

The Westering

Thomas Sheehan

****

Smashwords Edition

Published by MilSpeak Books

A Division of MilSpeak Foundation, Inc. (501c3)

http://www.milspeak.org

Copyright 2012 Thomas Sheehan

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

For permissions, contact milspeakbooks@milspeak.org

Cover Design by Thomas Sheehan, Jr. with Jamie Sheehan

"Alias the Cook" was previously published in _Rosebud_ #50/4-15-2011

"Two Fathoms Down" was previously published in _Rosebud_ and in _Troubadour 21_ , 9 August 2010

All other stories in this collection were previously published in _Rope and Wire_.

See  http://www.ropeandwire.com/MainPages/StorySections/Tom_Sheehan.html

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

Images and quotes within this book that are excerpted in brief form are used in accordance with fair use interpretation of U.S. Copyright Law and the Digital Millennial Copyright Act. Every attempt has been made to attribute and credit excerpted material correctly. Any errors or omissions should be brought to the attention of the publisher and will be corrected in future editions of the book. This creative work of fiction represents only the writer's opinions, ideas, and imagination, and not those of any other organization, institution, or persons. The U.S. Department of Defense, its subsidiaries and/or adjutants, does not endorse this book, nor does this book in any way represent the views of DOD or of the U.S. Government.

 **MilSpeak Foundation, Inc.** , a 501c3 nonprofit organization, exists to raise awareness about creative works by military people to a more visible and influential position in American culture and seeks to be a leader in shaping a receptive climate for creative works by military people. By developing new audiences, creating new avenues for delivery, and encouraging creativity among military people, MilSpeak Foundation aspires to make creative works by military people directly relevant to the public.

****

### The Western Series

Hundreds of Tom Sheehan's short stories about The Great American West have been published during the past few years. _The Westering_ is the first of nine volumes of these stories to be published by MilSpeak Books. Tom, a Korean War veteran, is prolific – it is safe to write that when the ninth volume of The Western Series is released, the numbers will have grown.

The Westering

The Sheriffs

The Cowboys

The Nations

The Outlaws

The Townsmen

The Women of the West

Cross Trails

Where Skies Grow Wide

****

### The Westering

The people who went west in the early days of the continent came from many countries, many customs, many cultures, and brought much of that mix with them. Nothing is more intriguing and interesting to me than their pursuits, their dreams, and the harsh life they entered as they gathered here in their search for new footholds, new visions, new adventures. They came from nations all over the globe, carrying all kinds of visions that drove them onward; and in these pursuits they rose, they fell, they faulted, they were often exalted or saluted, they served, and many survived the harshest rigors. Their stories, fact or fiction, where we rarely know the complete details of any act, should be carried on.

**Table of Contents**

Alias the Cook (Italy)

Valley of the Lost Swan (Canada/France)

Secret of the Stone (Newfoundland)

Stolen Flag, Arkansas 1st Mounted Rifles (Civil War)

The Outlaw Sheriff Otto Pilsner (Germany)

The Soul of Shiloh Two (China)

The Shepherd's Keeper (Basque region of the Pyrenees)

A Dragoon's Adventure (England, India service)

Freighter's Holiday

A Western Proposal (Boston)

Cowboy from Afar (Eastern Europe)

Biography of a Cowboy (Indian mix)

Full Flight from Yuma (New England)

Broomstick Cowboy (Chicago)

Plumbeck the Fiddler

A Greater Kingdom and a Lesser Court (Masquerade)

Jehrico's Tub (Mexico)

The New Balkan Empire (Greece/Eastern Europe)

Note for the Bright Star (New England)

The Aztec Raiders (The Indian Nations/Mexico)

The Kelly Green Colt (Ireland)

Two Fathoms Down (Russian Cossack)

Author's Note About Cover Design

About Tom Sheehan

Other Books by Tom Sheehan

****

Alias the Cook

For the second time this day and for the second day in a row, he looked out the window of the A&P Railroad Lines dining car kitchen in the middle of grass running for endless miles and saw the herd of cattle and the drovers dashing about on horseback, those gallant riders that had drawn him all the way from Italy, half a turn around the world.

Salvatore "Sardi" Benevento, "the best cook on the whole damned railroad," according to the big boss, felt the knot working in his gut. Out there in that mix is where he wanted to be, had wanted it from the day he left Italy with the dream locked up in his heart.

He recalled the exact moment when he sold the horse, the wagon and the small farm on the same day his grandfather died. Once he arrived in Naples, after the funeral and after his beloved grandfather was placed down into the rocky ground, he purchased a ticket to America. A few months later, after an interminable wait, and a mad and dangerous crossing of the ocean among some thieves from his own village, he managed to maintain his inner direction, to keep his dream alive.

~

Ashore but one week, exploring Boston's North End on foot, he felt like a child away from home. But he glowed in the energy bouncing around him. Like a small piece of Italy that part of Boston came at him in its full swing. In the air were the known aromas of hours' long food preparation, the sense of music from every corner and from every bistro, from open windows and closed doors, and finally the magnificent chatter of its people, dialect atop dialect, a grand mixture of Tuscany tongue and Calabrese and Milanese and Roman as old as the sages. He inhaled all of it, as if hunger worked all the parts of him.

Then, fate itself on the move, in one breath, not marked right then but benchmarked later in the way life piles up with incidents, he heard a voice saying in a dialect near his own from the front of an open restaurant, _"Ho, Luigi, perché una tale pesante, sguardo interrogativo sulla tua faccia? Si guarda sbalordito."_ He had no trouble hearing it as, "Ho, Luigi, why do you have such a heavy, quizzical look on your face? You look dumbfounded."

The speaker was a heavy, well-set man of middle age, mustache-bearing, dark of skin, in a fashionable black suit with simple orange stripes behaving in the fabric like style was its master. The felt hat on his head seemed as new as Benevento knew the suit was, and somewhat costly even in the land of riches. The speaker's hands flew in the air as he talked, approaching an obvious acquaintance at an outside table.

The one he spoke to, Luigi as named, replied, _"Ho bisogno di trovare un grande cuoco italiano, un cuoco supremo, un maestro del gusto, per la ferrovia."_ ("I need to find a great Italian cook, a chef supreme, and a master of taste, for the railroad.")

Young Benevento, having been taught everything his grandfather knew about meats and vegetables in the kitchen, the best seasons of vegetables, the uses of condiments, the difference in minute mixtures, "the splash and dash" he might have called it, how soft the fruits could become in the mouth, in the throat, stepped in as quickly as he had sold the horse and wagon and the farm. He burst into Italian, went immediately to English to carry his argument, to show his versatility. "I am he whom you are looking for. This is the moment I have been waiting for. The Good Lord sent me down this street on this day to show how destiny works at His hands." He pointed overhead beseechingly and blessed himself.

"I am the best cook ever to come out of the mountains in Tuscany. I sold my horse and wagon and farm to get here to America, to bring great Italian cooking to the new land of America. I am Salvatore Benevento at your service. Ask the proprietor to loan me his kitchen for an hour. I shall make your mouths water, make you think of home so that you will cry for your mother's kitchen. Blessed be the image that comes upon you now from your childhood." He made the sign of the cross over them as if he was the village padre.

