

Second Helping

A Widow, a Man Hunter and a Battle for Rangeland

Second Helping: A Widow, a Man Hunter and a Battle for Rangeland

Copyright 2012 Arch Gallen

Smashwords Edition

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Arizona Payroll Bandits – Western Settler Saga IV

Outlaw Wars – Western Settler Saga V

Madman From Morale – Western Settler Saga VI

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Free Titles in the Adam Pike, US Marshall Series by Arch Gallen

Second Helping – A Widow, a Man Hunter and a Battle for Rangeland

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Petra – Vengeance from the Past

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### Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilog

Acknowledgements

About Gallen

Chapter 1

Nothing about this looked good. All he'd wanted from up on the ridgeline was a decent meal in trade for doing work around the four-square cabin and maybe straw in the barn for bedding when done. Now, he was hearing a woman needing help he wasn't willing to give over some trouble he had no wish to know about much less solve. Sidling up under cover of pinion pines through the wash, he'd not seen those four riders approaching and sitting on his line-back dun in shadows of the house, they'd not seen him, either.

It hadn't always been this way. Essex Dorner had been raised a helping boy by a Pa believing no higher calling came than to aid others. Across their county in western Ohio, Cambridge Dorner earned a name as the helpingest man around the only way possible, by doing for others when called on. Raising his boy alone, he'd taught such and Essex learned no other way of living at least until Lew McDermitt became judge and with his hand-picked sheriff started taking, assembling riches from hard work done by others using any means necessary. Pushing Pa, Judge McDermitt found one unwilling to be pushed and liked it none so took what he wanted by burning their home, killing Pa.

If not for a restless night, they'd have got Essex, too, but the youngster woke to strange noises outside then the smell of smoke. As flames licked under the bedroom door he'd climbed out a window wearing no more than a night shirt, jeans and his boots with rifle in hand then scooted to a hedgerow behind the house before realizing Pa was still inside. With no way back in to save his father, he saw the Judge, Sheriff Ashcroft and a couple others watch through night lit by flames until only embers were left before riding away. Sobbing, shaking from fear and rage until morning, he'd hiked to town and asked for help from those Pa assisted over the years, finding not one willing to buck the Judge or Sheriff.

No help was there for him and no way to challenge McDermitt's claims of holding a note to the property. Essex knew Pa never borrowed, buying with cash or not at all, but no one would stand behind assertions the boy made that McDermitt's signatures were faked, even those knowing well Pa's writing scared to say so. Only one piece of advice was given, to file papers in court which all knew was loco, the same man being accused of murder and fraud sitting as judge with a Sheriff already denying any cause to press charges, ruling the fire and death an accident.

Hearing the lead rider talking to the woman in tones harsher than proper, he edged his horse closer despite himself. Cocking his head, he stared off over miles of prairie, listening.

"Time to admit, Mrs. Loftin, nothing will allow you staying. Woman alone can't run no ranch and ain't none coming your way to help."

Essex frowned, her answer striking a note deep in him.

"Only reason I'm alone, Mr. Lambertson, is your men killed my Pa and husband figuring to take our land after an' I'm having none of it."

The man growled back, "Law already said no killing took place and you know it. Whatever cause your men folk had to run off is no business of mine or the law. All we're wanting is to buy up what little you got and see you off land we're needing for our herds."

"Law here means nothing, Mr. Lambertson, that Sheriff no more'n the town drunk 'til you come along an' now doing nothing but what you say." she snapped, her tone menacing, adding, "You'll buy nothing from me an' if you're wanting my land, you best plan to kill me, too."

A smile crept across Essex's face, liking much the steel in the woman's manner, then froze as the rider spoke again.

"Lady, we're taking this land, you off it or in it we're caring none. Now set that shotgun down an' get to packing lest I turn loose my men to do what they're wanting most before finishing our work."

"Another step, Mr. Lambertson, an' whoever takes this land will own your ghost with it."

Unbidden, Essex found rifle in hand as he slipped from the saddle, back against the cabin wall moving toward the corner. Planning every step to leave them in bright light while staying shadowed himself, he tried to hold back, wanting no part of this ruckus but unable to stop. That night seventeen years before goaded him, all calling themselves friends saying they wanted to help but none willing to act raging as it had every single hour of his life since. He heard Pa teaching, 'Them claiming to want but doing nothing to make it real ain't wanting, son, they're just wishing.' and knew at this moment he was not wishing, only wanting to stop these men just as none had stopped McDermitt.

Switching the Winchester to his left hand allowing the cabin to be a shield, Essex levered a shell into the chamber, the sound echoing between the men, bringing all eyes on the small part of him visible.

"Mister, talking to a lady as you are is considered poor behavior where I come from. Seems you need to apologize before turning them horses and riding out." he said quietly, his deep voice carrying well and heard clearly. Heard just as plainly were screams of Pa dying in that fire knotting his gut. Not once in seventeen years had he reached to help anyone without pay for doing so yet had thrust himself into a fight not his own for no gain at all.

He watched the men, eyes tight, without fear. Only a man with something to lose felt fear and Essex had nothing to lose. His clothes were worn and old, his saddle and gear little better, with only his rifle and six-gun showing signs of careful attention befitting a man whose work for a decade was hiring out to guard, hunt or kill other men.

"Mister" the head man answered, "I got no idea who you is but you ain't welcome at this party. You just lay down that rifle and take yourself out of our business."

Essex squeezed the trigger, his shot tearing through the man's hat sending it spinning. A snap of his wrist chambered another round as he replied, "When the lady who owns this spread says I ain't to be here, I'll go. 'Til then, only ones leaving are you boys and you'll do it right quick or some won't leave."

Recognizing hard men, Essex saw no give in them. The talking rider was older than the others by a few years, clean shaven with clothes and gear new and well maintained. Less than six foot by an inch, maybe two, he had a paunch telling of too many good meals with whiskey plenty but was well muscled, not one to take lightly. The three behind him sat shock-still, mostly lean and wiry as ranch men tended to be daggering expressions of raw hatred at him, any one likely as not to risk dying rather than riding away from his challenge.

Across the sun baked yard, the riders glared at him while the woman stood on her freshly swept porch, shotgun leveled without a quiver. Electric moments passed, any twitch enough to send hails of deadly lead flying until Lambertson leaned back.

"I'll be stepping down for my hat before leaving." he said conversationally, his fury kept hidden.

Essex raised the barrel of his gun an inch. "Get off that horse, mister, and you'll never get on one again. Buying a new hat might be the lesson you need on what price a man might have to pay for acting as you are."

Eyes widening, Lambertson's mouth worked soundlessly before he barked, "Let's go." turning his mount with a vicious snap of reins. Instantly, the others wheeled, setting their horses to a quick trot as all four rode south leaving a trail of thick dust behind.

A mile down the road, Brad Seward, Lambertson's most trusted gun, sidled close to the rancher. "Boss, I know that coyote from somewhere." he said, brow furrowed.

Lambertson slowed his horse. "Cattle drive or some town about?"

The man shook his head, staring at large white clouds scuttering across the sky. "No, back east, 'fore coming west. Can't put a saddle on it, Mr. Lambertson, but I will."

The rancher nodded. "Figure it quick, Brad. I'm wanting his brand."

Waiting while Lambertson and his men left, Essex stood ready, hoping they'd turn back so allow him reason to shoot while struggling to understand himself. Never, he'd sworn, would he throw his hand to another and had not until now for a ranch that meant nothing to him and a woman likely mean as all others he'd known. Nor would killing these men make up for what was done long ago, Pa's teaching that pasts can't be changed being right then and now. Lowering his rifle, sure the men weren't returning, he stepped out of shadow and looked at the shotgun aimed square on his chest.

"Not to be ungrateful, sir, but you're needing to explain your being here an' why you stepped in as you did." the woman said, her blue eyes cold.

Chapter 2

Bitterness choking him, he nodded. Getting cut in half for helping seemed a rightful end, seeing nothing but the black hole ready to end his equally dark life.

"Well, ma'am" Essex started, struggling for words, "how I come to be here is all about hunger, hoping to swap work needed for a meal, hunting being lean with the season so dry."

Licking his lips, he thought furiously, unwilling to tell his story knowing it sounded so much like hers to be unbelievable. Never easy with talk anyway and troubled by women folk for having little time spent around any, the added urgency of her shotgun brought sweat to his brow.

"As for stepping in, there's not much to say but that fella rankled me some, his attitude not to my liking and being raised to respect folks, well, mostly I just found myself doing without so much of any thinking." he finished, a hot breeze kicking up over dry prairie making his discomfort more acute.

A small smile crossed the woman's face as she lowered the gun a mite. "Not in me to deny any a meal" she offered, "particular one doing for me as you did. My name is Rachel Loftin. You have one?"

Essex exhaled abruptly, feeling tension flow from him while he fought to answer her question. In no way could he give his born name tied as it still was to an open charge of murder for killing the Judge's crony with a shot meant for McDermitt himself. Frowning to himself, he knew also none of a dozen used after were suitable, many of them yet posted on sheriff wanted lists in towns between here and there for reasons proper or not.

Matching Rachel's stare, he tried to smile, finding he'd mostly forgotten how to do that and said "Seeing as my being here just as Lambertson showed with his trouble was all chance, why don't you just call me Chance and leave it at that."

Mrs. Loftin gave him a dry look. "Very well, Mr. Chance." she responded, "There's graze an' water behind the barn if you've a mind to put your horse up an' a wash basin behind the house to use for yourself. I was just putting supper on when they arrived so will prepare for us while you do."

Agreeing, Essex turned, taking his horse's reins and walking the animal to the stable, reminding himself now to listen for his newest name, an old habit needing little practice for one wearing as many monikers as he had. Stripping his gear and stacking it in a corner, he took down a curry comb to brush out the dun, liking the horse most for it being the first handy to grab when the prospector he'd been paid to run off rounded up more friends than Essex could believe. After one of them downed his own, the only good option was to find the nearest and ride with no concern for whose it was.

Caring for the animal was one of few pleasures he knew, always feeling kindly toward animals of all kinds, as he looked around finding himself admiring the place for good work done in building. All he saw of the barn and house, even the small smokehouse, were constructed to last using native stone and a fair amount of timber likely cut in nearby mountains and hauled down through sheer hard work. Still, much showed need of a man's hand, loose hinges on a door catching his eye and a half-open window in the cabin's back wall setting crooked.

Releasing the horse to pasture, he set his gaze to the countryside, modestly concerned for many places in the ridgeline he'd come down where riflemen could lay in wait. To the east, flat and dry prairie stretched near to Dakota while mountain peaks reared far to the west, the land between broken crags, bunched trees and gulches offering ample cover. A ways off, he saw water reflecting afternoon sun, his eyes narrowing. Two winters of little snow followed by springs of less rain left most of Wyoming parched but this place showing water flowing west and east might explain much of Lambertson's interest.

Returning through the barn, he poked about some, finding tools well placed beginning a list of doings to swap for meals while working out how to extricate himself from this ruckus, his every intent being to do just that. Whatever poor judgment caused him to dive into the mess between Mrs. Loftin and Lambertson required reversal quick and sure as he could make happen. Crossing her yard, a dozen chickens clucking after feed scattered, he shook off a pang of wishfulness, the place seeming to match much of what he once wanted but knew could never be.

From her kitchen window, Rachel watched him, ignoring a spark deep in her as he walked with easy grace. A tall man, well over six foot, he seemed lean but she suspected was less so than appeared, his manner giving the idea of a sinewy strength hidden by clothes fitting poorly. Half a mind attending to peeled potatoes in a fry pan, the only fresh eating she had but for eggs, wild onions sliced and stirred in for flavor and a small ham remaining from her smokehouse, she pondered what nature of a man would arrive from nowhere to jump into a fight with no cause or reason.

Frowning, she brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. What kind of man, indeed, she wondered, recalling the cold, sharp eyes she'd seen from the porch. A sudden sense of unease rose, prompting her to place the carved wooden spoon down and pivot, walking quickly to her room. Sliding open a chest drawer, she withdrew her husband's belt knife, untied a leather strap holding it in place and slipped it into her apron pocket. Feeling better, the keen four inch blade comforting her against trouble with this man, she returned to the kitchen as he knocked lightly.

"No need for knocking, Mr. Chance." she called with an amused smile at unexpected politeness. Eyeing him as he entered, hat in hand, she nodded toward the small table. "Please, sit and have coffee. Supper will be ready shortly."

Placing a steaming cup in front of him, Rachel gave a short, appraising glance. Gaunt with cheeks sunken under several days of stubble with dark circles below darker eyes peering out from under shaggy brows, he looked to be a man neither eating nor sleeping well. Receiving his thanks with only a nod, she noted his careful rifle placement within easy reach as she stepped back to the cook stove and resumed stirring when a thought occurred.

"You a smoking man, Mr. Chance?" she asked over her shoulder. "If so, there's a tin here left by my husband if you'd care to."

Essex tossed her a look, taking in the worn dress and apron doing little to conceal her womanly form. "Perhaps after eating, ma'am." he responded, "For now, enjoying coffee and setting a moment is most I would ask."

Not a large place, he saw, but well kept. The dining table where he sat and kitchen were all one area joined to a main room off his right with three curtained doorways leading out. A massive stone fireplace was inset with a wooden mantle carved from some dark wood, several candlesticks setting on top showing frequent use as did a cushioned rocker nearby. Two stuffed, leather covered chairs seemed to have had little sitting and a long, slender couch under wide windows facing south showed even less. Centered with care in the room was a woven circular rug of uncertain age, wear marks suggesting more years than the cabin itself.

Wordlessly, Rachel ladled a large helping of potatoes alongside three eggs and a small piece of meat to a plate and set it before him, laying utensils alongside before dishing up a light helping of each for herself. With her meal in hand and a half-loaf of bread on a cutting board, she sat across from him, smiling dryly seeing him wait for her to sit before beginning to eat despite, she was sure, a belly long empty. Beginning to comment on his appetite, she paused, suddenly aware this man would likely take poorly any suggestion he wasn't capable of feeding himself well so clamped her mouth shut.

"Regretting the portions are less than I would like." she offered instead, "Have been unwilling to ride into town an' leave the place empty should Lambertson or his men come by. Several friends of our church we attended had been bringing provisions until recently but I'm guessing they been scared off, too, as none have in more'n a few weeks."

Nodding, face toward his plate, Essex replied, "What's done with here is most satisfying, Mrs. Loftin, and grateful for it."

A small smile crossed her face as she began to respond, deciding instead to concentrate on the meal despite having little desire. A tinge of color rose to her cheeks when he asked, "Was going to say, ma'am?" realizing his gaze never rose but still he saw.

Embarrassed, Rachel forked a bite before replying, "Was thinking, Mr. Chance, if using our first names might be acceptable an' if you favor using one."

Several large swipes at his meal passed before Essex looked up, seeming to focus on the bread. Using a slab to soak up juice from his plate, he worked furiously for an answer, her mention of church folks bringing to mind a pastor Pa had befriended years earlier.

