-wonderin'. Especially in the saloon where I heard most o' this. People think you might be the one that done the ol' coot that owned the place before Uncle Eustus an' Auntie Maybelle, an' the old banker, an' all o' them sheriff's, too. An' on my way over here this mornin', I seen the whole bunch of 'em ride into town an' start searchin' around. I figure, things might be comin' to a head an' you might need some help." Precilla always thought two steps ahead of just about everybody.

"But, why today?" asked Elwood. "The will won't be read for another week. I mean, if she is Uncle Eustus' daughter, she's entitled."

"Yeah, well, it seems to me that Sally an' the banker, an' prob'ly Earl has a plan o' their own in the works. None o' them seem to be takin' no notice o' what day it is,, said Precilla. "An' if I'm right, they'll just find a nice, quiet, out of the way place where they can dry gulch you right out of the picture."

All through this exchange, Frankie had remained tied, face down on the bed, trying to get a word in edgewise. His "buts," and "that's not all's," and other attempts to help clarify the situation were simply ignored until...

"What's all that noise, back there? We're still not too sure about you mister," Precilla continued to control the meeting, but just then, Elwood woke up.

"And I'm still not sure about you," he said to Precilla, then nodded to indicate Frankie. "Or you, either." Elwood was trying to find his sweet little 'Cilla in this deerskin clad, hands like vices, eyes like two huge black holes, with shiny-toed boots woman standing there with the old style flintlock pistol in her hand.

Both Elwood and Precilla turned their attention to Frankie. He had just gotten himself screwed around in such a way as to either see the other two more clearly, or break his neck. He wasn't all that confident about which would occur first.

"So, what's your story mister?" said Precilla, still very much in charge.

"I been tryin' to tell you. My name's Frankie Porch and I was hidin' from those guys out in the street. Now, will you please untie me?" he whined. "I think my arm's broke." Frankie hadn't been paying all that much attention to what the others were saying in the room. His conscious thoughts had run through "Where am I?" to "That hurts," to "Maybe I can recruit that big one for the Riders," and landing on, "I got to get myself out of here."

"You say your name's Frankie Porch, huh?" Precilla was moving.

"That's right. Now will you please get me up?" He started to whimper a bit which didn't do him any good in Precilla's eyes.

"Prove it," was all she said.

"Prove it? How the hell am I gonna do that?" Frankie was now completely lost and real concern for his personal safety entered his thoughts. It looked like if he couldn't prove who he was, this buffalo woman would skin him out for a belt.

Then he remembered what his pappy had told him: "It's only on a true Porch," his pa had said. 'The Mark of the Seeker,' he had called it. It was just an hourglass shaped, or if you stretched it a bit, a lantern shaped coloration on the right cheek of a true member of the Porch clan; the right cheek of the owner's butt that is. Marcellus had seen that mark at the births of seven different children.

"I got the 'Mark of the Seeker,'" declared Frankie.

"The what?" came from both Elwood and Precilla at the same time.

"The 'Mark of the Seeker.'" Frankie was beginning to wonder if he was the only true Porch on hand. "All the Porches have it and I can prove it."

"What 'Mark of the Seeker'?" Elwood was looking to Precilla for any help at all.

Another problem arose. As Frankie outlined the somewhat colorful and occasionally less than glorious origins of the little known 'Mark of the Porches,' Precilla and Elwood were both imagining the scene they knew would follow. There the three would be; holed up in a small town, up in a little room with outlaws right outside searching for one, maybe two, of the three. They could imagine one smallish man, hog tied on the bed in a room built to be the sleeping quarters for one person, with his pants pulled down exposing a lily white butt. There was one small chest of drawers with a mirror, an armoire, a night stand with a pitcher of water and a basin, a door opposite the window and another at the foot of the bed. There was one woman dressed in buckskin with her breeches down around her ankles, one medium fat forty-ish, balding man with his drawers down around his knees. All three of the occupants of the room exclaimed simultaneously, "Well, I'll be damned."

They stood there for the longest time, eyes flitting from butt to butt...Porches all.

Strangely enough, Frankie was the first to awaken from the moment and issued a loud, "Now, will you please untie me?"

Precilla quickly slipped her deerskins up an over and around until she was once again fully wrapped. Elwood took a moment to decide whether to pull his pants up or untie Frankie.

As Frankie struggled to raise his britches, stuff in his shirt, adjust his holster, and run the kinks out of his wrists, ankles, and knees, he heard Precilla say, "I guess that means you both are my brothers, don't it?"

"I guess it does," said Elwood, as he felt himself propelled to the one chair in the room. "Are those my boots?" he asked Precilla, pointing at her shiny-toed boots.

"No, they're my boots," she said. "I won 'em fair and square offa some pudknocker up in Deadwood." She couldn't figure how Elwood could possibly think that the boots she had taken from Mad Dog Martuccio could possibly be his.

"No. What I mean is, I think I made those boots," responded Elwood. "A few years ago, a real bad man, who turned out to be the banker's brother, came into my shop and ordered a pair just like them. I charged him a bundle, too. Didn't matter. He left town without payin' me."

"I bet those guys outside are looking for you, aren't they?" Precilla out to Frankie.

"They sure are," he said, trying not to show too much fear. She was his sister, after all.

"Why would anybody want to tear down a whole town looking for you?" Precilla wanted to know.

"Probably 'cause I'm the one that stole some paper from his cabin last night," and then Frankie was again spilling his guts. It was obvious to him that the only help he could possibly figure on was standing right in front of him.

"What paper?" asked Elwood.

"What were you doing at his cabin?" asked Precilla.

These and other questions fell in and around Frankie's story. Frankie felt sort of ganged up on, but he couldn't stop talking to save his soul.

"Well, word was, this town needed a sheriff, an' then I heard about Earl McGruder an' then they caught me outside their cabin and then they killed my horse an' started chasin' me in the storm last night an' I fell into this cave that had a table an' a bed an' I went back an' got this paper off-a the table where they were all lookin' at it when I was lookin' in the window an' my feet are all blistered from walkin' all over hell an' gone the last twelve hours an'..." this kept on for several minutes. It was also the most worrisome whining either Elwood or Precilla had ever heard. Frankie was just letting it fly.

It was fairly late in his monologue when Precilla started fitting the pieces together. It was a tangled web.

"How many men has Earl got with him?" Precilla was already thinking about how they were going to get out of this alive. Elwood suddenly realized why Sally had been pestering him so persistently.

"I'll hire a lawyer," he said. "They know what to do."

"Don't be an idiot like Pa was," said Precilla. "We got maybe fifteen minutes before those boys get around to this place, then all hell's gonna break loose."

A couple of the boys were still kicking in doors and searching buildings, over the complaints of the owners, as Sally Thompson rode into town and pulled up even with Earl's horse in front of the sheriff's office.

"We ought-a grab the half letter you put in the bank, kill that greaser banker, kill that little chunk o' coyote crap that stole my half when we find him, kill the shoemaker, then we'll be done with the whole thing," said Earl to the occupant of the chair behind the desk.

"You mean my half," Sally was in no mood to banter with trail scum.

"Oh, yeah. Your half," Earl cursed his sloppy mouth.

Sally was getting tired of this Earl McGruder. She believed that after she paid the gang off, Earl would be on his own and she could hire an independent contractor to take care of that loose end.
CHAPTER 15

Precilla was the first to face trouble head on, but the numbers and the situation and the participants dictated the need for some of that good old American strategic planning, and for that, they needed time. She was directing the others to the wash behind the town where they could hole up and make some kind of plan when Frankie allowed as to since he was the one they were looking for, it was he who should be giving the orders. When Precilla told him about the boots Elwood had made, and how they had been used so successfully elsewhere but she would be happy to give him a private demonstration, Frankie acceded to her direction.

When Elwood protested that he had a business to run, she just told him, "Dead men don't make shoes."

So, there they were, huddled behind a mesquite bush in that wash out behind the east side of town, listening to the occasional door being broken in, trying to find a way through Earl, his gorillas, Sally, and the banker.

Once they had settled into their individual mud holes behind that bush, Precilla said, "If'n those desperadoes knew we was kin, they'd be after us all. Frankie, they want you now. Elwood, you're next on the list, an' even though that will ain't due to be read 'til next week, it don't look like they plan on waitin'." She continued to look in all directions nearly at once as she spoke to her brothers. "It's my guess those snakes're plannin' to clean the slate, right off. So, I'm wonderin', who besides us, the banker, Sally an' her boys gives a never mind?"