The two older Italian men, marveling at such precocity in the young man, tumbled before his onslaught. He told them how his grandfather had cooked for years for the two of them and for every celebration in their small village. He spelled out some of his own favorite recipes that moved both men to salivation, and to a few more times of their calling out to the proprietor, "another round of vino for us and the young man, Giovanni, if you please." _("Un altro giro di vino per noi e il giovane, Giovanni, se non vi dispiace.")_

The proprietor, after all the talk and Benevento being hired on the spot for the chef's position on a train leaving the next day for the far western lands of America, finally asked him what he would have cooked if he had been given the run of the restaurant kitchen. The proprietor's eyes were wide with anticipation.

"Ah, I immediately thought of mushroom _trifolati_ ," Benevento said, "for a late afternoon delicacy for these men of taste, most tasty sautéed mushrooms."

The proprietor looked downcast as he said, "That would have been impossible, young man, as we do not have any mushrooms in the kitchen today." He dropped his shoulders as he looked at the others, his hands flung out flat at the imagined loss.

But they all brightened as the young chef looked overhead at a string of tall elm trees, and said, "That is no problem. The Garden in the Sky above us is filled with amanita colyptraderma the Good Lord has provided us. Look at the parade of those choice mushrooms along the upper branch in that large tree across the street. Do they not look delicious even from here?"

Salvatore Benevento, the very next day, was chef No. 1 in the dining car of an A&P Railroad Lines passenger train heading west out of Boston, Tuscany fare on the move.

Nobody yet in the new land realized his real dream was to be a cowboy.

His number 2 cook, Giovanni Ciampa, said one day, as the train left one stop and started on its way again, "I do not poke my nose in your business, Sardi, but I notice you skip out at each stop to buy small things for yourself or perhaps for a lady friend. Can I help with anything? Romance for itinerants like us is a problem from the very beginning."

"Ah, Joe, you I trust to the utmost. I'll ask you right up front to keep my secret always. I have taken this job to become, one day in my dreams, a cowboy. It has driven me since I first heard about them. The stories, the legends, the whole drama of the west as it changes the country feeding it. Yes, the things I buy, the things I keep in my personal bag, are things that I will need as a cowboy. I can't make the change dressed like this." He swept his hands down his cook's attire, the floury sleeves, the apron already having its share of bright juices and liquids, and sweeping stains where he wiped his wrists in a hurry. "Ah, no, never dressed like this. This is not a cowboy." There was disgust in his voice that Giovanni understood.

Seven trips Benevento made back and forth across the great country, across the great river, saw Chicago and St. Louis and burgeoning towns and settlements in Texas and along the Rocky Mountains. It was easy to keep his dream alive for continually he saw from the train windows the herds moving on the wide grasslands or finally corralled for rail movement, and saw the cowboys at every drive's end clearing their dry mouths, cutting the trail dust in their throats, relaxing as if relaxing was a brand new thing for them. He was caught up in the excitement of their world, those simple successes after fraught perils only special men could survive.

In the midst of his eighth trip on the railroad, in an overnight stop in Colorado, he planned to step off the train just after midnight, when the whole world seemed asleep, when deep dreams were at hand.

On his way to the door, silence everywhere like a silken mist, he touched Giovanni on the cheek to waken him.

"Joe," he said in a whisper, and getting Joe's attention. "This is where I get off. This is where I become a cowboy. Wish me luck, my friend. I have written a note to the owners saying that you are the best man for the job now. You know all that I have taught you, all that my grandfather taught me. Speak up when you want to make a point. Trust the taste on your lips. Don't take a back seat for anybody on the train or in the big offices. You are a good chef. I hope to become as good a cowboy, but we'll let time do the talking there. Be well, my friend. _Buona fortuna. Arrivederci."_

He swung his personal bag over his shoulder, heard the tinny rattle of its contents, and stepped into darkness and a new world. In the morning, from an old man at a livery stable with a crude sign saying "Horses for sale," he bought a horse and a saddle and started to learn how to ride. Benevento was a good learner and handled the horse quickly. Two days later he sought employment from a trail boss whose herd was resting a few miles back on the prairie.

"You look brand new. Is them duds you're wearing that new they look like they wasn't worn anyplace yet? Who'd you work for last? You ever drove herd?"

"Well," Benevento said, "I can ride that horse of mine all day."

"Who'd you work for afore this?" the trail boss said. "Can you rope, pull out a dogie for chow, run down a runaway and bring it back? You ain't lookin' the type."

"This will be my first job, but I have read everything about cowboys and I know I can do the job. I came all the way from Italy to be a cowboy." The pain and the dream were both in his face.

"Oh, boy," the trail boss said, "I got a dreamer here on my hands." He snorted and thought a bit and said, "The only thing I got right now is a sick cookie who's ailin' and abed in the chuck wagon. If you can heat beans and water and make the coffee, you got a job until he gets better. Then, when that's scored up, we'll see how good you done. You game for that? What's your name?"

"Sardi Benevento, and I can cook anything. I can make your mouth water from half a mile. All I want is a chance to be a cowboy when your cook gets better. You help me and I'll help you."

"That's a deal, Sardi. Follow me." And he led him to his herd at a sit-down a few miles out on the grass.

It took one meal and the whole crew of drovers knew they had a "chef" working the chuck wagon. He plain outdid himself and the sick cook in that first meal, his personal bag of supplies coming up as handy as a can opener. From then on, anytime a drover or ramrod or the trail boss went into town, Benevento made sure they had a list of condiments and vegetables that he'd put on a list for them. Every purchase made his cooking tasks much easier.

The night the top wrangler came back with a half barrel of apples, Benevento promised them apple pie for a late snack. By darkness he had all hands drooling for the dessert. He surprised them at camp by unpacking his reflector oven, a shiny tin contraption, from his personal bag and erecting it in front of the open fire. Flames seemed to leap into its parts.

He went to work at his fold down table at the rear of the wagon. Soon, cinnamon swimming in the air, sugar coming sweet as honey bread, he had his first apple pie in the oven and the aroma raced across the grass. Night riders on the far edges of the herd were afraid they'd be left out, but there was plenty of apple pie for all of them, the fire hot for hours, the oven soaking up the direct heat, night filling up with the absolute sweetness sitting in the air. In addition, as an extra part of his dessert, he prepared a special sauce to top the slabs of apple pie. The night was lustrous.

Two days later the original cook was back on the job and Benevento had his first turn as a drover.

The trail boss, Max Farmer, said, "Sardi, you're one helluva cook. But a promise is a promise, so you get your shot at bein' a cowpoke, not that I think there's any more glory in it than bein' a great cook. I gotta tell you to keep awake on the night rounds. Sing sweet and low, like one of your nice goodies, and don't close your eyes. We got strange goin's on in this territory. There's always somethin' goin' on out here two ways if you was to look twice."

So Benevento sang lightly, sweetly, a soft tenor; "Sleep little babies, sleep on my side. Sleep, little dogies, sleep as I ride." It came out as, " _Dormi bambino, dormi su un fianco. Cani poco sonno, sonno come io giro."_

He sang sweetly, soft as a nightingale in the shadows, and the small speck of light he spied at a distant point was minute, almost insignificant, like a firefly at work, but he had seen no fireflies yet, and decided to wander over that way.

With his horse tied off on some brush, he slipped into a swale and made his way to where the light had been seen. There came the snicker of a horse and the covered cough of a man on a small hummock. The man, obviously, was watching the herd and any other activity. He coughed again and never heard Benevento sneak up behind him and stick the stiletto he'd carried forever against the other man's throat.

"Say nothing _, Signore_ , or you are dead," Benevento said. "Walk with me, walk quietly to your horse. You make one move and I will sink the blade into your throat. You will never make noise again. Never sing. Never say hello or goodbye to any loved one." He nudged the knifepoint a bit tighter against the throat of the man.