"Deacon, ma'am." he answered through his chewing. "Reckon if you're comfortable, we can be using that name."

Sensing that was no more his than Chance had been before today, she bobbed agreeably.

"Would be if you can call me Rachel." she suggested, expecting a reply but received none so speared the last piece of meat. Raised with two brothers who never stopped chattering during meals, Rachel never got used to men, like her husband and this one, who ate without talk, but watching knew for the first time what it was to see a truly hungry man eat, how that was different than appetites born of a day's work.

Finishing her meal, she peered across. His long, thick hair, black and showing only touches of grey, would look rather nice, she decided, if washed and combed proper, blushing at knowing her own was untidy. Not much care had been given to her appearance these last few months, a fact abruptly and surprisingly regretted. Pleased to see him take a last bite, she stood with her plate and took his, offering more coffee before setting the dishes in a wash basin and taking down a tin of tobacco.

Refilling their cups, she placed the fist sized can near him. "Evening sun is fine to watch from the porch, Deacon, if you'd care to smoke there."

Waggling his head, he rose, thanking her again for supper then startling her by opening the door and holding it politely while she passed through. With a small swish of her skirt, she moved by him a tad closer than needed before sitting on a bench beneath the front window, inviting him with a wave to sit alongside. Watching curiously as deft fingers filled a paper and rolled the cigarette, she felt again longing stirring beneath her dress as he struck a match and lit it, his eyes searching the countryside ceaselessly. Wanting to speak while unable to find words suitable, she sat, loving the view that brought her some peace even in these difficult times.

Exhaling, Essex eyed the ashes, careful to flick them past the porch boards to the ground before giving in to a need for common views between them. With a side-long glance at her, he spoke quietly.

"Understand your thinking, ma'am, but a knife in your apron isn't needed. Never once have I bothered a woman in a way she's not wishing for."

Reddening, not expecting him to have noticed, Rachel fingered the weapon concealed beneath folds of cloth. Unsure how to respond, she looked out over shadows drawn darkly on the landscape.

"Recall we agreed to using first names, Deacon." she replied, deciding to keep the blade handy until knowing more while admitting to herself his way of noticing without seeming to appealed greatly.

Essex bobbed his head, irked with himself for the carelessness over names, an unrealized desire stirring to create no unneeded distance between them. After a time watching a hawk circle high above, he offered, "It's not my business, Rachel, but heard enough to have interest in what's going on here."

Leaning back, her gaze following a brown desert spider working its way up the corner post, she held a moment, fearing her words might drive him away and that they might not. Finally, choosing only the truth, she shook her head.

"We came here just over five years ago." she began, keeping her face forward, "My husband an' I grew up in the same town back in Indiana. We wished to be wed then but Pa disagreed, said Augie – my husband's name proper was August – needed to go out in the world first. He signed for duty with the Army an' served two years with cavalry fighting Indians, finding this place while doing. When discharged, he came back home telling of the opportunity for ranching. We convinced Pa to let us marry an' sold off what we had there, putting in claim papers on this land, Pa taking near the west arm of the stream an' Augie the east."

Wistfully, she looked toward the water. "Pa called it Adrienne Creek, that being Ma's name, an' as none seemed to care, it's been that since. As we proved up in time allowed under the Homestead Act, we have ownership now."

Essex nodded, leaning elbows on knees while looking only at the floorboards, schooled little in how such matters worked and tweaked by feeling he should know better. Crushing the cigarette out between his fingers, he dipped again into the plain metal canister then rolled a second, enjoying his first smoke in months.

"Was two years ago an' some that Tresh Lambertson arrived, claiming the section south of here along our stream. He seemed alright, mostly, a mite pushy an' throwing money 'round, acting big but causing no trouble. We ignored him as a rule, neither Pa nor Augie caring much for his type. Then this winter, a small earthquake shook loose a bunch of rock an' blocked the creek so Lambertson's land got no water."

He followed her hand pointing to the southeast. "Below that little rise" she explained, "stream got turned back so moves now west, crossing our land before dumping to a wash that runs away south of town. Lambertson accused Pa of causing the slide to get more water on our land, wouldn't believe we would do no such thing."

She leaned back, voice dropping low. "A couple months of hard times between us went on, his men razing our cattle an' once picking a fight with Augie in town. Finally, after some town folk got tired of the fuss, Lambertson sent a man up, asked to meet Pa an' Augie down at Red Rock to talk it out."

Puzzled, he raised a brow. "Red Rock?" he asked.

Shrugging, Rachel nodded south. "Big boulder sitting out by itself between the two claims, called for its color an' being the biggest thing around, I reckon. Told them not to go, Mr. Chance, as I trusted Lambertson none but Augie wanted an end to the trouble an' Pa, I guess, did as well. We're not folks" she added, peering at him defiantly, "for having difficulty with neighbors. Just not our way."

Meeting her gaze, discomforted by moist eyes and taut face, Essex glanced off, tension gripping every inch of him already sure how the tale would end.

"Wasn't but an hour later both horses come back empty. Pa's saddle had blood on it." she said, facing hands clasped in her lap.

He stared down, a familiar meanness taking hold, fury choking him. After a time, he cleared his throat, crushing the cigarette that now tasted less pleasant.

"You ever go looking for them?"

Rachel nodded slightly. "Once. One of his men was about, chased me back an' telling me not to come again."

Essex stood, taking a step to lean forward against the pillar, looking out toward Red Rock.

"By your leave, ma'am, I'll ride down tomorrow and see if I can find anything." he offered, all resolve for departing evaporated.

"They're likely watching, Deacon." she objected, "Aren't you fearing that?"

A chilling laugh rose then disappeared without escaping. Pivoting toward the woman, he replied, "Man with nothing to lose fears nothing." looking back south before adding, "And I'm thinking there's others here with more to fear than they know."

Chapter 3

Trotting his horse first northeast, Essex crossed the stream, amazed at good water flow despite drought across the area. Climbing a small knoll, he peered northwest, following the river with his eyes to a broken, craggy outcropping blocking his further seeing, making a mental note to track its source. He felt the hot, early sun beating through cloudless skies, tired from disturbed sleep despite being in a bed for the first time in memory. Rachel had firmly declined his offer to sleep in the stable, having an extra room suitable, so he'd surrendered to her insistent manner only to find slumber interrupted by hearing Pa's screams as their house collapsed on him fading to McDermitt's harsh laughter when riding away.

Essex woke sweating, hating still the fear which kept him from taking the shot he wanted much to take in the light of flames reaching high that night. Revulsion at shooting the man in the back caused him to miss a chance at vengeance, his line of sight from bushes where he hid perfect for the purpose. Rolling over, he laid in the dark, staring through inky blackness as thoughts of Rachel's sad eyes pricked his conscience. What had been done to him would be repeated unless Essex recanted his vow to never help, an outcome he knew himself unwilling to accept.

Rising with the sun, expecting to slip out quietly, he was surprised that Rachel rose early also and looked no more rested than he felt. Silently, they shared a simple breakfast before he confirmed with her directions to Red Rock then saddled the dun and, after checking his guns, headed out. The rifle, a Winchester repeater he'd bought from bounty paid for bringing in the murderer of a deputy sheriff in Rapid City, was the only new thing he ever recalled buying and all he felt pride of ownership toward. The Colt revolver which fit him so well had been contributed down in Abilene by a surly cowhand slower in its using than Essex was with the throwing knife belted at his waist.

Swinging to the southwest, he followed below a short ridgeline, coming on the rock fall Rachel had told of, seeing how it turned the river. Stepping from the saddle, he examined it with wonder having no doubt some black powder and a few days effort mucking out the remains could restore water flow to Lambertson's outfit. The man had certainly seen it as well causing Essex's breakfast to curdle with fresh awareness Rachel's trouble wasn't about water at all but about her claim being more desired.

Returning to the saddle, he warily worked his way south hidden by small bands of spruce rising from brown, dry earth or close around clusters of boulders piled about, spurring the horse to pass quick stretches where neither gave cover. From a distance, he saw Red Rock, an amused twitch coming to him seeing it well named for color and, as she'd promised, singularly alone amid empty prairie on every side. Nearing it, eyes ceaselessly scanning for any movement, he sought a place where two bodies could be dumped believing Lambertson likely a kind to worry less over proper burial than hiding proof of his evil.

Circling the rock, Essex spotted a shadowed low suggesting a cut and, after pulling up to watch all around, moved toward it realizing Lambertson's ranch had come to sight lower down the long slope he rode. Uneasy, not wishing to draw attention, he kept one eye on the buildings while inspecting the wash seeking a way down. Finding after a time a runoff providing safe avenue into the gulch, he gingerly descended the thin path until arriving at the bottom some ten feet below.

To his right, back toward Rachel's, the gully opened wide, flat and level for a hundred yards or more and completely empty. Edging to his left where it narrowed some, he peered over stones of varied sizes, finally dismounting and leading his horse as he clambered over and among them. A dozen likely places he checked before spying a boot heel sticking out from under sage brush, uncovering there two torn skeletons broken by animals, their fall or, most likely, by both. Observing every detail, he examined them until finding one bullet hole in each skull proving they'd had been shot from behind.

Sifting through what remained of their clothing, he pulled from under one a leather wallet near as wide as his hand. Easing it open, he saw a small sheaf of bills and other papers there so closed it again and slid it to his pocket for returning to Rachel. Finding nothing more worth salvaging, he straightened, cautiously eyeing the top ledge for any activity then set to burying their remains as best he could. Hands scraped and raw, satisfied what there was left of her men were at least covered decent, he returned to his horse, stopping after a step and looking back.

Neither man was wearing a belt gun. No one goes out in the country without a holster and pistol and Essex simply knew these men would not either. Filing that fact away, he led his mount up the stony incline quietly as possible, emerging agilely after removing his hat so eyes cleared the lip first. Scanning every direction before bringing the horse out, once both were on flat land he swung into the saddle and turned the animal west, glaring hard at Lambertson's ranch.

Seeing no movement there, Essex circled the butt end of a low broken ridge, turning north then stopped abruptly, spying a man a few feet away stretched flat intently watching Rachel's cabin. Hearing the horse snicker, the watcher rolled, leaping to his feet.

"This is Lambertson land, mister. You need to get off here!" he bellowed, eyes wide.

Essex stepped the horse forward, staring harshly.

"Take no more, I say. Head yourself out of here or I'll do it for ya'."

Flicking his eyes to the man's rifle setting on a rock near where he'd laid, Essex moved another foot closer, hand on his right thigh, waiting for what he knew would come.

Losing patience, the man dropped his hand to his pistol, Essex responding by drawing his own, a single shot centered on the man's chest echoing from the rocks. Tottering, Lambertson's man looked up disbelievingly before tumbling, sprawled over stones slowly covered by flowing blood.

Essex dismounted, tossing his reins over a scrub brush, and strode to the man. Unbuckling the holster, he slid it free before fastening the hasp, putting an arm through as he set it over his head. A quick frisk of the man's pockets revealed three empty and one with seven dollar bills, a tidy sum Essex tucked in his pants without second thought. Straightening, he glanced around, spotting the man's horse tethered to a bush close by. Releasing it, he tied the reins over the saddle confident the animal would return home when ready.

Grasping the body at the wrists, Essex dragged it a dozen feet before heaving it between a pair of larger rocks out of sight. Walking his horse onto a slab of stone, he returned, brushing out their prints with a dead pine branch knowing any looking would find the marks but none distinct enough to indicate his horse or self. Picking up the now ownerless rifle, he worked back to his horse, mounting with the gun cradled under one arm before heading north, the man behind given no further thought as he gazed over Adrienne Creek at cattle grazing on grass better than any seen in months.

Moving at a trot, he continued until finding a ridgeline rising a hundred feet above then stepped from the saddle and climbed to the top. Squatting, his eyes followed the stream north, spotting where it split from the eastern arm as they flowed from the outcropping seen before, likely fed by underground springs instead of snowmelt or rain like most. Nodding appreciatively, he saw Augie Loftin had checked well, neither arm of the river apt to run dry and surely not both at once so able to support an outfit in all but the worst years of drought.

Shifting slightly, Essex looked over the home constructed by Rachel's father. Curious, he half-walked, half-slid to his horse, steering the animal at a quick pace toward the place, slowing a dozen feet off with a spooked feeling. Built of native slab stone with a sod over wood roof, caring attention showed in every piece from windows set in thick timbers to shooting loops keenly placed through heavy shutters and high attic walls covering every approach. Empty for a half year, it felt like the old man would arrive home any second as a grey shadow passed across the stony yard letting Essex see for a moment the dim figure of her Pa playing with grandkids before a spit of breeze whirled dust across the image.

A shudder ran up his spine with beads of sweat trickling from under his hat brim. Wheeling the horse sharply, Essex spurred her to a canter, forcing the picture seen but not there from his mind by putting thoughts to the land and cattle. He knew much of both, working at two different ranches shortly after leaving home, learning most of what was required in the business at the first over a couple year span before three old-timers called him out for having a brusque attitude. Departing there a half-hour later, leaving behind a bunkhouse more tore up than useful and three men even more so with one likely never to ride again, he'd caught a riding job in Kansas that lasted another year.

What wasn't learned at the first Essex garnered on that second job, the rancher taking a liking to his willingness to work hard and listen. A daughter who took a shine to the new man spelled an end to his employment there, the rancher declaring, 'No saddle tramp drifter gonna court my girl.' tossing him from the property with only a window smashed by Essex throwing a bullet through it as a farewell gift. After that, he'd given up working for others, seeing how they prospered from his work but gave nothing back but a few dollars a month, finding better earnings offering his gun to those needing men having special talents with them.

At different times, he'd done well in that work under several names, earning a reputation few dared challenge. From Texas to Dakota, the violent times suited him, demanding only he be an excellent shot and have no conscience. Cattle wars, bounty hunting and guarding men like Lambertson against all comers suited his manner, even hiring on once down in the Territory to both sides of the same fight, a particularly easy piece of work for any he shot were proper targets paying well for hitting and, as all were outlaws anyway, finding none cared but the dead men.

Dipping off a rocky trail, he walked the horse while studying Rachel's land, knowing it was good. From the Mississippi to the Rockies, land was parched, cattle dying on prairie grass already dead while ranchers went broke. He guessed she had five hundred head while the markets were paying top dollar for ones in their condition and could carry twice that number in good years. If she moved half these or less, enough cash money would be earned to tide her over while the herd rebuilt. Pursing his lips, he peered around, tallying in his head a count of men and supply cost needed for a trail drive, his thoughts then going dark, comparing her opportunity to all his squandered or missed.

Suddenly, Essex reined in and dropped from his saddle. He was tired of riding, tired of moving. Setting heavily on a pine stump, he was just plain tired. Chasing and running, hunting and being hunted were nothing he wanted any more. Off in the distance, a trio of buzzards circled high, looking for the next dead cow or man and he knew the day was coming he'd be the one found. So far, he'd been just enough faster than others but soon one would come along he wouldn't beat whether he wanted it to be so or not.