"You know, I think you're right," said Sally, wheels turning. "With that one you're chasing after and Elwood both out of the way, nobody know but you, me and that greasy banker. Nobody else cares enough to get involved. There's no family around. It's all just a bunch of loose talk in the saloon." Sally looked quizzical for a moment. "Earl, send a couple of your boys over to roust Elwood. He's probably hiding upstairs in that shop of his." Obediently, Earl sent the Quentin twins on the errand.

Getting in and out of places was no problem for Precilla. During her life with the Indians, she learned literally everything anyone in the tribe knew about stealthy movement. As she scrambled out of their muddy lair, she told the boys to stay put and that she'd be right back. She told them she needed them to keep their eyes open.

It was about 8 am by then. Earl's army had pissed off just about everyone in town with their sunrise serenade on the doors. But, the day's normal amount of traffic was getting underway. The saloon opened, officially. Earl's men had been rotating between knocking doors in and having another drink for two hours already. The barber waved to the boy who was opening the door of the General Mercantile. There were eight to ten people, not counting Earl's men, to be seen on their way to do whatever it was that needed to be done. A few were in conversation, mostly about what all the noise was about this early in the morning. Two men rode into town from the South and went directly to the saloon.

Precilla worked her way along the back of the buildings to the livery, where she got her horse, rode back around behind the town's main line of shops and stores, then entered from the South. It just seemed the easiest way, in case someone was paying attention. She noted the location of Earl's men, three were just standing around talking. She watched them play follow the leader into the saloon. She could hear two others as they used their shoulders to enter Elwood's shop.

As the Quentin twins returned to the sheriff's office, Precilla dismounted and sat for a moment in the chair that was outside one of the town's Chinese laundries. The sheriff's office was across the street and down a couple of stores.

"Well, where is he?" Earl wanted to know.

"Well, Ol' Elwood weren't to home,, said Jason. "There was a little pile o' rope on the bed, an' a .44 an' a little pea-shooter on his dresser drawers. There weren't no holster, but they was both loaded. But, he was gone."

"A pile o' rope?" questioned Earl.

"Yup," answered Jason. "'Bout 'nough to tie down a pig...or a man."

"I wonder where that lily blossom's got off to?" Earl aimed at Sally.

Precilla decided, after seeing nothing go on for some minutes, to leave her horse at the livery again. The boy shut his mouth with one look from Precilla when he asked about her recent departure and sudden return. As she was walking back down the main street, she noted what she thought could be the last of Earl's men enter the saloon.

"Elwood never carries a gun," said Sally. "You don't suppose...?" she looked at Earl.

"Why would anybody leave their gun, unless they were in a hurry, and it had been out of its holster for some reason? Just layin' there, like they say?" asked Earl of no one in particular.

"I don't care. Elwood never carried a gun. He can't shoot a gun, and as far as anyone knows, he doesn't even own one," said Sally, looking grim.

Precilla sidled up to the window of the saloon, just enough to see in. There were six of Earl's men sitting around drinking, one was preparing a deck of cards for use. They were all bitching about having to be out in the storm that night. There were three bottles on the table and one was empty, the second, wounded. They were rode hard and beat, and were resting up for they just knew that the day had only begun. They were seated toward the back of the saloon, occupying one table. She could see they were tired. She could also see that the table was about ten feet from the back of the saloon, and about five feet from the south wall.

Having located a prime problem, Precilla wandered away from the saloon to the alley that ran to the rear of the buildings and made herself disappear in the morning shadows.

"Hey!" Frankie hoarsely growled at Elwood. "There's Precilla."

"I wonder what she's doing?" said Elwood.

Two buildings away was the General Mercantile. She slipped to the back door to the store and let herself quietly in. There was one person in the store waiting on a customer who was commenting on the selection of cloth that week. Then, Precilla began her serious work. In the back room of the store, she found five small kegs of gunpowder. There was also a package of six sticks of dynamite with about ten feet of fuse attached. One by one, she lifted the kegs out the back door of the store. Then she carried them, one by one, to the rear of the saloon. Then, crawling silently, she placed all five kegs of gunpowder and the six sticks of dynamite beneath the floor of the saloon, about ten feet from the rear and about five feet from the south wall. From where she lay, she could hear Earl's men talking above. Then, she lit the fuse.

"This whole thing is just getting too loose for me, Dave," one of the men was saying. "The big payday better be comin' soon, is all I got to say." There was a general assent around the table.

As she emerged from under the saloon, she could see her brothers' heads sticking up from behind the mesquite bush where she had left them. She rose, trotting toward their position, signaling for them to get down. When she got to them, they were all over her with questions. She hushed them and repeated her admonition to hide. Just as she was about to raise her head to check on the fuse and it's progress, the powder ignited sending some pieces of the saloon whistling over their heads. The noise was deafening. They could neither speak to nor hear what anyone said for a couple of minutes.

The saloon, the bartender, two of Sally's girls, six of Earl's men, the dog...all were killed in the explosion. At least, they were never seen again. The tack shop to the south and the laundry to the north of the saloon were also heavily damaged and were afire.

Sally and Earl grabbed the desk in the former sheriff's office for stability. Both of the Quentin twins hit the floor as the glass from the windows was blown into the office.

A crowd of dazed people began gathering at the edge of the general destruction and heat being generated by the small fires in the remains of the three buildings most affected by the blast. A few folks half-heartedly threw a few buckets of water on what flames there were, but most of the fires were small and were going out by themselves.

Sally and Earl emerged from the sheriff's office, shaken but alert. The Quentin boys stayed inside, looking out the holes formerly filled with glass.

"You two look around," Earl shouted back at the pair. "There's somethin' ain't right about this," he added for Sally.

As the Quentin twins stumbled out into the street, not quite sure what to do next, Giovanni Martuccio approached Sally. His bank, only three doors down from the saloon, had escaped comparatively undamaged. There were a few broken windows, a few shaken employees, but that was all. He had posted a guard and sent everyone else home. There was no one available to do repair work anyway, what with everybody in town working to straighten up their own messes.

"Looks like the bank made out all right," feigned Earl. "Some others didn't do quite so well."

"Yes. We were fortunate," answered the banker. "Some others do have problems. But, not to worry Miss Thompson," he said to Sally. "Even an explosion of this magnitude could not damage your securities."

"I think it's time we had a little talk, Mr. Martuccio," said Sally, as she thrust her arm through his and led him back in the direction of the bank. "I did have some business I wanted to bring up with you and this seems like as good a time as any. As you say, we'll be perfectly safe," she said, noting the banker's worried look toward Earl. "Earl will be with us, and nobody crosses Earl."

As they neared the steps leading to the front door of the bank, they were greeted by the guard standing his watch. "Good afternoon, sir. Back already?" He smiled as the trio walked past him and into the bank, through the lobby, and into the bank manager's office.

As they closed the door behind them, Martuccio said, "Once again, Miss Thompson, I must advise you that simply too many people know about your little...uh...secret," he said, nodding toward Earl.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Martuccio. Earl's on my side. In my employ, as it were. I trust him because I know what he is. I know what I can expect from him." Sally played her first card.

This statement rankled Earl a little. He didn't like being referred to as just another hired hand. His own plan loomed in his mind. He would wait and see.

When Giovanni looked at Earl, all he could see was Earl's .44 pointed straight into his eyes.

"Now, send the guard away," commanded Sally. With an added "Now," for emphasis.

As he couldn't see any options beyond the weapon in Earl's hand, Giovanni went to the office door and called out, "Johnny, since it's so quiet around here, why don't you go home and get some rest. Come back about seven or so, all right?"

"All right, Mr. Martuccio. You sure you'll be OK?" asked the guard.

"There's no problem, Johnny. I'll see you later," answered the banker.

As he listened to the guard walk away, Giovanni got a sick feeling in his stomach, like when he knew for a fact that his brothers were laying in wait just around the next tree. He seemed to sense that whatever Sally and Earl were up to could have no witnesses.

"Somethin' about this is starting to smell real bad, Jas," said Jackson. "I mean, six guys gettin' blowed up, just like that, all at once. It just ain't natural."

"I know what you mean," agreed Jason. "It's like somebody's watchin' us, but we can't see him."

"I don't mind bein' in a gunfight when I know who's to be shot, but gettin' your ass blowed up around your ears by somebody you don't even know is comin' just ain't my style o' workin'," worried Jackson. Jackson Quentin really didn't like getting into any fight where he wasn't on the side with the obviously superior firepower, but fighting an unseeable adversary was just wrong to him.

Vengeance was not on their minds. As they sat there, on the steps leading up to what used to be the saloon, Jason thought he saw something out of the corner of one eye. "Prob'ly somethin' just gettin' unscared enough to run," he thought.

"Now, open the safe," Sally directed the banker, matter-of-factly.