"You understand me?"

"Yes. Don't cut me. I won't do anything."

Benevento led the man to his own horse, unhooked his lasso and tied the man up. Then he walked him to the man's horse and had him climb into the saddle, still tied up. That is the way the night camp guard saw them coming into firelight and called Max Farmer, the trail boss. "Hey, Max, we got company coming in with the Sardi the cook."

Farmer asked the man many questions, and got no answers. He repeated many of the questions, the firelight reflecting on the man's face, and the fear showing in his eyes.

From the edge of the firelight, from the edge of darkness, Benevento, the just replaced cook, walked to the chuck wagon and from his bag retrieved a small honing stone. At the campfire, in view of the captured lookout, whose hands were still bound, Benevento started sharpening his stiletto. The keen knife-edge was slowly drawn across the stone, the whisper of the fine abrasion circulating in the air as thin as a bird's wings. Slowly, again and again, he drew the blade and the shiny tip across the stone. He kept thinking about the whir of a hummingbird's wings.

"Perhaps, Boss, you might give me an opportunity to pose some questions to him." He didn't wait for an answer from Farmer, but drew up a sitting box and sat directly in front of the captured lookout.

"You and I have had a discussion, haven't we, _Signore_? We spoke of small things, didn't we, _Signore?_ Shall we start again with some more questions?"

The trussed man, in the light of the fire, under the eyes of a dozen men, with Benevento and the stiletto yet making slight but serious sounds in the night like the mystical threat of a hummingbird, came loose at every seam. He told them everything he knew; how many men they had in their rustler's gang, who the leader was, when and how they planned to kill as many man as quickly as they could and then to stampede the herd. Later on they would have the forces to regroup the herd and make off with it.

"Well," Farmer said after he heard the whole story, "maybe we can do a little surprise on our own. We'll just go over there and shoot up that whole camp of rustlers as fast as we can. Scatter them to the winds and all the hills." He was not a big man but he had the big word.

That is, until the former cook and cowboy, Sardi Benevento, said, "Why endanger any of our men with that effort, Mr. Farmer. Why don't we get the herd as close as we can in the night, while they're all sleeping and stampede the herd right through their hideout? That should soften things up for us. And we'll do the regrouping."

"Why, _Signore,"_ Farmer said, "you are no longer a cook in this here outfit. You are now lead scout and a full-blown cowboy. But if I was you, I wouldn't throw away that shiny tin oven of yours."

****

Valley of the Lost Swan

Dan'l L'Fleur was caught up in two mysteries that would confound any man on any continent; the marked stone he discovered, with the graceful bird imposed on it, and the Indian maiden he saved from certain drowning in the St. Lawrence River, and the night following when she empowered him.

From then on the girl held his imagination at odd hours as he moved inland on old routes of travel. And the strange markings on the flat stone, found right at his feet at "Anse à la Medée, _"_ supported his long-held belief that early Norse explorers and settlers had gone inland right from "Anse à la Medée, _"_ a known Norse site at the tip of Newfoundland. They too had gone west and he believed they had gone farther than any interested party had thought.

The stone weighed mere ounces, but the swan chiseled on it was so elegant that it ought to be treated as solemn as a religious rite. It must have been so treated in its time, though he could not fathom how many years back the swan had been marked into the stone. There was, however, no argument this day on any of this subject, for antiquity itself filled the air. The smell of it. The thrust of it. The taste of "old or aged," like a good cheese left too long in the larder.

The mantel of antiquity came imposing and draped with warmth and possibilities crowding his mind. Conjecture and proof riding the same horse in a race, guesswork and fact, earthly connections as broad as the entire horizon. What could come out of darkness, out of time? He wondered how many hard facts could come from his query and his quest. Blood tingled and raced in his body. Interest leaped its fever. Nightly he dreamed of shaking hands long in the dim past with a giant man of the north, eyes bright blue like the secret tarns, hair the color of mountain peaks and with such a man there came always the sound of bronze and steel, a warrior at the grind of battle.

And, too, there was the Indian girl to contend with. "Blue Feather," she had said, eyes of the dove, fingers with the touch of petals setting night apart as he brought her safely from the waters of the St. Lawrence. He assumed it was Blue Feather who followed him thereafter, but at a great distance, though this time he had not seen her for days.

Dan'l L'Fleur, "avec deux apostrophes," as he'd say, had lingered only one day in the deeply sequestered valley that began where he left the mountains, going down by a steep trail. With nobody on his tail for the first time in six or seven dawns, he was shortly drawn back into the mountain ranges, the rocky tors and the blue tarns, on his endless search for more Norse remnants. The land was so easy for them, he assumed, until he was in the mountains and found measurement. Uphill in any fashion was enough to make a difference, be an obstacle to any man.

"Believe it," he could have shouted, "Men of history had been in these mountains long before me, great men, great warriors who fought and conquered the seas, the ice in its huge spreads and forms." His grandfather told him tales an elder of the Indians had relayed; "White men with white beards and blue eyes were here in long boats many moons ago, before we were born, before the Great Fathers of the Nations were born, before our people came here to set their teepees on this ground."

L'Fleur and his grandfather believed nothing could be truer than what an Indian said. "In their languages they do not have a word for "liar," the grandfather said, "in none of the languages I have encountered in the Nations."

He knew his grandfather had never lied to him.

Dan'l L'Fleur was 29 years old, a student from his first reading years, and often talked aloud to himself in the wilderness. The adventures in reading and in the lore and legends he listened to from all sources had built their own history within him. He'd been thoroughly exposed to the Newfoundland site of the early Norse settlement, "Anse à la Medée _" (cove of the ship Medee_ ), which became "L'Anse aux Meduses," Jellyfish Cove, named by French fishermen, which in turn by phonetic adaption, became known as "L'Anse aux Meadows" for the area's open spaces.

He understood the ways nicknames arise or are converted from other intents. Despite what they were called, his intense curiosity was bound on antiquity.

L'Fleur and his grandfather always believed the remains at "Anse à la Medée _"_ had been a site settled by Norsemen. The information of the site, arising from crew of the ship Medée and traversing French channels, was thought to be unimpeachable by the pair, and drove them to seek other Norse settlements further inland, but in the heart of new America, on the route of the inland waters. Each one looked out past the foot of one of the great lakes. Each one was obsessed that Norsemen had put up small settlements along their route after coming from northern settlements along the edge of the vast sea. They had come down the St. Lawrence River, onto Lake Erie, land-traveled onto Lake Huron, and then moved by boat to Lake Superior and Lake Michigan. From either lake the whole middle west of what would be known as the continent of North America opened before them, with its great supply of food – animals, nuts, and other vegetation to sustain them.

L'Fleur's map dated 1862, the year his grandfather died, had been rolled by someone into a soft rabbit skin and mysteriously left at his campsite in a lower part of Canada, near the many huge lakes. It was left hanging well off the ground. He suspected it was done by Blue Feather, the Indian maiden who had trailed him for hundreds of miles from a piece of Canada where he had talked freely of seeking remains of Norse settlements. Many times he had seen her on ridgelines behind him, but she never got close enough for him to be certain, except the one time when he found the map. She had been that close and he had been asleep, in the arms of his own god, by the warm fire.

