

YOU STOP, YOU DIE:

## A Western Novella

MD O'FLYNN

Copyright © 2016 by MD O'FLYNN

Cover design by Erik Carlson

Contact Erik at: https://www.linkedin.com/in/erik-carlson-72a30211

Copyright © by MD O'FLYNN

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by MD O'FLYNN

www.mdoflynn.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thanks to all my friends and family for their support in the making of this story.

Thanks most of all to my wife who encouraged me to finish the story and gave me the freedom to do so.

FOR MICHELLE

Day 1

After robbing the Double S payroll coach on the El Paso Road, Ray Chapin and The Kid galloped southeast, taking care to avoid any towns or settlements. After a couple hours, sure that no one followed them, they turned southwest and headed for the Pecos River. They forded the Pecos twenty miles downstream from Horse Head Crossing, and worked until late afternoon hiding their tracks and laying false trails. When they finished, they made for the burned out sheep ranch to meet up with Jenkins and divide the take. It was dusk when they arrived and found Jenkins waiting.

"You boys is late. I was startin' to worry some. How'd it go with the stage?" Jenkins, a jittery man, over-thin and tall, possessed a voice that cracked like a teenager's. Ray had brought Jenkins in on the job as the stash man on Mud Beechum's recommendation. The outlaws needed fresh horses and food staged along the escape route in order to outrun any posse. Mud said Jenkins was a reliable hand, not given over to loose talk.

The Kid swung down from his saddle in a flurry of dust and curses and headed to the supplies. "Thievin' is hard work, but we made do, didn't we Chapin?" He whooped and knocked the trail dust off his sleeves. "You got any whiskey, Stretch?"

"Bottom of that small sack sittin' yonder." Jenkins pointed to three sacks of provisions stacked against a crumbling adobe wall.

The Kid rummaged through the canvas sack, came up with a bottle, uncorked it, and took a long pull. Ray came off his saddle fast, both boots landing at the same time. He stalked towards The Kid and swatted the bottle from his mouth. It smashed at their feet. "See to your horse first."

The Kid's pale blue eyes burned with a crazed light, his mouth pulsing silently as if he were talking to himself. His hands hovered over the grips of his Smith & Wesson Model Three pistols as he stared, unblinking, at the smaller man that confronted him.

Ray had a slight build, wide in the shoulders, but narrow and lean everywhere else. He had a decade on The Kid and the years had cured him to hardness like an old hickory cane. The Kid towered several inches above Ray; a large, fleshy man whose size belied uncommon speed and strength. In his short twenty years, he had obtained a reputation as a quick draw artist and a sadist.

Seething contempt sparked between the men like chain lightning flashing in a darkened squall. Jenkins watched the standoff unfold, not daring to move lest he provoke a fatal outburst from either man.

Then, as fast as the rage had rushed in, it ebbed away and The Kid's speckled, ivory face softened. "Sure thing, Chapin. No need for gittin' all riled up." The Kid stepped sideways, tipped his bowler, and sidled back to his horse.

Jenkins followed Ray as he returned to his mustang. Ray removed the saddle, set it aside, and then ran his hands over the mare's fetlocks, checking for swelling. In the four years since he bought Esther from a rancher that broke wild mustangs, she had never once pulled up lame. She endured hardship like no man or beast he'd ever met and was as tough as any backcountry stallion. Once, he watched her trample a rattler to pieces and eat it.

Ray said, "When did you arrive?"

"Yesterday, near evenin'," said Jenkins. "How'd it go?"

Ray pulled a small pick from his vest pocket, bent over, and lifted a hoof gently, locking it between his knees. He carefully cleared away dried mud and pebbles lodged under the hoof, and checked the wear of the shoe. "The stage was a couple hours late. We took the strongbox – a couple folks got kilt."

Jenkins cleared his throat with a dry, hacking sound. "Killed? I thought we said there wasn't gonna be no killin'?"

Ray finished with the hoof and moved to work on another. "The Kid killed Saunders and a passenger, a Mex woman. I winged the shotgun. We need to ride out tonight."

It took Jenkins a moment to respond. "Yeah, well I've got some good news and some bad news for you." Jenkins looked over at The Kid. The gunfighter didn't seem to be listening. "Good news is those canteens are topped off, there's a week's worth of food in those sacks, and two fresh horses in that old paddock."

"Bad news?"

Jenkins looked back at Ray. "The well is all dried up. Ain't no water here. What's in those canteens is all of it."

Ray grunted and pulled a pebble the size of his fingertip from the muddy hoof and tossed it aside.

"There's more bad news." Jenkins lowered his voice. "Before I left the Horse Head station, a group of riders came in. A few of 'em was Texas Rangers. They was askin' around about The Kid."

"And?" Ray switched hooves.

"Seems some folks at the camp remembered that The Kid was there a few weeks back – askin' about Saunders." Jenkins looked at The Kid again. "Their horses were pretty beat when they came in. I heard one of 'em say they was gonna lay up overnight then head for Kiowa Creek and the Double S this mornin'."

Ray silently worked his way around Esther until he had cleaned each hoof. Then he said, "I thought he wasn't wanted for anything in Texas." Ray looked over at The Kid who still hadn't removed his horse's saddle.

"I ain't seen any bills on him, but you never..." Jenkins' voice faded.

"Hey Chapin, I need some help over here." The Kid stood next to his mount, pointing at the animal's hind legs, his hat pushed back on his head. "I think there might be somethin' wrong with this old nag."

"Grab my saddle bags," Ray said to Jenkins. "The money's in there. We'll do a quick divide and then we all need to ride out. You head north to the river, but wait until dark to cross. Work upriver through the shallows a mile or so when you do. You'll be fine – any posse will be on our trail."

Ray approached The Kid who pointed at the horse's leg. "Don't know nuthin' bout horses, really. I'm just a notorious gunfighter." The Kid wore a wide and mocking grin. "Figure a big time cavalryman like yerself would know better'n me." Ray stooped to pick up the hoof and saw a flash of silver in the corner of his eye. The back of his head exploded in pain and Ray dropped to his knees, reeling for an instant before blacking out.

***

Ray awoke, sprawled on his stomach with a curious Esther blowing on his cheek. He lay motionless until he realized it wasn't artillery fire, but the pounding inside his head that made him wince in pain with each concussive blast.

He rolled to his knees, tried to stand and staggered. He reached out to steady himself, but his hand clutched empty air and he fell. He reached back, hand trembling, and touched a swollen lump encrusted with a scabby patch of half-dried blood behind his ear. The Kid had pistol whipped him good.

Ray's insides felt loose and uneasy, but he forced himself to stand. He searched around the adobe, his legs trembling underneath him. The Kid, the food, the water, and the money were gone. He found Jenkins' cold body face down behind the building, two holes in his back and the sand underneath him stained black in the moonlight.

He hadn't really known the man, but Jenkins didn't deserve to be back shot and left for the coyotes and the vultures. Ray had thought to escape the deeds of his fatal past with one last job, a heist that needed no killing. Instead, dead bodies collected around him like river debris tangled in a fence line after a flood.

Looking up at the moon, he estimated he'd been out nearly eight hours. Dawn would come soon. Strangely, he found his Colt Single Action Army pistol and Spencer carbine neatly piled next to his saddlebags. Inside the bags, he found his ammunition, but his heart sank when he discovered The Kid had taken his money. Ray had saved two thousand dollars to use as his stake money to buy a small ranch in New Mexico or California. He kept the money inside an old cartridge box wrapped in an old shirt.

Ray took the old shirt out, tore it into long, thin strips, and bandaged his head. As he tended his wound, he tried to figure out The Kid's play. The snake bushwhacked me, but let me live. Why? For a second Ray thought if he galloped out at that moment, he might catch The Kid. It was a desperate and futile thought. The Kid had three mounts and by switching between them, he would move faster than Ray could ever hope to.

Rage boiled inside Ray, thinning the fog of pain that muddled his thinking. He began to understand just how dire his situation had become. The Kid was gone and a posse was certainly forming. He had little time to waste at the sheep ranch. He struggled to saddle Esther, and then walked her to the top of a rise behind the adobe.

He watched as a faint, blue light blossomed behind a coal black horizon. It would be sunup soon. Ray imagined the silhouettes of riders on line, floating between that razor's edge of shadow and light as they closed on their quarry.

They figured it would be two days before any posse could organize and come after them. The Kid had said there would be three thousand dollars in the strongbox. Jenkins speculated a cuss like Saunders might not even chase that much money into a wasteland plagued with Apaches and Comancheros. It turned out it wasn't three thousand dollars, but fifteen thousand dollars stored in the strongbox. Somebody will come.

"I've got options, then," Ray said. "I can give up, shoot it out, or run."

Give up? That meant a rope around his neck, for sure. There would be no mercy, not with two dead bodies rotting in the stage.

Run? He could double back to the Pecos. The water at the ford was too briny to drink, but he could ride downstream until he found a spring that fed into the river. Once he had water, he could head south and find a small town somewhere to stock up before he crossed into Mexico. He still had a few gold dollars hidden inside a crease in his saddle.

If the Kiowa Creek Sheriff did put a posse together, Ray had at least another day and a half lead before they'd reach the Pecos. If he pushed Esther hard, he'd be in Mexico in three days.

He remembered Jenkins telling him about the rangers. Ray kneeled and sketched a map in the sand while Esther looked over his shoulder. "If them Rangers rode from Horse Head Crossing to Kiowa Creek, they would take the El Paso Road through Capwater Pass." Ray stabbed in the ground with a stick. "The stagecoach station there might have received a telegraph about the robbery by the time the rangers arrive."

Esther pawed the ground and chuffed.

"Well, Texas Rangers can ride, track, and shoot with the best of 'em. If they picked up our trail from the stage instead of going to Kiowa Creek, we would be lucky to have a day's lead on them."

Esther nudged him with her nose.

"We don't have enough time to double back if the rangers are after us. Besides, rangers are mighty casual about that border. Headin' to Mexico won't get us much and we can say adios to our stake money."

Doubling back might also mean a fight. If he could find the right ground somewhere nearby, he could lay in an ambush. Most town posses employed shopkeepers and out of work ranch hands who might be lazing about looking for a few dollars. "A stiff fight might take the wind out of them and clear a path to the south. I could shoot the horses out from under a couple of them and they'll start re-thinkin' their civic duties."

Esther leaned into Ray, knocking him into the dirt.

Ray stood and dusted himself off. He didn't like the prospects of a fight either; not with the Sheriff or with the rangers. Ambushes meant lots of waiting and lots of killing. Enough folks had died already and Ray had no desire to add lawmen and innocent townsfolk to the list. The Kid's actions had put him in a deep hole and he would not dig it any deeper.

Ray had underestimated The Kid's cunning; he wouldn't make that mistake again. By taking the food, water, and extra horses, The Kid wanted to make sure Ray wouldn't follow him. He didn't leave Ray's guns and Esther by accident, either. He wanted Ray to run or shoot it out. Both choices worked in The Kid's favor, slowing any posse and buying him time for to escape.

Ray bet The Kid knew about the rangers on his trail, too. That kind of attention and seventeen thousand dollars might drive any man to take his chances alone against the desert and the Indians. The Kid just might figure the odds were in his favor. If he made it through the canyons and into the plains with all three horses, even Apaches would have trouble running him down.

Ray stepped into a stirrup and pulled himself onto the saddle. The world spun around him and his body seized and caused him to spew the contents of his stomach onto the ground. He laid across Esther's neck feeling her heat and sweat on his cheek. Anger burned a hole in his chest.

The stage job would have funded Ray's escape from a life of violence. The take would have made him flush with stake money, enough for a small ranch in California. However, The Kid had run off with the stage money and Ray's stake, and he made Ray look the fool while doing it. He'd robbed Ray of his future and what little reputation he valued, and he couldn't abide the theft of either.

A two days ride to the spring, that's what Mud had said. Two days... Two days without water, food, or rest. Even if we get across those badlands, it will take some time to catch up to The Kid. He's got water, horses, and a hell of a head start, but not so much I can't track him.

"I was loco thinkin' I could walk away, Esther," he said, his voice hushed. "And The Kid was loco thinkin' he could double cross me. I'm gonna track down that dog and put a bullet in that fat, freckled face of his; for me, and for them's he's murdered for no cause."

Esther shook her head and sidestepped anxiously.

Rising tall in the saddle, Ray made up his mind. "You're right; we're wastin' time jawin' about this." Bleeding and thirsty, Ray pointed Esther towards the desert, found The Kid's tracks, and trotted away from the rising sun.

Two Weeks before the Job

Ray met The Kid inside a squat, flat-roofed cantina located less than a mile from the sheriff's office in Kiowa Creek. They sat at a small wooden table in a narrow, dirt-floored room. The thin mud plaster on the cantina's walls crumbled in spots, exposing the adobe bricks that lay behind. Ray sat across from The Kid, watching The Kid shovel pancita, a thin beef and chili stew, into his gaping mouth with a fistful of corn tortilla.

"So we just ride west with the money. That's your escape plan?" Ray raised an eyebrow at The Kid, then gazed carefully around the room.

Half a dozen dark-skinned and trail-hardened men sat around them at similar tables, drinking warm beer and mezcal. They wore gun belts over sashes that wrapped their waists, leaned rifles against their chairs, and hung long, vicious looking knives from belts and bandoliers. They didn't seem to be paying any attention to the two gringos drinking at the wrong end of town.

The Kid laughed, his open mouth half-filled, his ivory face flushed red from the chilies and mezcal. Greasy orange locks spilled out from under his ridiculous bowler and covered half his face. "Look, it ain't like we was hittin' a bank in the middle of town," The Kid said, reiterating a point he had made several times already. "There ain't anythin' or anyone out there in that stretch between the Capwater Pass and Mustang Waterhole stations. The closest law is right down that road outside. One fat town sheriff and one old deputy. Those stations are between thirty and forty miles away. By the time word gets back to that tubby fool and he organizes a posse, we'll be hell bent for the New Mexico Territory.

"Christ almighty, there might not be any posse at all. Old Man Saunders ain't right popular hereabouts. Folks just might thank us for stickin' it to that old miser." The Kid pushed more stew past his dripping, greasy lips.

Ray let his eyes wander upwards, his appetite gone. The roof inside was low enough that The Kid had ducked when they had entered to avoid striking the vigas, beams that supported a ceiling of wooden planks topped with a layer of adobe bricks. Bullet holes stippled the planks and someone had plugged them with dirty tufts of dried desert grass. Ray figured the dark patches of dirt were the results of spilled beer or blood.