"But, you know I can't do that," said Giovanni, lamely trying to buy time.

It was Earl's turn. "This can be done easy, or this can be done hard, banker. It's up to you. But, one way or the other, that safe's gonna open up."

"Now, let's get to it, Mr. Banker,, Sally started again. "You know as well as I do that there's more cold cash in this deal than any of us could spend in two lifetimes, no matter how long we lived. And we promise not to mess with the other stuff in the safe," she lied. "I just want what's mine. Now just open up the safe so we can get what we want and we'll let you get back to whatever it is you've got do," she lied again.

Giovanni looked at Earl's gun leveled in his direction, then to the venomous sneer behind it. She was right, of course, providing that the cipher on letter fragment wasn't just the rambling of some eccentric old timer. Hansen had done his banking elsewhere ever since his wife died. The envelope with the note that he had deposited so long ago was in New York, probably in Papa's safe.

"Move it, you," was all the further he got when Sally cut in.

"Now Earl," she said calmly. "The banker's in a little bit of shock because of the saloon being blown up like that, probably by some unhappy customer, probably a sore loser. Just give him a little room. But, Banker, don't take too long to think about it. It's unhealthy."

The crowd that had gathered outside the saloon had pretty much disbursed by this time. The fires were either all the way out, or at least small enough that no one worried about their ability to spread. The girls who hadn't been blown up, the barber, who also owned the saloon, and a couple of boys who were ready to start rebuilding right away, were stirring around in the ashes, embers and tumbled down lumber, hoping to find useful remains.

CHAPTER 16

The door opened easily enough. Inside there were files on the local landowners, the local cattle business, farmers, assorted bank business files, a relatively small amount of cash that drew a sneer from Earl, and, down in the middle of it all, was a file marked "Thompson, Sally."

"All right," said Earl to Giovanni. "Just go sit in that chair and we'll take care of the rest." Earl was somewhat saddened that the banker hadn't been more resistant. He was emboldened by the explosion earlier, and melancholy, as it looked like he wouldn't be shooting anyone, anytime soon. "Now, let's just see what you-all got in here."

"I'll take it from here," Sally inserted. "You just keep a close eye on this weasel so he doesn't make a break like last night." The reminder that something had gone so far wrong so recently brought a growl from Earl.

"I can shoot him here or I can shoot him in the street. It don't make me no never mind." It was a remark by Earl that started the sweat pouring down the banker's brow.

Sally placed her file on the banker's desk after sweeping the dust from its surface. Precilla's bomb had shaken the rafters all over town and people were becoming reacquainted with years' old dust and dirt that had accumulated in thousands of those not too easy to reach nooks and crannies.

Just as she was about to open the file, a knock came at the door.

"Mr. Martuccio. Mr. Martuccio?" came the voice on the other side of the door.

After Sally and Earl shared a quick glance, she lifted the files from the desk and allowed hers to slide into her handbag. The rest went to the floor. Earl instructed the banker as he gently closed the door to the safe most of the way. He was having visions of a dead banker and a little pocket money and didn't mind a little inconvenience. "You see who it is, but don't let him in," he quietly menaced the banker.

Giovanni didn't know if this was going to be an escape opportunity, but he was trying to think cat-like, just in case.

He stood and put his head near the door. "Who is it?" he asked through the crack created when he turned the knob. The smell of gunpowder and fire came in on the small breeze that was allowed.

"It's me, Mr. Martuccio, Marvin Pottsdown." He didn't have to shout, but he did anyway. He'd seen Sally, Earl, and the banker go inside, and he saw the guard leave soon after. He just didn't want to be any more a victim than he had already been that day.

"Let him in," said Earl.

"No, don't..." was all Sally could get out before the barber/saloon owner burst into the office.

Earl slammed the door and now his gun had two men to watch.

"Now, you just sit down over there," Earl directed Marvin. "And you stand there, right next to him," he said to Giovanni.

Sally's frown indicated some real unhappiness. Just killing the banker would give them until about seven that evening to make some sort of a getaway. But, for now, they were also stuck with the barber, who also owned what was left of the saloon. He would be missed.

As Frankie and Elwood made their way up the gully toward the livery, Precilla slowly made her way back into town from the south, retracing her earlier ride. She moved slowly, keeping to whatever sidewalks there were. She noted that things had gotten particularly quiet in the wake of her attack on the saloon. She saw the Quentin twins ahead. They were arguing over what may very well have been the last of the whiskey in the wreckage of what was once the saloon. It had only been an hour or so since that interruption in the day's routine, and except for the twins and a few of the whores, there wasn't anyone else to be seen on the street. Mostly all were seeing to their own.

Jason and Jackson Quentin, still bitching at each other and becoming quite drunk, shut up simultaneously as Precilla clomped up what was left of the sidewalk that ran by where they were seated. She hadn't intended to take them on together. But then, drunk and together, they were less than one whole. As they noted Precilla, their mouths fell open. They exchanged looks. Then their attention returned to Precilla.

"Hey, Jas," said Jackson with a huge slur. "Here's one we don't gotta pay for."

"Me first," said Jason, almost falling as he rose to his feet.

Precilla was already on alert. As Jason Quentin lurched at her, those shiny-toed boots went to work. Final tally: Jason Quentin had both knees crushed, his gonads were punched into mush, and his right cheekbone stuck out the eye hole. Precilla grabbed both of his guns and fired before he hit the ground. The first shot blew the bottle in Jackson Quentin's hand to bits. The second took his hat off.

"Now, toss your guns into that woodpile yonder, mister," said Precilla, indicating the middle of what used to be the saloon, "then, come over here an' scrape this scum off'n the sidewalk."

As Jackson looked at the figure of his brother slumped at the feet of this deerskin clad woman, who was holding his brother's guns, he knew right off that it was a matter of family honor. So, instead of tossing his guns away as ordered, he drew them straight up toward Precilla. But, she was just that far ahead of him.

The first shot, from the gun in her right hand, passed through the lobe of his left ear. Her second shot, from the gun in her left hand, passed through his right nostril and blew out the back of his head. He got off a shot, but it was just a nervous reaction that went into the boards at his feet.

Since there was no sheriff in town to take custody of any prisoners, or bodies, Precilla's next move was to bring the pistol in her right hand down on top of Jason Quentin's head hard enough to produce a crunching sound. As he slumped completely at her feet, and as she examined the weapon for misalignment, she heard a smattering of applause from the whores who had been sifting through the ruins looking for anything they could call their own.

Now, as far as she knew, all that was left was Sally, the banker, and Earl McGruder.

"What was it?" asked Earl, as Sally returned to the banker's office.

"Looks like those twin buzzards of yours are done for," said Sally. "Some stranger in buckskins is standing over them. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seems I've seen this woman around town for a couple of weeks."

"Woman?" said Earl, in a hurt voice. Mean Earl had lost eight men in the last two hours and he was only just realizing he might have a problem. "We didn't need those two assholes no how. What we got to do is figure out what to do with these two, here."

Marvin didn't know when he was walking over to the banker's office to look into the financing of a rebuild that he was about to take his last breath, but the thought was now coming into play.

As Precilla walked the rest of the way into town and into the livery, the stable boy gave her a wide berth. He had seen the action down the street and wanted no part of this one. The shooting hadn't bothered him. He'd seen plenty of those in this backwater, but the way that woman operated those boots had sent chills up and down his spine. Precilla's horse was happy to see her. He was standing in his stall, with a bag of oats hung just right. Precilla flipped the boy a silver dollar and told him to go someplace. This he did, running out of the stable and about a quarter of a mile down the road before even looking back.

"All right," started Precilla, with no time for foolishness. "Either o' you boys seen either Sally or Earl?"

"No," said Frankie. "But the barber went into the bank a while ago and hasn't come out yet. I don't think."

"Listen, I don't know what's going on here and I don't want to know," Pottsdown was saying. "I just wanted to talk to Mr. Martuccio about rebuilding the saloon. Why don't I come back after you've had time to settle your differences?" he was saying, as he tried to inch himself toward the door.

"Sorry, Mr. Pottsdown, I'm afraid it's a little too late for that," said Sally.

"You might say you stepped in the wrong bucket o' cow shit today, Marvin, ol' buddy," glared Earl.

"Earl, smack these boys down. We need some quiet," ordered Sally.

Mean Earl McGruder stepped past the barber to where Giovanni was seated, raised his pistol, and brought it down squarely on the banker's left parietal bone. Sally and Earl both smirked at the sound. Giovanni had a most surprised look, arms half raised, eyes disbelieving, just about the time Earl put out the light. The barber cringed, knowing he was next.