A few times he had double-backed after darkness descended, but never found her. "She knows when I am coming. She must be part witch or shaman-lady," he said to the elements. Fully with him was the first memory of her in his arm as he plied the other arm against the current of the St Lawrence, trying to bring her to the banking. Then the last memory, warm but fleeting, stayed a solace he kept trying to recapture.

Otherwise he often reflected on the things he had learned, believed, put into a file in his mind: Artifacts found at _"_ Anse à la Medée" were said by northern Indians, in legend or lore of their tribe, to be objects from back in the time of Wabantanka, Great God of the North Skies. It was also said Wabantanka's children, white and blond before the sun colored them, had roamed the land far from their homes in that "north of another place." In "Anse à la Medée" and other such sites, Wabantanka's children had lived in what the Indians called "Great Earth Houses," long and wide and made of earth parts put together by bronze and iron tools harder than rock, sharper than odors, more rugged than grizzly bears or the great white bears of the ice places. The artifacts had revealed much to Indian wise men. And so to Dan'l L'Fleur, intrepid seeker of truths, of solutions to mysteries.

When L'Fleur found the single flat rock with the elegant marking chipped into its features, he was mesmerized, overcome with a possible connection between the blond giants of the longboats and the carved swan. The neck of the swan to them had to be more gracefully elegant than anything they had ever known in the land of colored skies and cold air. And it widened the path of zeal and interest for him.

He had come down the length of Lake Michigan, not without minor trouble from renegades and campsite robbers, and was seven days west of the end of the lake when a small wisdom told him that the woman rider tailing behind him once again was not Blue Feather. She sat her horse in a different manner, shifted oddly, bore herself not so upright on the bareback. Again, he promised to back track during the night and find her.

But as before, she was not to be found, as he had not found Blue Feather. "They are special spirits in their own way," he whispered into the soft sky.

As always, the stone burned with curiosity and mystery in a small pouch he had hung on his shoulder with a rawhide loop. It also made his heart leap at odd hours.

The route he had followed, to this point in time, was the route of Norsemen driven by curiosity and adventure to travel inland, to see the sights, to see how this end of the Earth sat.

Sitting by his fire at night he reflected often on the places he had been in his short life, and the things he had seen. In one corner of his mind a thing persisted, trying to tell him he had missed something, something found once had mystified him. The stone kept inserting itself in his mind, saying it belonged to "that thing once seen." Then, in one flash of celerity, like a bolt of lightning had lit his brain to view, he saw where the stone should belong. Once, in that long forgotten past, in these mountains, near a tarn as blue as Norse eyes, he had seen its place of selection.

Up here, in this piece of the mountains, in a place he had been perhaps 25 years earlier with his grandfather, he had seen a place of markings on a wall of a tarn. Could he possibly find that place again? His grandfather had said he would be here again one day. He thought the old man had meant in spirit, but it was him he was talking about, the grandson with the same thirsts and hungers. Parts of that landscape eluded him. He tried to recall a peak that labored into the skies, an old peak worn to brown on the top, but he could not find it. For days he took different trails, ended some as fruitless, and took another. He saw bear and deer and wolves, and goats high on one mountain were dots in his eyes. He looked down on two sparkling rivers; saw the falls that set them off on their run, passed under one fall he had passed under before, a crude but secret crossing of a river beginning its flat run. Twice he saw wagons, freighters and settlers in the mix, as they moved west, and bands of riders, perhaps friendly and perhaps not, as they moved on a series of lower trails. He kept his distance from these groups. But these people, as they did in the long past, still moved to the interior of the land. Or the end of it, at the edge of the next ocean.

Once when he entered a cave, he found it to be a perfect place for a good rest. It was from the mouth of the cave that he finally spoke to the older Indian woman still trailing him.

He caught her unawares, startled her from his hidden place, and said, "Why do you follow me?"

She was embarrassed to be discovered so easily, but quickly responded. "I come this way for Blue Feather, to tell her where you go, man of her heart. I will follow you always until I can tell her where you rest your horse. It is my promise. Where do you go?"

"Why does she not follow me as she did before? I knew she was there from the first day. And why are you so faithful?"

"Blue Feather's horse jumped from rattle snake. She fell off horse and broke her arm. Came to my tepee to fix. Tell me her story of love. I give promise." She smiled at him, and nodded a secret affirmation. "She choose well. You do not stop. Keep moving all the time. Where do you go? What do you look for?"

"I look for the place of a blue tarn in the mountains, where one mountain sits down like a tired dog, where men from the north marked walls with signs in stone. I have one of their stones that I believe was carried from there."

Three Leaves exhibited real interest. She extended her hand and said, "Let me see the stone."

L'Fleur took the stone from the pouch. "I think this came from a wall above the tarn. Once, long ago, with my grandfather, I saw signs like this on a wall. One sign, carved like this, was a fish. Another one was an animal. A puma I think. One was a man in a great canoe. I visited there once so long ago it wants to fade away."

"Oh," said the older Indian squaw, "You went to a place I know, the Place of the White Warriors. The signs swim, they crawl, they walk, they fly. My people talk about them all the time. Wabantanka sent them, all of them when the Earth was being formed, to hold up the mountains, to fill the great waters, the great skies. To be plenty for the gods who come later. Men of great arms, men who hold great weapons in their hands. Kill great white bears for meat. Fight buffalo one at a time with their hard weapons." She paused as if in repose and consideration. "Long ago," she said almost whimsically, "Long ago." The wonder of it all sat right on her face.

"What is your name?" said L'Fleur. "What tribe are you from?"

"I am Three Leaves from the first Lacombe Village, also in the north. We were sent by the Great North Gods to make the Earth ready. Blue Feather is Lacombe, too, but from a secret place. She found her god in you. She come to you again."

"I wait her all my nights."

"She make that happen. She tell me."

"Can you show me how to get there, to the Place of White Warriors?"

"You come here long time on the trail. Dead Mountain is around the bend of trail, in next valley in these high mountains. All the stone signs are there except the one you carry with you. We have always been told a god would come back with it."

L'Fleur studied the eyes of Three Leaves. They did not lie, he believed, and believed her words came from a special source. "I am not a god and I did not take away the bird stone. I found it a long way from here, in the cold land of the north. I think it was carried off by one of the north men." Wonder and question sat in his eyes. "I am not a god," he repeated.

Three Leaves was adamant in her reply, though she evinced no anger or disappointment in his remarks. "Blue Feather say you are god. A good thing. We know things from early time. We know you bring bird stone back, make place whole again. Wabantanka speak it long time ago, to some of the Great Warriors. Vow from god is ever."

At the next turn in the trail on the edge of the mountain pass, as Three Leaves had promised, L'Fleur shook with excitement when he saw the tired mountain rise above the land and the circular walls of a magnificent tarn or mountain pool sitting like guests at a party. A minor high valley held a gorgeous scene. The walls on the far side of the tarn he studied with a looking glass carried in his saddle pack. High on a section of cliff forming one end of the tarn, he saw the place of the inscriptions, and the missing spot where he figured the swan was originally set in place, and from which place had been taken by a scavenger or some other person and carried off, all the way back to "Anse à la Medée."

Questions would ever abound about both sites. Books would be written. Was the swan taken as proof by another explorer?

After his study and lengthy examination of cliff structure, L'Fleur had to climb the walls to re-fit the swan where it belonged, and where he could again look at the series of carvings thereon, to imagine the stories they told.

He realized he'd have to explore the bottom of the tarn and look at every piece of material found on the bottom. History sat below the water level, just as it did above on the cliff faces.