He frowned, trying to recall back, what he had wanted before that night. He found nothing since then to mention. Women were never big in his thoughts, raised without a Ma or sister and distant from towns where any lived. Pa taught letters and numbers best he could and Essex learned well enough, he guessed, but never from a proper teacher in any classroom. Of a home or family, he'd never thought or considered until time for doing was past with all chances wasted. He had wanted nothing and knew that to be exactly what he had.

Eyes narrowing, he peered off, just able to see Rachel's house in the distance, wisps of smoke teasing glaring blue sky and knew. He wanted just one thing, to do one good deed before he died. Pa taught a man wanting would take action to achieve so he resolved to remove Lambertson as a problem for her. The ranch was well set, her home nicely made and she was young enough yet to find someone worthy. She had a chance for a good life if he did this one thing and so he would, by whatever means necessary.

Bobbing his head, he scuffed pebbles on the ground, finding also a wishing deep in him, burying it back instantly. There was no purpose to wishing for her, for this to become his home as that couldn't happen. Before it did, he'd have to tell her honest about what he was, all he'd done. He couldn't ask any woman to take him in not understanding lawmen and, maybe, bounty hunters could arrive any morning to haul him off or gun him down and he was certain she'd accept no such possibility after losing her Pa and husband to one not very much different than himself.

Essex stood, eyes fixed over Rachel's house to where Lambertson sat. He'd built with defense in mind against Indian attacks as was common, each building providing cover to others across the yard. A grim smile came over him. No good would such planning do against an enemy never imagined.

Chapter 4

Walking toward the house, he saw Rachel on the rear step, her stare held on the belt gun over his shoulder and spare rifle in his arm. Tirelessly scanning the country, Essex concerned himself with any desiring more than to just see, closing on her before meeting her gaze.

"How many men Lambertson got?" he asked.

Hot breezes fluttered her hair. "One less than before, I reckon." she replied, eyes dropping to the guns before returning. "Heard it was five plus himself."

Turning, she stepped through the door holding it until he passed by then pivoted to face him.

"Does there have to be more killing, Deacon?"

Essex moved forward, not wanting to face her. "See no other way." he answered flatly, "Unless he's willing to quit and such seems unlikely."

Hanging his hat on a peg by the front door, he sat, laying the captured guns on her table, giving a nod when she set steaming coffee in front of him.

"He was watching your place, Rachel."Essex explained, waving a hand over the weapons, "Not seeming to be in ambush but can't be sure of that. Ordered me off and when I didn't go, tried drawing against me."

She sat, her own cup cradled between two lined, dry hands. Essex noticed abstractly her long, slender fingers, realizing then she'd brushed out her hair some, letting it hang behind over her neck and shoulders.

Swallowing, he bobbed his head. "Like your hair done that way." he commented, bringing a hint of color to the woman's cheeks.

"Used to be all the time like this. Took to bunning it up a few months back. Easier to manage, I guess."

Essex nodded. Running a hand over his head, he grimaced. "Could use a long dunking in a river myself." he suggested, Rachel flashing a quick smile at the thought when her tub and hot water sat only feet away.

Shifting uncomfortably, he reached to his pocket. She wanted to ask but didn't so he brought up the wallet and set it before her.

Her eyes widened. "Pa's." she said simply, staring at it in horror. A full minute passed as Essex felt anger rising for knowing not what to say that might help. Finally, she reached out, drawing the pouch to her delicately as if it would bite. Loosening the ties, she riffed through it, withdrawing a small pile of bills and setting them on the table, several other papers being shoved back for later viewing.

Tears welling, she looked at him, her face drawn and sad. "Can get provisions now." she said almost too soft to be heard.

"I'm sorry, Rachel."Essex responded, the only words he could find, laying his hand on the table palm up and fingers out.

She ignored his gesture. With a small shake of her head, she responded, "It's best. Knew in my head but my heart wouldn't believe."

Lips pursed, Essex raised a brow. "You're needing to know, both were shot from behind. Likely ambushed."

Rachel's cheeks darkened and she looked away then back to him. Extending her fingers, she let her fingertips rest on his hand for a moment.

"I'll make supper." she said, rising and spinning away.

He watched, frustrated at being unable to ease her difficulty. Needing to do something, he took up the tobacco tin, stepping toward the door.

"If you're not minding, Rachel, I'll sit out front a minute. Have some thinking to do."

Nodding in agreement, she took down the few fixings left, starting a list of supplies needed as the door closed behind him. Slicing potatoes and onions into a pan, she tossed an extra piece of wood in the stove then wiped her hand on a towel. Walking to the door, she stopped only a moment to watch him sit, smoking, staring out over the landscape.

Stepping through, she flipped her dress while sitting, looking south as he was. "Not wishing for more killing, Deacon." she advised.

He waggled his head. "Can understand, Rachel, but you need to see if we do none, he'll kill one more time at least."

Her face jerked to him. "Meaning me, of course."

Essex nodded. "I matter none to him, betting tho' he'd much like taking me despite that. You give him real problems and can't be allowed to stay."

Leaning back, he reached out, laying his arm on the bench frame. "He ain't worried none 'bout water, Rachel. That river flow could be put right easy enough. What he's wanting is your land."

She shook her head. "He has plenty if the river is running." she argued.

"Not the point, ma'am."Essex growled. "I looked over your spread and his. What Lambertson has there" he continued, brushing an arm over the horizon, "ain't near as good as yours nor as large, you having both your Pa's and your own. Running yours and his, he's got an outfit worth having. What's he got now won't count for nothing in a few years."

Rachel sat silently, thinking, not wanting to believe but certain Deacon was right. Without reply, she stood, reentering the house. Crushing out his smoke in the dirt, Essex followed, cup in hand, sitting as she presented supper, the two eating without comment except for his giving appreciation for it.

Chapter 5

Straightening over his own meal, Brad Seward's eyes brightened, a comment from another hand snaring his memory. Shoving a half-empty plate aside, he grabbed his hat, smashing it on his head as he burst from the bunkhouse at a near run to Lambertson's house, entering without a knock.

Finding the boss at his desk, Seward sat, almost quivering, launching an explanation in answer to Tresh's inquiring look.

"Got it, Mr. Lambertson." he bubbled through a wide grin. "Took so long cuz' I was but a kid but that coyote's name is Essex Dorner from Fulton County, Ohio, like me. Ran out of there years ago after gunning down one man and trying to kill a judge. Wanted for murder there and after. Word has it he's a hired killer, a man-hunter wanted in a couple more states and three territories."

Lambertson leaned back, smiling. Lighting a cigar, he bobbed his head, exhaling blue smoke at the ceiling. Seward sat as Tresh thought, suppressing a desire to whoop at the Lambertson's expression. Finally, the rancher looked at him.

"Come morning, Brad, you ride into town. Talk to everyone, especially that fool sheriff, telling all widow Loftin is shacking up with a known killer, a wanted man. Be sure all store owners hear it but find reason to talk with everyone you see, got that?"

Seward hopped to his feet. "Got that, boss. Won't be an ear not hearing 'fore I leave."

Lambertson nodded as his hand turned to leave, stopping him with a word. "Seen Ned come in yet?" frowning when Seward shook his head. "When you see him, tell him I'm waiting to hear what he seen at the woman's place today."

After waving Brad out, Tresh spun his chair to look out the window facing Loftin's place. He'd arrived in Wyoming with enough cash thanks to wartime gains to buy sufficient land for a decent spread, adding to it what he could claim in his own name or those of men he hired. That the Army began looking close at his operation during the conflict encouraged his move but it was all planned before that piece of trouble started. In time, they'd forget him along with the arrest warrant he'd heard was issued while he was busy building an impeccable reputation here.

The West offered opportunity for those strong enough to take advantage, particularly if lacking any moral center and leaned toward ruthless in their dealings. Later, once settlers began arriving in big numbers, things would settle down but he meant to be well established by then. Frowning, he glared at Loftin's place. At least he would if she'd show some sense and leave. He'd made a mistake choosing this range, he knew now but didn't until the landslide dammed his river. Loftin picked better, land further up the water line with both arms of the stream on his property but Tresh Lambertson didn't need worry so much about that. Once she was out of his way and after a couple days clearing the rock fall, he'd control both ends of the river then spend a few dollars in Cheyenne to claim and buy all.

He drummed his fingers on the chair arm. Knowing the Army had been looking for him, he held off filing claims or buying land for several years already but felt confident their attention was elsewhere what with hostiles acting up across the Dakotas down through Texas. He was ready and had been since Loftin and the old man were removed to stake out a future of riches for little work done.

The fact was, if not for this Dorner fellow, he'd be riding now to file his papers. Whether she'd chosen to pack and go or not, Tresh expected an end yesterday. He cocked his head, waving smoke from around his head, studying long shadows forming on the country as the sun lowered. Jaw set, he pictured Dorner, rifle in hand hidden in shadows. Interfering with Tresh Lambertson, he smirked, had caused men to die before and there was nothing to say it shouldn't happen again.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Irritated, he shifted and saw Curly Bennett standing in his hall.

"Boss" the hand stammered, "Ned's horse trotted in empty a few minutes ago."

Lambertson's eye's narrowed. "Go up and find him." he ordered, "Take Frank with you."

Bennett nodded, turning away when Tresh spoke again. "Want you riding rifle ready, Curly. Any you see up there are fair game."

Curly gave the man a wolfish glance before hustling out, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Tresh stared after the man with a mix of uncertainty and anger. Ned was far from the best hand he'd known, not the most reliable in any sense, but a riderless horse meant he was hurt or dead. A cold hand clutched his gut wondering if Ned had been spotted, knowing if Dorner had done the spotting, hurt wasn't on the list of possibles.

Chapter 6

Before the sun rose, Essex stepped from his horse near where the river pooled. Taking a bar of soap from his bag, he stripped his clothes and immersed himself, vigorously scrubbing from head to toe then twice washing his hair. Ears alert for noises but hearing only proper sounds of night animals finding shelter, he slipped out and shook dry, wrinkling his nose at having no fresh clothes to don while listening close for movement of men or horses. Having no comb, he ran hands through his hair to squeeze water out then found a long pine cone, using it to at least create a sense of having brushed.

Trotting the dun quickly toward the barn, he released her to graze but left her saddled for later use then walked to the cabin, rifle cradled in his arms. Knocking lightly, he entered at Rachel's bidding with quiet morning greetings, enjoying her smile at his wet hair and knowing what he had done. Pouring coffee, he sat while she scrambled eggs, tapped out the flour sack to make thin flapjacks and diced what little meat remained into a fry pan.

"Will need a trip for supply today, Deacon" she observed, "'less we can eat rocks an' dirt."

An amused curl touched his face. "Would claim no taste for such." he admitted, eyeing her slim figure appreciatively. "Have much can be done if you're of a mind to go in."

Setting their plates out, she nodded, hair brushing her shoulders front to back. "Will have a bath myself before going."

Essex dug into his meal, surprised at not feeling hungry and curious when he last ate while less than ravenous. Between bites, he glanced across at her.

"Grateful you're not feeling a need to have that knife handy." he advised without lifting his eyes from the meal.

Rachel looked at him sharply before smiling slightly. "Was fearing it would cut into my only good apron." she advised, finding herself unexpectedly pleased at his tone and, she admitted, that he'd given her enough a look where she wore the apron to have noticed more than just the pocket.

"Have a couple logs on the hillside ready to haul down for splitting. Will do that while you ready and hitch the team for you after."Essex suggested, unaware her thinking headed down a different trail.

Bobbing her head agreeably, Rachel replaced thoughts bubbling up of what she wished to have by focusing on what little of the meal she found appealing, concerns for what needed doing remaining unsaid. Finishing, he gathered plates and left them in the wash basin before refilling their coffee. Sitting, he saw a concerned look on her face. Raising a brow, he met her gaze directly.

"Not knowing what he'll do if finding me on the road alone." she confessed, shifting her gaze south through the window.

Essex pursed his lips. "Can't say what he'll do, either. If I go with you, he's likely to find the place untended so we'd return to a pile of cinders."

Rachel looked at him, eyes flashing. "I'll carry my shotgun. If any of his come up, won't be asking questions first."

Draining his cup, Essex stood. "Keep eyes along brush and ridges. His kind is more likely to shoot from ambush than meet you open. See anything" he instructed, "you set them horses to full gallop in a snap and get to town. Those folks may be scared of him but won't cotton having a decent woman killed right out in front of them."

She smiled wanly, moving to drop their mugs in the basin and prepare her bath as Essex gave a backward glance while putting on his hat. Stepping through the door, carrying his rifle and scanning the yard, he sauntered back to the barn. Chains tied to her draft team, he led them toward hills to the north where several deadfalls lay, hating the edgy twinge on his nerves. Some over an hour later, two logs in tow, he rode back in, halted the horses and dismounted. Turning behind them, he bent to release the timber as a glint of reflected sun to the west came to him.

Dropping instantly, Essex felt a bullet whip by before hearing the shot, two more ringing behind striking to either side of him. Jumping up, he ran low, zigzagging to the nearest cover, a pair of boulders between the cabin and gunmen. Diving, he rolled, bringing his rifle to bear on where the shots came.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Poking over the rocks, he could see their positions boxed him. A quick glance around told him no direction would be safe for him to take, the riflemen having clean lines on each. Inching over hard dirt, he saw one rise, then heard a rifle bellow from behind, the man standing erect for moment before toppling forward, his weapon clattering off stones beneath.

Looking around, Essex saw the barrel of Rachel's Sharps in her kitchen window, two shots from above sending splinters around her. Hopping right, he scanned the hillside, waiting. A second shot from Rachel thudded above, bringing the bushwhackers up to respond, forgetting Essex long enough for him to level his gun on one and trigger a shot, opening a third eye over two nature gave. Spiraling, the gun hand plunged into scrub brush below.

Silence set over the scene a minute before Rachel called out. "He's moving out, Deacon."

Shifting to a knee, Essex raised to see the back of the last man slip between trees heading away.

"Going up!"he barked, dashing between shelters until reaching the first row of pines. Worming his way up the slope, he reached the bodies without challenge then followed tracks of the remaining man to where their horses had been tethered. To the south, a thin trail of dust described a fast moving rider heading toward Lambertson's, Essex snarling in disgust at one abandoning his partners and quitting on a job.

Collecting the two horses left behind, he walked them to the bodies gathering rifles and holsters then checked their pockets, pleased to gain nine dollars carried between them. Eyes moving relentlessly, he picked a path down to the barn where he stripped the animals of their gear and turned them out to pasture. A quick examination of their bags gained nothing but a sizable number of rifle shells which he tossed in a small sack retrieved from a corner.