The Kid kept talking. Food crumbs tumbled from his mouth as he did, adding to the growing stain on his shirtfront. Sitting there in the cantina, he seemed long on mouth and short on brains, but Ray sensed an almost maniacal cunning beneath his blustery appearance. The Kid was a slovenly, cold-blooded killer who corralled his own fear by terrifying the helpless. However, he had spent weeks doggedly scouting Saunders, his habits, and possible ambush sites.

Ray wasn't good at planning; he preferred to go with his instincts. He had a knack for sizing up folks quickly and as he listened to The Kid, he concluded two things: The Kid was a cold-blooded killer, and he was downplaying the threat of a posse for some reason.

"See here Chapin, with us masked and all, ain't no one gonna know who done it no how. And supposin' we agree they could track us? We could load up aforehand with a good supply of water, grub and cartridges. The first whiff of a posse, we leave off takin' the El Paso road and strike due south, cross the Pecos then head for the Rio Grande and Mexico. That way we stay clear of the Army and any towns with a telegraph.

"I've rode those parts a time or two, mostly out by Fort Davis, and I can tell ya, there ain't a livin' soul out that way for a hunnert miles in any direction. There's plenty of box canyons and blind switchbacks to frustrate any posse of jumped up, deputized, ranch hands and grocers."

"You rode out that way from here?" Ray's tone revealed his skepticism.

The Kid shifted in his seat. "Well, maybe not as such from this direction..."

"I ain't stumblin' blind through Indian country with no idea where any water holes are." Ray stabbed the table with his finger, slopping mezcal from their red clay copas.

"Didn't figger you for scarin' so easy." The Kid stared at Ray, challenging him.

Ray let the insult pass. He wouldn't let The Kid goad him into a fight.

The Kid sighed and wiped his chin on his sleeve. "Chapin, you worry too much. I've been scoutin' Saunders for a while now and I can tell you, this job is easy money." The Kid leaned in. "Saunders likes to travel light, see. He reckons large groups attract too much attention, but I think he's just too cheap to hire more men. He'll have one or two men in the coach with him and a man ridin' shotgun. Hmmph, for a rich man he's one tight-fisted son of a bitch."

"Maybe," said Ray. His skepticism and careful nature had kept him alive for thirty-two years and he knew enough to understand that most things that seemed easy, rarely were.

The Kid stared at Ray's impassive face. "Fine. You worry on it for a while. I need a break from all this hard work." The Kid stood and turned to the bartender, an old Mexican fellow, bent and twisted with age. He stood behind a wide, wooden plank laid across two barrels, filling clay bottles from a wooden keg that sat atop the crude bar.

The Kid's voice boomed across the room. "Hey, sain-yor." The old man looked up from his bottles. "Yeah, you, you old coot. Mas tequila. Now. Rapido."

The old man called through a curtain-covered doorway at the rear of the room. A middle-aged, mahogany-skinned woman in a dirty blue skirt appeared, traded words with the bartender in Spanish, then fetched two bottles for the gringos.

The Kid sat down, laughing. "See Chapin, you don't need to speak their gibberish. They all understand when there's money to be made. Ain't that right, sain-yor-eeta?" The Kid leered up at the woman, and grasped a handful of her backside. "Dos pesos, Puta, whaddaya say? You and me go in that back room there and you make some money?" He held up two coins between his fingers.

The woman spun away from The Kid's grasp. As the bartender rushed over, Ray pushed back from the table, resting his gun hand on the edge of his chair near his pistol.

"No es puta, ella es mi esposa," the bartender said. "Mi esposa, una senora."

As the bartender pleaded with him, The Kid turned to Ray, "What the hell is he sayin'?"

Ray watched as the woman cowered behind the bartender. "Looks like she's his wife."

The Kid took a swig of the amber-colored liquor from a fresh bottle and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Yeah? Well, from the looks of her I'm guessin' this won't be the first time she's had a man pay for..."

The woman began a rant in Spanish, pointing at The Kid and beating the old man on his shoulder. The Kid stood again and reached for her. When the bartender timidly stepped between them, Ray saw The Kid pull, lightning fast, setting the end of his barrel against the old man's forehead.

"Now, it ain't like I'm askin' for a free one. I'll pay." The Kid tucked the coins in the man's shirt pocket. "Now, she is my sain-yor-ah, at least for the next little while." Without taking his eyes off the bartender, The Kid said, "Chapin, tell him he can have her back when I'm done."

"I don't speak Spanish." Ray said.

"Then how you know she's his wife?"

Ray looked at the old man shielding the woman with outstretched arms. "Wasn't hard to figure."

"Hells bells." The Kid drew his other pistol just as fast and smooth as before, and pointed it at the woman. "You – Puta – get over there." The Kid waved his gun at the curtained doorway. "You want in on this Chapin? Be easier if you held her down. I think she's a fighter."

"Kid, put your guns away, we're leavin'."

"I don't take orders from you, Chapin. I ain't in the army."

Ray slowly raised his palms, shoulder height and said, "Ain't me that's givin' the orders round here."

"What?" The Kid looked over his shoulder to his right where two fierce-looking men aimed rifles at his head. He looked over his other shoulder and saw three men with pistols, also pointed at his head.

"You tell those Pedros if'n they don't put those irons down I'm gonna open up a door in this man's head and let a breeze blow through this shithole."

"I told you, I don't speak Spanish." Ray looked around the room. He recognized the lidded, vacuous look in the eyes of the vaqueros. "Kid, lower your guns and ease back towards the door."

"The hell I will. C'mon now. I'll put three of 'em down before they get off a shot. You tellin' me a killer with your reputation can't get the other two?"

"Not can't. Won't."

"You know once I start shootin', they's gonna fire back at both of us."

Ray nodded. "Maybe. But I ain't pullin'."

The Kid kept his pistols pointed at the couple. He squinted and cocked his head to the side. Ray didn't trust what the Kid might be thinking.

"Listen Kid, if you do this, even if we get clear, they'll raise the county. How's that keepin' a low profile? We got a job to do, and we can't do it with the law hot on us."

"Ain't nobody gonna cry over a few dead Mexes." The Kid still leveled his pistols at the couple, but the resolve in his voice seemed to waver. He looked back over his shoulder again and saw the men had begun to inch closer.

The Kid let out a short breath then uncocked the hammers as he slowly tilted the barrels to the ceiling. Then he slipped the pistols into their holsters and turned around. Raising his palms, he said, "Suppose we have a drink and forget about this whore." His wide grin returned and he pointed a finger in the direction of his would be attackers. "Yeah? Mas tequila?"

The Kid ambled backwards over to the bar. The vaqueros drifted back to their tables. The Kid filled his arms with bottles and moved about the room. "Drink up you Pedros. We's all amigos now." He distributed the bottles, laughing and pouring the liquor into their beer as the dark men holstered their weapons and sat back down. He dropped a silver coin in the bartender's palm, and slapped the man on the back as if they were old friends. The woman quickly disappeared behind the curtain.

Eventually, The Kid sat back down across from Ray. The killing mood in the room had washed away like a nest of rattlesnakes caught by a flash flood. The men who were so ready to spill gringo blood a few minutes earlier were laughing noisily as they drank and jeered at The Kid.

"You know Chapin, you as cool as Colorado creek water in wintertime," The Kid said as he sat back down, leaning his chair back on two legs. "But, I wonder if you're not just a little yellow, too? I mean, if we're gonna partner up on this job, I gotta know you're gonna back me up."

Ray watched The Kid slide his hand toward his holster as he spoke. He tipped his chair forward and stared into Ray's pale green eyes, and for a moment, no one moved. Then The Kid reached and his shiny iron flashed upwards like a striking viper. The pistol came to a stop a foot from Ray's chest, clinking against the copa that Ray had raised.

The Kid moved fast, really fast, but Ray had matched his speed. "Like I said, cool as a Colorado creek. You don't just shoot your way out of trouble, do ya? Not sure how I feel about a man like that." The Kid laughed, holstered his pistol, and raised his bottle to Ray. Then he emptied half of its contents in one long swallow.

Ray wiped off the mezcal that had spilled onto his hand. The Kid was loco, unhinged, and flapping like a barn door in a twister. He also pulled his gun faster than any man Ray had faced before. It might be fatal to cross The Kid, but Ray considered that it just might be fatal to follow him, too.

"If we gotta head south, you suppose the two of us can handle a raidin' party?" Ray figured the Indians to be as much of a threat as the lack of water.

The Kid belched wetly and his ever-present smile returned. It occurred to Ray that The Kid's grin did not seem particularly tied to any one emotion. It reminded Ray of the patients he'd seen when he visited his uncle in a Saint Louis sanitarium.

"Ain't like it used to be ten years ago, Chapin. General Sheridan's got them Comanches boxed in way up north near Red River. The only Indians we need to worry about are few damn Apaches – maybe a Kiowa or two. See, when the Army raided into Mexico last year and killed all those Apaches, it put the scare into 'em. Since then, they forced most of the tribes onto reservations. Sure, there's a few renegades about, not many though, and only a few are real killers. They'll keep their distance from a couple well-heeled desperados like us."

Ray had fought Lipan Apaches in South Texas and it was dirty business. The Mescaleros had raided in West Texas for years and rumor had it they were the meanest of all the Apaches. Cowboys were forever telling campfire stories about shadow walkers who stole horses right out from under riders or sneaked into a cow camps at night, slitting the throats of sleeping hands without leaving a track.

The whole job made Ray nervous. He wasn't sure how reliable The Kid's information was – particularly about Saunders, but he seemed confident enough. Still, if things went sideways, he disliked the idea of blazing a trail through a hundred miles of waterless wasteland with a partner as touchy as an old stick of dynamite. If it comes to it, can I control The Kid's blood lust?

Ray decided to play it safe. "Forget the El Paso road. We'll need to stay out of towns for a while."

"Sure, that's fine Chapin. But, we'll need a good stash man, some horses, and a site on the other side of the Pecos."

"I know a fella near here who rustled cattle and scouted Indians out this way before the War. If anyone can help us out, he can. I'll ride out and talk to him."

"Sounds like a good idea, Chapin. That'll give me some time to look around this pigsty of a town. I'm bettin' there's more than one puta about. Them Mex gals ain't good for much else."

Ray wasn't sure The Kid could keep himself out of trouble, but he resolved to ride out the next day and talk with Mud Beechum anyway. Mud was a wily old goat who had escaped more close scrapes with the law than even he could remember. Ray seemed to recall he had even been a lawman once, for a short time.

Standing up, Ray pulled a few coins from his vest pocket and tossed them onto the table. "Just so you know, that there firewater is mezcal, not tequila."

"What the hell's the difference?" said The Kid, looking up as Ray headed to the door.

Ray looked back over his shoulder, grinning. "Mezcal has worms."

Ray turned his back to The Kid as he spat and wretched. The mocking laughter of the vaqueros faded behind Ray as he strode into the blinding Texas sunshine.

Day 2

Ray pushed Esther as hard as the pounding in his head would allow, leaving the sheep ranch far behind. By afternoon he felt he had gained back some of the time lost to The Kid's treachery and he stopped Esther in the shrinking shadow of a stand of Junipers. They rested until the early evening, waiting for the afternoon heat to break and then set a brisk pace southwest until they reached Meyer's Canyon.

The canyon was a long, sloping trench that marked the end of a vast tableland that the Spanish Conquistadors had called the Llano Estacado, The Staked Plains. Ray knew that beyond the canyon lay the start of a scrub-covered, waterless desert that only the Apache, the Army and desperados willingly entered.

They reached the mouth of the canyon before nightfall, but as the tired pair trudged lower into its depths, the trail disappeared into the darkness. Ray decided to stop and rest until the moon rose high enough above the canyon walls to light their path. Exhausted, and his head aching worse than ever, Ray unsaddled Esther and stretched out on a thin blanket laid over the cold stones that lined the canyon floor. Dreaming of canteens filled with cool water, he slept fitfully for several hours.

Years of sleeping under the stars had trained Ray to wake instinctively. With the moon floating high above the canyon rim and its light descending to the canyon floor, Ray stood and gathered his kit in the darkness. He saddled Esther, took the reins, and tried to get his bearings.

The path glowed as if it were made of phosphorous and pierced deeply into the blue-black shadows that threatened to snuff its luminance. Ray headed west along the path, walking Esther, his entire body stiff and aching, his mind filled with the events at the sheep ranch.

It had been foolish to give chase without any water, but Ray's pride and desire for vengeance had clouded his judgment. He had been careless and The Kid got the better of him. As a result, Ray was slowly dying. His tongue rolled like a ball of felt inside his mouth. The sun had scorched the back of his neck and hands and they burned as if someone had laid a hot poker across them. His head still vibrated in hot, dull pulses.

After a while, he found himself gripping the pain, forcing it to fan out and connect the torturous erosion of his skin, muscle, and bone to the deepest parts of him. He embraced the truth resident in it: stopping the pain met stopping forever.

Ray mumbled an oath. "I ain't gonna quit until one of us is dead." Death caught everyone eventually, but Ray aimed to hurry along The Kid's rendezvous with the Reaper. The oath energized him as he labored for hours through the night and into the early morning.

***

The trail out of the canyon wound upwards from the floor for a hundred feet along a steep, narrow path. Ray led Esther as they climbed, rationing their collective strength. At the summit, they passed from the canyon's cool shadows into the oppressive white heat of the mid morning sun.

Ray paused at the crest and mounted Esther. Climbing into the saddle felt like the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. He looked along his back trail, tracing his path through the canyon's maw that gouged the edge of the Llano. Far off in the distance, a faint dust cloud rose from the canyon's shadows, shimmering in the windless, dry desert heat. He figured a posse was six, maybe seven hours behind him.

Ray twisted in his saddle and looked west. He felt the sun's heat on his back as his desert-baked, sweat-stiffened clothes chaffed against his skin. Long shadows stretched away from him across a gnarled, parched landscape of graying creosote, spiny yucca, and withering sage. The summer sun was only a couple hours old, but already his leather tack felt hot enough to burn a bare hand. Before him, flattop mesas lay as if ancient giants had hastily discarded their top hats and shallow arroyos lacerated the skin of the landscape like sutures upon a corpse. The land was slowly dying under the worst drought most folks had ever seen.