Then, if Blue Feather had not healed sufficiently well to come to him, he would go to find her, and they would celebrate the rest of their lives before it would pass too quickly on them. How far back had the wall been decorated by the Norsemen? With unknown years piled up, dizziness mounted in his mind. The taste stayed with him.

With extreme care he re-set the graceful swan stone into its place, along with the other equally delicate, but worn, stones that showed a fish, a bear, and a Norse warrior. The lost swan fixed the complement back to its intention, and to its story.

It was only then that the order of the stones issued the story for him, the fish from the sea, the animal on the land, the bird in flight, and the man coming last as the gods had decreed from another place in the sky where the stars at night burned like fiery embers of a wide-spread fire. Or like a bucket of jewels cast from the hands of a god seeking to make all things more beautiful, more promising. All things gave promise of the next in the order.

For two days L'Fleur took dives at odd times trying to reach bottom or see what had dropped to the base of the tarn centuries back. Fish he had seen in many rivers and bodies of fresh water swam in all parts of the tarn. He saw trout and other fish he recognized, and a scattering of crayfish never seen before, a smaller variety that skittered away from him on vertical surfaces. A few times he fled to the surface to renew his air supply.

A small waterfall ran off the lip of one edge, the lowest point in the containment structure. It was narrow, but not sharp, worn down by unknown years of wear. The Indians said great calves of ice, born of the Earth itself before the gods came to visit, had made the tarns or mountain pools, gouging room for ice melt to hold within the mountains to keep the fish, to feed man, to extend life on Earth. Many of them were in small circular shapes eroded by ice and water into the Rocky Mountains.

L'Fleur could not reach bottom, but on two occasions, in the proper light close to sun at the zenith, he saw a collection of shapes on the bottom. He could only recognize a boat or canoe of full size. He wondered how it had sat on the bottom, unless it was not made of wood. The mysteries leaped with each assessment of time, article or artifact. The chiseled stones were so fine his amazement went fully around to numbness. The stories that Three Leaves told by night fires, the ones that Blue Feather would unleash in years to come, were enthralling.

"She must have more knowledge that ever I bore in my short life," he said to Three Leaves. "Is she as lovely as I think I remember?"

"Blue Feather could be queen of the Nations of the North, but she chose to be with a God of Earth."

L'Fleur cringed when he heard that, but felt exultation at the same time. "I hope she mends fast, that her bones set quick as a fox."

Three Leaves smiled. "Blue Feather also."

Once, when he surfaced after a long dive, Three Leaves was standing stoically by the rocky rim of the tarn.

"You swim too deep. Blue Feather might worry if she here. I see you go near the bottom of water, but water is deeper now than in time of other gods. If mountain talks in the ground sometime and shake loose promise, the water might rush down the mountain. You get to bottom then. Not before."

At night, with Three Leaves off in a cave, L'Fleur dreamed of Blue Feather. Once more she formed against him as she had in the river.

The next evening, after another fruitless dive where he could not reach the bottom, nor reach any artifacts or see what the boat or canoe was made of, he was conscious of a slow motion in the earth, as if it were mumbling or catching its breath. Then the sensation took a serious turn and there was a positive shaking underneath him, in the walls of the tarn, on the whole mountain. For a moment L'Fleur thought Three Leaves had called it up, the shaking of the whole Earth, her being a god of the Lacombe.

His horse seemed to know more than him what was coming. It shied and skittered in place, and its eyes grew wide and yellow as a train's beacon. L'Fleur rushed to the animal, patted his neck, and spoke to him in the softest voice, as if he was riding night guard on a herd.

Rocks tumbled in a landslide in the canyon, the noise at first a slow rumble like distant thunder, then sounded a harsh retort, like a blast of lightning, and a section of a wall on the far side of the valley disengaged from the mountain and slid down the side of the mountain. In the tarn, blue as ever, a small wave gathered energy into itself and rolled across the pool. Another thunderous crack, like a cannon shot, boomed on the other side of the tarn. The rim of the tarn opened and water rushed forward. A second wave rushed over the edge, and then the rim split as the thunder in the Earth continued. A huge rift appeared and the tarn water began to pour out of the once-solid closure. It was a mighty waterfall for a while as thirty or more feet of water emptied from the tarn.

A new miracle was at hand, as if ordered up for him. Wonder pulled at him again, as he thought of Blue Feather and Three Leaves and the Norse men of long ago, and the delicate swan he had brought back to roost.

In the morning he dove again, and saw the boat and knew it was made of stone like all other things. He found a few tools so clean it was as if they had been dropped into the tarn the day before. He knew old steel and bronze the way it might look in a shop run by a blacksmith in any town of the west.

He was exhilarated; they had been here. They had done these things, and he was sharing them. He turned to show Three Leaves. She was nowhere to be seen. At the tarn the water had ceased its flow downhill. The waves were still. There was silence, eerie silence. Dan'l L'Fleur breathed it in one more time, sharing this huge echo of antiquity.

On the edge of another mountain, off in the distance, on the lip of another trail, he saw Blue Feather coming his way with her play on history. A warm anxiety and a new energy overcame him. He wondered if Blue Feather or Three Leaves had a way of telling his grandfather all he had found; it was possible, he fully understood.

On the wall of the tarn he read one more time the progression of a long story coming to him all the way from "Anse à la Medée" and from elsewhere. He wondered once more what Blue Feather would add to the Valley of the Lost Swan in the middle of the new world of the west.

****

Secret of the Stone

In August of 1753, snow having fallen during the night in the high regions, a mountain man, Leman Decareau, an adventurer once of Anse à la Medée in Newfoundland, kicked up a stone on a high pass in the Tetons, almost losing his footing at the same time. The drop over the edge of the narrow trail was a precipitous one and Decareau let the whole range know his displeasure. He made sure his mules did not find the fault in the trail and was about to toss the stone over the edge, when his fingers felt on the bottom side what he thought to be an inscription. Being a man given somewhat to superstition, attentive to what signs any of the gods might leave for him, in whatever manner or disguise, he turned the flat stone over to check the bottom side.

Voila!

Decareau did not understand what he saw cut into the stone, but there was a series of symbols, small as coins, figures that seemed to evoke an animal of one kind or another, and smaller formations of what he assumed to be the stuff of language. He had never read an entire book, saw only an occasional newspaper a drummer or wagon train might have lost on their way west of where he was, but he was able to read a bit of French and a similar bit of English. When it came to mountain men, he considered himself a scholar.

On impulse, and afraid of ignoring what might be a god-like sign, Decareau placed the stone in a saddlebag on one of his pack mules, and forgot it for the next three weeks of his journey to a distant town, curious about news of the world, minor treats for the appetite, a few whiskeys carving their way down his long-dry throat, and conversation with, around and about women. His only company had been an Indian squaw, Bright Snow, whose man, Hawk's Cry, had died in a landslide and Decareau had helped her burn his body in the ritual promised him as a boy. Her gratitude for Decareau's help in performing the proper ceremony was shown in the months that followed.

When Decareau finally arrived in a place called Crispin Falls, a gathering of buildings snug against a rugged mountain that seemed to have been calved out of two bigger mountains beyond Crispin Falls, he eventually mentioned the stone, but not immediately, to a big man wearing two side arms on his belt and who had declared himself the law in Crispin Falls.

"Where are you from and where are you bound, stranger?" the big man asked, and remained leery of the newcomer with hard eyes, a hard chin even with a beard, and a mighty rifle he barely seemed to let free of his hand. "I'm the local law here and we try to cut off any problems as soon as they show themselves. I'm Miles Kirkness. Who are you?"