Seeing Rachel on guard through a window, he ran from the barn, juggling the captured weapons and bag, skidding to a stop past the door she opened for him then closed prompt as he passed. Pale and breathing heavily, she stared at him, eyes wide. "Meant to take us both or so I reckon." she exhaled.

Laying a rifle and pistol each under two windows, Essex nodded. Turning back to her, he set a hand to his forehead, squeezing a mite as he stared.

"Reckon so." he answered simply as she moved close to him, hands held out. Placing his large fingers under her slender ones, he felt warm surges rising at noticing her freshly washed face and hair damp, half brushed out.

Essex wanted most for words expressing what was in him but found none, irked at settling for, "Was a good shot. Likely saved my life."

She gazed up at him, her face saddened. "Augie insisted I hunt with him. That man was bigger an' closer than most game I've shot." she murmured, then added, her eyes dancing, "Feels good to be even, tho'."

Puzzled, he tilted his head as Rachel pressed her lips to a small smirk. "Yesterday, you saved me, Deacon, so we're even."

Withdrawing her hands, she sidled to a window, holding white, home-made curtains aside while peeking out. "Even if he can't ambush us, he'll starve us out." she observed, "Town not seeming a good idea now."

Essex walked to the stove, pouring coffee for both and setting cups on the table. Sitting, he replied, "No better time than now."

Cocking her head at him, she hesitated then sat, sipping the beverage as he continued, staring away. "He had five men, has only two and himself left. One's riding in about now and I'm believing he'd have held one back being unsure what I might try. That leaves none to watch the road with no reason he'd have to expect you to leave anyway."

Thinking it through, Rachel took a swallow and nodded. Surprising her with a bright look, Essex added, "Finish brushing out your hair and getting ready. I'll bring the team up and busy myself with some doings while you're gone."

Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the bills taken off the gunmen. Shoving them across to her, he said, "Come from those two above. Add it to what you've got for supplies."

She smiled at him warmly. Pushing the money back, she countered, "Keep it in case of need."

Dubiously, Essex tossed her a look then pocketed the cash, drained his cup and stood. "Will have the wagon up front in a bit."

Moving across the barren yard smartly, Essex spun inside the barn, gazing out from alongside the door. None of his words said what he believed, his wishing to have Rachel gone drawn from being certain Lambertson would return with his two men immediately and try to finish what was started. No man could launch an ambush and be regarded well for it in any western town much less one against a decent woman, a widow at that. Lambertson would need to finish the fight promptly before word was spread of this morning's attack and Essex wanted her out of harm's way.

Pulling the rig up, he waggled his head approvingly. Rachel held her shotgun as promised but also a rifle which she stowed under the bench.

"I see anyone, I can drop down an' be ready to answer." she explained flatly before letting him aid her stepping to the seat.

"See anyone" he objected, "forget about answering and remember to run them horses fast as they can."

Wheeling the wagon away with a snort, Rachel headed off as Essex watched in admiration. That she'd be willing to answer fire with fire he had no doubt hoping as he stared at her back nothing of the sort would be needed. Turning to the house, he slipped in, checking first rifles taken earlier and satisfied at their condition, reloaded them and his own while picturing every spot around the cabin he meant to work. Imagining gunmen in various places, he considered choices for his own cover deciding finally to think less and do more.

Exiting through the kitchen, he knew chopping firewood was no option. Two hands on an ax made for a slow grab at a gun while the physical work itself would cover sounds of anyone approaching. Instead, he ambled toward the barn deliberately creating a target should anybody want one and set to repairing hinges, reworking harnesses and other tasks needed doing. After a bit, he secured Augie's hammer and some nails, walking back to the cabin primed for shots, before attending to several loose boards on the porch.

Increasingly, he began to think Lambertson wouldn't return, the time needed for his man to ride in and them to get back having passed. With hands busy on routine fixings, his mind rolled across every detail he'd seen of the man's ranch trying to settle on a approach giving an edge when he took the fight to them. Long years of survival had taught him to take action, to be on the offensive, when battle was due. Lambertson's men missed once and no part of Essex was willing to gamble on them doing so again, particularly now that Rachel seemed less distant.

Shaking her from his thoughts, he focused on Lambertson while moving off the porch to study her bedroom window jammed open. Wriggling at it, he found it stuck tightly, poking up under the wood with his knife until it released then shoving it up completely. Propping it there, he ran calloused fingers down each track until a sharp pain jabbed his hand where a thick sliver protruded enough to cause the problem. Whittling it down, he tested the window several times until sure it would slide easily then set a stick in place to keep it open so air could pass through.

Straightening, he tried not to look but couldn't stop his eyes. The few women he'd known were barmaids or dance hall girls entertaining in his hotel room and a few paid for services in camps where he stayed for a time. What a real woman's bedroom would be like he had no idea, so gazed despite himself at her large, four-poster bed he figured had been shipped from back east and a chest of drawers next to a curtained opening leading to her main room. Several personal items, none obvious in purpose, sat on top while a robe hung next to it.

He reddened some, embarrassed at seeing her night dress, abruptly pivoting away and striding purposefully to the barn. He shoved aside all thought of Rachel's room and of her, knowing he could ask nothing of the future but felt a twinge despite that. His eyes widened a mite, identifying the feeling as hope, a tiny kindling flaring up lighting emptiness deep within that wouldn't let go before he frowned at the ground. Did any real reason exist for hope, he wondered, after years of none and every expectation of his future being the same?

Spotting movement in the sky, he stared. A red-tailed hawk swooped low chasing some morsel on the ground. The hunter and the hunted, Essex thought, like himself. A hunter after prey little seen, he was also the hunted, dogged by dreams and images of flames, gunfire and death working to capture his eternal soul and consume it with a sudden, intense desire not to let that be his end. What she wanted, he would deliver. All he could do to change a future of seemingly hopeless dark to one of bright hope he would do then accept what came from his effort was not his own to decide. He would try; he could do no more.

Moving toward the stable, a little more bounce in his step than customary, Essex eyed Rachel's small smokehouse, a chink between two logs evident. Veering over, he kneeled, spotting several more that could be fixed so began working his way around, filling gaps as he found them while frequently glancing to the tree line and rock falls where Lambertson's men could be concealed. More energy went into and more pleasure came from his effort than usual as he checked each side, finishing on the roof by cutting tufts of sod from pasture to cover holes there.

Examining his work after, he saw it with satisfaction for being well done and complete just as Rachel drove her wagon team quickly around the cabin, pulling up sharply at the rear door and jumping down. Essex pursed his lips, her manner seeming aggravated, snatching up his rifle and striding quickly toward the house where she disappeared. Lambertson, he guessed, had made a play on the road or had done some other to set her off and overwhelming relief rose in him that she looked unharmed.

Entering through the back, a curious glance at supplies left unloaded, Essex moved through the kitchen, spying Rachel at the table, alarmed at obvious rage showed by cheeks beet red, nostrils flared and eyes sharp. She was clutching the chair seat so hard her knuckles were white.

"Need to sit, Mister" she commanded, pointing, "an' make some explanation."

Haltingly, he slipped past her to a chair, easing into it while setting his hat aside. A trickle of cold sweat chilled his spine as he avoided her gaze drilling through him. On the table, his hands were clasped tightly, calloused fingers fidgeting as she sat.

"Man of Lambertson's was in town, telling all you're a killer. Bounty hunter, hired gun. Wanted by the law in three territories. All there are believing you're wanted for murder back east. Is it true?"

Eyes clenched, Essex felt his forehead getting damp. Without looking, he mumbled, "Most is." then fell silent. Rachel glared wordlessly, waiting, Essex knowing she'd say nothing until he finished.

"Had some time ranching" he described lamely, gut wrenching while he fought against choking. "For the rest, had my hand in cattle wars, guarding men and hunting bounty." he admitted.

"An' murder?" she demanded in a voice unnaturally low.

Eyes scarcely open fixed on the table before him, he gave a slight nod. "Had cause." he replied, "Said nothing of it before expecting not to be believed."

Her face darkened and brows canted. Temper flashing, she answered, "Believed or not, mister, best you tell of it now."

Essex glanced up, the flicker of hope felt prior becoming a destructive, blazing inferno engulfing him. Working his jaw, he shook his head. "So much like what's happening here, was fearing you'd think I was making up to win favor." he softly explained before telling of McDermitt, the fire and Pa's murder. Finishing with his shooting at the Judge killing another, he met her gaze directly. "First and last shot ever I missed, Rachel, and will admit honest it's one I regret most."

Seeing no change in her expression, he dropped his eyes feeling empty loneliness fill him then a tide of self-loathing. How was it he could have considered anything might go right, to turn out well after all he'd done and lived?

"As for being wanted otherwise, mostly that's just being on losing sides of different fights." he explained, "Winners naming sheriffs friendly wishing to arrest any opposed. Did nothing others weren't doing and nothing to bring shame."

Through foggy thinking, Essex heard her ask, "Where'd this happen? The murder, I mean."

Closing his eyes, seeing flames roaring from Pa's window, he hesitated. "Fulton County, Ohio."

Rachel exhaled heavily. "That's where he said." she acknowledged, sensing honesty in his story, her relief for it palpable.

Shoving back his chair while grabbing his hat and with face averted, Essex stood, stepping away saying, "Will be going now ma'am. Understand you not wanting the likes of me around."

Mean hatred took him. Glancing south through the door toward Lambertson's with deepening resolve to find the second man destroying his life while anger rose against himself for living a past sure to ruin any future. Only a step later, he froze, Rachel snapping, "Sit down!" his shoulders hunching at her tone as if knifed before hearing her words.

Twisting his head, Essex looked at her with one eye over his shoulder.

"Deacon, sit down!" she repeated, slapping the table.

Shuffling, Essex dropped his hat, resuming his seat uncomprehendingly. With alarm replaced by confusion, he heard her say quietly, "I'm not mad at you, Deacon." then saw a quick, wry smile, "Well, maybe a bit, letting me go in unknowing so caught surprised by them."

With a shake of his head, he asked, "Them?"

Face darkening again, Rachel's eyes flared. "Them in town" she barked loudly, waving an arm, "calling themselves friends fretting over who I hire as foreman an' concerned none about him that killed my husband an' father then shot at us!"

Unbelieving, Essex looked at her, his face blank. "Foreman?" he said.

Exasperated, Rachel smacked the table again. "Had to say something, Deacon! Them hearing all manner of his stories, so I put it out I hired you on an' we were going to finish Lambertson whether they helped any or not. Even put it in that idiot Sheriff's face."

"What'd he say?"Essex asked, amusement rising at her ire directed against that one.

"He burbled." she laughed, covering her mouth, cheeks colored with embarrassment not anger.

Essex resumed being confused. "Burbled?"

"What happens whenever a man talks face down in a horse trough." she advised, "Is where he landed after I slapped him for telling me Lambertson's murdering was outside town so not his business but saying then our holding those gunmen's horses would bring him out to make an arrest."

"You slapped him?"

"Knocked him over the rail of the store into the water." she answered proudly, a slight frown coming as she added, "Course being he was half drunk already an' not much past noon, it wasn't so much to do."

Propping against the chair, Essex felt nerves twanging as hope resurfaced. "You're not ordering me off then for what I've done and been?"

Surprised, Rachel gave him a wide-eyed look. "Certainly not." she declared, her voice rising, "I care little for any of that, Deacon. Cattle wars an' gun play being so common that any claiming not to be involved are likely lying. As for that back in Ohio..."She paused, pursing her lips, "Seems any not acting after seeing what you did would be not much of a man."

Leaning in, she set her hands palm down on the rough surface. "I don't care what name you may have been born to or used since. Your name now is Deacon Chance an' all mattering to me is what you do an' say here, the rest is gone an' can't be changed."

Standing, Rachel gave a bright look. "An' what needs doing first is getting supplies in so we can eat decent for the first time since you arrived."

Essex smiled, thinking his face might break. "Yes, ma'am." he agreed.

Chapter 7

On the porch, Deacon smoking while Rachel sipped coffee, the two looked out over her range, both pairs of eyes peering toward Lambertson's ranch. The degree of satisfaction he had from the meal they shared astonished him, a fact he remarked on noting in particular the fluffy biscuits.

"Biscuits make everything better." he'd commented in a rare moment between bites, "And not much else could make these eatings any better."

Rachel smiled, her cheeks warm. "Most things a woman is meant to do, I do well." she replied sassily, disappointed at his apparent lack of understanding despite noticing a faint blush on his face.

Sitting within a hand's reach, she wanted nothing more than to take his and hold it but knew his mind was on Lambertson. Drinking her coffee, she glanced at him, inquiring softly, "You have a plan?"

Chance leaned forward on his knees, flicking ashes past the porch to the dirt. "Some of one." he acknowledged, "Not flushed out quite yet."

The setting sun drew arcs of pink and purple against thin, high clouds over distant peaks. She breathed in deeply, loving the view and country, wishing another way could be found.

"Would like there was some law around we could go to."Deacon commented as if reading her thoughts, surprising himself at such a notion occurring.

Rachel bobbed her head. "Wrote the US Marshall down in Denver." she told him, "Almost six months ago but heard nothing."

He leaned back, giving her a side-long glance as warm night breezes toyed with her hair."Much territory they've to cover and few doing it."

She nodded sadly. "Will be a day we'll have law handy." she offered wistfully. "Not in time for us, I'm fearing."

Deacon felt her want for order and peace, disturbed none at sharing it. The west had been run by those with the fastest guns and hardest fists too long already and would be for some time yet. Days of law and peace was years off or decades, he believed, understanding fully that it was the few men like himself who could make it safe for others and decided in an instant to do that.

"Will go down there at first light." he advised, "Much can be done before they're expecting me if handled right."

Rachel tossed a puzzled look, liking the smirk he returned, his rugged face made softer, more attractive, by the laughing done over dinner and since.

Raising a brow to her, he waved his cup over the baked ground. "Always things a man does first when rising" he explained with modesty, "making it harder to draw a gun or shoot well."

She giggled at his way, face suddenly warm at images drawn, when he continued, "There's three to deal with so culling the herd by one betters my count."

Frowning, Rachel stood. "You're not afraid?" she asked gently.

Rising, standing close, Deacon admitted some fear. "Man with nothing to lose has no fear. Was like that most my years."Turning, he accepted her fingers taking his, entwining them. "Believe I have some to lose now."

She gripped his hand tightly, a funny grin on her face. Peering at him closely through deepening shadows, she set her free hand on his chest. "Then we should miss none more than has been already." she suggested, lifting to her toes to plant a light kiss on his lips.

Chance stammered a bit as she lowered. "Am not so much knowing, Rachel." he started, halting when she set a finger over his mouth.

"What you're not knowing, Deacon, I'm teaching." she answered, stepping past him toward the door, leading him by the hand. "An' seems no better time to start lessons, is there?"

Following, Chance waggled his head, no words suitable arriving to him as she guided them past the long curtain covering her bedroom where she turned back to him, hands on his chest, leaning in. Head tilted, the half-foot difference in height no challenge to Rachel's determination, she met his lips, pressing firmly while caressing below his curled hair. Unbuckling his holster, Deacon pulled away only long enough to connect the hasp and set the gun over a bed post, eagerly returning her embrace after.