Ray was thirsty, hungry, and hurt, but as bad off as he was, he knew Esther was worse. A slick sheen of sweat and desert dust coated the mustang and her breathing was shallow and rapid. Ray patted her neck gently. He had pushed her too hard with little rest since robbing the stage and the result weighed heavily on him. "When we get to that spring, I promise you plenty of water and oats, old girl." His voice cracked and the lie died in the back of his dry, croaking throat. He had no food and no way of knowing for sure if they would find the spring; she would die if they didn't. Hell, we're both done for if Mud steered us wrong again.

Mud Beechum had told Ray the spring was located an easy two and a half-days ride southwest of the sheep ranch. A good place to top off your canteens, as Mud described it. He had drawn a crude map for Ray that showed the location of the sheep ranch, a path southwest through Meyer's Canyon, and the way across the flatlands to the Glass Mountains. Mud said there was an old miner's trail south of the highest peak that would lead up a draw to a box canyon where the spring lay hidden.

Ray frowned. It was an easy ride if you took it slow and carried plenty of water; they had done neither. Even though the map had led them to the sheep ranch okay, Mud's whiskey colored memory was unreliable at times. Mud had said there would be water at that ranch, but the well there had been dry. Ray worried about what else Mud might have gotten wrong.

Ray scanned the horizon to the north and south then surveyed his back trail once more. The posse was out there, on his trail and gaining; moving fast and taking little care to disguise their passage. He hadn't seen any sign of Apaches yet, but that made their presence even more real. He imagined them lurking, just beyond sight, watching the reckless chase play out, and waiting for their chance to strike.

Looking west, he reminded himself that The Kid was out there, ahead of him by at least a day. The Kid had taken the map and was following it, so Ray would follow him. Follow The Kid's tracks, find the spring, then deal with The Kid. He rested his right hand on the walnut grip of his holstered Colt and the vision that appeared in his mind steeled his purpose.

After the Cantina

The day after the dust up at the cantina, Ray rode out to see Mud Beechum. They sat on hand hewn, oak benches under a low overhanging roof which served as a front porch. The home itself was a leaning wood shack made of logs and rough planks, caulked with river mud and desert grass. The whole place looked like a strong wind would knock it over.

Mud listened quietly as Ray sketched out the plan, then said, "Why'd you hitch your wagon to that snake-eyed villain?"

They both sat watching the wide, shallow flow of the Pecos River as it crept through the flats that stretched before them, dodging boulders the size of coyotes, lapping gently at a shore lined with lush pockets of persimmon and blue sage.

"He's been scoutin' this job for weeks and he's got a clever head for plannin'. Its somethin' I ain't ever had."

"Appears all you is usin' yer head fer is to separate yer hat and collar." Mud cackled and followed with a swig from a small jug resting across his forearm. He was a thin man who could have passed for forty or seventy. The years of riding, rustling, scouting and prospecting had hewn deep, spidery creases across his face and hands. Time and Texas had eroded any soft or rounded part of him into an edge or point.

"We can do this without killin' anyone," said Ray.

"You never was good at lookin' past the nose in front of you. God knows, I ain't never seen a man so good at figgerin' ways outta trouble, but so bad at getting' out of its way. You know, if you don't go steppin' in horse shit to start with, you ain't gotta pick it off yer boots."

Ray looked down at his boots. "I always thought that bein' hired to do violence sort of cleared me of worryin' about the outcome. Rich men would pay somebody one way or the other. Why not pay me? The deed was no more on me than the gun I used to do it with. I was just a device.

"A few months back I was ridin' for this outfit up in Haskell County tryin' to clear out a bunch of sodbusters. I ride up on this one feller while he was workin' his plow. I let him know he needed to move along, that it wasn't his land. Feller told me he had a deed to that plot, all signed and official. I said it weren't no way it was official and to let me see it. We went back to this dugout he'd cut into the side of a hill he was livin' in. He went in and came out a minute later with a box in his hands. He opens it up, pulls out these papers, and hands 'em up to me. Me still sittin' atop Esther.

"Now, his hands were shakin' somethin' fierce, so right away I knew somethin' was up. I'm readin' through those papers when that pilgrim reaches back into the box and pulls out this five shot derringer and takes aim. But he's shakin' so much he misses with the first two shots. Then I put two bullets dead center in his chest and he drops like a wet sack.

"I look up and I see these two little 'uns, peepin' out the door to that dugout. I go inside, thinkin' his wife might put a scatter gun on me or somethin', but it's just them two kids, standin' there shakin' and cryin'. The older one says their ma died on the trail a few months back.

"Those folks hardly had two nickels to rub together or a pot to piss in. I pulled twenty dollars out my pocket and left it on the table and rode out. I stopped at another squatter's place a few miles away and told the missus about them two kids. Then I rode back to town and crawled inside a bottle for a few days. It got so bad I started hopin' some sodbuster with vengeance in his heart would show up and I'd be too drunk to pull.

"The sheriff asked me a couple questions, but he wasn't too curious seein' how he was bought and paid for by my employer. Wouldn't you know it, that old coot stopped by and gave me a ten dollar bonus, which I threw into the street. Or, at least I think I did. I was out my wits for a while."

Ray leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "It just don't make no sense - that man pullin' on me. I couldn't square it. After I sobered up, I rode out. Didn't even collect my back pay."

Ray looked over at Mud. "I'm tired of the killin' and I can't pretend that I'm not accountable for the things I do in the service of greedy men. I'm headin' to the New Mexico Territory or maybe California with my stake right after this job. Got plans to set up a ranch with a string of ponies, maybe even a small herd and an orchard to boot."

Mud snorted. "And so you partner with this man killer? Damn right you got no head for plannin'." Mud pointed a bony finger at Ray. "Yer drinkin' down river of the herd, Chapin. Mind yer water."

"It's one last pay out. I didn't get paid on my last job on account my hasty exit. Took me five years to put together two thousand dollars and The Kid is offerin' me this chance to add another thousand for a couple days work.

"Anyhow, that bloodsucker Saunders is just like the rest of them other cattle kings I worked for. I know his story and I figure he's earned some payback. One job, take his money, no killin' necessary. Then I light outta Texas and just keep goin'."

Both men turned back to the riverbank. Two mourning doves roosted in the spiny blades of a desert spoon. Mud pointed at it. "You know the Spanish called that plant a sotol? They make this here mezcal outta that stuff."

Mud took another swig, then set the jug down. "You got yer mind set, I can see that. What you needin' from me?" He reached into his pocket for a knife and chaw. He cut off a thumb-sized hunk, deftly bit it off the blade then worked it into his cheek. He spit a loose stream of tobacco juice at a mound of red ants.

Ray laid out the Kid's plan in detail and Mud filled in the blanks. Mud sketched out a map on the back of an old news bill in charcoal and marked a path through Meyer's Canyon and into the Glass Mountains. "Them mountains is chock full of caves, hollows and tunnels made by miners and the occasional underground spring. Most of 'em are treacherous; cave-ins and such. I did some prospectin' round there back in fifty-eight. It didn't pay out, but rumors of Spanish silver, Rebel gold, and Santa Anna's hoard still rope in the desperate and the greedy. Folks seem prone to losing unnatural sums of treasure in that country."

Mud pointed to a spot on the map near the Pecos River he'd marked with an X. "Sheep ranch. Sheep and goats, really. Got burnt out inna range war a few years back. Them Mexes that lived there was kilt or run off. It's the last place I know where you can water afore headin' out." When Ray asked about a stash man, Mud told him about an old bronc buster named Jenkins who worked at a livery stable in Horsehead Crossing.

After they talked about the best place to hit the stage, Mud said, "My advice to you is don't take yer eyes offa that snake fer one second. You do, and he's liable to shoot you in the back, or worse. You get clear of him and this business as fast as you can."

"You thinkin' he might pull a double cross?" Ray said.

Mud squinted at Ray like he had grown a second head. "Well now, that might be an idea, wouldn't it?"

"I guess a man of a low character might consider somethin' like that."

"I reckon he just might." Mud folded the map and handed it to Ray.

"Rob a coach, jackrabbit across the desert, and don't get dead." Ray leaned back against the wall of the shack.

"Hmphh. Sounds easy, the way you put it." Mud leaned back against the house and passed the jug to Ray who lifted it to his lips.

"Yup. Easy," Ray said before taking a pull, the mezcal burning on its way down.

Mud spat at the red ants again and Ray watched as they raced in tiny, angry circles.

Day 3

After leaving Meyer's Canyon, Ray rode almost until noon before dismounting. Esther chuffed in relief as he removed the saddle and gear to rest in the spotty shade of a clump of tall sagebrush. He stretched out on the hot sand and closed his eyes. Esther chuffed again.

"Sorry gal, I ain't got any water or oats, yet," he said under his hat. The searing heat and the continuous throbbing in his head made it almost impossible to concentrate.

Esther snorted in reply.

"There's no call for that kind of sass." Ray lifted his hat an inch and focused one eye on Esther. She pawed the ground and raised her head to look at him. Ray let out a slow breath. "Because, we need to rest. Anyway, even as careless as they've been with their trail, they're gonna be restin', too. This Texas sun will break any man or beast fool enough to ride at midday."

Ray understood the mustang's sense of urgency, but they had to be smart. They had to stay far enough ahead of the posse so they weren't caught, but rest just enough so the sun didn't kill them. Ray had hoped the posse would slow once they left the shade of the canyon, giving him some breathing space, but they had shown little sign of slacking off.

"Maybe it's that fat sheriff from Kiowa Creek." Ray spoke in a hushed, raspy tone. It pained his throat to talk, but he found his tongue stuck painfully to the roof of his mouth if he didn't. "This posse is well provisioned to move as fast as they do, but if they've been trackin' us from Kiowa Creek or the stage, then their horses are close to finished. They can't keep up this pace."

Ray knew that if they had a decent tracker, they'd know The Kid and Ray had split up. They'd also know that they'd never catch The Kid and his two spare mounts in this desert and were likely stay on Ray's tail.

"Maybe the Army got up after us." Ray had spotted the dust cloud again when they topped the low plateau where they discovered their rare chance for shade. "They's probably no more than five hours behind us."

Ray supposed that if word had made it to Camp Lancaster quick enough, it might be the Army behind him. The Ninth Cavalry knew the ground. They regularly patrolled the plains and canyons in search of renegades and raiding parties. If it was the Army on his tail, then it was no good for Ray because they always travelled in force. There was little chance of shooting his way out of a tangle with a cavalry troop.

"But the Army would have more sense than to send up a cloud lettin' every renegade, bandito and Comanchero in fifty miles know they was comin', wouldn't they?"

Ray found a pebble under his hip and put it in his mouth. It was a trick he had used before when he was thirsty, but now it just rattled against his teeth. After a minute, he plucked it out. "A blockhead sheriff just might, though."

He thought back to Jenkins' story about the rangers in Horsehead. "Let's suppose maybe them rangers lit out after us. They's some of the toughest busters I ever met, but they are an arrogant bunch. Might be they think Apaches would steer clear of them."

Ray concluded that no Kiowa Creek sheriff would have dogged him this far. So – the rangers or the Army.

The sun began its descent in the sky and though it didn't feel any cooler, Ray knew he had to move on. He saddled Esther, but did not mount her. He took the reins and led her out of the shade.

They continued on their westerly course. Esther plodded behind, head low, picking her way through the desert grass and creosote. The Kid's trail dipped into shallow arroyos and flat washes that in past times would have promised cool water, but instead offered nothing but dust.

After an hour or so, Ray remounted. He scanned the horizon, but the posse's cloud had disappeared. Its absence did little to raise his spirits. Fatigue and thirst were taking their toll and Ray found it hard to focus on The Kid's trail. His mind wandered and he half slept, only rousing when Esther shuddered, shooing away the horse flies. Finally, his weariness overcame him and his chin dropped to his chest, his eyes fluttered shut.

"Mind the flanks! Bluecoats in the tree line... kill them, kill them all!"

An officer with one gold epaulette charged Ray. He sat astride a coal black gelding, a saber drawn and held high in a red-gloved hand. The officer rode with only a blanket on the animal's back, in the Apache style. Ray aimed his pistol as the officer slashed the curved blade at him. Ray pulled the trigger just as the face of the officer dissolved into the visage of a beautiful Mexican woman. His bullet struck and her face erupted in a spray of crimson and black and her eyes widened until they were giant dark orbs that threatened to engulf him. He looked down at his hands, now empty, and watched the woman's blood slowly spread like a living thing across his fingertips, around his wrists, and up his arms. The blood turned black and began to burn and smoke like an acid spill. He choked back a scream and held his hands in front of him as his fingers fell away like cigar ash in the wind.

Ray's eyes popped open and the sun bored into them with white-hot needles. His heart raced, his body trembled as if chilled. His right hand held his pistol extended in front of him, leveled at the horizon. His palm vibrated as if he had fired only moments before. Confused, he rotated the pistol's cylinder and upon inspection, found each chamber still loaded.

He recognized the Mexican woman in his dream as the one The Kid had shot during the hold up. Only in his dream, Ray had been the one pulling the trigger. Ray could not reason why this one woman's face haunted him so. It wasn't the first time he had seen a killing up close, even a woman's. Since the War, he had shot and killed twelve men himself, some of them close enough for him to smell their last foul breath.

"I'm crazy from the heat, is all," Ray said to Esther. He fought the pain and exhaustion that clouded his every thought, and slowed his every movement. Everything has gone so wrong. Just as Mud had warned me it might.

He thought back to the posse for a moment and decided it didn't much matter who was chasing him. "We need to work at gettin' to that spring, and not worry about who that posse is." He set his jaw and raised his head.

"If they got any smarts, they'll ride slow, staggered, scoutin' their flanks. If they don't, well..." Ray's voice faded into the dry hot wind that was beginning to blow.

Ray thought back on all his decisions that had led him to this spot under the Texas sun. "Smarts? If it comes down to who's got more of em', we might be outgunned."

Esther snorted again.

***

It was well past midday and the sun softened from a blinding white to a blazing yellow, but the change offered little relief. The wilting landscape sucked mercilessly at the ragged pair, robbing them of sweat and sanity.

Ray marked the sun's path, estimating almost four hours until sunset. The Glass Mountains loomed in the distance, deceptively close. If he dismounted now and waited for dark, they could make the mountains for sure. However, the posse gained every minute and he could abide no more delays. Ray was in a fix worse than any he could remember.

The desert slipped by, step by aching step, and Ray's awareness waned.

You've gone soft, amigo. Blisters swelled on his hands and his thighs ached worse than his first ride with the cavalry. Ranching and herding made him lean and saddle strong when he was younger, but he had since traded the calluses on his backside for those on his trigger finger and hammer thumb. He left the cowboy life behind a few years after the War ended when he discovered that powerful and ambitious men paid well for his gun skills.