"I'm a man who minds his own business, who doesn't have time for those who think he's a problem on first sight, and who might want to take his rifle away from his hand before he shoves it hard where it hurts most men standing just like you're standing now. Once we get that settled, I can get engaged in a conversation about world news if there is any, the best whiskey if there is any, and any women that can treat a man like a man and not like an echo lost in the mountains where I have been the last 8 months, and building up a thirst for all the goodness in life, which you apparently don't handle."

Kirkness knew that if he made a move for his gun, or for Decareau's, he'd soon be dead or hurting on the way to being dead. The move was not made, two drinks were toasted, and Kirkness whispered a few secrets to Decareau, and the pair seemed inseparable until the lamps were lit and Decareau moved, the way he'd move if he was on a hunt again, into shadows, only to appear at the dawn flash, asking for breakfast at the hotel restaurant.

One moment from the previous evening had stayed with Decareau, and it dealt with the stone he had found in the mountains, with the unknown message hard on the face of it. Kirkness had replied in the affirmative when Decareau asked, "Are there any elder Indians in the region, one who might be of great importance, esteem, or steeped in history of his tribe, other tribes or the whole area in general?"

Decareau, cunning and wisdom working in him continually, the art of a successful hunter, kept his question wide open as to his reason for asking. There was no sense in giving Kirkness any edge on curiosity, or an opportunity to dig into the query.

"If you want to talk to someone about Indian ways, my friend," Kirkness said, "you have to go upriver to the Cheyenne camp. One man I know of is as old as the mountain itself. I have heard him speak of the old days when his people came from the land of the ice far to the north, chasing game all the way to this valley, this river, and the mountain that sits here looking down on us."

His gesture was wide as the land itself. "His name is Two Feathers Blue, almost as old as the mountain or the river that grows from it. He speaks a manner of English and French and, I swear, some Spanish carried to him by another ancestor who came from the great water at the bottom of this new world and wore the helmet of steel."

Decareau became animated. "Does Two Feathers Blue trade with white men? Does he trap beaver or hunt fox pelt or treat deerskin to become soft as feathers?"

"Oh, man of questions and bright eyes, he is too old for any of that. His people say he has not left the river camp for many years, as many fingers we have who are still whole. Like I said, he is as old as the mountain that will throw a shadow on us before this day is done.

Three hours later, the journey upriver on horseback an easy trip, Decareau spied the Cheyenne camp on the side of the river, a cluster of teepees sitting about a lodge house with a pelt covering. More than a hundred animals, he guessed, had given their hides for the lodge cover. Smoke rose from a fire outside the entrance and he smelled meat cooking on the fire. A squaw worked about the fire, adding a piece of wood to the small flames, a pot hanging on a heavy pole with rocks piled on its lower end to hold it in place. She looked at him as he entered the village where only the young ran around the teepees chasing each other.

Understanding Indian women, Decareau waved his hand at his nose, smiled broadly, and pointed high overhead ... she had the gift of the gods when it came to mealtime. Her nod was acceptance, and she pointed to a log at the side of the fire. He sat on the log after giving her a piece of treated deerskin. The meat, which she shared with him while she sat on the other side of the fire, was tender and tasty.

With a decisive motion, Decareau licked his fingers when he finished the portion of meat, and said, "I am Decareau and wish to speak with Two Feathers Blue, the man with all knowledge in the village of the Cheyenne." He said his name again, as he pointed to his chest, "Decareau."

She nodded and looked at the lodge, and then called to a young boy standing near the lodge, saying the name,

Two Feathers Blue, in her language. The boy went inside the lodge.

The man with a bent leg and a hard face that limped out the opening in the lodge brought Decareau straight up on his feet, brought him to attention. Despite the bad leg, the limp it forced into play, the man generated respect, antiquity, a precious grasp on things of the past, and Decareau felt all of it as the old Indian came his way, held his hand up in salute.

"Decareau," he said in plain English, and added, "Bonjour, Monsieur, then said welcome in his own tongue, (va'ôhtama). Bright Snow sent word that you would walk among us someday. The word moves among the people of the Nations, all the Nations. They know Decareau kept the honor for Bright Snow's brave, Hawk's Cry. All the Nations know of Decareau and Hawk's Cry."

He spoke to the woman at the fire, in the Cheyenne words, "Ve'ho'e Decareau, he'pohtôtse," (This white man is Decareau. He will smoke with us.) She went into the lodge. More than an hour later, while Two Feathers Blue and Decareau still talked of many things, but not the stone in Decareau's saddlebag, she came out in ceremonial dress and carried in two hands the long pipe of the elders.

"Decareau is like the eagle in the sky looking for answers," Two Feathers Blue said. His hand, palm down, swept slowly over the ground as though he was touching all the earth of the village. "Decareau is like the eagle coming here, where all answers move in the air, where all answers were left to grow in the ground by the fathers of the Nations long ago. Two Feathers Blue talks to them when the morning breaks from the night and will find the answer for your search."

He motioned for the pipe, lit it with a flaming stick from the fire, puffed twice, and handed the pipe to Decareau. "Hawk's Cry owes Decareau and calls from the other side. He waits word from you. Do you have words for him?"

Decareau was at peace, yet the earth turned under him. "If there is an answer to my search, I ask now, where is it?"

The old Indian, puffing on the pipe, knowing much more than he had shown, said to Decareau, "When the earth shudders, when the ground breaks, the answer will come to you. The earth must open its mouth. Then you will know."

When he unpacked the mystery stone from his saddlebag, Decareau said, "I found this stone on a trail in the great mountains. I tripped on it and nearly fell into the canyon."

"The elders from deep in the past said, 'Before one falls from the top of the mountain, he must know the Earth at his feet.' Now you will know what was given to you, the Earth at your feet."

Two Feathers Blue's hands slid across the stone even before he looked down at it, a near chant coming from him as his fingers found the emblems, the formations, the message inscribed in the stone. He said, "The bear says his den is near. It holds his treasure and no man can take it from him. Only he can give it up. Where you found this stone, where it found you, is near the den of the bear of the north, 'vóhpenáhkohe,' and is only for a true believer of the spirits, for the bear of the north, 'vóhpenáhkohe,' can shake loose any stone from the mountain. 'Vóhpenáhkohe' came over the ice with the early ones and sleeps in the mountain under the snow."

Decareau, not stunned at all by the revelation, or the promise in it, but his mind whirling in an odd direction, images leaping to his attention, said, "What part does Bright Snow have in this that I do not know? How can her voice reach here ahead of me?"

He was not prepared for the reply coming from Two Feathers Blue.

"Decareau, you do not walk alone in the Nations. Bright Snow and Hawk's Cry walk with you." His knowing smile was the first part of a secret being given to Decareau. Then he provided the heart of the secret. "Bright Snow carries your child, the one that she and Hawk's Cry waited for, the child who has been waiting all this time to come upon the earth. And so, as you can now understand, you do not walk alone in the Nations."

"That is a surprise," Decareau said, the joy riding on his face, "but it has been possible since Hawk's Cry was sent off to the spirits waiting on him. What is not a surprise is the message the stone carries. I believe my future is carried in the words of the stone. If it was left there to be found by me, it must direct me to the riches it promises. I will look for the den of the bear of the north. I will search for his treasure."

Two Feathers Blue, looking like the sage he was, said in a most solemn voice, "It is the message carried on the stone, Decareau. The riches will come to you in your search, and they will be found under the snow."