Fingers working at loosening buttons of his shirt, Rachel felt her legs trembling, the unsatisfied ache of her body increasing in urgency. Letting her tongue tease his, she forced her pelvis tight against him then slid a hand down his torso, taking his from where he held firmly below her waist and brought it up behind her neck over the button there. Pulling his head back, Chance peered at her, seeing the hot demanding flash of her blue eyes as she nodded, a mischievous smile lighting her face. Returning to his shirt, the woman opened it to his waist, tickling his exposed chest while he smoothly freed her dress.

Caressing his muscled waist, Rachel slid eager fingers around, untucking his shirt then ran firm hands up to his shoulders, brushing back the garment when Chance dropped his arms letting it fall away. Drawing him close, heat building from expectation, she kissed him again, leading his hands down her neck and under the dress and slip she wore beneath, excitedly attacking the clasp of his pants while he hesitatingly brought her clothing down. She paused her effort only so long as needed to shake the dress from her arms, instantly returning quivering fingers to his waist and pushing his remaining covering over muscled thighs, attaching them back to what she wanted most to hold.

Stepping out of clothes piled over their feet, the couple moved as one to the bed, Rachel sitting first while taking his hands then firmly bringing him next to her. Unsteadily, she closed her eyes, neck stretching back as he brushed through her hair. Lying alongside, kissing her deeply, his calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle while stroking her naked breasts, stomach and below. Swinging her legs to the bed, Rachel raised one knee, inviting further explorations, responding to his forceful kiss with a probing tongue as spasms shook her from toe to head until she could wait no longer, sliding under his lean, tall frame and grasping his back as he joined with her in shared, heart-pounding ecstasy. Gripping tightly, they energetically coupled, waves of joy crashing through Rachel as Deacon proved his strength and stamina, driving his own desire to meet hers as they arrived together in a moment of bliss neither had dared to dream possible.

Heart pounding, holding her head in the hollow of his neck, Chance leaned close, nibbling on her ear as she wrapped her legs between his, sweat pouring over them both. Quietly, he whispered, "Would have it last longer if I could." astonished when she cocked her head, dancing eyes barely visible in the fading light.

"Will next time" she promised, giggling through radiating intensity, "with that soon enough."

Embracing her, passionate kisses given him with increasing desire, Deacon toyed over every inch in his reach, liking her quaking responses as he touched and tickled until she rose to an elbow then put a commanding hand on his chest. Laying him back, Rachel flicked a knowing, leering smile then began with a lick on his chin, continuing motions over his neck and chest, fingers active ahead of her tongue. Sweaty brow knitted, he never considered a decent woman would do as a barmaid might with her mouth before his hips began involuntary shuddering at the pleasure she brought.

Only minutes passed until Rachel could wait no more, tremors between her legs demanding she spread herself over him, lowering deliberately, taking in every inch of exquisite delight. Guiding a pillow from under his head, she raised him in a manner most suitable to satisfy her wants and folded it under. Fingers interlaced, they balanced in an increasingly frenetic dance of fire, his legs churning rhythmically with her pulsing form, the two blending as one.

Gasping, Rachel dropped forward, still for a moment, her soaked hair draped over those on his chest. Leaning forward, she lifted her waist then rested on both knees, eyes close to his. Voice rasping, long, sharp nails slicing down his side in a delicious gesture, she cooed, "Every woman wants a stallion, Deacon. I'm wanting you to be mine." turning herself suitably so he could give what her body required.

A second of confusion replaced by understanding, Chance slipped to his knees, propping himself to one side until properly placed then determinedly coupling, cupping each breast in his large hands and massaging both inside and out to her loud, uncontrolled gasps and squeals. Alternating force with small, electrifying squirms, he answered her every move with stimulating response, inciting madness in the woman's mind matched by enthusiastic agitation from her body until both, spent and exhausted, fell to a tangled heap of legs, arms and hair, laughter mixed with desperate panting for air.

Slowly their hearts returned to normal pounding, small shivery kisses mixed with hugging and much playing of fingers and tongues over wet, perspiring skin. Holding him, never wishing to move from this spot, Rachel looked through the dark, able to see nothing as she stroked his face, chest and arms, in this moment more pleased and grateful than had been for a long while. Unable to think except of her weak legs, trembling hands and rewarding feelings he gave, she realized happily her eyes were drooping and he, also, was dozing. Permitting nature its course, she accepted sleep without objection, satisfied.

Waking with Rachel nestled closely over his arm, her damp, tousled hair draped on him, Deacon tried to ease out without waking her, already alert to what had been planned for the day but found her suddenly aware, stretching over him as she kissed him deeply. His soft reminder of their intent for him to leave early was slapped down by Rachel's comment, "That man's taken enough from me, he's not taking this morning, too!" a response working greatly in favor of his natural desires to satisfy her wants and his as well.

Eventually, the morning well along, they rose, Rachel donning only her night robe while Deacon dressed, his mind already turning to duties laying before him. Silent except for spontaneous outbursts of titters and giggles from her met by reddened cheeks and embarrassed chuckles from him, they shared a pleasing breakfast, the oppressive heat of mid-morning less bothersome to either than was true just a day before. Finally, reluctantly, Deacon rose, meeting her worried gaze with calm.

"Will be back before nightfall." he offered with assurance. "All will be over then."

Frowning, her flushed face tight, Rachel gave him a hard look. "Better be back, Deacon Chance." she ordered, "As if you let him kill you now, I'll hunt you down an' do it again."

With an astonishing hearty laugh, he kissed her forehead then strode out, saddling his horse while thinking through what little plan he had. Mounting, he left the Loftin range headed southeast, a long low wash he'd spotted near Red Rock seeming to curl back toward Lambertson's place a likely approach. Focused harshly on the man he hunted, a grim expression etched itself across his lean face as he rode understanding at last what it was to have purpose.

Chapter 8

Astride a big, handsome black horse, the rider entered town from the west as Deacon circled Lambertson's spread. Sitting high, he walked the horse quietly, surveying storefronts no different than hundreds he'd seen spring up across the west, first a saloon arriving followed shortly by a general store then a blacksmith with livery. It was said, and he believed, more towns were started by a wagon load of whiskey stopping by a river and selling off the gate than for any other reason, this one looking to be of that sort. Behind always came some nature of café where men poorly skilled at cooking could find a friendly female face serving eggs, game meat and pancakes with coffee no different than the one he saw just ahead and looked forward to attending.

Eyes covering each building in turn missed nothing even while seeming not to move, the smithy perched on an overturned keg watching warily. Strangers were common but this one, he saw, was less so if only for twin pistols in tied-down holsters rare to see complimented by a new repeating Winchester rifle in one scabbard paired with a shotgun in the other. Returning the man's wave, the blacksmith was surprised seeing a face younger than expected, likely less than twenty five and closer to twenty, framed by long, curling brown hair reaching his shoulders. Beneath, the riders chest, arms and shoulders bulged befitting one raised in Michigan farm country where cutting firewood, hauling rocks and handling plows were everyday activities from youth.

Adam Pike knew precisely what the smith saw while giving no thought to it or to what was not seen. Under his finely tanned brown vest cut deliberately long in the back, a six inch Arkansas toothpick lay snug in its holder fastened to his belt, the tie easily loosened by practiced fingers for occasions when a knife was needed in a hurry. His left inner pocket contained an over-under derringer seized from one of the murderous Barstow gang after he captured those five outlaws while in a matching pocket on the right was pinned his badge reading "United States Marshall".

Walking the horse, Adam considered if any in this town knew him before deciding it unlikely. In most of Wyoming, Idaho or northern Colorado, at least one would but this place he'd not had call to visit so might be unknown. The people here, however, weren't unknown to him. Just as the buildings looked familiar, stories of each settler were as well, having heard thousands of men and women tell how they arrived in the west and why. Details varied some but rarely anymore did Pike hear one explain moving west for reasons or in ways that surprised him. Opportunity drove most, the law a few, with all sharing exceptional levels of will and acceptance of risk required to join the first wave ahead of a flood to follow.

Pike had been one of the first true settlers coming west, dispatched by his family long before the Civil War ended to find and claim land with good graze and water suitable for the kin. Their Pa saw clear the end of that conflict would bring lower prices for his land and crops as the South began to rebuild and figured rightly Western lands would be cheap until displaced families and soldiers freed from uniform began to move. The youngest of three brothers and a sister, Adam diligently pursued his duty, scouring land from southern Minnesota through Nebraska and New Mexico before turning north to Denver and Colorado where a small range he named Checkmark Mountains won his heart and became their home.

That he'd been named the youngest US Marshall in history was no mere chance, either. Grace and good timing aiding strenuous work to bring favorable results, Adam's recommendation to President Johnson for appointment as Marshall came from a newly seated Territorial Governor pledged to bring law and order to the north of Colorado.* Unsuccessful finding any sane man willing to accept a challenge so daunting or one crazy enough to get it done, Governor Cummings surrendered to his good friend and supporter, Denver City's longtime US Marshall Jediah Hanks, selecting Pike despite misgivings older men always have about those younger.

* Outlaw Wars, Western Settler Saga Book V

Hanks knew that his own office in Denver and handful of deputies were unable to keep a lid on southern Colorado Territory let alone tackle the north and all of Wyoming Territory as assigned. Intense in his desire for order, he saw Adam as one able to bring it, having watched the youngster take bounty for the Barstows then spend eighteen months wresting control of his adopted land from outlaws who claimed the nearby town of Morale as their own. That Pike had success didn't surprise the lawman even if the degree of it and explosive manner he employed sometimes did.

Although retired as Marshall, his work winning widespread admiration despite controversy over methods, Pike continued to be held to his oath of office by Washington officials caring more for keeping peace in the region than Adam's desire to attend a thriving ranch and other businesses. Asked by Emsley Eckert, his successor and first hire as Deputy, to persuade if possible the newest Territorial Governor of Wyoming to not move their office to Cheyenne and pleased to win a year reprieve to keep the Marshall in Morale where it meant jobs for his neighbors, Adam considered the second task given him.

That Marshall Eckert wanted, as a favor, for Pike to stir around this town and decide if the law had needful doings was a request he never imagined declining. Shifting, his saddle creaking, Adam chose a course from among several available him, nudging Black ahead to the general store, dismounting with an agile, quick step. Limber as any mountain lion and jackrabbit light on his feet, Pike took the two steps as one while barely seeming to move at all, entering through a doorway propped open. With sweeping eyes, he found as expected, two men drinking coffee facing out a side window turned some to look him over then exchanging concerned glances before resuming their desultory conversation.

Sliding between shelves, Adam picked up several odds and ends useful if not needed, knowing storekeepers like to talk but more so when purchases were being made. Giving the men time to forget him, Pike idled over a handsomely made saddle, listening. In short order, he heard Rachel Loftin's name mentioned and Lambertson's as well, pleased to know whatever small troubles existed still waited to be solved. Stepping to the counter, he laid the goods down as a thickly built older man neared, the lack of hair on his glistening forehead adequately compensated for by a walrus moustache blossoming over his lower face.

"Be all?" the man inquired, his voice strong and deep.

Pike nodded, fishing money from his pocket before saying, "Nice quiet little town you got here."

The merchant harrumphed loudly, air exploding sufficient to billow his moustache. "Would be!" he declared, "Least, if that widow Loftin would see what's right and stop all the troubles she be causin'."

Adam raised his brow and grinned widely, remembering vividly his first encounter with a widow back in Lincoln with great favor.*

*Sand Hills Sioux, Western Settler Saga Book I

"Don't know many widows causing such trouble." he responded.

"This one is!"the man objected, "Nothing but since her Pa dynamited a rockslide to block water from Mr. Lambertson's land then accusing him of murder when her Pa and husband up and run from an honest rancher!"

Frowning, showing proper concern, Pike nodded. "Is some trouble, that." he agreed, "None can do without water."

The grocer shook his head vigorously. "And all know it! Is why Mr. Lambertson tried so hard to reach agreement but them folks just want all for themselves, her even hiring up a known killer gunman for doing her dirty work. Word around now is he's fixing to hunt down Mr. Lambertson any day having already shot down three of his hands."

Eyes narrowing reflexively, Adam tossed a look out the window then met the store man's gaze with a beaming smile. "Sounds like a man hunting a riding job best look farther north. Have no interest in gun wars over cows or water." he volunteered, sacking his purchases before pivoting to the door.

Crossing through, Pike gave a quick look at the seated men, their stern faces and quiet glares suggesting not all agreed with the shop keepers assessment of the town's situation. Edging to his horse, he stowed the small bag of goods in his saddlebag, fussing over the strap a mite longer than needful, his thoughts racing. Arriving in time to help was one matter; arriving too late to stop killing from happening another. Fighting a rising urgency, he peered at the saloons, selecting the nearest to continue inquiries not yet satisfied.

Parting bat-wing doors, Adam strolled through a dim interior, smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke assailing his nostrils. He laid an elbow on the bar with a glance at the bartender. "Beer." he said cheerfully.

As the man brought a bottle, he eyed the empty room, seeing nothing unlike others of its kind then met the saloon owner's gaze. Burly if short, wearing a shirt stained by many whiskies spilled across more years, the man looked back from under heavy grey brows, two days stubble dotting red cheeks.

"Hearing some amount of ruckus is going on." Adam grinned, saluting the man with the bottle before taking a swallow. "Any you can tell me about it so I can think on staying or going?"

Ingram, or so Pike guessed he was from the wide sign hung behind the bar, stared without hint of friendliness. "Don't talk with strangers about our doings." he replied harshly.

Adam waggled his head, answering with a smirk, "Reckon is wise practice, sir, never knowing if a stranger has some side to take."

Slipping his left hand under the vest as he sipped again, Pike brought out his badge, easing it to position on his chest without giving view to the bartender. Dropping his hand, he shifted to fully face the man, smiling widely.

"Maybe easier to talk to a US Marshall, Mr. Ingram?" he suggested, amused at abrupt changes in his manner.

"Not wishing to talk at all." Ingram answered dubiously.

Adam chuckled lightly. "Sad to say, sir, that's not a choice given to make. I'm needful of knowing more on this trouble between Loftin and Lambertson and likely none in town hear more than you."

A spark of recognition snapped in the man's eyes as he stepped backward a half pace. "I know you." he uttered, "You're that Marshal what done blew up Ike Crowder's saloon* near Boise, the one they call Madman of Morale."

*Madman of Morale, Western Settler Saga Book VI

Pike's face hardened. "They don't call that to my face, Mr. Ingram." he snapped, "At least not a second time." this nickname being one of several earned and only one causing objection.

Ingram's face grayed a mite, stories of this youngster being well told all about Pocatello where he was raised, indeed all up and down canyons of Idaho where Marshall Pike stamped a unique brand of law on claim jumpers and troublemakers of all sorts.