I couldn't never get ahead cowboying. Jobs came too slow and the money went too fast. Working security for a mining or railroad company ensured steady pay and nights spent in saloons and boarding houses, not in the saddle or on the hard, cold ground. Even a range war promised him softer beds and better smelling companions than a run-of-the-mill ranch hand could afford. Ray quickly learned that a hired gun's pay and accommodations were better than any punch's.

Hired gun. Ray never cottoned to that moniker. He'd known a lot of men that were good with a gun, but few survived to make a living using one. It took guts and a cool head to succeed in Ray's business; a professional killed only as a last resort. Better to back a man down, Ray always thought. Give him choice, a reason to step away. Ray believed that lead was a powerful fertilizer that grew enemies like weeds. However, give a man his life back and you've pulled out the weed at its roots.

Killing a man is no casual thing and besides, it's bad for business. Ray looked every man he faced in the eye and gave them a choice; comply or die. Those that didn't want to listen died with holes in their fronts; Ray was no back shooter. "Except for that big feller near Laredo. He nearly beat me to death with his fists, and would have, too if I hadn't pulled a Schofield off some dandy in the crowd." The forty-five had punched a fist-sized hole in the big man's back as he turned to grab an axe handle and finish off Ray.

Maybe sometimes living gets to be more important than following any rule.

"No, sir, I weren't no assassin. Folks knew my reputation. I was fair and they knew not to cross me," Ray mumbled aloud, his tongue barely moving, his lips dried stiff.

Well you got a new reputation, now. It wouldn't matter to anyone that Ray hadn't pulled the trigger on Saunders or the Mexican woman. The blood that The Kid had spilled was on his hands, too. If the law caught them, he would hang, same as The Kid.

Ray's conversation with himself ended abruptly when he felt Esther stumble. He slipped off the mustang, nearly falling flat. He shuffled around her on his knees, checking her legs with care. Finding no injury, he stood and took her by the bridle. She would not carry his weight any further.

The Glass Mountains seemed no closer, but he wouldn't tell Esther that. "Not long now, girl. Stay with me." Esther labored beside him as they walked, her breathing dry and shallow. Ray's legs felt thick and heavy.

"Keep walkin', just keep movin'," he told himself. You stop, you die.

Ray thought about the bodies they had left behind at the stage. I didn't kill them folks. He had gone over the hold up again and again in his head, and in truth, no one had needed to die. Sure, Ray had winged the man riding shotgun. "I warned him not to point that smoke pole at me. Anyway, that cuss still managed to roll that strongbox out, quick as you please. He'll live."

Ray and The Kid had bagged the money and were making to ride off when The Kid put two slugs in old man Saunders' chest. Saunders had been shouting at Ray and the Kid, mad as a wet hen. When The Kid's slugs tore him from his feet, he fell backwards and wedged between the wheel and the carriage. Saunders hadn't even pulled a weapon unless you counted that wagging tongue of his.

"Maybe Saunders had it comin'." Saunders had gained a mean reputation turning a small ranch into an empire. Through years of dubious dealings, he acquired tens of smaller spreads and numerous water rights in a few short years. Folks said if he couldn't buy you out, he'd burn you out. He was no different from the men Ray had worked for. They were ambitious, greedy, and ruthless. Ray heard men like Saunders claim they were civilizing Texas, but they always needed men like Ray, because not everyone wanted their kind of civilization.

Killing Saunders would only rain trouble on a man - any fool could see that. And that Mexican gal? Ray had just turned to ride off when she poked her head out of the coach's window. She gasped at Saunders's body then The Kid gunned her in the face.

"Lookie that, Chapin," he'd said. "Them Mex whores are good for somethin' else besides a poke." Then he laughed, his voice a high-pitched giggle like a schoolgirl's.

Ray recognized the bloodlust in The Kid's face when he shot her; he'd seen it before. He'd seen ordinary men, decent men, raging with the same look in the heat of battle. For most men, it took a certain kind of fury to pull a trigger on another human being, or run a blade through his gut. Most men don't happen upon that kind of darkness – they get ordered into it.

In the quiet hours that followed a battle, after the fury drained from the soldiers, men of conscience grappled with shades that whittled away at their souls and lodged the splinters under the skin of the fallen. Some men sought consolation in the ideals of justice or vengeance, others prayed to a deafened God, while men of less conviction slipped slowly into sucking pools of guilt. When Ray looked into the eyes of those men, he understood that a soldier's duty is an unholy trade of humanity for cause.

The Kid had never soldiered. By Ray's reckoning, he had been born soulless, formed in whole from the darkness. The Kid had never seen a battle or a fight that wasn't of his own choosing; his only cause was himself. Forgiveness and remorse were unknown to him. He'd been born with a bloodlust and embraced it, cherishing it like a lover.

Ray looked down and saw he had wandered off The Kid's trail. Looking up at the peaks, he concluded that it didn't matter. They were close and he knew The Kid's destination. "This whole mess might have been avoided if I had simply shot that dog between his eyes after he gunned Saunders." Ray could find no understanding in himself for why he hadn't.

In the hours that followed, Ray tried to keep a steady pace, but he tripped and staggered as the desert scrub snatched and tore at his leggings and old prairie dog holes collapsed under his heels. He pushed himself to stand, to take another step, and stumbled again.

Ray staggered forward, no longer holding Esther's reins. The mustang walked faithfully beside him. Ray ceased to feel pain, or thirst, and no longer thought of The Kid. He only thought about giving up. Every time he fell, he told himself it was for the last time. He could lay there and abandon his vengeance and rest forever. Every time he rose, he twisted life like a dishrag, wringing one more drop from it.

***

They were no further than a mile or so from the base of the peaks when Esther stumbled again. Ray heard a sickening snap from Esther's front leg as it caught in a hole. The exhausted, broken horse barely whinnied in pain as she collapsed in a heap.

Ray turned, dropped to his knees and crawled beside her. Her breath came in rapid gasps, her tongue swollen and blue. The leg had pulled free from the hole when she fell, but it laid twisted, the bone piercing the skin like a knife.

She lay panting, leg twitching and Ray knew she was done for. She had been the best damn horse he ever owned and he leaned in and whispered it to her. Worst name for a horse he'd ever heard and he whispered that, too. He laid a gentle hand on her neck.

Ray had owned many horses over the years, but none had the heart or stamina that the game little filly had showed time and time again. "Just a mile or so more," he said to her, "and you would have made it." Ray saw no reproof in her large, brown eyes; only pain.

He tried to stand, but failed. He had little left to give. He eyed the foothills at the base of the mountain range. Have I come this far to die in sight of the end?

Ray shook himself, refusing to accept his fate as it played out. He'd fought at Shiloh. He rode with the Second Kentucky under John Morgan when they raided for a thousand miles into enemy territory. He fought Comanche, Apache, Kiowa, sheepherders and crazed miners. He'd killed a dozen men in fair fights, or fair as they could be. He'd never killed women, children, and never cheated at cards. Maybe he hadn't led a Christian life, but he didn't deserve to go out like a diseased coyote.

A voice inside reminded him, do what needs to be done. Esther laid suffering and deserved a better end than the one he had driven her to. She had saved his life a number of times and there wasn't anyone else alive he could say that about. As he prepared himself for what came next, he began to see that in dying, Esther had saved his life one last time.

Pulling on the saddle and cinch, he crawled to his saddlebags and retrieved his camp cup. Returning to Esther, he lay across her head, soothing her. He pulled his Green River blade from his hip sheath and stared at it as if its presence in his hand pained him. He murmured a half-forgotten prayer and told himself to get on with it. Placing one hand over her eye, he deftly cut deep into Esther's throat.

Blood surged forth and he quickly placed his cup into the flow. The mustang trembled in her death throes, too far gone to lift her head. When the cup filled, he put it to his lips, trembling. As he drank, the blood stung his tongue and split lips and burned his throat. The pain kept him from retching.

Mindful of any delay, he sipped steadily and refilled the cup once he had emptied it. After a few minutes, the blood flow slowed to a trickle. A crimson halo formed in the sand beneath the horse's head and large, black flies swarmed into the cut.

Sickened by his own actions, Ray thought again, maybe living gets to be more important than following any rule. He swore and swatted away the flies, then leaned into her ear for the last time, whispering words of thanks.

He rested and drank for as long as he thought prudent, then stood. Bloody cup in hand, he drained its remaining contents. Despite the foul rumblings in his gut, he felt new energy seeping into his limbs. He pulled his saddlebags free and slung them over one shoulder, his kit feeling heavier than ever. He retrieved the carbine from its sheath, straightened the Colt on his hip, faced west, and walked.

***

Ray stumbled across the miners' trail at the base of the low, rolling foothills that cupped the southern side of the Glass Mountains. He followed the seldom-travelled path as it wound northwards in a series of wide switchbacks. He found only one set of fresh tracks and they headed towards the mountains.

After cresting the first rise, Ray paused to watch as the mountain's spreading shadow consumed the flatlands below him. For the first time, he caught sight of the riders that followed him. Still too far off to count accurately, he estimated at least ten men moved slowly in a single file. They were less than two hours behind him.

Ray felt the churn in his gut that always preceded a fight. Willing himself to move faster, he lengthened his stride, knowing every minute counted. He passed over a series of gentle rises before the path strayed into a narrowing, bow shaped draw that ascended gently toward the base of the mountain. Inside the draw, Ray entered the first deep shade he'd experienced since leaving Meyer's Canyon that morning.

He didn't come back the way he went in, Ray reckoned as he examined The Kid's tracks. Unless he was laid up hurt or dead, Ray did not expect to find The Kid at the spring. So, there's likely another way off this mountain. This revelation gave Ray hope that maybe his luck was changing for the better.

The path eased eastward for some time, then turned sharply to the north. Ray rounded the curve and found the path partially blocked by two buffalo-sized boulders. The boulders blocked any view up the draw, but were staggered such that a single man on a horse could snake between them. Ray approached the passage with caution, peering between the monoliths for any sign of ambush.

Passing between the stone guardians, Ray heard the muted echo of trickling water and smelled juniper and mesquite. He emerged into the neck of a wide, flat box canyon, almost two hundred yards deep and just as wide. The canyon floor sloped gently away from him. Flat-faced limestone and shale walls bounded the box on three sides, rising thirty to fifty feet above the floor. The northern most corner had crumbled and formed a ramp made of loose shale that led to the rim. To his left, the draw's steep shale-covered slope continued halfway into the canyon before intersecting with another draw that entered from the west.

In the center of the canyon lay the spring, its surface the color of tempered steel. It sat in a shallow bowl carved into the canyon floor by decades of erosion. A small grove of cottonwoods, mesquite trees, juniper and thick bunches of purple sage bounded the side closest to him. At the far western corner of the canyon, a narrow stream lined with grass and juniper disappeared down into the draw.

Ray was running before he realized he had moved. He burst through the grove and reached a small strip of sand at the pool's edge. He dropped to his knees and fell forward into the water. He drank in long, deep, noisy gulps, rising only to breathe through his nose before plunging down for more.

When he drank all that he could, he felt queasy. He'd known better than to drink so quickly after a long thirst, but he couldn't stop himself. After taking in a belly full, he rolled to his back, panting in the cool shallows. Then his gut roiled and cramped. He frantically rolled to his knees and heaved a deluge of water and blood into the sand. He hoped the blood wasn't his own.

When the retching stopped, he crawled back to the edge of the water, cupped his hand, and sipped. He felt as if he could drink forever and never slake his thirst. He rolled to his side and lost track of time as he laid half-submerged, trembling uncontrollably, the cool water like ice on his hot skin.

Each passing moment marked a return of his senses as well as his pain. He ached everywhere. He sat up and removed his boots. His socks were mostly rags, worn though in spots and streaked with blood from broken blisters. He lowered his feet carefully into the water and slid forward until his body lay partially covered.

Ray felt drunk. The euphoria of finding the spring, of not dying, coursed through him like warm bourbon on a frigid night. He stared up at a dark blue sky streaked though with golden orange clouds and felt small, forgotten, and safe. He gripped the feeling, unwilling to let it pass, and felt it soften and uncoil something deep within him.

***

Ray sputtered and sat up quickly. His mouth and nose had slipped under the surface. He scrambled to his feet, and stood barefoot in the sand wondering how long he had been out. I'm wasting time I ain't got.

Ray examined the canyon, closely. The spring was formed two separate pools, one twice the size of the other, joined at a narrow neck. The larger pool butted against the back canyon wall. Sandy strips on each side of the pools squeezed in towards each other, forming the neck. Ray spied a small fire circle on the opposite bank that someone had placed in the lee of a low rock outcropping.

Pulling on his boots, Ray awkwardly waded through the calf-deep water and inspected the remnants of the fire. It was The Kid's camp for sure, probably two days old he estimated after touching the ash. The Kid's tracks were clear, but stepped on by several small animals and one large mule deer. As the only watering hole for miles, it was a popular spot for man and animal.

Ray turned and examined the canyon walls to the north, east, and south. It would take ropes and more strength than he possessed to climb those limestone faces. He could scale the shale-covered slope to the west or the ramp in the northeast corner, but both required extreme caution. Loose shale could slip treacherously underfoot and one misstep could start a larger slide capable of burying a man. Even a small slide might loosen the handful of boulders trapped precariously on the slopes; neither would provide a safe or silent means of escape.

The western draw was the most obvious path out of the canyon. A man might follow the stream for a ways, hiding his tracks, then exit at some point down below. He might even surmount the draw's slope, cutting across a few ridgelines, and then work his way down the mountain through another draw. With night falling, Ray knew if he left now, he would be untrackable until morning. But, then what? How far could I get without a horse or canteens?

He knew Fort Davis was east by about a day's ride and El Paso at least another two days past that. He'd never get far enough on foot to stay ahead of the posse. He needed a horse to get free of this mess, but the only mounts around were under The Kid and the posse.

I could make a stand. Ray reckoned if he lured the posse through the two boulders at the mouth of the canyon, he could pick them off one by one or bottleneck a group of them as they passed through. With almost fifty cartridges for his Colt and nearly that for the Spencer, he could make it a memorable fight. Yup, memorable for some of them; I'd be too dead to recall anything. I'd get a handful of them at best, but before long, they would backtrack down the draw, climb to the rim, flank me, and rain fire down from above.