For the first time in their discussions, in all the revelations from the old man, in the continuous smile on the elder's face, Decareau knew the true meaning of the secret of the stone.

****

Stolen Flag, Arkansas 1st Mounted Rifles

The Great War was over for almost a dozen years, supposedly, and the mix of ranch hands on many spreads in Texas was composed of young men and war veterans, sometimes those veterans had fought on opposite sides in the war. Because of such history, a strong owner, or a strong trail boss, was needed to ramrod his outfit with a solid hand, trying to prevent personal emotions from getting the upper hand over the duties of the crew.

Largo Fremont, former Confederate cavalry officer, was one tough dude in his own right, and had come up the winner of a decent spread in Texas during a card game when a cheater, and the man who lost his ranch, was shot by another player. There was no dispute over Fremont winning the pot with his inside straight filled on the river card. Sitting quietly at the table, he was a bull of a man, slow to hate, quick to settle a loss or justify reprisal.

Fremont, with a newly purchased wagon loaded with freshly purchased supplies, rode out to his new place, deed in hand, with another player from the eventful game, an old comrade from his outfit. The unit had experienced much action in the war, as cavalry and sometimes as straight-out infantry when the demand was made. The two men were brothers of the action and had high respect for one another.

Fremont's companion was also one tough dude, Francis Forrest Mayberry, but always called "Timber" by friends and close acquaintances, which usually were horsemen or cowmen or comrades. Mayberry, an outspoken man on many issues, did not like buffalo hunters for wasting good food the Indians needed by leaving piles of it to rot on the grass, mountain men because they did not know how to act in town or in front of women with class, card sharks who were as bad as bank robbers and other stick-up men, rustlers and horse thieves at any time, and the occasional Yankee bigmouth who hadn't let go of the last musket or sword issued to him from army supplies. He was partial to fair play, women's rights, open range, and Indian causes, the latter usually creating at least an odd and touchy atmosphere around him.

In action, he was quicker to react than Fremont. "I'm selfish," he'd say when asked about it. "It's me or them and I like me better and sooner." Though they might have marched to different drummers, like a bass drum or a tambourine, they marched together.

In physical measurements, Mayberry was the ferret of the two, but a wily and wiry one never at a loss for quickness or decision, and almost half the size of his best friend. His size had paid him and his comrade with sharp dividends on a few tight occasions, a slimmer tree protecting him, a smaller barrier to catch minie balls coming like rain.

From the outset of their friendship, Fremont and Mayberry found a kinship that had never existed for them with other individuals. They could be arm in arm with comrades, give their lives for them when the time came, but only the pair of them was comfortable riding along together in open country, their conversations favoring the causes they favored, including spirited, bright, and talented women whose names were never used, old comrades who needed a lift of any kind, horse thieves who ought to be taught a lesson on the nearest limb when all details were known as facts, and stray children the war had offered up, or found on the treacherous plains where some of them were left on their own along the way west because of various behaviors or incidents with or without cause.

The one incident that truly grated both of these men, from the moment of discovery, was the theft of their regimental flag in the dead of night near the end of the war. It was obvious to Lt. Colonel Blake, the commanding officer of the regiment, that two guards had fallen asleep during the night, but he suspected that two women had drugged the guards with favors and hops or another herb inserted into the clothing the men were wearing while on duty. He gave the men menial punishment, letting loss of honor be their ultimate humiliation and the end of the war closing in on them. The women said they thought it was a trick played by another soldier, a sergeant, but one whom they could not identify within the regiment, swearing they had not seen him when all the sergeants were brought before them. The women volunteered to make a new flag, which they accomplished in one day.

Mayberry often said, "I swear it was some damned Yankee that pulled it off."

"You got to admire him if it was," Fremont offered. "He could have been shot if he'd been caught in a gray uniform."

"Hell, Largo, you know how many of our boys were pushed into this war by family or their own neighbors, boys who might have always believed every man is born free, slaves, Indians, Eskimos, you put a name on them, they're all free at birth, all coming from the one darkness into the one light."

The two veterans, just after finishing off a cattle drive of considerable importance to the ranch and to prosperity, had taken a side trip to see another one of the 1st Arkansas Mounted Rifles, confined for good to the care of his daughter. Old wounds had set Zachary Flare on his back for the long count and he had sent word he would like to see his comrades one more time.

Mayberry, who always said out straight what was on his mind, took a steady look around them in all directions as they rode, before he said, "Largo, I'm not sure I'm ready to see old Zach on his death bed. I'd rather have seen him go down that time at Wilson Creek, the boy had a whole lot of courage in him that time."

"And a whole lot of lead, too, Timber. Least we can do is honor his request, pay respect to his daughter, and tell her we can help with any money she owes." Fremont continued riding straight ahead, no pause, turn or color added to statement. The wrap around his waist, containing enough money to run the ranch for another half year, would also stop most bullets en route to his gut, being bundles of currency. His saddlebag carried a goodly sum of gold. He also was aware of the horizon in all directions, and suspicious places where roadmen or brigands might be waiting on their next victims.

Over the rise of a small rolling mound in the Texas grass, Fremont pointed out the beginning of a small town along the Concho River, a minor collection of cabins, barns bigger than the cabins, and a scattering of horse and cattle activity.

"Zach's daughter and her husband own one of them small places," Fremont said. "Must be tough on them, keeping at Zach's speed, not being able to move around like they want to or need to, at least on some days." He patted the bundle under his shirt, and slapped one hand on the saddlebag behind his rump.

A big smile crossed Mayberry's face as he figured what Fremont was thinking about, laying a piece of change on the daughter. He was warm, fed, had ammunition, his horse was in good shape, so there was little else he had need of at the moment. A second smile seemed to add a confirmation to the previous images that flew across his consciousness.

"I seen that coming back a few miles, Largo. All the way."

They both laughed. Soon, they had found the right place and introduced themselves to Zach's daughter, hanging clothes on a line strung between a tree and a pole driven into the ground. One of the pieces of hung clothes was a Confederate shirt that once sat on Corporal Zachary Flare. It was faded seriously, had been patched many times, and wore shadows of stripes a long time lost, but said Confederate to the men's eyes.

"I knew who you were when you came over the rise. Pa said you'd come, and here you are. I have to tell you, he's not doing so good, but keeps mumbling a few words. Once in a while I hear him say the word 'flag' like he's trying to remember how to spell it." She finished her work by hanging a light gray nightshirt. "Come in and see him. If he's awake all the way, he'll be sure glad to see you. Talks about you men most of the time. Has done so since he had me send that message to you. That's a few weeks now. You're prompt, as the teacher says. That's good of you. We're alone now. My husband's been dead over two months now, shot by accident at the saloon one night when two drunks went for their guns."

Her hazel eyes set off the ache the two men had not seen in a long time.

Mayberry, standing closest to her, patted her on the shoulder. "We'll help all we can. Don't worry about anything."

Mary Flare Horgan wiped her eyes and said, "I'm sorry. It's been a rough stretch." She leaned into Mayberry's hand, as if accepting its graces and intentions. "Thank you," she said, brightened up, flattened her apron, and led them into the small cabin of three rooms. The first was a busy kitchen, a woman's kitchen, with a door closed to one bedroom, it appeared, and a second door open to a man on a bed, his knees drawn up, the snores sounding healthier than they really were.

"Pa," Mary Horgan said, "Mr. Fremont and Mr. Mayberry are here to see you." She said it a second time, and then a third time.