As Marvin Pottsdown attempted to spin his way to and out the door to freedom, the barrel of Earl's gun came down hard on his right occipital bone. He went down like a pre-paid whore expecting a bonus.

"Now get your rope, Earl. We want these boys secure until we can put them someplace for good," Sally was thinking about what was next. Then she remembered the half of the note that Earl's men had told her about, and the stranger in the storm last night. She was not happy.

CHAPTER 17

That's when they all heard the whistle of the 10:55. It stopped in town every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and usually on Saturdays. It would stay long enough to unload whatever supplies had been ordered from the people of the area, take on whatever livestock was scheduled, then it would leave, backwards. They never had put in a turntable. This process, on a busy day, could take several hours. But, with no herds in at the moment, it would only be staying for thirty minutes or so. That would be long enough to accommodate whatever passengers and supplies there were to be dealt with, fill up with water, load the wood car, then chug its way back to civilization.

On this particular day, it arrived with about a dozen crates for the General Mercantile, some leather and iron stock for the bootmaker and the smithy, and a couple dozen cases of whiskey for the saloon. There were also three men dressed for the city. They wore black pin-striped suits with high, starched white collars and neckties, black pants with gray spats, and the very latest Homberg hats from Germany. The station master/telegrapher pointed out the city's hotel and couldn't stop talking about what he was doing at the exact moment the saloon blew up. He kept talking as they walked out of the station and up to the main street. The street that extended to the railroad station T-boned the town's main street right about in its middle.

Arturo Martuccio, the eldest, had been sent because Papa wanted someone strong in charge of what should turn out to be a major deal for the family. This one was big enough to require Arturo's special persuasive talents. Arturo had a big mustache to match his eyebrows that perfectly matched his constant glower and general demeanor.

Fabio Martuccio had been sent because he was as stupid as the look on his face, and because Papa knew that if Arturo, Pasquale, and Giovanni tried to weasel, Fabio would spill his guts at the first hint of discovery.

Pasquale Martuccio had been sent to die. He was, perhaps, the smoothest dresser of the three. He had been caught skimming from the family's accounts. He didn't know his little salary augmentation program had been found out, and rather than put up with the snivelling that would undoubtedly come with any confrontation, Papa told Arturo to "take care of the problem out west." That Pasquale had survived the whole trip to Regret was only due to Fabio's continual presence and the general lack of plausible opportunity. Besides, he was a generally good humored and pleasant traveling companion with the same bad attitude of his older brother.

Fabio laughed and joked about the saloon being blown up. They had just spent the final leg of their trip with the whiskey company representative making his usual bi-annual trip to visit Marvin Pottsdown in a Godforsaken rat hole rightfully called Regret. He was for the first time looking forward to the meeting because Marvin had wired him about the addition of women to the menu in his establishment, and the salesman thought this would have to be a better deal than the usual boredom of this town and this saloon keeper.

Arturo didn't like the idea of the saloon being blown up. It meant that there was something going on of which he had no knowledge and over which he had no control. That was, to him, disconcerting. On the other hand, with so much going on to distract the locals, it might make it easier to settle any family problems.

After they had checked into the hotel that had been mostly cleaned up by then, they met in Arturo's room.

"Pasquale, you go find Giovanni. We got to have a meeting. We got to find out what's happening to this town. Stupid idea in the first place. Fabio, you find the guy that runs the saloon," instructed Arturo. "Papa wants us back soon an' I figure we can be outta here on the next train."

"The barber owns the saloon," said Fabio, wanting to show off his inside information, obtained while drinking with the whiskey salesman.

"All right, so get 'im over here," said Arturo, not impressed, and growing wearier of this deal by the minute.

In search of their brother and the barber, Pasquale and Fabio started where they could see people. They were joined by the whiskey salesman on their way out the front door of the hotel. Still sifting through the rubble and ashes of what used to be the saloon and pleasure palace were a few of the working girls. Four of them had held out hope that there would be some trinket or maybe even a coin purse that could be rescued from the mess.

"Let's go talk to the girls," said Pasquale, thinking that at least one of them would need a place to stay for the night.

"Hit them again, Earl; we don't want any distractions,, said Sally as the banker began to move. Then, "Why don't you tie 'em up and haul 'em out of here someplace."

"Right," said Earl, wondering if now wouldn't be a good time to make his way out of this spot. He didn't like anything about the last twelve hours.

When Earl stepped outside of the bank to get the rope from his saddle, he encountered Pasquale, Fabio, and the whiskey salesman. They had had no trouble lining up company for the evening and they were now in search of their brother and the barber.

"We're looking for Giovanni Martuccio," said Fabio to Earl.

"And Marvin Pottsdown," added the peddler.

"And who might you be?" Earl wanted to know all about these apparent wild cards.

The brothers explained their search. The whiskey salesman got in his two cents.

"Well, the banker, he done gone home an' left me to keep an eye on things, what with the windows all blowed out an' all. An' I ain't seen the barber since this mornin'. You don't suppose he was in the saloon when it blowed up, do ya? We only found a few parts so far," Earl bluffed.

"And where does our brother live?" asked Pasquale, fully buying into Earl's story.

"Just outside o' town about five miles," said Earl, thinking about the Mayweather ranch.

After he got their thanks and watched the strangers go most of the way back to the hotel, Earl crossed the street to his horse, retrieved the rope, and turned back to the bank.

"It's about time," was what greeted Earl upon his return. "Now, take your rope and tie them up tight."

As Earl was working on the barber, he recounted his meeting with the men claiming to be the banker's brothers and the whiskey salesman on the sidewalk just outside the bank.

"Well, that changes the game, wouldn't you say?" said Sally.

"Earl, you think you can put these two someplace where they won't be found for some time?" Sally asked. Followed quickly by, "You think you can handle those city boys, Earl?"

"That's four to one, Sally. I don't care how green they might be, it's still four to one," said Earl, not much liking her tone. She had yet to produce the great idea that would produce the big payoff that would guarantee a clean, rapid, and enriched getaway.

Arturo looked at his brothers and then at the whiskey salesman. The peddler had included himself in the hunt without invitation, but since no one had said anything to the contrary, he didn't feel at all out of place in the company of his new friends from the train trip into town.

"Lester Rugg, Mr. Martuccio. Pleased to make your acquaintance," was how Lester presented himself to Arturo, smiling to stay on the light side under the darkness of Arturo's glower. He held out his hand. Arturo looked at it, and passed on the suggestion, making the whiskey salesman wish he had a stiff one right then. Lester withdrew his hand, abruptly, with a look at the other two, and folded it neatly with the other in front of himself.

"All right," said Arturo after hearing their story, a long pause, and a heavy sigh. "You boys go get your brother and bring him here. You," he pointed lazily toward Lester, "go get your barber and take him anywhere you want. I'm gonna have a nap."

Fabio and Pasquale turned and passed out of Arturo's room and Lester Rugg stumbled out with the feeling he was glad to still be alive.

CHAPTER 18

"I'm goin' out to see what I can see," Precilla was telling Frankie and Elwood. "You boys lie low here until I can find out just which way the wind's blowin'. And Frankie, use this if you have to," she handed him one of her pistols. "It's loaded now so be careful." He winced. "And remember. You only get one shot."

"I'll cover ya," said Frankie, an excitement growing within him.

"No, you just stay here and cover yer own ass 'til I get back," she said. "I'll be goin' 'round the back way so's to miss any ruckus."

"Who're they?" asked Elwood, looking toward the front of the livery.

"You two, hit the hay an' stay down," said Precilla. "I'll take care of this." She turned and walked to the front of the stable to rent a horse.

As it turned out, she was close. They wanted a carriage. As Frankie and Elwood secreted themselves in the hay in the rear of the livery, they heard Precilla greet the strangers with a loud "Howdy."

"What kin I do fer you gents?" she asked them.

"We'd like to rent a horse and buggy for the afternoon," said Fabio, taking charge while Pasquale eyed Precilla. "We'd like to have a look around the area, you know."

"Well, I am sorry. But, what ain't already out was scared off by that explosion this mornin'. I got the boy out trackin' 'em down. But I don't really expect nothin' back 'til tonight when they get hungry," Precilla was on her guard. No one just wants to have a look around a place like this. "Boy, that sure was somethin', wasn't it?"

"We just came in on the train. What happened anyway?" asked Lester Rugg, wanting to be a part of something.

"Well, the story is, there's this man name o' Earl McGruder," at which Fabio, Pasquale, and the whiskey salesman looked at each other and repeated, "Earl McGruder" in unison, then went on to listen to the tale while including a few chuckles of their own as Precilla told them about Earl being after someone and how the saloon got blown up with his whole gang inside; nothing left but a few hands, feet, and other bits and pieces.