He was wasting time and he knew it. Hiding was his best option and after finding Esther's body, the posse would know that, too. Unfortunately, the rock fall around him and the sparse greenery offered little in the way of cover. Mud had told him once how he fooled two Comanches by laying under water and breathing through a reed. There wasn't a reed in sight, the water wasn't nearly deep enough, and Ray thought that story was horseshit, anyway.

Ray put himself in the posse's boots. They chased him for three days through the canyon and high desert, pushing hard on the last day. They're low on water and their horses are played out. They'll slow a half mile out and look for an ambush. Should give me a little more time. If they're smart, they'll scout those ridges as they come up.

When the scouts give the all clear, the posse will look to watering their horses first then scout my trail. It would be dark soon and that was his biggest – his only advantage. If he could find a good enough hiding place, maybe he could wait them out, steal a horse after they bedded down, and make a run for it. Maybe they'll get careless; tired men often are.

Ray gazed again at the fading western sky, the light vanishing in a streak of red and gold that looked like brass casings in a pool of blood. He spoke an old sailor's ditty aloud, "Red sky at night, sailor's delight." His voice reverberated off the canyon walls, a defiant prayer against the creeping darkness.

He needed to hide and his choices were limited. Climbing the ramp seemed to be the only option and Ray was moving around the pool, considering a spot on the eastern rim when he noticed the water noise increasing.

He continued to the back of the pool, discovering the source of the spring hidden from view by an angled wall projection that faced slightly away from canyon's entrance. The projection looked like a flat, limestone slab had been stacked on end, leaned against the canyon wall, and split across its middle. The slab stood twenty feet high, looked to be half that wide, with a small shelf at the very top. A stream of water, no wider than three feet, flowed thinly from the split and trickled down the face of the projection to the pool's surface ten feet below.

Ray thought he might climb to the shelf at the top. Then, he'd work his way up the remaining ten or fifteen feet to the rim. He decided to test the climb. He used the naturally formed cracks and pockets in the rock to pull himself up towards the split.

It was slow going and he soon discovered that he possessed neither the strength nor the time to attempt what would be a risky climb under the best of conditions. One might scale down the face from the rim, but climbing it was out of the question. Reaching the split, he pulled his chin over the edge. He was surprised to see the crevice was taller than it looked from below and cut deeply back into the rock. It gave him and idea.

Ray skinned his elbow in his haste to climb down and hurriedly slogged back through the pool to the sandy shore. Given the slab's angle and the fading light, the crevice was difficult to spot. In the dark, it would be impossible.

Returning to the shore where he had dropped his kit, Ray sat down and proceeded to clean and reload both his pistol and rifle. Satisfied, he stood and moved into the trees. He found a trove of mesquite bean pods, still a little green, and stuffed them inside his shirt and pockets. They weren't much of a meal, but they were better than nothing.

Returning to the sand, he slung his saddlebags and rifle over his shoulder and used deadfall from the grove to sweep large swaths on both shores, wiping out all tracks. No use pretending I ain't been here, but this will keep them wondering about The Kid and me.

Ray walked backwards through the shallow pool towards the waterfall, brushing out his footsteps on the pool's silt bottom with the deadfall. His efforts combined with the slow moving water would erase any discernible track. Eventually, the posse would sort out that he walked into the pool, but they'd waste time trying to locate where he came out.

When he reached the waterfall, he tossed the deadfall back into the grove, and stuffed his rifle down the back of his shirt. Ray climbed to the crevice, nearly falling twice when his hand slipped, his grip weak from exhaustion. When he finally pulled his head above the lip of the crevice, his arms and legs trembled uncontrollably. He rested, arms folded over the edge as he gasped for air.

The crevice was six feet across and nearly two feet high. The drought had reduced the spring's flow such that it was an inch deep where it poured over the lip. Ray thought he might have to lay lengthwise in the crevice, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the hole cut deep into the rock.

On the right side of the crevice, he discovered a raised, narrow shelf, nor more than a foot wide, running back into the hole. Onto this dry shelf, he awkwardly stuffed his hat, the Spencer, the saddlebags, gun belt, and Colt. Then, he reached up and felt the narrow lip above the crevice. Body trembling again as he clung by his fingertips, he lifted his legs, bent his knees, and wedged himself feet first into the hole. He inched deeper into the crevice until he lay on his back, head just inside the edge, tucked neatly into a watery cocoon.

He laid there breathing deeply, the cold water flowing around him. After a moment, he rolled to his stomach and looked into the canyon. From his perch, he could see both banks of the large pool, most of the eastern slope, and the twin boulders guarding the southern approach. He could just see the western rim over the top of the grove.

He settled in and waited. He had a small supply of food, an endless supply of water, a rifle, a pistol, and plenty of ammo. He could easily defend his position, but retreat meant climbing back down the face, a death warrant in a gun battle.

Ray's muscles stopped trembling, but he ached all over and his fingertips bled. As he lay there, chewing on mesquite beans and sipping the water underneath him, time passed slowly. The sun ducked behind the rim and the canyon plunged into darkness. Soon the posse will come up that draw, make camp, and I'll be treed like a coon. Ray inched as far back as he could without losing sight on the canyon entrances and the pool.

Ray shivered. The water down below in the pool was cool, but inside the mountain crack, it was much colder. With the sun setting and the air cooling rapidly, the cold water would eventually sap Ray's body of its warmth and numb his limbs, trapping him in his hole to die.

Ray laughed loud and uncontrollably for several minutes before saying, "Of all the ways I could have died in the last few days, I'll be damned if I haven't invented a new one."

***

Ray heard the scout on the western rim before he saw him. For once, Ray was thankful for the drought. Water rushing through the crevice during a wet spring would have drowned out all other noise. However, the drought-induced trickle flowed almost without sound inside his hiding place and made it possible for him to hear the scout's rifle butt bang on a rock as the tired man stumbled.

After sighting him, Ray searched the eastern rim for the scout's counterpart. It took some time, but he spotted the second scout much further into the canyon than his partner. They searched the high ground, circling the rim until Ray lost sight of them as they moved above and behind him.

Ray tried to count the minutes in his head, but lost track. Sometime later, he heard the clacking of shod hooves on stone and the jangling of the posse's tack as they passed through the boulders and into the canyon.

A line of men leading tired horses snaked into the canyon and fanned out as they approached the pool. Some of the men formed a loose perimeter around the others as they watered the horses. The posse worked in silence until the scouts rejoined the group. Then they made camp on the bank between the pool and the grove.

Soon, the men began to talk, laugh and grumble like any regular outfit settling in for the night. They hobbled their horses along the stream behind the grove and fed them grain from burlap sacks. They lit a campfire and Ray smelled the coffee and fried pork as his empty stomach growled. He counted eight men around the fire, with at least two or three others posted on guard. Ray couldn't be sure of the exact numbers in the darkness.

As he lay there spying on the group, Ray inventoried the challenges in his plan. To steal a horse, he'd have to scale down the waterfall, wade through the pond, and pass close to the center of the camp. Climb down without a sound, then creep past eight sleeping men? Even an Apache would have trouble with that. In addition, the posse posted guards at the southern and western entrances to the canyon and maybe a third on the remuda. Even if he could get to the horses and ride out one of the entrances, he'd have a least two armed and awake men to deal with. To top it off, most of those animals look worn down to the nub. I won't get far before it pulls up lame.

Ray watched as one of the scouts, a short, stocky figure, talked with a tall, thin man that Ray pegged as the leader. When they moved into the light of the campfire Ray could see the scout's Indian features and cavalry coat. The tall man wore a two-gun rig and carried a Sharps rifle at his side. They look like a couple of curly wolves, those two. No fat town sheriff down there - some of them boys is rangers. Ray's hopes of sneaking past a rag tag posse of mercenary ranch hands and worn out shopkeepers disappeared for good.

Ray saw no way out of his present situation without killing someone. He held no grudges against those men. They were doing their jobs and as far as Ray knew, they hadn't ever crossed him. Maybe I could parley with them and strike a bargain. Shaking his head, Ray knew if he tried, he'd be hanging from his neck in the grove by sunup.

Once again, Ray swore under his breath, cursing himself for partnering with a red-haired demon. Ray's desire for a new life kept him from seeing the truth. He should have known he couldn't control The Kid. The man craved blood and death like a saloon bum craved a shot of red eye.

Ray was a man of few pretensions, and he refused to lie to himself any more. He'd been on a bad track for a long time before the stage job and his train had finally jumped its tracks. He couldn't escape the fact that it was more than injured pride that landed him in this fix. He joined up with The Kid because he wanted money, stood by like a Quaker when The Kid murdered Saunders and the Mexican woman because he wanted money, and chased The Kid into the badlands because he wanted money. He had told himself that money represented freedom, but it didn't. The money was a shackle, and he refused to be a slave any more in exchange for the idea of an easier life.

How'd that easy life work out for you, Chapin? The Colt lay half out of its holster on the ledge. Ray looked at it and wondered if he hadn't overlooked the obvious issue. Maybe the gun and the killing it led to formed the root of his problems. If I'd took up sod busting after the War, would I be laying in this watery grave right now?

Ray struggled to think straight. He needed a new plan, but he felt groggy and numb. He rolled from side to side attempting to slow the spreading stupor, but it did little to halt the fog clouding his thoughts.

The night passed slowly as he lay in the cold water, shivering. Ray could not come up with a better plan. He noted the rotation of the guard's first watch and confirmed that there were two sentries and a horse guard. The men coming off guard dumped a thick log on top of the fire sending embers dancing upward into a pitch-black sky. The fire would night-blind anyone staring into it and the pop and crack of burning wood might cover the sound of light footsteps.

He had to move soon. He'd rather die fighting than freeze to death in his hole. He decided that his first plan was the best – the only choice. He'd climb down, steal a horse, ride fast, and hope the posse was too tired to shoot straight. He told himself he'd only shoot someone if they had him dead to rights or cornered. He didn't know these men, but if it came down to it, he'd fight them with everything he had. A guilty conscience is a hell of a lot easier to live with than lead poisoning.

The outgoing watch settled in and was soon asleep. He estimated it was after midnight. The time to go is now. It's a damnable plan, but it's the only one I got. He'd scale down, skirt the camp as best he could and approach the horses from downwind. He'd need to take out the horse guard, carefully. The butt end of the Colt had worked for him before.

He began to gather his kit when he heard a short, strained breath and the slap of skin against rock. Ray's hand closed on the grip of his Colt. A moccasined foot landed on the lip of the crevice, less than an arm's length from his face. Darkness descended and blocked the starlit sky like a curtain. A dark hand appeared and replaced the foot as a man lowered himself past. Another foot and hand appeared on the other side of the crevice and quickly disappeared below. More shadows stole past his hole, the faint glow of the night sky glinting off newly sharpened blades. The odor of sweat and smoke filled the air.

The Apaches had come.

Day 4

After the last man dropped out of sight, Ray inched forward to get a better view. A band of eight braves approached the sleeping men, wading through the shallow pool. Ray marveled at their stealth in the knee-deep water. He saw the menacing outlines of long knives and short axes in their outstretched arms.

It was the only watering hole for fifty miles in any direction. Any settler, rancher, bandito, or renegade made use of it. It made sense someone would be watching, waiting. If he had been thinking clearly, Ray would have seen this coming.

They were an experienced, daring group. They had descended from the rim, reversing the route Ray had first considered taking. They lowered themselves with knives and axes in wedged in their belts, shunning rifles lest they bang noisily against the rock or fire accidentally.

They clearly meant to take the posse while they slept, bypassing the sentries completely, and preventing an alert that might result in a costly battle. In a few minutes, they would add more guns, horses, and scalps to their collection.

Ray reached for the carbine, braced the walnut stock deep in his shoulder, and leveled his sights on the farthest brave. Can I shoot him in the back? Except for that one time, Ray had never shot a man in the back. And that man was fixing to kill me. He cocked the hammer quietly, and let his finger linger on the trigger, considering the consequences of his actions.

I could stay hid until the Indians clear out, hole up a few days here, maybe even shoot some game, then try to make it out on foot.

Fool! You can't lay another hour in this water and ever expect to climb out, he told himself. Besides, you just gonna sit here and watch ten men get murdered in their sleep?

The braves reached the center of the pool.

Soon as I start firing, everybody in the canyon's gonna know where I am. I'll have to skinny out of this hole quick. Then what... steal a horse? Ray would have to race right past the fighting to get to the horses. If a brave or a ranger saw him, he'd be in the thick of it.

The lead brave neared the water's edge. They would be upon the rangers in moments.

Ray set his jaw. Not a man down there, white or red, wouldn't kill me right now if given the chance and the best way to escape is a big fight to distract everyone.

"Ahh, hell." Ray took careful aim as he exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The Spencer sounded like a cannon blasting in his ear. The sound bounced off the crevice walls, deafening him. The brave snapped sideways off his feet and landed flat in the water. Ray struggled with numb fingers to recock the hammer and lever a fresh cartridge into the chamber without pulling the stock from his shoulder. Meantime, the braves whirled in confusion as they tried to locate their attacker.

Ray sighted through the smoke and fired his second shot, catching the next brave in the chest. The man twisted and fell towards the shore. The soft lead bullet had passed through him, mushrooming and ripping a bloody floret into his lower back.

The quiet night exploded in chaos. The other braves gave up stealth, screamed their war cries, and raced the last few yards into camp. Ray squeezed, cocked, levered, and squeezed again, firing two shots in rapid succession that had little chance of striking home. The smoke from his shots had blocked all view of the camp.

The camp came alive at the sound of rifle fire. A few men scrambled wearily to their feet as the six remaining braves pounced on their rising forms, knives and axes slashing in deadly arcs. Wiser posse members reached for their guns as they lay, firing a volley before the screaming braves fell upon them, too.

A giant, kneeling ranger used his forearms as a bloody shield to fend off knife slashes from a brave that stood above him. Ray heard the crack of a rifle shot and watched as the ranger pitched forward, blood pumping from his hip. As the large man struggled to raise himself, the brave drove his blade through the man's back, plunging deep to the heart.

Ray levered another round into the carbine and cocked it. Most of the smoke had dissipated so he scanned the ridge to his right for the shooter. Ray figured there was at least one brave on the rim with a rifle. Movement along the western ridge caught his eye just before a muzzle flash and a crack signaled another shot. Ray briefly saw a head before the shooter ducked back into the shadows.