Leaning back, showing the bartender some relaxing in his pose, Adam stretched thick arms and laid large hands palm down on the counter. With a grin, he said conversationally, "So there's no notion of acting here as I did at Ike's place and getting in all the hot water for it I did, let me listen friendly to what you can say on this dust up."

Calculating sharp, Ingram bobbed his head, any trouble from Lambertson caused by talking sure to be less than what Pike would bring. "Not knowing so much." he replied, bending forward on the bar and glancing about as if to insure no ears minus heads were lurking, "Can say I heard much after Loftin and his father-in-law were killed."

"Didn't run off then."Adam commented, asking softly, "Fair fight?"

The bar man shook his head, eyes flitting from door to windows. "Can't say for sure, naturally, but no way to figure it was. Not one of Lambertson's crowd or the man himself inclined to giving even breaks to no one. Heard too" he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper near inaudible, "several of his men talking what was planned once he had all that river land in his name and shortly after her men went missing, one of them said something of Lambertson having got a holster he took a shine to. Said it was like them the cavalry wore and he was keeping it in a cabinet for wearing later."

Pike nodded slowly, eyes focused on a point far beyond the plank walls as he painted in empty spots of a picture largely complete. Straightening, he tossed Ingram an appreciative look and dug in his pocket to buy the beer when the bartender glanced at him oddly.

"Recalling something, Marshall," Ingram muttered with a puzzled look as he stared at the floor, "about that man of Lambertson's who was running about telling stories on Mrs. Loftin and her gunman."

Brow raised, Adam cocked his head listening, a long, broad smile brightening his face and eyes as he did. Pulling out more coin than required, he dropped it on the bar, telling to keep the change and turned to leave. Near the door, he stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

"Every man wearing a badge in the Territory will hear well of your help, Mr. Ingram" he offered, lowering his tone a mite as he added, "so long as none here learn I am a Marshall before I'm wishful of them knowing. Let that happen, will likely return for my change carrying a satchel of black powder to aid in future remembering."

Taking up the coin with shaky fingers, Ingram objected, "Now, Marshall, ain't nothing like that necessary." fully sure the departed Pike was past hearing.

But Adam was listening, not to weak protests from the barman but to insistent grumbles from a belly protesting breakfast being skipped to hasten his arrival. Looking over the small café with a smile, he stepped off the boardwalk, took the reins of his horse in hand and walked them both there, tying the animal in front as he popped up the steps and through the door.

Taking all in with one short look, Pike felt comfort in a place reminding him in every detail of Kate's when he first arrived in Morale* except this one had oilskin cloths over each of eight tables where such was unknown back then. Doffing his hat, giving a nod to three men seated in one corner, he sat, a fourth man sitting alone wolfing down a meal not noticing his arrival. No more than a moment passed before a portly older woman wheeled from the kitchen with steaming coffee pot and mug in hand, one other difference being she was twice Kate's age.

*Colorado Gold Heist, Western Settler Saga Book III

"Morning, stranger." she called, approaching faster than her girth suggested likely with a look more welcoming than Adam had seen in a while. "Eating or just coffee?"

"Eating, ma'am!" he exclaimed, throwing his most winning smile to her, "And hoping that's at least half the pleasure as the greeting."

Laughing, introducing herself as Jenny, the woman took his order for eggs, ham and potatoes, promising every bite would be better then swept away, refilling cups of every man sitting before landing back in the kitchen, bellowing out his order before half-way there.

Swallowing deep, Adam stretched his legs and stared disinterestedly out the window waiting for conversation between the men to resume, their pause when he entered a usual event, and reviewed his glimpse of the man eating alone. Banker or lawyer he guessed, judging from a white shirt, string tie and vest common to those kind and having seen no sign for a lawyer decided on banker Ambrose as the man stood. Taller than average and wide of chest and stomach, he picked up a flat crowned hat and set it on his head before clinking a coin on his empty plate, striding out with an air of importance bringing a grin to Pike that never reached his face.

As Jenny whirled back, plates of food on one arm and a coffee pot in the opposite hand, Adam heard the three men begin talking softly, the names Loftin and Lambertson drifting to him amid words too quiet to be heard. Beaming at the waitress, he attacked his meal with vigor, greatly pleased to find all cooked to his liking. Ears alert but disappointed at little arriving, he savored breakfast hoping to hear more but got nothing except a full stomach before they rose and left without a glance at him.

Shoving away his plates, he emptied his cup just as Jenny returned with fresh, motioning at the chair to his left after she filled his cup. Sitting, the woman gave him a wholesome look, asking as she did, "So passing through or looking to stay?"

Pike grinned. "Am hunting up riding work, ma'am" he answered, "but hearing much talk in only a few minutes of shooting trouble and a lot of fuss going on so am thinking it best I ride on north, find some rain and cows needful of herding."

Frowning, Jenny shifted, looking through the window. "Been some trouble, I admit, but seeming to be most over now." hating the prospect of another hungry mouth choosing to leave town.

Seeming to show little interest, Adam inquired politely, "Some widow woman causing all this?"

The waitress fired a hard look at him. "Rachel Loftin's a fine women, mister, and not causing no trouble for any. Is all Lambertson's doing, if you ask me."

An alarmed look crossed Pike's face. "Mean no offense, ma'am." he objected, holding up hands to ward off her sudden heat, "Just keep hearing talk of her Pa damming rivers to block water needed."

Jenny glared at him. "No such thing happened, mister, and best you're not repeating lies. Rachel and her Pa, her husband, too, were best people known here abouts. Not one would have truck with such doings."

"So talk of her Pa and man running out isn't so right either?" he asked quietly.

Realizing abruptly Adam's manner wasn't that of a passing cowhand, Jenny gave a fresh look, his deep blue eyes and youthful face suddenly less innocent. With a twinge of fear, she glanced around then met Pike's gaze. "Never happened that way. We hear much in a place like this, mister."

Adam bobbed his head, recalling well the first and best lesson learned when arriving in Morale being what Kate and her niece Trish came to know just by bringing food and being quiet, a lesson serving well repeatedly over the years before and since becoming Marshall demonstrated as true again.

Talking quietly and fast, Jenny continued, "I can tell you from hearing her Pa and husband were killed. Don't know who was doing but Lambertson was behind it."

"He'd not do it himself?"

She snorted derisively. "Lambertson's a coward. Hires his dirty work done." she declared.

Pike pursed his lips and studied the table. "Couldn't ride for a brand of that kind." he observed, the woman giving him a sharp look as he added, "Likely best I head another way."

Asking then directions, 'So's not to end up on the wrong range.' Adam listened as Jenny told of the road toward Lambertson's and several others leading from town he could take. Placing a coin beside his empty dishes, Pike rose with a wide smile.

"Appreciate the grub, ma'am." he said as she stood, looking up at him quizzically.

With an uncertain nod, Jenny replied, "Be sure when coming back this way to stop again, mister, and maybe all this fuss will have settled." then adding hesitatingly, "Know, too, while riding by, Rachel hired up a foreman, fella' name of Deacon Chance. What's said by Lambertson's men about him is sure to be lies but is certain he's a fighting man hired by her to do that. Likely any stranger seen riding will be counted as one of Lambertson's so ride careful."

Waggling his head, grateful as always for new information and intrigued by it, Adam pushed his hat over unruly hair while saying, "Food so good and company better, there is no chance of forgetting."

Pivoting as he tossed a wave, Pike crossed through the doorway, halting briefly outside while studying the street. Looking east, he pondered Jenny's words wishful of knowing more how the land lay then chuckled to himself, recalling the first time he chased men into country unknown to him west of Santa Fe and having thought the same then.* Since, the times he hunted outlaws, thieves or killers with good knowing of the land had been few with no real trouble brought for it him so doing again seemed somehow comfortable.

*Santa Fe Bandits, Western Settler Saga Book II

Mounting and spurring his horse to a trot, Adam offered an image of carefree nonchalance to Jenny as she sat in her café watching, worried over exactly what the youngster was up to, hoping against hope it didn't mean still more trouble for Rachel.

Chapter 9

Arriving with not even a name to call his own, Deacon found what he knew was everything he ever wanted only to face the likelihood of being killed before able to enjoy it. Shrugging, he trotted his horse to the head of the gully, willing to trade a life spent poorly to keep her safe without one regret in doing so. Walking the animal carefully down a rock-strewn slope, keenly alert for any hint suggesting Lambertson's men were about, he reviewed a plan little resembling one.

Reaching the bottom, he hoisted his canteen and swallowed long, sweat trickling from beneath his hat. Uncomfortably hot above, in the ravine heat blasted off rocks sending dancing waves up on all sides bringing perspiration soaking through his shirt and pants. Continually drying his gun hand as best he could, Deacon moved closer to the ranch house at a steady pace, his few glimpses of it playing over his thinking as he worked over choices.

Finding the gulch narrowing, he dismounted, stuffing his hat in his saddlebag before scrambling up to the rim for a peek around. Rifle ready, he peered out over ground baked solid at Lambertson's barn blocking a view of the house from him. Seeing the gully flatten a few yards away, he inched down and retrieved his horse, leading it up then walking them toward the building, himself shielded by it.

Reaching the back, he tied his mount off on a broken plank protruding slightly outward and eyed the doorway warily. Stooping, he scooted quickly to the entry, a fleeting look showing two horses in the pasture, five more in stalls, a wagon and nothing else. He darted through the door moving immediately into deep shadows before edging across the floor, coming to rest half hidden by a post with a large pile of hay behind when he heard a door slam.

Breathlessly, Deacon waited, the sound of boots scraping dry, stony ground reaching his ears. A moment later, the man's silhouette passed through the opposite threshold headed to a stall across the barn. Giving time for him to fill hands with a saddle, Chance inhaled then stepped away from the post.

"You one of them that ambushed the woman's Pa and husband?" he snarled quietly.

Dropping the gear, the man's shoulders hunched then he froze only a second before throwing himself to one side while grabbing for his belt gun. Chance's rifle roared, the bullet entering three inches below the man's neck and exiting in a spurt of blood through his back, standing him upright. Levering a shell into his rifle, Deacon fired again, seeing a blossom of red erupt below his target's breastbone and a plume of red coat the wall as he crumpled and fell.

Spinning, snorts and whinnies of the distraught horses in his ears, Chance took two steps away from the door, ducking beneath an unshuttered window. Peering out the shoulder high opening, he saw the entire rear of the house. Waiting silently, Deacon watched until a dark shape appeared behind the screened door. Lifting his rifle, he inhaled, holding his breath as a man kicked open the door then ran low toward the far corner of the barn.

Tracking perfectly, Chance fired once awarding the gunman a second ear and driving his target tumbling sideways spattering a pool of blood, the rifle he carried sent flying. A satisfied grunt escaped Deacon's lips at reducing his enemies to one as he surveyed the house again, observing no movement at doors or windows. Swiveling, he stepped to the west wall and bumped open a man door, kneeling as he looked out at a series of large boulders pointing his direction.

Working on instinct only, he calculated the distance, figuring the angles and time needed to gain cover before Lambertson could shoot. His eyes narrowed spying an oil lamp hanging inside the door, the stale heat of the barn suddenly replaced by a cauldron of flames felt seventeen years earlier. Searching around, he found a pair of burlap sacks and stuffed them half full of straw then grabbed a rake leaning against one wall, tying the bags to it with twine from a bale nearby. Soaking the make-shift torch with oil, Chance returned to the door and gave a swift look before launching himself toward the rocks.

Thirty feet to Deacon lasted a lifetime, one hand clutching the rake and one his rifle, before he slid behind the boulders. Gasping, he eyed the house through gaps between stones then worked closer to the building under cover of pines and rocks. Reaching a space facing a window, he considered a dash to get below it, breaking the glass with his rifle butt and tossing the lit torch to force Lambertson out or burn him alive as they'd done to Deacon's own father.

On one knee, he paused, furiously working to control his breathing. No sound came to him from the building as his gaze flicked between windows and two corners. Finally, nerves taut, he lunged, racing to his chosen spot below glass panes where he flung himself against the wall, sweat pouring over every inch of his body.

Trembling, Chance fumbled with a box of matches in his pocket, removing one after a time and preparing to strike it and light the torch when he stopped. From deep recesses of his mind, he heard Pa, the gravelly voice he knew so well rocking him.

"Not doing that, son" Deacon heard, "or will be haunted the rest of your days worse than has been 'til now."

Motionless, Chance stared unseeing, the voice continuing, "You treat him as they did me you're no better'n them. If you're wanting him, son, go face him like a man square up or live regretting every day left you got."

Face taut, Deacon shook his head, chasing the voice from his head. 'Face him like a man' Pa said and that's what he'd do. Dropping the unlit torch, Chance shifted the rifle to his left hand, moving along the wall and risking a short look when reaching the porch before stepping up, scrunching low next to a tall front window. A brief look in showed Lambertson crouched behind his desk, the chair shoved off to one side, with a rifle in hand and a pistol on the floor beside him.

'Face him like a man square up.' Pa repeated. 'Back shooting's for cowards.'

Desperately seeking a way, Deacon exhaled almost silently, knowing any sound could bring a shot piercing the pine walls capable of crippling or killing. Running a hard gaze over the porch, mentally counting steps to the door, he dismissed the notion as too far before resting tight eyes on a short bench and chair sitting under the window. Working through an idea, he squatted and laid his rifle aside, easing forward then flattening his palms below the seat. Inhaling sharply, he burst up, driving the sturdy wood frame through the glass pane with a shattering explosion as Lambertson whirled, the chair taking him in the chest knocking him back.

Launching from the sill off one foot, Deacon hurled himself at the rancher, landing on the man. Grabbing wildly, Chance got a grip on Lambertson's rifle, yanking it away and throwing it aside before Tresh tossed him off with a two handed shove. Rolling, kicking the pistol past easy reach, Deacon rose in a squat, weight forward on his toes taking Lambertson's charge on his shoulder, powering the rancher backwards into the desk just above his belt.

Grunting in pain, Tresh lunged, thick muscled arms sending Chance stumbling. Wheeling about, Deacon back-pedaled, glaring at Lambertson as the rancher crouched in a fighters stance, fists balled. A malicious sneer crossed Tresh's face, his younger days of street fighting as a wharf rat in Buffalo giving confidence as he edged closer, lashing out with a low left connecting beneath Chance's ribs.

Hatred and anger welling up left no room for pain as Deacon stepped back anxiously looking for an opening. Never one for bare knuckle fighting, Chance sensed instinctively having greater height and reach was his advantage but knew Lambertson's stout build hid more strength and power than seemed he should have.

The men circled warily, trading jabs to test one another, neither noticing a shadowy form edging forward in the hallway watching intently. Lambertson threw a short right Deacon slapped away followed by a left jab Chance anticipated. Sidestepping, Deacon flashed a right cross crushing the rancher's nose sending blood erupting over them both then hopped close, hammering Lambertson with a left uppercut to the midriff.