They finally decided to look around town for mounts, thinking they had better get a move on before dark. They didn't think Giovanni would go home with his bank in shreds. They didn't really like the looks of that guy who said he was standing guard. Besides, Pasquale didn't want to miss his date with the young lady he had met earlier.

Precilla watched them walk back into town before she went to the back of the barn to check on her brothers.

"Now, you two stick close," she warned them. "I'll be back soon."

With that, she was out the rear of the livery and was swiftly working her way along behind the buildings lining the town's main street. This is when Sally and Earl continued their little exercise in futility.

Precilla had just gotten past the rear of what used to be the saloon when she heard "hushes" and other strange noises in her path. Staying low and still, she watched Sally and Earl lug a couple of loads out of the back of the bank. They were dropped heavily, then dragged to the wash where she and her brothers had hidden earlier that day. She could recognize one as the banker, but couldn't place the other in the shadows. She took every chance to move in closer.

"Just put them down here," said Sally, as she looked back and forth between the two inert figures at her feet.

"What the hell?" said Earl as he leaned over the barber. "This one's dead already. Musta tapped him a might harder than I thought."

"You take care of them any way you want. I just don't want to see them walking around town telling everybody about what's been going on here," said Sally, a little annoyed at Earl's flip attitude. "I'm going to try to find Elwood. It isn't like him to be gone like that. I'll meet you back in the sheriff's office in about an hour. You think you can make that?"

"Easy," said Earl, happy to find resolution.

As Sally moved to go back to the sheriff's office, Earl was thinking about what to do with the bodies. While pondering the situation, he brought his revolver down hard, twice, on top on Giovanni's head. Then, in a flash of brilliance, for Earl anyway, he decided to haul the bodies out into the rocks just behind town. He went back through the alley to the main street and over to the sheriff's office where his horse was still tied, quietly waiting. The street was quiet for an afternoon, so there was no one to see Earl walk his horse back through the alley between the bank and the laundry next door. At least, he thought there was no one to see his moves.

Arturo was watching from his hotel room window. Soon after Earl had disappeared behind the buildings across the street with his horse, Arturo saw Precilla emerge from the same alley. He looked her over closely. She seemed to be moving rather cautiously for the middle of the day. He watched her walk to the north through town, the tassels on her buckskins dangling. What sun was breaking through the cloudy day reflected off the toes of her boots. She disappeared into the livery just before his brothers approached the business.

Sally, having found Elwood's shop and apartment still deserted, sat in the sheriff's office reading the correspondence between the town's various bankers over the years back to the home office in New York. "Do whatever is necessary to secure the gold source and all rights pertaining thereto for the benefit of the family, as this venture would be most beneficial to the furtherance of our other projects," it said. She sat and stewed.

The brothers stumbled back into Arturo's room after a frustrating half-hour trying to find a way out to where they thought Giovanni would be.

"The horses all got scared off by the explosion this morning, so we looked around town and no one we talked to seems to know anything," were the first words out of Fabio's mouth as he and Pasquale plopped down in the chairs in Arturo's hotel room. "And the last time anybody saw the barber, he was goin' over to the bank."

Lester Rugg was already asleep by this time in his own room just down the hall, dreaming dreams of later that night when the one in the green dress would be coming to meet him.

"That guy at the bank and that woman in the livery both lied to us," whined Fabio.

Pasquale was happy just to get off his feet and he wanted nothing more, really. He, like the whiskey salesman, was dreaming of his later plans. But, rest was not to come anytime soon.

Elwood was doing just fine behind the bunker of hay bales he had constructed in the rear of the livery after Precilla had gone. The events of the day, which had begun way too soon for his taste, had worn him to the bone. Sleep was all he had on his mind. He was actually about to doze off right in the middle of their dilemma. Frankie had started dreaming about his own law enforcement opportunities right here in Regret.

"All right, boys," Precilla's announcement startled both Frankie and Elwood, causing Elwood to move from lying in the hay to being on his feet quicker than a flea can find the soft spot on a dog. Frankie went for the pistol she had given him when she left them in their little fort in the hay, and fumbled it around so much he poured out the powder and shot and knocked out the flint in the same motion. He was quick though. "There's more goin' on than I thought," she said as she walked into the back of the livery where they were stashed. "Now, here's the deal. Both of you go back to Elwood's place. Be careful about it though, 'cause Sally's in the sheriff's office and Earl'll be back soon. But, they been in an' outta there a couple-a times so I can't be sure. I'm goin' over to the bank to see what I can find out. An' I don't mean for ya to stop an' hang around anyplace," she interjected, while throwing Frankie's chin back in her direction. He had been gazing down the main street of the town during her instruction.

"That's just what I wanted to do all along," said Elwood, as he mopped his brow with a well-used handkerchief.

"Frankie, you be sure to stay with Elwood. We'll need all the firepower we can get in one place if I ain't wrong," she added. "All right, now, let's go." They emerged from the livery together and as Frankie and Elwood left her to cross the street to Elwood's place, she said, "I'll be seein' you later."

"Shut up, I'm busy," he said to both of the others as they continued to complain about their lot. Arturo was seated backwards in a chair, arms folded across its back, as he watched the movements below. There were three coming out of the livery. There was the buckskins he saw go in, plus some kind of cowboy looking guy, and someone wearing an apron, maybe a shopkeeper. They were all questions, and since they appeared to Arturo to be moving about furtively, his suspicions were aroused. He saw the group split with the cowboy and the shopkeeper going into a building to his left, and the woman continuing to the bank which she seemed to enter with some caution.

"I got something I want you boys to do," said Arturo, as Precilla slipped into the bank. "Now," he roared.

When Frankie and Elwood entered the shoe shop, Frankie said, "Elwood, I got a idea."

"I really don't want to hear it," said the once again put upon tradesman.

"Now, just relax. I'm goin' for a little look-around. You stay here and do whatever it is you want to do and I'll be back shortly." Frankie ran up the stairs and retrieved his gun from Elwood's bedroom, then he was out the door he had entered seemingly so long ago. Elwood decided he was in too much of a state to sleep, so he began to work on the backlog in his shop. It was familiar, and so soothing to him, as he cut and sewed and nailed and buffed.

Keeping as low and being as quiet as he could be, Frankie worked his way along the rear of the buildings on the west side of the main street. He had to scurry across the broad space in the middle of the row that allowed access to the train depot. There didn't seem to be anybody living in the town. He noticed a little activity near the depot. He was across the street from what used to be the saloon. He could hear voices as he passed behind the various shops. The people were there. They had simply all at once decided that today would be a good day to stay inside. It was looking like it might rain again anyway. He could hear them recounting the events of the morning and speculating on its reason. Some were thinking about moving. Someone threw out a bucket of sudsy water, giving Frankie his first bath in almost four weeks. Then he came to the rear of the sheriff's office. He could make out the voices of a man and a woman.

He heard, "...so that's it for the banker, an' the barber. Too bad, it was a pretty good saloon. If'n I kill that little skunk from last night, the deal could be done with none the wiser," the man was saying. Frankie was unhappy to note that the voice sounded too much like that of Earl McGruder. "Anyway," the voice continued, "those other two are out of the way, so that leaves only the skunk an' your shoemaker."

"I went down to the shop when I left you and he wasn't there," said Sally, getting tired of the whole thing and the way it seemed to be rolling out of control. "I think I'll take a little trip out to the ranch. He might have gone there to hide. In the meantime, you concentrate on finding your little skunk. He may even lead us to Elwood. I'll be back about dark."

"An' how am I supposed to find him after all this time?" moaned Earl. "He could be halfway to Salt Lake City by now."

"I think he'll hang around just long enough to find out what it is he's holding, and what he might be able to get for it," said Sally. "He might even be in cahoots with Elwood, somehow. You say you ran into him twice yesterday?"

"Twicet," confirmed Earl. "When we first caught him spyin' on us, an' later when he doubled back. That's when we come into town."

Frankie's heart rate had increased with every sentence. It didn't seem that Earl was going to forget him any too soon and this was all news that needed to be heard by his siblings. He sat and waited until he heard them both leave the sheriff's office, then he sat some more. He began wondering what he would do if he was the sheriff of this town. He'd probably be trying to find out who blew up the saloon. He'd have to question the girls closely. He must have been there for more than five minutes as the back of the building became his private viewing screen. Suddenly, he was awake and moving back toward Elwood's shop, still staying down and as concealed as he could arrange.