Drifting smoke caught in the moonlight marked the shooter's position. Ray drew a bead on the spot and waited. Desperate cries of men fighting for their lives echoed through the canyon. Moments later, something moved in the shadows several yards to the left of where Ray aimed. He adjusted his aiming point and when the head came into view, he snapped off a shot. The bullet ricocheted off the rim rock with a sharp whine and the brave disappeared. Ray swore at himself for rushing and readied another round.

There were two bullets left in the Spencer. Once he fired them, he needed to make a run for it. The Spencer's magazine was located in the butt of the weapon and cartridges were loaded into a tube that opened from the butt plate. In his cramped quarters with half-frozen fingers, unlatching the magazine cover and removing the loading tube would be impossible.

Ray looked into the camp where frenzied men slashed and cut at each other amidst a blur of dust and blood. The posse had recovered quickly and casualties were mounting on both sides. At least three bloodied posse members lay still on the sand while four Apache bodies floated limp in the shallow pool.

The fighting gave over to hand-to-hand and knife-to-axe. A lone shot rang out as a brave and ranger struggled over a pistol. Ray watched as another grappling pair tumbled through the fire, kicking and gouging, ignoring the hot coals.

Ray couldn't find a clean shot into the camp. If I don't have a shot into that ruckus, he might not either. So, he'll be hunting me now. Ray's realization caused something inside him to click into place, like a cartridge sliding into a chamber, the bolt locking behind it. His instincts took over and Ray focused on a singular, familiar purpose. He had joined the fight, and it was kill or be killed.

In the dark, he won't know exactly where I am, but if I stay here much longer this hole will become a coffin. He searched the rim for the shooter, but the brave remained hidden. Time to go.

Numb and stiff, Ray hurriedly squeezed and twisted until he lay across the crevice. He hung his hat and gun belt around his neck and pulled the saddlebags over his shoulder. He wanted to slide over the edge and hang by one hand, the carbine gripped in the other. Then he'd drop and slide down the face of the wall into the pool. It would be painful, but quick. If he pulled it off, the shooter would have only seconds to snap off a shot in the darkness. Ray liked his chances.

He pushed off the ledge, but his numb fingers found no purchase on the lip of the crevice. He tumbled down the face of the projection and landed on his back in the pool. His entire kit scattered into the water, save for the Spencer he'd managed to hold clear.

Ray heard the bullet ricochet off the rock above him as he fell. Three more shots followed rapidly, bouncing off the wall behind him as the shooter fired blindly into the shadows. I think there's only one brave up there and he's a fair shot with that Henry he's using.

Ray searched on his hands and knees in the pool until he found his gun belt and saddlebags, then leaned back against the canyon wall. From the deep shadows, he watched the fighting continue no more than fifty yards away. Ray watched as the tall ranger he'd seen earlier floored a brave with a haymaker, then dropped to a knee and stood back up with a pistol in his fist. Recovered, the Apache rushed the man, but jerked back as if a train hit him when a bullet tore through the top of his chest. As the brave fell limply backwards, blood poured from the exit hole between his shoulder blades. The tall ranger spun and pistol-whipped a brave who sat atop a posse member as the Indian twisted a long blade into his opponent's shoulder. The brave collapsed in a heap.

Ray fumbled as he strapped on his gun belt, his fingers still stiff. Once in place he levered a round into the carbine, but uncocked the hammer. He didn't want to trip and have the gun accidentally fire and give him away. He watched the fight as he slipped along the canyon wall. The posse slowly gained the upper hand as the numbers went their way. Only two braves were on their feet, but they fought and slashed like cornered mountain lions.

Exiting the water, Ray launched into a sprint along the western wall of the canyon. The grove quickly blocked any view of the camp, but he could clearly see the horses hobbled together in the tree line. Ray thought to make a break for them, but as he crouched to run, the shooter on the rim fired again. The brave shot from almost directly above him. From his position, the brave could shoot over the grove and right into the camp. And he'll have a clear shot at anyone near the horses, too.

Ray waited next to the wall, fifty yards from the entrance to the western draw. Guess I'll make a break down the draw. Maybe I can find a better hiding place and wait this mess out.

Stepping carefully toward the draw, Ray heard an exchange of gunfire in front of him. He counted five shots then the firing stopped. Ray guessed that the sentry was holding off an attack from the west.

A series of three rapid shots came from the rim above. The rim shooter must be covering his partners in the camp. With the threat of the sniper preventing him from getting to the horses, and fights to his east and west boxing him in, Ray figured the only way out was the way he came in. He'd have only to contend with one sentry, but he was surely on high alert by now.

The first obstacle he'd have to deal with was crossing the open ground at the entrance to the western draw. In order to move past it and reach the cover of the slope and rocks on the other side of the opening, Ray would have to make a run for it. Desert grass provided some cover where it grew along the creek. He might drop and crawl if somebody took a shot at him, but he didn't have time to crawl the whole way across.

Ray worked his way around to where the draw entered the canyon and carefully peered around the corner. The sides of the draw sloped steeply to a path twenty yards wide, covered in gravel, shale, and broken limestone similar to the rest of the canyon. Ten feet from Ray and tucked against the slope lay a three-foot high pile of limestone slabs stacked like flapjacks. A hatless man dressed in a striped gingham shirt and a dark vest huddled behind the rocks, wheezing. Ray cocked the Spencer and shouldered it.

Another shot pinged off the top of the flapjacks and rained rock chips down on the sentry. The man tried to raise his arm, his pistol in hand, but instead flailed weakly. A brave came around the edge of the rock pile with a rifle tucked in his shoulder. As the brave swung the barrel around for the kill shot, Ray aimed and fired. The brave bounced off the rocks and rolled onto his face. The flapjacks exploded in a hail of bullets and flying rock splinters.

Ray crouched and contemplated his chances of running to the other side of the draw without being killed when the wall behind his head exploded. Small fragments of rock tore into his neck and back. Ray turned the corner and ran bent over then dived next to the wheezing sentry. The rim shooter had almost pegged him.

Ray looked at the man, slumped over in pain. He'd been shot through the lung and right shoulder. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He looked at Ray, his eyes glassy and half closed.

"There's three more of 'em out there. After the shootin' started back at camp, they charged up the hill at me. I kilt one, maybe wounded another." The man paused, struggling to catch his breath.

Ray dropped his gear. He took the sentry's hand and placed it over the wound in his chest. "Got to keep your hand there and press hard, pardner. You're losin' your air through that hole."

"Yeah." The man spit a mouthful of blood down the front of his shirt. "Watch the creek. I think they's crawlin' along it, stayin' low. You shoot that sum'bitch? He nodded at the corpse at their feet.

"Yup." Ray laid the Spencer down and pulled out his Colt. He checked the load, shook the water from it, and reholstered it.

"Much obliged, Chapin."

Ray peeked around the rock at the creek. "I know you?"

"Don't see no red hair, so you ain't that Kid feller." An odd sounding, wet cough burst from the man.

"No, I ain't." Ray opened and closed his hands, stretching the muscles, trying to get the blood flowing. Ray shot decently enough with the rifle, but he was a gunfighter, first and best. He needed the feeling back in his hands.

"Countin' that dead one there, I think there may only be two left," said the sentry. "Watch em'. They's sneaky bas-."

Ray turned back to the sentry and saw his chin slumped on his chest. The wheezing had ceased. He turned back to the creek, thinking he might try to reload the carbine when a brave stood up in the grass twenty yards away, rifle at his shoulder, and began levering shots at him with a Henry.

Ray pulled back behind the rocks as bullets ricocheted all around him. "That's a fine rifle," Ray said to the dead man, pulling his Colt free.

The brave stopped firing and Ray risked a look around the corner in time to spot another brave, five feet away and running full speed at the rock with a pistol in his hand. Ray seized his opportunity and rolled to a crouch, raised the Colt and death exploded with the pull of the trigger. The Indian's eyes widened in surprise and his arms spread open like a birds wings as he slid across the gravel.

Ray was up and running before the dead Apache rolled to a stop. Fifteen yards away, the brave at the creek stood reloading his rifle. The brave spied Ray, tossed the rifle to the side, and reached for the pistol tucked in his belt. His hand never made it as the Colt spit fire and lead and the brave caught it through his side, spinning like a top.

Ray ran up on the brave as the man struggled to lift his pistol and shot him square in his chest, blood erupting from the wound and soaking his dirty, wool shirt. Ray dropped to a crouch over the body and scanned the area for other braves. Seeing none, he bent low and ran back to the sentry's body.

Searching the sentry, Ray found plenty of forty-four caliber ammunition, but his Colt was a forty-five. He discovered a half-full canteen and took it, reluctant to loot the body of anything more. Ray looked back at the grove and horses, maybe seventy yards away. Seventy yards of open ground he could never cross in time; the rim shooter had assured Ray of that with his last shot. Ray was running out of time. He heard the rangers calling to each other, getting organized. The fight at the pool appeared over. The posse would be checking on their mounts soon.

The western draw seemed open now, and was still the fastest route out of the canyon. The path lay before him, the posse behind him, and an unknown number of Apaches still lurked in the dark. There can't be many left. Ray counted. Three guarding this draw, eight attacking the camp, and one on the rim. If they had more, wouldn't there have been more here? These three were probably meant to keep anyone from escaping, but when the shooting started early, they moved up to reinforce their partners.

The more Ray thought about it, the more he talked himself into it. The draw might be open. Only the rim shooter to contend with and anyone left behind... to watch their horses!

Ray began to think he might just get off the mountain alive.

***

The pale moon had moved directly overhead. Ray could make out the draw's ridgelines and a few large boulders scattered about. He could clearly hear the posse members calling to each other and the moans of injured men in the still canyon air.

Ray picked up his gear, slung the canteen around his neck, and headed into the western draw. A few minutes later, he turned north and began to climb up the slope. The shale shot out from under his foot and Ray slipped several times before he managed to claw his way to the top on his hands and knees.

He waited at the top, listening and looking up and down the ridgeline. To his right, the ridgeline ran eastward and merged with the canyon's rim. Both the rim shooter and the posse's scout must have come this way. To his left, the ridge fell away to the west, gradually widening until Ray could see no more in the dark. A soft breeze swirled up the slope in front of him, gently cooling the sweat on his face.

Crouching low, Ray made his way over the ridgeline then laid on his back, his feet pointing downhill. Below, he made out a wide valley, three times the width of the draw he just left. It made sense that the rim shooter approached the canyon from there. Anyone looking to climb to the canyon rim would find an easy path through the valley.

Ray worked his way down the slope using the cover of scrawny mesquite trees and the occasional stand of piñons. As he neared the base of the slope, he felt the breeze shift, blowing westerly. They'd hobble the horses downwind, not taking any chances that the posse's remuda would catch a whiff. He ducked behind a large rock outcropping to get his bearings. As he did, a sharp blow to his back sent him sprawling face first into the scrub grass.

He scrambled around the rocks, taking cover as a spreading pain seared his left shoulder. He reached up and felt the shaft of the arrow that had passed through the saddlebag and lodged superficially in his shoulder. The bag's tough cowhide and his shoulder bone had prevented a deeper penetration. He gritted as he pulled it loose and cast it aside.

Has the rim shooter switched to arrows, or was it another Apache? Is he out of ammo or just trying to be quiet? Regardless of the answer, Ray knew the shooter lurked uphill of him. He risked poking his head around the rock, looking up the valley toward the peaks. Another arrow whizzed over his head, missing by inches.

Ray peered at the direction the arrow came from and in moments located the man. He crouched in the shadow of a mesquite tree, no more than forty yards from Ray. Then, he moved to Ray's left, scampering downhill in fits and starts, sticking to the shadows. Ray reckoned he meant to flank him from the north, or get downhill of him. He might be trying to get to his horses before me. Ray felt the warm trickle of blood down his back. On the other hand, he might just want to kill me.

Ray looked for a path down the valley that might give him some cover. He noted the locations of any boulder or tree that might provide cover. Then, he moved with purpose and proceeded to work his way through rocks and scrub, always with an eye to the brave's movement. When the brave stopped, Ray would lie flat, waiting for him to move again.

Both men moved to gain an advantage on the other, but Ray soon realized the brave had outmaneuvered him by moving into a small copse of trees on the northern slope. He watched the man's darting shadow disappear into it.

The trees stood thirty yards from where Ray lay in a field of rubble behind a jutting piece of limestone with a pitted surface that resembled a honeycomb. Between the stand of trees and the honeycomb rock stretched a sloping, featureless expanse of grassland. He laid his rifle and saddlebags next to the rock and gathered himself. I bet he's crouching in the trees, lining up his next shot. He'll be near the edge somewhere.

Time worked against Ray. He couldn't afford to wait on the Apache's next move. He aimed his Colt and snapped one quick shot into the trees, then dove forward, rolling to his right as soon as he landed. An arrow gouged the dirt where he had been a half second before. Life and death often come down to half seconds for men of violence, and Ray had earned a living for years inside those tiny fragments of time.

Rolling, Ray fired three shots into the trees at the point where the arrow had come from. He heard his opponent grunt in pain. Ray sprang to his feet and sprinted forward, circling the stand opposite of where he had heard the cry. Reaching the edge of the trees, he slid to a stop, kneeling against a rough barked pine.

He waited and listened. After a minute, he stood and circled behind the trees. He walked on the balls of his feet, testing each step as he searched the shadows. The killing mood imbued him with confidence. No longer the hunted, Ray had become the hunter and this realization steadied his hand and slowed his heartbeat.

He's shot, hiding, looking for his moment. I need to move carefully... Too late, Ray saw the blow emerge from the shadows. The hardened edge of the mulberry bow snapped down on his wrist and splintered. Ray's hand flexed open in pain and his pistol fell from his grip.

Instinctively, Ray twisted backwards as an axe blade cleaved the air an inch from his chest. With his left hand, Ray snatched his Green River blade from its sheath before he stopped spinning. He readied himself on the balls of his feet, facing his attacker with the blade pointing down in his hand, tucked along his wrist. The brave emerged from the shadows and the two men faced each other in open ground, the pistol lying in the grass between them.

The brave was a slight, sinewy man whose right arm hung useless at his side, blood trickling from a hole near his shoulder. His long black hair hung in wild strings around his narrow face, obscuring all but his determined mouth and deep set eyes. Ray sensed the burning hatred in those eyes, but he also sensed the man's pain. He won't be shooting any more arrows today.

The two men studied each other, stepping side-to-side, searching for an opening in a deadly waltz. Ray had some experience with knife fighting, but he favored his right hand. With that hand too pained to grip anything, he'd have to make do with his left. Watching the Indian's confident use of the axe, Ray concluded that even with both men fighting one-handed and bleeding, the Apache had the advantage.