Reeling, the rancher fixed a fearing look on his foe, an open-handed slap from above Chance's shoulder snapping his head down and away. Deacon pivoted at the hips bringing a back-hand from low against Lambertson's cheek slamming him to the floor. Leaping, Chance straddled Lambertson, striking twice with overhand rights before straightening, backing away and staring as the dazed rancher shook his head, trying to rise.

"Get up and die on your feet like a man" Deacon demanded, flipping the loop off his pistol and drawing, "or die on the floor like the worm you are."

Lambertson's face paled, the large black muzzle of Chance's Colt filling his vision. Sweat stung his eyes as they widened seeing his own pistol several feet away against the massive rock fireplace. He licked dry lips, unable to swallow.

Deacon leveled the barrel, images of Rachel's Pa and husband ambushed from behind left half buried in a gulch feeding vultures and coyotes blinding him. Cocking the hammer, his finger tightened then held, a rumbling voice from behind slicing through the fire in him.

"Don't pull that trigger." Pike ordered. "You've no trouble with the law yet, Mr. Chance, but kill an unarmed man and you will."

Deacon's breath caught. Nothing less than killing Lambertson was his only thought when Adam spoke again.

"He's not worth all you've gained, Mr. Chance. Can promise your last day will be swinging from a gallows you don't lower that gun."

Chance exhaled abruptly, raising the barrel of his pistol, releasing the hammer harmlessly before holstering the weapon. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Pike standing in dim light as the badge on his vest seemed to glow bright.

Adam smiled lightly at the man. "Good thinking, Mr. Chance." he said then shifted suddenly, his own pistol exploding in the small room. Stunned, Deacon spun toward Lambertson, seeing blood gush past fingers clutching his right shoulder, his revolver still spinning where it landed.

Two quick steps got Pike over the wounded man where he knelt sharply, Lambertson's breath rushing out as Adam landed on his stomach. Holstering his gun, Adam rose and grabbed the ranchers bleeding arm, spinning him face down harshly, ignoring the man's howls of pain. Slipping a piggin string from his vest pocket, Pike dabbed a loop over Lambertson's hand and tightened it, holding firm as he gripped the man's other wrist and roughly dragged it alongside, finishing tying the rancher with familiar, practiced motions.

Leaning, he reached for the loose pistol and tucked it in his waist band as he instructed Chance, "Retrieve several towels from the kitchen, if you would, so to keep this fellow from bleeding to death." adding with a grin, "Army little likes paying rewards for men they're wishful of hanging who are already dead. Takes all their fun away, truth be told."

Staring blankly, Deacon stood until Pike barked, "Towels, Mr. Chance!"

Fog cleared by Adam's tone, he whirled away, returning only a moment later with an armload of cloths and holding them out. Selecting two larger ones, Adam removed his knife from the holder at the small of his back, easily slicing them lengthwise before dropping them, taking then a pair of smaller dish rags. Folding one, he shoved it beneath Lambertson's shirt where his bullet exited then rolled the man over and repeated the action on the front.

Nimbly tying two of the sliced towels together, Pike wrapped them over Lambertson's neck and under his arm holding the make-shift bandages in place before using a second pair to circle the rancher's chest and knotting them tightly. Standing, he surveyed the unconscious rancher with satisfaction turning finally to Deacon and holding out his hand.

"Adam Pike, Mr. Chance, United States Marshall." he offered, alarmed when Deacon grimaced with pain. Examining Chance's arm, Pike chuckled, bending then to grab another cloth before stepping next to the taller fellow.

Holding Chance's wrist, Adam withdrew his knife again, slicing away Deacon's blood covered sleeve then grasped a long sliver of glass with the towel.

"Going to hurt a mite." he muttered, jerking the shard out and letting it fall, gripping the cut tightly for a minute before tying the cloth around it.

Meeting Chance's anguished look with a raised brow and grinning, he bobbed his head. "Reckon that'll do for now, Mr. Chance, as you'll be liking Mrs. Loftin attending to your injuries better anyway."Remembering most pleasantly nursing he received from Hannah after his brutal fight with Brotherton in Denver*, Pike chuckled. "Can say, too, she'll be liking to give care unless I miss my guess."

*Colorado Gold Heist, Western Settler Saga Book III

Uncomprehending, Deacon peered at the young Marshall, fully unsure what was happening or why. Mouth hanging, he watched as Adam stooped, grabbing Lambertson by his boot heels and started dragging the inert form toward the door then listened unbelievingly as Pike gave directions.

"There's seven horses in the barn or pasture, Mr. Chance, two draft and five saddle, needful of someone to care for them. Please hitch the team to the wagon and tie the others to it after saddling one for this sad excuse of a man to ride and gather up all the gear you feel can be sold in Cheyenne or used at Mrs. Loftin's place and toss it in."

Reaching the door, Pike tapped it open with a boot then saw Deacon standing unmoving. "Mr. Chance?" he said curiously, "If you're not wishful of earning by selling horses and gear, please serve me by doing as told and be prompt in it as I'm most sure Mrs. Loftin is expecting you back for supper and will be disappointed if we're tardy."

Hearing Rachel's name, Deacon came alive, trotting through the rear door and toward the barn as Pike hauled Lambertson off the porch, heedless of the man's head bouncing off a pair of steps in the process. Removing a coil of rope from his saddle, Adam turned an end into a short noose and fastened it around Lambertson's throat before tossing the remainder over a beam supporting the roof. Looping it twice over the upright, he tied a slip knot to secure Lambertson from moving far and sliced the rest off, tossing it on his saddle horn as he mounted.

One horse saddled and working on hitching the team, Deacon looked up as Pike trotted Black to the barn door. Dismounting, he threw out a length of rope and tied the end around the dead man's feet then squatted alongside the body. Frisking him, Adam slipped several bills from a pocket and deposited them in his own before standing. Looking at Chance with a smirk, he commented, "Troublemakers never do have much money, it seems."

Stripping the man's holster, he wound it to a ball and tossed it toward Deacon. "Add it to the rest then finish up and meet me in front." he directed then mounted and walked his horse into the yard dragging the carcass behind. Chance shook his head as Pike duplicated his actions over the second body, tying his feet with the loose end of rope before returning to the saddle and spurring his horse to a trot, the bodies tossing twin streams of dust into a warm breeze as he rode.

Returning to his task, Deacon gathered the horses and what gear he could find, nearly filling the small wagon with saddles, bags, tools and any seeming useful while trying to make sense of all he'd seen before surrendering the effort as futile. Hoisting himself into the seat, he took a moment to admire the team, recognizing as fine a pair of horses as any he'd driven, then flipped the reins starting them toward the house. Pulling up along the porch, he saw Pike's horse tied in front so retrieved his rifle then waited until Adam stepped past the door cradling an armload of rifles and shotguns and carrying a canvas sack in one hand.

Dropping the guns in the wagon, Pike returned to his horse and secured the bag to his saddle then walked the extra horse up next to Lambertson. Chance's eyes widened recognizing the noose over the man's neck as Adam released it then gasped when Pike bent and effortlessly raised the hefty body using two hands under the man's back. Gripping the reins, he edged close to the horse before leaning the unmoving shape against the saddle, plopping him over it face down. Several short strokes along the animal's neck calmed her against the sudden move before Pike made an 'X' with rope over Lambertson and tied each end to stirrups on either side.

Stepping up, lithely tossing a leg over his own horse, he observed, "Reckon all that's needful doing here is handled, Mr. Chance."Deacon giving an uneasy nod in answer before asking, "You bury them two that quick?"

"Buzzards eat their own" Adam answered with a sidelong look, "so no burying required." then asking with a sly smile, "Care to return to Mrs. Loftin's?" nudging his mount to a pace Deacon quickly matched.

Riding next to the wagon, not much wanting his back to the man now called Deacon Chance, Pike waited for questions or comments the man must have but, as no words came, he remained quiet satisfied with his tuneless whistling for company. As they rode, Chance gave several hesitant glances at the young Marshall, wrestling with waves of conflicting emotions. Most strongly, he felt powerful relief seeing Lambertson strapped across the horse but knew there was fear rising each time he looked at the broad shoulders of a US Marshall confidently trotting alongside.

A small smile rose on Deacon's face recalling the previous evening and morning's activities, his heart light not for what was done but for what she meant by it. Excitement began to replace all else as they neared the incline past Red Rock and started up, the possibility of Rachel becoming his partner for all life seeming more real than ever. Dreams of future days and years bubbled up from depths long lost to despair and anger, bringing with them ideas for the ranch, raising children and many others he never allowed himself to consider.

Abruptly, Adam halted, a concerned look on his face as he turned to Chance. Tossing his head toward the ranchhouse, he barked, "Mrs. Loftin has company it seems." spurring to a gallop as Deacon looked up then put his team to a run.

Closing on the place, Adam surveyed the eight men on horseback, two he'd seen eating at the café, their pudgy sheriff hanging near the back and banker Ambrose at the front facing Rachel standing on the porch defiantly holding her scattergun at one side. Slowing to give time for Chance to close up, Pike allowed the intruders to see him scan the scene. Reining to a halt near the steps, he stared, letting all take in the badge on his chest and understand what a rifle, shotgun and twin belt pistols meant to them.

Hearing Deacon roll up, he gave a quick glance back as the team came abreast. Tossing him the reins of Lambertson's horse, Pike directed, "Take the prisoner round back, Deputy, and join us on the porch through the rear door if you would."

Surprised, Chance caught the reins, grinning when Adam swiveled toward him with a bright wink then shifted his attention forward again. Walking the horse two paces ahead, Pike nodded to Rachel.

"Adam Pike, ma'am, United States Marshall." he boomed across the mob, "Is there something going on here the law should know about?"

The woman gave a tight smile, her eyes never moving. "Can't say rightly, Marshall." she replied sternly, "These fellows arrived shortly ago an' just now finished telling of their displeasure over troubles between Mr. Lambertson an' myself, explaining it was time I pack up an' leave my home an' property."

Nodding, Pike fixed the men with an icy blue gaze. "Took all these men to say that, ma'am, or is one here thinking he speaks for all?"

Mrs. Loftin motioned with her gun. "Mr. Ambrose been doing all the talking."

Setting his eyes on the banker, Adam sat a moment then dismounted, pulling the canvas sack from his saddle horn as he strode purposefully toward the porch. Hopping up two steps, he spun behind Rachel, a short look all needful to give rise to admiration for the well-built structure, before laying one leg over the railing followed by the other, boots resting on protruding boards. Placing the bag behind him, Pike leaned forward, large hands splayed to each side propping him as he considered the riders and how to begin.

"Whatcha' doin' wit' Mr. Lambertson?" the sheriff squealed from the rear.

"Am not required by law or custom" Pike responded sternly, "to answer fool questions from men yet more foolish." then laughed loudly, startling them as he slapped his thigh. Resuming his pose, Pike beamed.

"Is as good a place to start as any, mister, and appreciate the help." he conceded, straightening so fingertips sat inches from his gun handles. "The man you call Tresh Lambertson, truth be spoken, will rightfully be called Lambert Tresh. His dim notion of name changing is what put me on him at the first."

Pausing to catch the eye of every man, liking that they shifted from his face as he did, Pike went on. "I'm taking him to Cheyenne and turning him over to the US Army where's he's wanted on charges of war profiteering, thievery and murder. Every dollar that man spent in this town" Adam added with disdain, "was blood money taken at great cost in lives and well-being of Union soldiers in the recent war between north and south."

Reaching to his vest pocket, Pike withdrew a long, slender cigar of the fashion favored further south by Spanish men, a small paper brought out held in his palm unseen as Adam struck a match and lit his smoke. Popping off the porch, three quick steps brought him next to Ambrose. Holding the paper, he looked up at the banker.

"This is an order from the court, Mr. Ambrose, directing all bank holdings of Mr. Lambertson, or Tresh if you like, be totaled in a draft payable to the Army."

Ambrose glared at Pike unmoving. "Would suggest you take it, sir." Adam offered, "as I have full authority to seize those deposits by whatever means chosen should you refuse."

The banker snatched the cable, stuffing it in his pocket without a glance. Throwing a broad grin at him, Pike retreated to the porch never letting his eyes leave the crowd. Stepping back to his seat, he took a long draw on the cigar then exhaled, squinting through blue smoke while speaking.

"Should the Army acquit Mr. Tresh, an unlikely event you can believe, I will return to put him up before a US District Judge on double charges of murder. At least" he continued, bringing up the canvas bag and withdrawing two holstered guns, "if Mrs. Loftin can identify these I found hidden at his place."

Holding out the weapons, Pike looked at Rachel. Staring wide-eyed, unwilling to touch them, she volunteered, "One is Pa's, Marshall. His initials are carved to it. The other Augie brought back from his cavalry days."

Adam bobbed his head, replacing the guns in his bag while taking up a small book from within. "Also secured this, Mr. Ambrose." he explained, holding it up, "Lambertson's bank record. Will know to a penny the amount your draft should be and am willing to remind that any sum less means you are subject to arrest also and being carted off for trial by the Army."

The banker's face paled. His bank couldn't honor a draft for all Lambertson's money, he knew well, but standing before an Army court appealed little. Unable to find an answer, he remained silent when the sheriff chirped again.

"What 'bout that murderin' man what's standin' behind ya'?"

Pike laughed again, pushing his hat back before leaning on one palm with his left hand on his leg near his gun. "You speaking of him?" he asked, flicking a thumb toward Deacon, going on when several men nodded. "Seems you listen well to Lambertson's men but less to your own sense."

Drawing on his cigar, Adam glanced to the ground then back up, grinning. "Taking one matter then the other" he said, motioning with his hand again, "know the fellow behind is Deputy US Marshall Deacon Chance, one of the finest lawmen I've been graced to work alongside. The murderer from back east Lambertson had stories told of, which you believed" he grunted, pointing with the cigar at them, "is long dead and gone. Fact is, him that was telling those stories is from the same county back in Ohio, as is Deputy Chance, which is how they both knew the story."

"That liar's given name, so you know, was Early McDermitt." Pike continued, a swift glance back catching Deacon's astonished expression while giving mental salutes to barmen knowing little the value of what they tell. "His Pa was a big-time judge until being arrested by Marshalls for abusing his trust to amass handsome property and impressive wealth. Seems he found sensible giving improper sentences, beatings and even murder to convince others to sell first rate, quality land for next to nothing. After the courts sentenced the judge to thirty years prison, young Early lit out, enlisting soon enough in the Army and being assigned to a quartermaster's office in Kansas. Was there he met Tresh, them teaming up to have supply convoys meant for soldiers stolen then selling goods to meet Army needs at triple prices."

Glancing at the sky, the sun slipping toward distant peaks as towering thunderheads north of them promised weather, he smiled, the territory so needful of any rain coming he welcomed it despite anticipating three days of wet riding to get home. Bringing his eyes back on the riders, he chuckled.