Sally included one more stop prior to leaving town. As she sort of sidled through the open door of the bank, she noted the eeriness of the quiet, the blown in windows, the crisp sound of her feet as she made her way to the manager's office. She noted the dirt on the service counter as she crunched her way by. She found the office door open, as was the safe. The room was a mess. Papers were everywhere. She smiled when she thought about how this was all going to screw up some sod buster trying to have a farm. "Piss on 'em," she thought. She went in and closed the safe completely. She noticed a bit of blood behind the door; not much, just a smudge. There were a few smears by the window.

Sally Thompson rode out of town at a slow trot. She was thinking about how simple life had been in New Orleans.

CHAPTER 19

Precilla figured Earl's men were out of the game, along with the banker and the barber. She didn't understand what the barber had to do with anything, but at the very least, it was one less thing to worry about. She thought that if she gathered together with her brothers, they would be able to handle anything Sally and Earl could throw at them. Then, there was that trio who had come to the livery looking for a buggy to go out to have "a look around." She could feel the cross currents, but couldn't read the shoals. She heard a noise in the front of the bank and hid herself under the banker's desk. She could only tell that there was a woman in the room. She guessed it was Sally, but the way things were going, she couldn't be sure. Her hand was on her knife, anyway. After just a minute or two, the intruder left.

She was making her way around inside the bank, wondering at the mess in the manager's office and just what it was someone had come here to see, when her world disappeared, courtesy of the blackjack Fabio had gotten from his father when he turned twelve.

She woke with a splitting headache and soon found she was sore all over. She was also tied spread-eagled and naked on a bed with thick black hair, a bushy mustache, and heavy black eyebrows looking down on her.

"Ah, you know I can't do it in a crowd," Pasquale was whining. "Why don't you guys go over to my room for a few minutes so I can have some fun, too?"

"Shut up," Arturo aimed at Pasquale while keeping his eyes on Precilla. "Very nice, miss. My brother and I thank you. Now, where's Giovanni?"

"I don't know no Giovanni," stated Precilla. This brought one of Arturo's huge fists directly into her nose.

"I mean the banker. We saw you in there. I've been watching you snake around all over town this afternoon, working the shadows. Now, I'll ask you just once more. Where's our brother?" It was a sneer that came out from under his huge mustache with a breath that promised someone was going to die.

"If you mean the banker..." Precilla began.

"I do," came from Arturo, along with a bear-like paw around her throat.

"...he's dead," she finished. Her mind was coming back into the present, and she took stock. Two of those she had met at the stable earlier were there, along with the big, bad looking one with his hand around her throat. She knew she'd been used and she was looking for a way out.

"Who killed them?" came from Fabio.

"Earl done it," she said. "Then he hauled 'em both up to the rocks 't other side o' town."

"And, just how do you know this?" Arturo again.

"I seen 'em a while ago. Earl and Sally had it in for the banker. They had somebody else there, too. I don't know who it was," said Precilla, feeling her face swell and her anger build with it.

"And where might I find these people, this Earl and Sally?" asked Arturo.

"I don't know. Maybe over at the sheriff's office," said Precilla, trying not to show any emotion that could make things worse.

"And why would they be at the sheriff's office if they had, as you suggest, just committed two murders?" Arturo continued the examination all the while stroking Precilla's body with the 8" stiletto he always carried with him. It fit quite naturally in the scabbard attached to the inside of his left arm.

"'Cause there ain't no sheriff," Precilla told them, not sure if it was right to do, but it sure put a funny look on all three of the faces she could see.

"Fabio, you stay here with me. Pasquale..." Arturo was interrupted by a knock at the door. Pasquale answered.

"Hello, Mr. Martuccio." It was Lester Rugg. "You know I can't find that Pottsdown fella anyplace around here, and since I got to kill the whole rest of today and tomorrow in this hell hole of a town, and since I don't like to drink alone, I thought you boys might like to help me out with some samples I've got here. In fact, I've got some with me." He nudged his way into the room and fell silent the instant his eyes met Precilla's. "What's she...?" was all that came out before Fabio's blackjack put him to sleep.

"Roll him into the closet," said Arturo.

CHAPTER 20

Frankie opened the back door to Elwood's shop, where his day in town had begun, and stopped cold. He thought he heard something. Upon inspection, he found Elwood sitting behind his workbench, sort of slumped over and fiddling with something.

"Well, I'm back. Has Precilla...?" he said, just as noticed Earl's gun pointed directly into his eyes.

"Drop your gun, raise your hands, step over there," said Earl. There was a grim look on his face.

This sent Frankie into his imitation of a statue. Raise hands, drop hands, drop gun, step over here...finally he sort of edged, bug-eyed, over behind the workbench with Elwood.

"Well, well," leered Earl, "looks like I git two fer the price o' one today." It took another moment of thought before he added a question, "I suppose you're ready to die?"

"No, not really..." began Frankie.

"Shut up and give me what's mine. An' I know you know what I mean," said Earl.

"I don't know what you mean," said Frankie, so afraid that he simply forgot about the scrap of paper in his pocket.

"That's the last crap you'll hand out or I'll blow your wimpy-ass brother all over this town. You'll look just like the saloon," grinned Earl, satisfied at his own attempt at humor.

Then Elwood broke down, again. The first time was when Earl caught him alone in the shop just a few minutes before Frankie's return. That time he had told Earl everything: himself, Frankie, Precilla, the half of a note, their attempt at planning. The second time was now. He told Frankie about how Earl had told him he had seen two men carrying a buckskin-clad figure out of the bank and into the hotel, and how he happened to be here. It made Frankie's head hurt to realize everyone knew more about what was going on than he did.

"Oh, the hell with it," said Earl. "If I kill you now, I won't have to go far if I need you." A light appeared in Earl's eyes. "I know where I see'd you a'fore, you card-cheatin' little skunk," came out with vengeance and was directed straight at Frankie. Then, he pulled the trigger.

The report was muffled somewhat by the leather hanging all over the shop, but the fact remained: Earl's pounding on the heads of the banker and the barber had dislodged the barrel of his gun and shifted it in its base just enough to spike it. Pieces of hot metal zinged all around the shop. One even broke the remaining pane of glass in Elwood's window in the front of the store. Another entered Earl's right eye. That one must have gone deep, because before Frankie and Elwood settled down enough to open their eyes, Earl McGruder lay dead on the floor of the cobbler's shop, leaking a bare minimum of blood.

"Now, what'll we do?" wailed Elwood.

"First, let's take Earl over to the sheriff's office," said Frankie. "That's where Sally is going to expect him to be."

"How do you know that?" Elwood wanted to know.

"I heard 'em talkin'," answered Frankie. "C'mon, we'll drag him out the back way. Somehow I got the feelin' things is just too crowded in this town." Frankie was thinking unusually clearly for the moment.

Elwood began moaning, but was cut short by Frankie as they lumbered, Earl in tow, down the row of buildings to the sheriff's office.

Sally was back in the saddle after a single trip through the house. She didn't bother with the barn or other out-buildings, and she wasn't worried about the line shack. She didn't like the way the day was stacking up. First, the saloon was blown up with most of her army inside. Then, Earl killed Giovanni and the barber, and now Elwood was missing. Something very unright was going on and, like Arturo, she didn't like not knowing what it was. A long time ago Sally had learned that knowing what was going on was far more valuable than being able to rope a steer, fix a fence, sew a hem, or bake a pie. If you knew what was going on, you could get yourself into a position of influence and hire people to do all your roping, fixing, sewing, and cooking for you. She had conducted her life accordingly ever since her mother had snapped and gone on that religious bender.

It usually took about twenty five minutes to reach town from the ranch.

CHAPTER 21

"What was that noise?" Arturo wanted to know.

"Sounded like glass breaking," said Fabio.

Pasquale was seated on the bed, toying with Precilla and didn't look up for either Arturo's question or Fabio's answer.

"Fabio. You and Pasquale go back to the bank. Look for clues. Find out what happened. I want you to find Giovanni. If he's dead like she says, we'll take care of this Earl and Sally in due course," Arturo instructed.

"Ah, Arturo," whined Pasquale. "You guys got to do her. Now let me have some."

"Shut up and go with Fabio," said Arturo, tired of playing around with this soon-to-be-dead member of his entourage. "Besides, you got them whores coming up tonight. You got to keep up your strength."

The reminder of what was to come with the night put a smile on Pasquale's face.

"Right. Now, get out of here," massaged Arturo.

When his brothers had gone, Arturo sat on the bed and fondled Precilla as he thought. The whiskey salesman was in the closet, probably dead, considering how hard Fabio had hit him. The woman was awake and looking mean. He didn't care about the peddler, but the woman already knew too much and she looked like she could do something about it, given half a chance.