The brave attacked first. He lunged forward, slashing upwards and across Ray's body, intending to hook Ray's knife hand and disarm him. Ray backpedalled quickly, avoiding the slash, but too off-balance to counter. The Apache pressed his attack with a series of flowing, horizontal slashes to Ray's midsection. Dancing backwards, Ray dodged one stroke and deflected the next with the edge of his blade, the steel-on-steel impact ringing out and echoing down the valley.

Ray gave ground with each attack, feinting once when he saw the brave glance back at the pistol. If nothing else, Ray made it clear: a move to the pistol would be fatal. The brave continued to push Ray uphill, slashing and hacking with a speed Ray could not match.

Ray attacked only once, lunging and rolling his wrist inwards, aiming to slice across the Apache's forearm. Snapping his wrist downwards, the brave parried the strike with the shaft of the axe and continued to roll his wrist in a circle, pushing Ray's blade wide as the axe edge cut lightly across the top of Ray's forearm. It was a move meant to open an opponent to a killing blow from the other hand. Instead, the brave tried a short kick that struck Ray in the knee. The kicked lacked the power to topple Ray, but it gave both men time to regain their fighting stances.

The Apache continued to back Ray up the hill towards the rocky footing near the field of rubble and the honeycombed rock. The brave wanted to force Ray into a mistake, to trip or stumble on the rough ground. Then, with Ray exposed and off balance, the brave would end the bloody dance.

Ray, ravaged by the trials of the past days, had no endurance for a prolonged bout. He struggled to fill his burning lungs with air, never seeming to get enough to stem the exhaustion spreading in his limbs. His body yearned to rest, to take a knee, even if just for a minute. The brave could see his weakness and grew more confident, continuing to advance with a series of slashes that failed to draw blood, but pushed Ray closer to the rubble. When Ray saw the honeycomb rock appear in the corner of his eye, he knew his plan to give ground uphill had earned him only a short few seconds to act.

Ray howled furiously, his best imitation of a war cry, and feigned a slash at the brave's face. The brave half-stepped backwards, turned sideways, and brought his axe high to parry the attack. The blow never came. Instead, Ray threw his knife.

Startled, the brave leapt backwards and dropped into a crouch as Ray's knife handle bounced harmlessly off his shoulder and fell to the ground. Shouting in victory, the brave lunged towards Ray with his axe readied for the killing blow. He saw Ray dive away from him.

Ray tucked, landed on his shoulder, and rolled to his side, simultaneously snatching his rifle from atop his saddlebags. He swung the carbine up, finger pulling the trigger. The gun roared and spit flame. At that close range, the three hundred and fifty grain bullet ripped through the Indian's chest obliterating bone and shredding muscles and tendons. The man's cry died on his lips as his mouth froze in an expression of surprise. He dropped his axe and drew his hands to the bloody hole in his chest, struggling as if he were pinned against a rock in a raging rapid. He swayed on his toes for a moment before collapsing backwards. He died before he hit the ground.

Ray collapsed. He lay on his back heaving, staring at the points of light flickering in the night sky, marveling at how they seem to dance and swirl like fireflies. Chapin, you lucky son of a bitch.

When the stars ceased their movement and his breathing approached normal, Ray rolled to his knees and then stood. He walked to where the dead Apache lay, the body twisted grotesquely in a ball. More dead men. Mud would say they was just a bunch of savages that wouldn't think twice about killing you.

Ray rolled the body onto its back and crossed the man's arms over his chest. He placed the axe in one hand. Ray had heard that when Viking warriors died they would go to a heaven where they could do all the stuff they loved: drink, fight and poke serving girls. If they died in battle without holding their sword, they could never enter. Ray didn't know if Apaches had a heaven like the Vikings, but somehow it only seemed right to treat the body of the warrior that had almost killed him with respect.

Keep moving, you can't stop here, he told himself. Ray quickly searched the area and retrieved his pistol, found his cartridges, and reloaded each of his weapons. He drank the remaining water in his canteen, however it failed to slake the tremendous thirst that had returned. He gathered his weapons and his saddlebags, slung the empty canteen over his back, and started down the valley. The posse was sure to have heard the shot, but they had their hands full. However, any remaining Apaches were sure to come running.

His injuries were numerous and required attention. The hole in his shoulder and the cuts on his forearm throbbed painfully. He longed to stop and bind the wounds, but he forced himself on. I won't bleed out for a while yet. Can't stop now.

He made his way down to the base of the valley where it was too wide to see the ridgelines with any sense of scale. Where are those horses? North or south? He had worked his way west chasing the brave, but remembered the raiding party had come from the north over the edge of the canyon, almost on top of his hiding place. The breeze had shifted once more and was blowing from the north. They'd stash them ponies upwind, for sure so I guess I'm going north.

He scrambled over two small ridges before he nearly stumbled into a shallow hollow carved by wind and rain into a low hill at the base of the mountain. Looking down into the naturally formed paddock, he saw what he'd been searching for. A small herd of Indian ponies stood quietly in the moonlight.

Day 5

Ray circled around behind the animals to keep them from spooking. He counted fifteen horses in the herd. He realized that in his haste he had forgotten to scout for a horse guard. He paused a few feet from the nearest pony. As he kneeled, a crushing weight crashed into him from behind. Then it felt as if someone was pressing a branding iron to his side. He cried out as he stumbled forward, too weak to stand. Turning, he saw a skinny kid, no more than fourteen years old. The boy readied a bone-handled knife for a killing blow.

Ray snatched his Colt from its holster and took aim. The boy skidded to a halt, his eyes as large and bright as a pair of full, autumn moons. The Colt's seven-inch barrel pointed directly at his heart. He trembled in fear, recognizing his death was moments away, yet he refused to cower.

Ray held his fire. His injured hand was barely holding the weapon and he doubted he had enough control to pull the trigger. It mattered little; he would not shoot a child, even if that child had just stabbed him. "I realize you probably got your reasons, but I'm gonna need you to lay off tryin' to kill me for a bit," Ray said. The boy stood still, his knife pointed at the ground as his arms hung at his side.

Keeping the gun as still as he could, Ray pushed himself off the ground and tried to stand up. The pain from the stab wound caused a spasm, forcing him to bend over. The boy saw his chance and rushed in, keening his war cry and thrusting the knife at Ray's neck. Ray stepped into the blow while jerking his left arm upwards, smashing the boy's wrist and causing the knife to flip into the dirt. Off balance, the boy listed sideways, his chin jerked up in defiance. Ray snapped the butt of his Colt against the side of the kid's head. The pistol bounced free from his injured hand as the kid fell hard, moaning and rolling on the ground.

"I thought we had an understandin'." Ray retrieved his pistol and the kid's knife, grunting with the effort. He stepped over the boy as he limped over to inspect the horses. Judging by the amount of manure, Ray figured the raiding party had waited most of the day before attacking. Likely, they had settled in before everyone else, watered and hid until the posse rolled in. He wouldn't be surprised to learn the Apaches had shadowed the posse for days.

Looking closer, he saw most of the Indian ponies were unshod, their manes clipped and tails bobbed except for a chestnut gelding and a large bay mare. Solid saddle stock. Probably stolen from some poor pilgrim or homesteader in an earlier raid.

He searched quickly around the site and swore when he could find no saddles. Riding on a blanket was tough enough without having been shot, stabbed, beaten, and starved. He found water skins and bundles of dried meat and cornbread. Ray filled his saddlebags with the food and slung them over the gelding. He tied the mare's lead to the chestnut, grabbed the water skins reins and the water skins, then walked the horses away from the herd.

Ray stopped near a large rock then drank deeply from a skin as he leaned against the mare. Wiping his chin, he watched the young brave struggle to his feet. Ray raised the Colt in his left hand. "I'm only gonna says this one more time. Quit tryin' to kill me."

The kid looked first at Ray, then the pistol, and his bravado evaporated. Ray waved his barrel at one of the ponies. "Git."

The kid paused for a moment, then leapt onto the back of an Appaloosa. Guess I didn't need to say that twice. Blood staining the side of his face, the boy cried out again, spat at Ray's feet, then galloped west out of the valley.

"Yeah, I don't suppose I would have thanked me neither." Ray watched as the boy and horse disappeared into the darkness.

He sat against the large rock and inspected his wounds. He'd need to stitch his arms, but the stab and arrow wounds needed bandages and poultices. He didn't have time to hunt for a needle and thread, nor any alder bark or sassafras. He tore off his sleeves and cut them into strips. He used the strips to wrap his many deep cuts and knife wound, staunching the flow of blood.

His shoulder proved move challenging. The wound wasn't deep, but it continued to bleed. He cut the cleanest piece of a saddle blanket he could find to bandage the wound. He strapped it into place by cinching his belt over his shoulder and across his chest.

He hung two water skins across the mare, used another to fill his empty canteen, then punched holes in the rest of the skins with his knife. Using the large rock as a step and ignoring his pain as best he could, Ray climbed onto the back of the gelding. He felt unsteady without a saddle, but he was an experienced rider and could manage until he bought or stole another. Anyway, riding at night though mountains and unfamiliar terrain would force him to ride slow for a while.

Ray figured the rangers' would expect him to head south or west to Mexico. Instead, he rode out of the valley and headed north. Ray hoped to confound attempts to track him by sticking to the gravel and rocky ground in the mountain's foothills. He hoped his ruse might buy him enough time to find a place to rest up for a few hours and properly see to his wounds.

Once he got his feet underneath him, Ray would be back after The Kid. Ray had a good idea where he would go. The Kid was clever enough to get this far on his own, but he was a slave to his appetites. The Kid wouldn't head for Mexico. With all that cash and flaming red hair, the hedonistic killer would draw too much unwanted attention in a Mexican border town. He'd head to the New Mexico or Arizona territories where he could indulge in whiskey and women. There he would find plenty of boomtowns that were lawless enough that folks didn't pay much attention to dead Mexican whores. Ray decided he'd check Las Cruces first.

Ray rode through the pre-dawn hours, the pain from his wounds preventing him from dozing. By sunup, he estimated he had covered nearly fifteen miles. In the rising light he saw how the mountain and its rocky foothills had given way to low, grassy rises dotted with leafy trees. There was no trail to follow, so he blazed a path through a sea of waist-high grass that parted gently in front of him. The flattened grass in his wake would mark his presence for only a few hours before nature's resilience and a gentle wind erased his passage forever.

As he crested a hilltop, he flushed a covey of bobwhite quail from the grass in front of him. He watched their flight as they darted downhill into the wide, bowl shaped valley below him. He paused for a few minutes marvel at the view, then rode down to a ragged line of live oaks fed by a shallow creek. Not much, but it's something.

He set up what little camp he had, then watered and hobbled the horses nearby in the deep grass. Finally, he slumped against a thick oak casting a deep shade alongside the creek. A short stump sat upended next to a well-used, stone fire circle a few feet from where he rested. He wasn't the first traveler to stop there.

Ray drank deep from the canteen. He had finished one skin during the night's ride, but his body still thirsted. Ray thought whiskey would never taste as sweet as the stale water from the dirty leather bladders.

He chewed on a corn meal biscuit, contemplating his next move. He would rest up for a few hours, then scout north, hoping to pick up The Kids trail. Ray was in no condition to face him, so he would lie back once he did find him. He'd follow at a distance until he was well enough to confront or get the drop on The Kid. Meanwhile, he'd tried to find a border town in the territories where he could sell a horse, find a doctor, and spend a few days getting patched up.

Aware he was still in Apache country, but left with little choice, Ray stretched out on a horse blanket. He wrapped himself with fresh bandages from the remnants of his shirt, then laid his weapons nearby and vowed to move on after a few hours of rest. Ray stared up at the oak leaves above him as they swung hypnotically in the warm morning breeze. His exhausted body ached and pulsed with a dull pain that spread everywhere. Even his teeth hurt. He pulled his hat over his face and fell into a deep, unmoving sleep.

Day 6

Ray lay on a straw tick bed spread out on the dirt floor of a two-room cabin tucked back in the hills of Kentucky. He smelled frying bacon, the way his ma used to cook it in maple syrup. He couldn't believe he was still in bed. His pa would lay a strap across his backside if he found him lying there with breakfast cooking. Ray should have fed and milked the cows by now. He needed to get up, to get moving, but he was so tired. He felt as if someone had piled hot bricks on his chest, suffocating him. He gasped for air and tried to move his arms. Panicked, he sat up with a jolt.

A dirty, bearded figure with bulging cheeks sat on a stump across from Ray pointing a pistol. "Good mornin', sunshine," he said. He spit tobacco juice near Ray's foot. Ray reached instinctively to his side and found his holster gone.

"Now take it easy, Chapin. We don't want no gunplay afore we've et." He smiled, his teeth gapped and stained. A raised scar cut across his left cheek adding an ominous intent to his greeting. His pistol never wavered from Ray's head.

Ray felt a searing pain down his side and laid back on the blanket, looking up at the live oak towering over him. The leaves had ceased dancing and the hot air felt like a thick blanket that swaddled him like a babe. Ray looked down and saw his bare torso wrapped snug in white bandages.

Light from the false dawn filled the stand of trees where he lay. Ray rolled his head to the side and watched as an Indian wearing a cavalry jacket poked at a skillet suspended over a campfire. He noticed three empty bedrolls around the stone circle. Some distance behind the fire, Ray counted five horses drinking from the shallow creek.

Another man appeared from behind the horses and approached Ray. He was tall, broad shouldered, and long limbed. His sun-darkened skin stretched tight across a long face that seemed carved from granite. He walked with a loping stride that spoke of a lifetime in the saddle. He was the tall ranger from the canyon and he stood over Ray, thumbs hooked in his belt. "You don't die easy, do you Chapin." There was no question in his tone.

Ray's mouth felt dry as desert sand. "Who'er you?"

"Bob Short, Texas Rangers." The ranger wore a two-gun rig, tied down with both hammers looped. His bruised face and threadbare clothes were covered in dust, mud and dried blood. Ray recalled the scene at the canyon spring where the ranger had killed two braves.

Ray tried to sit up again and the stabbing pain returned. He sank back, breathing hard. "You patch me up just to hang me?"

The ranger squatted and hooked Ray with a predatory stare. "I've been chasin' Linus Naper for six months now. After the stage job, you became a two-fer."

"Who the hell is Linus Naper?" Ray said.

"He's The Alabama Kid," said Short. "Your partner."

"Hell if he is. The Kid weren't ever my partner."