"Seems we saved taxpayer money, young McDermitt slated for hanging also now not called for, the Army rarely proving themselves wishful of hanging men already dead."

Rising, Pike balled his fists on his hips, running an amused look over the dazed men. "Now if no more is required, I suggest you turn on back home to your shops and wives before one or the other finds no purpose for you, chasing after all this which is none of your business from the beginning."

At the rear, several men turned, seeming to like Adam's thinking, before Ambrose reared up.

"Wait a minute!" he yelped, "How we know you even a Marshall? Being almighty young for one doing that work."

Pike frowned deeply, brows narrowing as he drilled the man with a look of fiery blue ice. Inching his fingers up, he tilted his badge some, catching the dying sun and reflecting it over their faces. "Don't buy these off shelves of general stores, Mr. Ambrose." he replied harshly, "Only get one when and if the President of the United States says you do."

Dropping his hand, Adam surveyed the men. "Any of you doubtful, all that's needful doing is ride to Cheyenne or Denver and ask. Speaking honest, you can stop by any town in the Territory having a real sheriff, all knowing me by name, reputation and most by sight as well."

Pike smirked, saying as an afterthought, "Seems that's a matter your town should attend, being a nice place like it is, a real sheriff not taking pay from an outlaw might save a sight of trouble."Hopping over the rail, Adam shrugged. "Is for you to decide, I reckon, but for me to choose is here and now."

Turning a shoulder to Rachel, suppressing a giggle at the woman's dumbfounded look, he asked respectfully, "Ma'am, are you wishful of having these men leave your property."

Flipping eyes at Pike, she waggled her head. "I am, Marshall, an' most promptly."

Adam smiled wide, facing the men as he moved to the steps. "Lady has asked you men leave. By her grace, any who head out without delay will be given courtesy but being she's the owner here I am duty bound to arrest any which do not. Of course, the court will think little of it so no more price to pay you have but two days riding to Cheyenne tied over your saddle with no eatings and water enough only to keep you from arriving dead..."

Pike's voice trailed off unheard, every man having swung their mounts already, several setting a sprightly pace to the west. Satisfied, Adam pivoted to face Rachel and Deacon. "Ma'am, would you have coffee brewed fresh we could share a minute before my departing?" he asked.

Chapter 10

Peering around the tidy home, liking much of what he saw for good construction and well kept furnishings, Adam's face lit up when Rachel brought to the table fresh coffee, a loaf of bread with a jar of jam for spreading.

"Am grateful, ma'am" he chortled, "seldom it is we can enjoy such treats while out on our job." conveniently forgetting his own wife serving similar preserves the morning he left home.

Rachel beamed. "Am pleased to do so, Marshall." she replied, serving up slices amply coated.

Taking a healthy bite followed by a swallow of coffee, Pike gave the couple a glance then said, "Am wishful, ma'am, of apologizing on behalf of Marshalls Hanks in Denver and Eckert in Morale." the woman returning a surprised look at hearing.

"See, your letter of many months ago was received by Hanks but, being this is out of his district, he forwarded it on, likely after a regrettable delay, him having only a handful of men to patrol most of Colorado. Then Marshall Eckert" Adam added, grinning, "let it sit on his desk some time, having even fewer men to cover all of northern Colorado and Wyoming Territory from the Oregon border past half of Montana up to the Canadian border."

Taking a third of the bread in one bite, Pike chewed appreciatively as the two nibbled, waiting. "So when the Marshall asked me to attend other business in Cheyenne, he natural gave me your letter, asking that I check to see if any was still needful doing in this matter. It was while in your capital I found time to do some checking and learned through Army friends* of Tresh and his doings, connecting it with the name you gave in your writing."

*Payroll Killers, Western Settler Saga Book IV

After a swallow of coffee, Adam noted, "Getting natural curious, I leafed through all papers they had on land actions here finding of course the filings of your Pa and late husband but could see nowhere that Tresh bought or filed claim to any land in the county. Caused me to be confused some on what was really happening but see now his thinking had more to do with taking than earning."

Raising a brow and giving a small smirk, Adam added, "For that, seems all turned out the way it was meant to be."

"It seems to, Marshall."Rachel agreed, sipping from her mug, "But there's some understanding I don't quite have."

Puzzled, Pike gestured with his bread, a look at Deacon giving no hint. "Pretty much as was told outside, ma'am."

The woman shook her head slightly, smiling. "Deputy Chance?" she inquired with a prideful eye toward the man, her gaze dropping again to his bandaged arm still wishing to tend to it immediately but liking Deacon's suggestion to wait, him adding a notion she understood without more words spoken.

Adam laughed. "There is that." he admitted, before explaining, "See, a Marshall, even a retired one as I now am, can deputize any man when needful. Now, custom has it to ask agreement before so doing and give an oath but as our situation was a mite sudden, passing on formality seemed sensible so I gave those men some thinking contrary to what they held."

Chance guffawed, a sound delightful to Rachel's hearing. "Must be the shortest length of service any deputy ever had." he chortled.

"Likely so."Pike agreed with a chuckle, finishing off his jellied bread.

Rachel took a small bite of hers then commented, "But you say you're retired from Marshall."

Adam's eyes widened brightly. "Well, ma'am, one thing never told when they pin on a badge is there's no real retiring unless the government wants it so. Most any time Marshall Eckert is wishful, he calls me out for some doing or other and knowing I was headed for Cheyenne on other matters, he saw fit to hand me your letter, asking I poke around for useful purpose we could serve while in the area."

Chance and the woman exchanged glances, concerned wrinkles forming on his forehead when Mrs. Loftin turned her face to the table.

"You said the man wanted back east was dead, Marshall." she said sadly, repeating what to her seemed to be a lie.

Pike pursed his lips, catching Deacon's face from the corner of his eye, and leaned forward on thick forearms.

"And believe that's honest, ma'am." he replied, "Truth of what happened back there I do not have but can say if a least part of what I'm knowing is right, what was done then comes to a smallest part of what I'd have done in answer. Either way, the man who acted against injustice back then is no longer. The man living today is a different fellow entirely and one we're proud to call a friend, truth be spoken."

Rachel's eyes moistened as she looked away, her palm opening on the table before grasping Deacon's as he laid fingers gently in it. Looking directly at Adam, he reminded, "You said, Marshall, back at Lambertson's, that I have no trouble with the law." Eyes shifting nervously, he added, "Am needing to know that's so."

Shrugging uncomfortably, Pike hesitated, drinking his coffee while preparing words in answer, a pleasant thanks to Rachel when she rose and refilled their cups. Clearing his throat, he glanced over the room and out the window before resting his gaze on the man.

"Speaking honest" he began, "all I can represent is the US Marshall's office. A note I'll send after my return will go out telling of your help in settling this matter so all is known and none of our men will trouble you."

With a quick peek at Rachel, her relief obvious, Adam downed a quick gulp of hot liquid. Toying with his cup, he added, "Now if a lawman traipses up here from the Texas panhandle or down from the Black Hills, I can't tell what might be done. Best I can suggest should that occur, knowing it's an unlikely event in any case, is to tell they've made a mistake and send them to the Marshall's office in Cheyenne or Denver where ours will back your claim."

The couple swapped warm looks, smiles breaking out on both faces. Standing, Pike drained his cup and grinned at them, feeling good.

"About the horses and gear we brought up," he said absent-mindedly, "practice is for such to be held by the Marshall's office until a man's found guilty then be auctioned off to support our work. As I have little desire to haul all back to Morale, I'd be grateful to have it held here until after the trial and we will consider the auction complete allowing you to sell off or keep however you choose."

Doubt flickered over Rachel's face. "We've little cash money to pay, Marshall." she objected.

Adam chortled. "Reckon a big slap of jam on bread with good coffee is ample exchange, ma'am, if you're agreeable."

Quickly accepting Pike's offer, the two inhaled deeply, well understanding what price saddles and gear might bring in Cheyenne even if the horses were held on their ranch. Bobbing his head, Adam took up his hat and gestured toward the kitchen.

"If you don't mind, ma'am, I'll leave by the back and bring my prisoner around to my horse." he suggested, Rachel agreeing as she and Deacon rose, neither fully believing all they'd heard. Taking a step away, Pike turned back, blue eyes sparkling.

"Seems to me" he commented quietly, "since Tresh never filed proper on that land, any wishful of doing so should move prompt."

Meeting Deacon's surprised look, Adam added, "If Mr. Chance claims the west side of your river, Mrs. Loftin, and you were to file on the east side before any got busy opening that rock slide, after water started flowing again, the whole outfit added to what's already titled off claims of Mr. Loftin and your Pa would be sizable, making any rancher proud."

Shrugging his shoulders, Pike beamed. "'Course, will need doing before you two are hitched" he smirked, "so to abide what our law requires."

As the two stared at him, Adam nodded lightly then turned and exited, gathering up Lambertson tied over his saddle and walked them around to the front where he loosened his own mount and fussed with his gear a moment while Deacon came through the door then down the steps next to him.

Looking up, Pike saw gratitude on the man's face, bringing pleasantness to him, offering a hand for a firm shake as Chance said, "Can't quite find words, Marshall, for how we're feeling."

Adam tossed his head a mite, releasing the man's grip. "Have a notion of it, sir, and no more is needful." he answered before scuffing the ground then fixing the man with a kindly look.

"When I was a youngster" Pike said, "happened time to time that Ma would make a supper less than her usual good ones. 'Course, she'd be knowing it was so and would make up some special eating for after, telling us four to finish all the meal then have other which would be pleasing. We always knew when hearing that our first portion would be less tasty but would still eat all to allow us to enjoy those second helpings."

Stepping into his saddle, Adam looked at Deacon. "Not many times, Mr. Chance, that men get second helpings in their lives. Hoping you enjoy yours." he finished, throwing a wave as he trotted off, prisoner in tow.

Eyes wide, Deacon watched the receding lawman overwhelmed by emotions before returning inside and sitting beside Rachel.

"What did the Marshall say?" she asked curiously.

Chance waggled his head a moment then, grinning widely at her, replied. "Not all sure, Rachel, but am thinking I'll be ready for second helpings at supper tonight."

Epilog

Pike hopped off the boardwalk of Kate's Hotel toward the Marshall's office dodging puddles left by spring and summer rains gratefully received after two brutal years of drought, sad in thinking after this day it would be vacant, the Wyoming Territorial Governor finally successful in convincing officials in Washington it should be located in Cheyenne. He studied the building which he'd help build, liking what other brother Step had done to blend his town Sheriff office with the other. Freshly painted with new designs on clean windows and expanded jail behind allowed Morale to boast the largest of its kind north of Denver while having less need than most any town in the West.

Stepping through the door, he spotted Eckert in his customary seat behind the desk slated to move later in the day, the morose Marshall reviewing a new batch of wanted notices and other mail just dropped by the stage. Giving a wave, Adam glided to the stove, pouring coffee for himself and Deputy Marshal Santiago who occupied a seat in the far corner, Eckert waving off a refill. Grinning at Ramon, the last of Pike's three hires as a new Marshall years before, he was wishful of asking about a bullet hole in the man's hat not present at their last meeting but held, whatever story that emerged certain to be long in telling and short in truth if heavy in humor.

Snaking a chair out from the table, he began to sit when Eckert waved an envelope, a curious glint in his eyes. Handing it to Pike, he returned to sorting mail as Adam lowered himself to the chair, looking over the address printed by a hand unfamiliar. Slitting it open with a finger, he extracted a short, folded page and spread it before him, sipping coffee as he read.

Dear Marshall Pike

Wanted to write and tell all is good here. We did like you said and claimed up on Lambertson's place, Rachel claiming another section in her name like you told she could with no trouble. Opened the river from the rockslide and have a long run of range now fat with cattle doing well.

She's wishing me to tell too that we wedded up not long after meeting you and had our first. She and the boy are doing good. My idea naming him Second Helping didn't work so much for her but liked me suggesting we call him Adam so that's how he was named.

We hoping you be coming this way again and stop to see us both and the son and all is good for you in Morale.

Yours,

Deacon and Rachel Chance.

Adam grinned broadly as he folded the letter, returning it to the envelope and slipping it in his pocket. Glancing up, Eckert cast an amused, crooked glance at him.

"What's it about?" the Marshall asked.

"Nothing much, Eck." he laughed, "Just changing the world one lost soul at a time."

Eckert bobbed his head approvingly, knowing that was the best and only one way to do it.

Acknowledgements

The first and most important acknowledgement has to be given my loving wife Robin who, for so many years, has been supportive, helpful and a bedrock of sanity in a world seemingly less sane by the day. In addition to interminable hours listening to chattering, winding stories which became the _Western Settler Saga_ , she served most capably as our editor-in-chief, researcher-in-chief, good-idea-person-in-chief and, critically, encourager-in-chief. Without her endless help, Adam Pike and _Western Settler Saga_ might still have been written but would have been incredibly less fun to do.

As well, no writer can succeed without capable, competent and focused editing assistance. In that role none would believe, I recognize Scott Steinmetz, the Wasatch Wizard. His corrections, suggestions and lightning bolt wisdom delivered from on-high in the Utah peaks are central to our shared success.

Attentive readers, also, will note certain dialogue woven through _Western Settler Saga_ episodes evoke memories from a number of outstanding lyricists and songwriters our era produced. Throughout most of human history, grand composers were in one world and brilliant wordsmiths in another, coexisting but never crossing. It was not until the latter half of the 20th century, after a forty year gestation period, did these two universes unite into one, evolving into one of the universes most powerful forces for change and progress transmitted by radio, record albums and, later CD's. The influences of these grand artists on my thinking, behavior and beliefs has been profound and nearly immeasurable so they receive in the _Saga_ a sincere, if humble, thank you for the many ways their work improved our quality of life.

Among those honored here, in no particular order except at the end, are Neil Diamond; Woody Guthrie; Stephen Stills and Crosby, Stills, Nash; Carole King; Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel; Pete Seeger; Eagles; The Kingston Trio; Earth, Wind and Fire; Steve Winwood through all his many incarnations; The Grateful Dead; America; Joni Mitchell; Jim Morrison; Melanie; Pete Townshend and The Who; Billy Joel; Yes; the incomparable Boss, Bruce Springsteen; and the greatest non-violent revolutionary voice of reason in our times, Mr. Bob Dylan. To all, I express intense gratitude and unending appreciation for many ways you made our lives better.

...son of a South Dakota farm boy and a Tennessee lady lives with his wife and two dogs on a 34 acre farm in Lapeer, Michigan. While feeding good people with corn, soybeans and wheat, he shares life with rabbits, groundhogs, raccoons, chipmunk and deer, flocks of wild turkeys both feathered and not, hawks, doves, vultures, and odd varieties of fish (including pike) occupying a small 38 acre lake adjoining their land.

Raised in rural Michigan on our traditional American principles of honesty, thrift, hard work and self-reliance, he brings these time honored values to life through the words and deeds of Adam Pike and the cast of Western Settler Saga.