"Nothing personal, honey. It was a long trip," Arturo told her, as he lay back, increasing the range of his explorations. "We might even let you go when this is all over," he lied.

Fabio had followed Earl's trail behind the bank up into the rocks behind the bank. It was fairly simple. There was blood everywhere. Then, he and his brother found the bodies. As they were working into a typically fatuous rage over the fact that Earl had dumped the barber's body on top of their brother's, they saw Sally ride into the town below.

She stopped, dismounted, tied her horse to the rail outside the sheriff's office and went into the building in a single motion. She was very still for what seemed to her to be a very long time as she stared into the unseeing eye of Mean Earl McGruder, seated in the chair behind the desk. Finally, coming out of her daze, she realized she was now totally without allies. She viewed the likelihood of her legal acquisition of either the gold no one seemed to know about, or even the ranch, as fairly slim. The next plan to be made was her safe exit from the community. The girls could fend for themselves. They'd done it before.

Dusk was presenting itself by the time she fully snapped out of her stupor. Still uncertain as to her next move, she decided to retire to the room she kept at the hotel to give herself some time to rest up undisturbed and think a bit. Things had just gone way too fast. As she made her way down the mostly deserted street, she saw the blown in windows that had been boarded up during the day, and the ones that weren't. Across the street, the bank was an empty shell, dark inside, no motion, except for Johnny returning to his post. He waved, but she ignored him. A few steps further and she was across from the shambles that had been the saloon/whorehouse where she had started her business here in Regret. She snorted as the town's name crossed her mind. "And they weren't fooling," she tried to imagine the people who had named it that. A few steps further were more blown in, boarded up windows. She could see some life at her destination. The lanterns were lit in the hotel and there were strange noises emanating from within. As she arrived at the door and looked in, she could see five of her girls in various poses. Four were arguing with the clerk about how they had appointments with residents. The clerk was telling them that that kind of thing wasn't done "in this building," while another was in the corner by the wood stove just hoping for a warm place to sleep for the night.

Sally opened the door, her mind still somewhat numbed by the unseeing eye of Earl McGruder. She was so far away that the two men just inside of the hotel door went unnoticed. As she moved toward the stairs, a couple of the girls looked to her for answers, then they noticed her escorts and started calling to them, as they appeared at her elbows. She was now just stunned. She didn't acknowledge the girls, make any noise, or fight back at all. The girls were ignored by Pasquale and Fabio as the brothers guided Sally up the stairs. As they walked down the hallway past Sally's room toward Arturo's, her past kicked in and she started screaming, kicking, and just generally making it difficult for the brothers to deliver their ward to her destination. As she moved to kick one more time, she bent over just a little. She could feel the wind over her head and she heard the "smacking" sound of Fabio's blackjack making solid contact with the left side of Pasquale's head. Fabio was torn between helping his brother and maintaining his grip on Sally.

He was bent over reaching for Pasquale with his left hand firmly clinging to Sally's right arm when Arturo opened his door to check on the unscheduled ruckus. As Fabio looked up to see the surprised look on Arturo's face, Sally's left boot made solid contact with his chin, and he slumped to the hallway floor. Momentarily free, Sally fled the hall to the stairwell with Arturo in hot pursuit.

Frankie was trembling with fear and cold as he edged his way along the verandah that surrounded the hotel's upper floor. Designed for their guests' enjoyment of sunny afternoons, the upstairs porch had never lived up to the designer's purpose. The hotel, usually housing traveling salesmen and drunken cowboys, had fallen into a state of disrepair the day it was finished, and there was some question as to whether the verandah could support the weight of one person, let alone several.

Frankie had left Elwood in his rooms above the shoe shop. There he sat, Precilla's pistol in his hand, sort of trained on the door, just waiting for another shoe to fall. Frankie was in search of Precilla because they both knew, deep down, that they didn't have a snowball's chance in hell without her. He had chosen to make this perilous climb when he saw Sally enter the hotel. As he was about to catch up to her, he was able to see her through the windows being hustled up the stairs by a couple of strangers. This caused him to opt for the balcony method of entry.

As he moved along from empty room to empty room, his thoughts were dominated by his own visions of disaster. When he came to the room with the light, he was afraid to look inside. The thought of Elwood teaching him how to make boots entered his mind. Then the noise began.

He heard a woman's voice screaming inside the hotel. Then he heard footsteps and more screams. He thought he heard the hotel room door open. He peered through the window and saw someone, a woman, lying naked on the bed. He began to sweat as he realized it was his sister. The noises moved out of the hotel and he saw two figures run across the street toward the blown up saloon. He opened the window and crawled inside.

"Well, it's about time you got here," Precilla said. "Undo me." He just stood and stared. "Now," she commanded.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked, not at all sure he wanted to know.

"Just untie me, you asshole. I'll tell you about it on the way," she hissed.

After he freed his sister, she told him to check on the closet. He did. The whiskey salesman fell out, dead.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"Some dumb greenhorn whiskey salesman. I think he's dead," she answered while she dressed.

They heard a groan in the hall. "Let's get out of here," said Precilla.

They both went to the window, Precilla in the lead. "Where's Elwood," Precilla asked as Frankie joined her on the balcony.

Frankie gave a brief description of their run-in with Earl, and how Elwood was supposed to be back in his room. As they reached the ground, they both noticed a silhouette move along behind what used to be the saloon, traveling fast.

"Come back here, you bitch," yelled the husky voice in pursuit.

"That's Arturo," said Precilla. "I wonder who he's after?"

"It's Sally, I think," said Frankie. "I seen her go into the hotel just before I came into your room."

Some of the whores had moved out onto the sidewalk to watch the chase. As Frankie and Precilla made their way back to Elwood's shop, they could still hear Arturo bellowing in rage. He fired his gun every fourth or fifth step, the shot first killing Johnny, who was doing his best to guard the city's treasure. He kept firing even after his shells were spent, the only sound the sound of the hammer snapping down on useless chambers.

Arturo returned to the hotel breathless, waded through the whores, passed the frightened clerk, and went up the stairs to where Fabio was just then returning to the conscious world.

"All right," he said, glowering, panting, and sweating.

Fabio, still somewhat uncertain and bleeding profusely from the gash that Sally had opened on the point of his chin, tried to explain the events in the hallway. Amidst the blood, tears, and numb-mumbled words, Arturo bent down to check on Pasquale.

"He's dead," he said.

"Huh?" was all Fabio could manage.

"You killed our brother," said Arturo, secretly pleased that the chore had been taken out of his hands. "Papa's not gonna like that."

"Buh, ah wa tlyin' ta hi la wom," slurred Fabio. Then he started crying.

"Come on. Let's get him into my room. I got to think," said Arturo, as unhappy and as out of breath as he had been for some time.

The bright side was that he no longer had to worry about killing Pasquale himself. He really didn't care what Papa said or did about Fabio. He did care about the woman who had gotten loose.

As they re-entered the room, Arturo's eyes flew from the dead salesman on the floor, to the ropes hanging loose at the corners of the bed, to the open window. He growled as he reloaded his gun.

"I'm gonna kill that woman, and the other one, too," stated Arturo, as he calmly filled his pockets with ammunition. "Don't you go anywhere."

"Buh, wha abou ma jaw?" pleaded Fabio. "Ah nee a docta." The bleeding had mostly stopped by then, but it was easy to see that Fabio's jaw had been shattered by its contact with Sally's boot.

Sally watched from her hiding place across the street as Arturo stepped out of the hotel into the evening, looked in both directions up and down the street, then stomped off toward the bank. As soon as he left her line of sight, she scurried across to the hotel and warily made her way up the stairs. The lobby had finally cleared of the whores, who figured out that they should be seeking new sleeping arrangements. A couple were in the back room with the clerk and, aside from a few smears of blood, the hallway was clear. It was quiet enough for her to hear Fabio moaning as she made her way as silently as she could to her own room.

She sat in a rocking chair, sweating, worrying, angry, and trying to come up with some kind of an out. It seemed the closest thing she had to an ally was her enemy. Now, everything was upside down. She had no idea who these bushy-eyed gorillas were, but she was well aware that they meant her no good. That Earl was dead was less a surprise now that she had a chance to think about his story of the runt he had been chasing since the night before. That he was seated in the sheriff's office, behind the desk, still posed her. It had been a remarkably eventful day, even for this backwater rail head, even without the cowboys who used it for fun, and there being no sheriff. As she sat, slowly stewing in her own sauce, she kept hearing Fabio's moans across the hall and Arturo's occasional howl and pistol shot from the street below.

In Elwood's room, the sight of the family reunion, things were still, but the undercurrent of tension was the rule.