Short looked away as if hadn't heard Ray.

"Chapin," said Short, "I know your reputation. A respected shootist, affable enough, and folks say you've killed men, but you ain't no backshooter. They also say you are lightnin' fast with that Colt.

"So, what I don't understand is how a gunman like you ended up pullin' a hold-up job in West Texas with The Alabama Kid. I understand how a man of your talent lands on jobs like mine guard, line rider, and ranch monitor. I even get why a man takes mercenary work killin' rustlers and workin' range wars. I did it a time or two myself. But, robbin' a payroll coach and murderin' innocent folks? Just seems a bit more criminal than your usual doin's."

Ray understood the measure of a man like Short and knew the ranger would not be easily lied to. "You sure you got time for conversation and such? I'd a thought you boys would be eager to string me up and git after The Kid. You can bet he's not sleepin' under a tree somewhere. I 'spect he'll be harder to run down."

"Ain't worryin' about Naper just now," said Short. "I'd like to hear the tale of how an upstandin' citizen such as yerself ended up roped to a murderous pistoleer like Naper."

"Don't see how my life story is anyone's business, law dog."

Short had a cold, mirthless smile. Ray had seen a similar smile on The Kid. He sensed they were opposite sides of the same coin. Neither would lose sleep over the dead. Texas was a wild country with a voracious appetite. Soft men were swallowed whole. However, if a man made himself tough enough, Texas would chew on them awhile before spitting them in the dirt. The Kid and Short were like pieces of gristle stuck in Texas' teeth – never swallowed and never spit out. They accepted life's pain without a second thought and never sought a respite from the chewing.

"I just need to drive in a few strays, so to speak. Some of the men killed these past days had families. They'll want answers." Short crouched on one knee next to Ray.

The conversation paused while the Indian passed out tin plates covered with thick slabs of bacon and cornmeal biscuits soaked in grease. He set a plate next to Chapin and returned to the fire. Short ate with his fingers, blowing on the hot strips of meat before methodically eating each piece. He wiped up the grease with the biscuit and set the plate on the dirt next to him. Ray left the food untouched, even though his belly rumbled with hunger.

Ray's run had ended and he knew it, but a knot in his chest still burned as if he'd swallowed a sulphur match. He thought vengeance would be a salve, but he'd uncovered something inside himself while crossing the desert and lying in the waterfall. He saw his life clearly with all his faults laid bare. Vengeance and pride had prodded him his whole life, pushing him towards a destiny he had never truly wanted, but accepted as inevitable.

He felt no shame in the path he had taken; his was a common tale among the hill folk and he had fared better than many. He felt little remorse; it seemed more than a little hypocritical to do so with his end so near. His journey through the badlands the past few days had stripped away the excesses of ego and left only the bone-white truth: he was a killer, and he had been good at it. As he lay there, broken and condemned, Ray understood it was his own self-deception that burned so painfully and that only the truth would quench the fire. It was his moment of reckoning and Ray could not shield his true nature from himself and decided he would not hide it from Short, either.

"Kid approached me in Kiowa Creek. Word got around I was lookin' to hire on to an outfit. After a few drinks, he told me about a job; hijack the Double S payroll coach before it reaches the ranch. I'd seen there weren't no love in those parts for that old coyote Saunders and his land grabbin' ways. I 'spect there was more'n a few folks with their eyes on that coach, but Kid had all the details. He knew where it was going and when and how many guards there would be. He had a plan and needed a couple of good hands to pull it off."

Ray glanced over and saw he had the Indian's attention. "I knew Kid's reputation, but I needed stake money. I had a notion to quit hirin' out my gun and set up my own stead. Start over. My share would have topped me off. It was a simple highway job. Kid said no killin' was needed if we did it right. Ambush 'em, scare 'em, maybe wing a guard or two. So I threw in."

"What happened at the coach?" Short traced in the dirt with a twig.

"Everythin' went fine until Saunders decided to get ornery and the guard caught a case of hero fever."

Short looked up at Ray, fixing him with his grey eyes. "He lived, you know. The guard. A clean graze to the shoulder."

"I figured he might. I hit where I aim. I only ever kilt those who dealt their own hand. And a few others any judge would agree, just needed killin'." Ray had repeated that phrase many times over the years, but now it left a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth, reminiscent of blood.

"So you took the strongbox. Witnesses say you got away with near seventeen thousand dollars."

"It was a fair piece more than the three thousand Kid thought there'd be. I guess that's what really set off the old man. Saunders started in with that mouth of his. It stirred up a hornets' nest in Kid and he started blastin' away. I saw him smile as he murdered those folks. That poor Mex gal just stuck her head out the curtain at the wrong time. Kid shot her square in the face. Then he laughed."

"You know the Mex had two little 'uns," Short said.

"No sir, I didn't."

"Married to some rich vaquero with a spread down near Lancaster. Just along for the ride, the guard told us."

"I'm mighty sorry to hear that, but it wasn't my doin'." The bitter taste in his mouth returned. "But I don't s'pose it washes no blood off my hands."

"Nope."

Ray looked hard at Short. "I know I got to pay fer my part 'cause it went sideways, real bad. After that double crossin' ginger took the money and left me without food and water at the sheep ranch, all I hoped for was to last long enough to even the score and get that money back. Before this, I had reputation for dealing fair with folks. You know, a reputation is the only thing a man has that is truly his own. I blamed The Kid for stealin' mine from me."

Ray bowed his head. "But I come to figure out a couple things. No man steals another man's reputation less'n that man gives him leave to do so. And when it comes to a killin', somebody's gotta pay the butcher's bill."

Ray met Short's stare. "I reckon both me and Kid gotta pay."

The camp remained quiet for a time and then the ranger stood, favoring his left side. It was the first sign of weakness Ray had seen in the man. Short pointed the twig at him. "I figure that was you sharpshooting the raiding party that done latched onto us. Found some spent shells in the draw, not too far from the body of a friend of mine and three dead savages. He wasn't scalped, so that tells me somethin'."

Short waved his hand at the cook. "Two Rivers there tracked you and Naper through the desert. We kept on Naper's trail after we left the waterin' hole yesterday. To tell you the truth, we didn't expect to find you. Two Rivers was bettin' you had run off with a couple ponies to the South and we figured you for Mexico. Came upon you last night, delirious and feverish. Quint there fixed you up."

Ray raised an eyebrow at the bearded man.

"He's a fine medic; good with Indian remedies and all," said Short.

"I'm obliged." Ray nodded at the bearded man.

No one spoke a word for a few moments. The other men seemed to be waiting on Short.

Part of Ray wanted to plead for his life, blame The Kid, or just beg to live long enough to even the score. However, he couldn't erase the sins in his ledger. There were two children back in Kiowa Creek whose ma would never come home. He stifled a desire to wipe his hands on his pants.

"If you don't mind," said Ray, "I'd just as soon get this hangin' out the way. Don't want to delay you boys any more than I already have." Ray was the kind of man who never liked to put off to later what was best done right away.

Short walked behind the horses then returned to the campfire with Ray's Spencer and Colt in his hands. Ray cocked his head at the ranger. Short dropped them on the ground next to Ray. "Witnesses at the coach back up your story. They say Naper did all the killin'. Some might say it don't matter. Like you said, a bill's gotta be paid."

Short turned and stared at the creek. A breeze stirred and moved him to speak. "Ain't gonna be no hangin', Chapin. I believe in redemption, but I also believe most men ain't got the strength to atone for their evil ways."

Short continued as Ray's mouth fell open. "The way I figure it, you didn't have to throw in to the fight when you did. You could have sat tight, moved on afterwards. That pack would have killed us all, no doubt in my mind. I lost three good rangers as it is and one so ripped up he might not make it back."

Ray wasn't sure he'd heard the ranger correctly. "Come again?"

"I've got to get my men home past Apaches who won't take kindly to us killin' their kin. I got a responsibility to return my men safely to their families and to explain what happened to the widows and orphans of those dead rangers."

Short squatted down close to Ray. "I also got a duty to uphold law and order in Texas, and that includes bringin' in badmen like you and your friend.

"But, I wouldn't be worryin' about any of my responsibilities right now if you hadn't stepped in when you did. So, I got a lot to do and frankly, and I'm too busy to hang you."

Ray had accepted his sins and their consequences, but Short's comments threw him like a green broke colt. He didn't know what to make of it. Is he taking me back for trial? A trial won't change anything. Any judge will sentence me to hang anyway. Best to avoid all the trouble and get it done now.

Short met Ray's stare with flinty eyes and spoke with iron in his voice. "You and me, Chapin, we're square, but if I ever hear you've stepped one foot back into Texas, there won't be no warnin's, no arrests and no hangin's. I'll burn you down where you stand."

Ray's mind whirled. He's not even taking me back. He's setting me free. Just adios, and get out of Texas. Ray wasn't sure what to think anymore, but he was nobody's fool. The two hard men nodded to each other as a silent understanding passed between them.

"Fair 'nuff," said Ray.

***

Ray ate while Short and his men broke camp and saddled their horses. Short mounted his Appaloosa, touched his hat brim at Ray, and the group cantered out of camp. Ray noticed Short had lashed the gelding to his saddle horn.

Ray watched them go until they passed from his sight behind the grass-covered hills. It dawned on him the trio rode eastward, no longer following the Kid's trail. If The Kid's trail had led them here, then why backtrack? What had he said? That he "ain't worrying about the Kid right now."

Ray tried to recall what Short had told him during the course of their conversation and realized it wasn't much. I did most of the talking. Ray had been so surprised when Short let him go he hadn't thought about much else. He just assumed the ranger would keep after The Kid.

Regardless of Short's intentions, Ray knew he needed to get moving. What Short had said about the Apaches wanting payback was true. That Apache kid might be on the warpath with his kin by now. It wouldn't pay for Ray to sit around waiting to see if they showed up. Even if Short left off pursuing The Kid, Ray still had a shot at tracking him down.

Ray stood to take stock of his situation. Every part of his body punished him for doing so. Short hadn't done him any favors, but it could have been worse. He left Ray with one horse, no saddle, and a single water skin. However, Ray did have his guns and a good supply of cartridges. After rooting through his saddlebags, Ray also found the Indian hard tack and biscuits he had put there when he fled the mountain.

It wouldn't be more than a three days ride to Las Cruces. Once Ray reached the territory, he could find a small town and rest up, maybe even find a doctor or healer before striking back out on The Kid's trail. He looked at the pony Short had left behind and hoped she could endure what lay ahead.

As he limped toward the horse, Ray noticed the mare was shoed, branded and her bridle had nose and brow bands, unlike the simple rigs used by Indians. On closer inspection, he saw she was a dun cow pony, not a mustang like he had first assumed. Ray hadn't paid much attention when he took her from the Indians; he had simply wanted to leave quickly and not fall off the horse's back. He methodically worked his way around the horse, head to rear, left to right, observing that someone had ridden her hard recently, but she appeared eager enough.

Coming full circle, he spotted thick rawhide strips tied into her mane. As he examined the strips, he saw their bloody purpose. Affixed to each hung a curled, dried flap of skin covered by matted human hair.

The raiding party had been busy; four scalps on the dun alone, but the freshest strip drew his attention. It was still soft and fly encrusted. He swatted the pests aside until he clearly saw a pinkish white patch of skin, curled black at the edges and covered with greasy tufts of bright orange hair.

Ray stepped back and looked at the horse. Although he only glimpsed the pair for a few moments before The Kid bushwhacked him, he recalled the extra mounts Jenkins had brought to the sheep ranch. Their coloring matched the two he had stolen from the Apaches.

Ray slumped against an oak, questions racing through his head faster than he could answer them. Where did the Indians attack The Kid? Had they been waiting near the spring the whole time? What happened to the money?

Ray removed the strips and tossed them in the dirt. Did Short leave these for me to find? Does he know the Kid's dead? It would explain Short's behavior: his sudden lack of interest in The Kid's whereabouts and why he headed east out of the camp.

"Son of a bitch!" Ray smacked the oak with his palm.

The ranger told Ray the witnesses reported that they had stolen seventeen thousand dollars, but the strongbox only contained fifteen thousand. Ray had emptied the box himself and put the money in his saddlebags. Saunders had been transporting the money quietly, so none of the witnesses would have known the true amount.

It totals seventeen thousand when you include my stake. Ray never told Short that The Kid had stolen his stake money or how much there had been. If Short had the money, he would have figured all seventeen belonged to Saunders.

The Apaches must have killed the Kid then took his horses and the money. Ray must have overlooked the money in the Indian camp; he never really searched around once he found the food and water. Short would have started his search there and discovered the cash. He'd probably suspect the Apaches had killed The Kid, but after chasing the outlaw for months, he'd want to make sure.

The Kid's trail led Short to the creek and his surprise in finding Ray was probably genuine. Ray's horses had been to the same creek with The Kid days before. On his escape from the mountain, Ray had let the horses have their head most of the time as long as they headed in the general direction he wanted. Once they smelled the water, they returned here.

"That's why he didn't hang me," Ray said, addressing the mare. "With both The Kid and me dead, folks would wanna know what happened to the money. But, with Ray Chapin still on the lamb, Short can claim I took the money. Maybe even tell folks I kilt The Kid to take it all fer myself.

"With his outfit all chewed up, nobody'll pester him about givin' up the chase. Like he said, he's got witnesses that put the killin's on Kid, and Short knows he's dead."

Ray wondered if Short was the kind of man to keep the money for himself or if the widows and orphans of his dead men would see any of it. Ray concluded it didn't much matter. He had to get out of Texas and get out fast. Once Short reports back, every bounty hunter and lawman from El Paso to Tucson is gonna be looking for me. Not to mention them Apaches.

Ray would head for Mexico and hole up for a while and heal. Short could have the money. Ray suspected that it would hang like an albatross around the ranger's neck. That posse was too big to keep that much money a secret. After Ray healed, he'd think about what came next. Short had talked about atonement, and Ray like the idea of it. However, with The Kid dead and the money gone, survival was his only purpose for now.

Looking to the west, Ray felt reborn. Long shadows pointed the way forward to his salvation. He swung onto the mare and straightened the blanket underneath him. It was time move on. If he stopped, he would die.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MD O'Flynn is retired from the military and when he's not knocking out Papa duties, he spends his time building stuff in his workshop, coaching, and convincing his wife that writing could be a second career. He has worked in/resided in/visited six of seven continents and has lived and travelled extensively in Latin America. He and his family live in South Carolina. Please visit his website at www.mdoflynn.com for additional author information and links to other works.