"So, now what?" was all Elwood could think of to say.

Although they could hear the occasional shot being fired outside, they didn't think it had anything to do with them.

"You boys are gonna hafta corral Sally yerselves," said Precilla. "I got my own fish to fry."

"Well, what do you think we ought to do?" Frankie asked Precilla.

"I think you ought to lay low until daylight, is what I think," she said. "But, I'm goin' after those pugs that bushwacked me. Especially that noisy one outside. He just don't deserve to live an' that's it."

"But, what if Sally comes here? What should we do then?" Elwood whined.

"Just keep her here," Precilla said, getting tired of all this family responsibility crap. "Frankie, you got what she wants an' she's prob'ly got the other half. All right. Frankie, Elwood, you got guns now, an' you got bullets, an' you're set up pretty good here. If she shows up, don't let her buffalo you. Just sit tight until I get back."

Precilla went down the stairs and left through the same door she had entered less than twenty-four hours earlier. There was murder in her heart and there was no thing and no one in this town capable of deterring her from achieving her goal.

Precilla returned to the sight of her humiliation. The big one would be back sooner or later and she would be ready. Her pistols were primed and ready, her knife had a fresh edge, and her boots were experienced. Like a cat on the prowl and ready to pounce, she would get her pound of flesh.

A couple of the whores were asleep in the corner by the potbellied stove with nowhere to go until the train showed up the next day. Precilla climbed the stairs and eased down the hall toward the room belonging to a man she knew far too well. She stood outside the door to listen for a moment. There was a smear of blood that ran down the hall and into the room and she decided to be a little extra-cautious, because this was a crew that shot first, and then maybe, thought about questions later. The only sound from the room was an occasional moan.

Slowly, she turned the knob in the door. There was no apparent notice inside. With all she had, Precilla put her shoulder to the door, which opened easily. She was ready with her weapons leveled. Fabio turned to look as she entered the room, but moved neither quickly nor happily, simply moaning louder.

Precilla surveyed the room. Fabio sat on the bed she had occupied. Two apparently dead men were on the floor next to it.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked Fabio menacingly.

"Muh jaw's bok," he said painfully, as the shock of the incident had worn off and the pain was truly setting in.

"Where's the other one?" she asked him.

He chose to shrug his shoulders in answer. Women had been trouble lately and he had no desire to make it worse.

Precilla noted Fabio's blackjack on the table and slipped it into her belt next to the knife, thinking it could come in handy someday. There was a noise down the hall, so Precilla closed the door gently, locked it, and prepared herself.

Sally heard the heavy walk and cursing pass her room and knew it was the big one that was after her. She decided that the only thing left to do was to find Elwood and either con him and his partner out of their half of the note or, at the very least, elicit his sympathy and aid. She would tell him that Earl and the banker had put her up to it under the threat of death. She began to believe that when she had gotten him lulled, she could make her move.

Arturo was in a blind rage. He was angrier than he had ever been. Two brothers dead, one badly injured, and he couldn't even find the culprit in this little bitty burg. He reloaded his gun as he stomped down the hallway to his room, where he believed Fabio to be waiting.

He tried the door, only to find it locked. He bellowed for Fabio to open it, but Fabio made no move under Precilla's cocked pistol. Arturo then put his shoulder to the door. Noise, anger, curses; the door blasted open on the third effort. He saw Fabio seated on the bed, his eyes moving wildly back and forth, trying to inform his brother of Precilla's presence. When Arturo finally saw her, he raised his gun to fire.

Precilla had her own ideas as to how she would handle this animal. As he swung his gun up to shoot her, she brought one of her shiny-toed boots up to greet it. Her toe missed the weapon, but hit Arturo's wrist, snapping it and sending a .38 caliber slug across the room to make a perfect circle about an inch above and directly between Fabio's eyebrows.

Lightning is not as fast as were Precilla's next three kicks. The first lifted Arturo's right kneecap. The second crushed his left testicle. The third, as he was going down, crushed his windpipe just below his Adam's Apple. She then removed the blackjack from her belt and took her revenge.

The next morning, when the hotel maid went up the stairs to check on the condition of the room, she found four bodies. There was one on the bed, two on the floor, and one tied into a chair, naked, a crushed mass of blood and bone where there once was a head. This man's private parts were not to be found.
CHAPTER 22

Precilla, Frankie, and Elwood gathered once again in Elwood's rooms over the shoe shop.

"Well, what now?" asked Elwood.

"I think we got to get Sally," said Frankie.

"I'm not so sure," said Precilla, still rushing over her recent conquest. "Let me have a look at that paper you got, Frankie."

Frankie dug into his back pocket and retrieved the torn scrap of paper he had stolen from the table in Mean Earl's cabin the night before.

"...face the...'" she read, "...her face...front, two...left, one down...snakes of all...trust not...authority... Don't make no sense to me. What do you suppose it's about?" she aimed around the room.

The knock at the door startled all three and Precilla had her pistol drawn and cocked before Elwood's eyes had completed their bulge. Precilla motioned Frankie to join her behind the door. Elwood looked to her for direction.

"Let 'em in, but then back up over there," she whispered to him, indicating the far side of the room, "so's he don't look this way."

"Just a minute," Elwood sang to the door. "What am I supposed to say?" he hissed at his sister.

"Just listen," she answered.

Precilla and Frankie were ready. Elwood was nervous. Then, he opened the door just a crack. Sally pushed her way in, in no mood to beat around the bush. Elwood's eyes bulged at the sight of Sally's pistol leveled at him.

"All right, Elwood, where is it?" Sally was demanding.

"Wh-where is wh-what?" asked Elwood, about to shatter.

"Don't give me any of your piss-ant crap," said Sally, her voice raising in frustration. "I know you and Earl have been two-timing me. Now you just pull it out, pass it on over, and you might even live through this," she lied.

Then something smashed into her wrist. The weapon exploded and she caved into darkness as something came down heavily onto the top of her head.

Precilla and Elwood were looking over the rejoined note as Frankie stood guard.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean, 'To find the gold, face the east to find her face'?" asked Precilla, somewhat pissed at the ambiguity of the missive. "'To find the gold, face the east to find her face. Four from the front, two from the left, one down. Watch for snakes of all variety. Trust not the local authority'. It still don't make no sense."

"Sounds like the way to get someplace, to me," said Elwood, trying his best to be useful.

"Maybe we should go out to the ranch and have a look around," opined Frankie from his perch on the edge of the bed next to Precilla.

Sally began to snore.

"I'll get my horse out of the livery," said Precilla.

"I keep mine there, too," said Elwood. "At least, he used to be there."

"Mine's dead." said Frankie. "Earl's men killed him."

"You can use Sally's," was Precilla's solution. "She ain't gonna need him for a while."

They rode out to the ranch early the next morning, after securing Sally in Elwood's room. Frankie and Elwood took turns standing watch as they went through the house, top to bottom. Nothing was found besides the dirt and dust, and the area where Sally had set up her own living quarters. They found her small cache of food, which they ate. They rode out to the line shack, which they turned, literally, inside out. They didn't even find food out there.

The next afternoon, after riding back to town and finding Sally gone, they split up. Elwood wanted to get his shop back into shape, and Frankie and Precilla just generally wandered around town listening to what everyone was saying about the events of the past couple of days. They checked with the station master/telegrapher and learned that Arturo had three telegrams waiting for him, Sally had left on the train, and the owner of the General Mercantile was making plans to rebuild the saloon, over the objections of his wife. He had already ordered two dozen window panes and a huge mirror for over the bar.

Frankie applied for the job of sheriff, and since there was no mayor, there was no opposition. There was a marshal on his way, but he wouldn't be in town for another week or two. Precilla took up temporary residence at the ranch, thinking that, given time and a clear road, she'd be able to work out the code in the message from this Harlingame Hansen fella.

They all spent a lot of time at the ranch after that. They could be seen picking around the area, moving things, and just wandering around. Folks in town thought they must be crazy, like Old Man Hansen was. They thought it was nice that Elwood had people, and they became convinced that he wasn't responsible for the deaths of the Mayweathers, but they hardly ever got to see them, and no one hardly ever met them. Nope. They just weren't like regular folks.

In St. Louis, there was a lot of talk. There was a lot of speculation and innuendo. There was a chest with the correct markings, and there had been promises of more samples. But there had been absolutely no word from the source for more than two years.

In New York, there was much speculation as to why none of Papa's telegrams had been answered.

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About the Author:

Edward Nickus has moved 38 times in his life, living in 30 different cities. He used to work as a DJ, at various radio stations in California, Washington and Oregon. Today, he spends his time writing in the beautiful city of Eugene, Oregon.