Zach Flare mumbled, dropped his knees, snored once more, coughed, and opened his eyes. "Boys, I'm glad to see you. I been thinkin' too hard. My head hurts. I'm glad you come. I don't have a lot of time. Dunlop. Remember the name. Dunlop. Don't forget it. Up-river of here, ten miles maybe. Has a place. Mary's husband Paul said a long time ago the man has a flag on his wall. Nothin' ever dawned on me until I heard he was in the Union army. I didn't even know he was in the war. Never said anything much, but some time ago Paul mentioned he had a flag on his wall in his main room. Nothing dawned on me until Paul said one other fellow said it was a Confederate flag. That's when I got to thinking, so I asked one pal to tell me what it was like, 'cause I been layin' here too long and thinkin' about our flag, and how interestin' it would be if it was ours."

He took a deep breath and said, "It'd be real interestin' because the fellow got a look at it and says it's red with a diamond shape and white and blue stars on it and ... " he paused before saying, "it says 'Arkansas' on it, in that diamond."

Zach Flare took a deep breath, let a smile cross his face, and let out one long sigh. He was dead in that same minute.

Fremont and Mayberry took care of all the arrangements; the burial, the sale of the cabin pending their return from a short visit up the river, and the promise to Mary Flare Horgan there was a place for her, with her own kitchen, at their ranch down along the Colorado River.

Fremont and Mayberry, after an investigation through old veteran contacts, found out that Richard Dunlop had been a Union soldier in the war, a member of a special advance unit with no proper name and no battle history, but it seemed to wear a mantle of mystery about its activities in the war. It was known as Zero Company and was suspected of any number of unrecorded incidents, most of that knowledge being rumor and guess work. It could have carried itself forward on plain old mystery.

The two veteran Mounted Rifles were first spotted by a Dunlop man as they sat their saddles on a hill looking down on the Dunlop spread, the DOZ Ranch, called 'Sleepyhead' by some locals, but which Mayberry thought looked to be a short approach to Dunlop of Zero Company. "I'd swear it on a stack of bibles, Largo. The man wears the whole thing on his pride. And I'll bet that's our flag in there."

The Dunlop man watched them check a map a few times as one of them pointed out certain landmarks in the distance. He finally approached them and asked if he could be of any assistance or if they were lost.

"Hell, son," Fremont said, "There ain't any place in all of Texas we could get ourselves lost." Then, pointing out again the land they had been looking at, he said, "This is mighty pretty country, son. Who owns that place down there? Is that the Dunlop spread?" He pointed down at the ranch.

"That's my boss's place, The DOZ Spread.

"He ever mention selling the place, son?" Mayberry said. "Sure is pretty down there, and that grass looks awful good too."

"C'mon, I'll take you down to meet him and you can ask him yourself." He put out his hand. "I'm Charlie Bakersfield. Been workin' here 'bout three years now."

The three shook hands and Bakersfield led them downhill and into the Dunlop property, Oscar Dunlop standing up from his porch chair as they approached his ranch house, a good-sized building, roomy looking, in excellent shape, with shiny windows all around and flowers in porch flower boxes.

Bakersfield said, "These gents, boss, was wonderin' if you got any ideas about selling the place. Say it's right pretty from up there on the hill. Even had a map of the area. Names they can give you 'cause I forgot already." He smiled in apology, and rode off, out of the discussion.

"Come and sit, gents. Have some lemonade. It's fine and dandy after a long ride," Dunlop said.

"Where you men from?"

Fremont was studying Dunlop. "We're from down along the Concho River and been on a drive for a spell. It's nice country up this way. You been here long?"

Dunlop, offering both men a tall glass of lemonade, said, "I came here after the war. Been here ever since." He looked at them, as if checking their ages, and said, "You men in the war?"

Mayberry jumped right in. "Not our luck, as one might say. Never did get shot at except by a few rustlers once down on the Concho."

"Well, it was a great experience for me. I was in the Union army from nearly the first day. I'm 50 now and can feel all those hard days." He shook his head as though conveying the idea that it really was worth it in spite of the outcome.

"You must have seen a lot of action," Fremont said. "That leave you with any souvenirs on the body? You look pretty fit for 50 and being a veteran of the war."

"No scars on the body, if that's what you're asking. Never got wounded, though I was in a few scrapes. When it comes to mementos, I have a special one. Brought it all the way out here with me after the war. Finally put it up so I could see it. Took something special to get it."

His gaze, as if into the past and all it represented, turned into a smile. He brightened with some favored memory, as he said, "Come on inside. I'll show you, but I want to say that the place is not for sale before we go any further. I would not part with it for anything you can name or show me."

Dunlop took off his Stetson, opened the door and ushered them into his home.

There, spread across one wall of the room, at the far end, was the diamond field with the four blue stars and the name 'Arkansas' bright as ever, and the white stars clustered in a blue border on the diamond of the Regimental Flag of 1st Arkansas Mounted Rifles.

Mayberry, the hottest of the two old Confederate veterans, acted first, quickly, with abruptness that shook Dunlop, as he pulled down the flag, started to fold it with his pistol in one hand, and said, "Sir, I claim what is ours, our Regimental Colors, stolen in the dark near the end of the war by a sneak thief, who, if he has any druthers on us taking back what is ours, better speak now or never say another word."

Dunlop, mouth ajar, said nothing as Mayberry completed the proper folding of the flag, the pistol still in his hand.

Fremont had not moved, but had the vision of the flag being stolen in the night, seeing the shadowy remnant of the man standing open-mouthed in front of him flitting across a piece of that remembered darkness.

Fremont and Mayberry rode away from the DOZ spread of Oscar Dunlop, with the flag folded most properly in a saddlebag, and not a worry on their minds in the heart of Texas, except arranging the final sale of the Flare homestead and getting Mary Flare Horgan into new living quarters, down along the Concho River.

****

The Outlaw Sheriff Otto Pilsner

Darkness reigned in the Virginia valley in 1864 where an advanced unit of the Union army forces was camped. Rifles and cannons were silent, and every few moments a standing sentinel might catch sight of flames from a few distant fires, friend or foe according to the direction where sighted. The silence of the night was broken by the sound of running boots. Immediately there came the order to "Halt," loud and convincing, and it was followed by the sound of a second set of pounding boots and quickly chased by another yell, and then a third order to "Halt." A rifle shot dropped the first man running across the area from the temporary jail for army deserters. He fell to the ground screaming, his words spoken in German and only Sergeant Otto Pilsner admitted to understanding the escaped man's last words.

Answering an officer's questions about the shooting, Pilsner said, "Sir, he was screaming about getting home. I guess he thought heading toward the enemy's lines, where he thought he had a better chance, him being a deserter to begin with." The two men spoke a few more words, unheard by anybody else, and the incident was closed as a deserter shot while trying to escape his punishment."

The company area settled back to finish off a night's sleep, before war came to visit again.

One trooper, Norman Dupres, rolled over in his blanket, but sleep would not come. When he finally fell asleep he said goodnight to his wife far away in three different languages. One of them, whispered as were the other two, came as, "Gute Nacht, süßer Liebling, bis wir am Sonnenaufgang sprechen." Pilsner, if he heard it, would hear, "Goodnight, sweet darling, until we speak at sunrise." Pilsner, if he knew the man who uttered that version of goodnight, would have strangled him before dawn.

With a dozen years of military service in the Prussian ranks, Otto Pilsner had been a quick rise as a non-commissioned officer in the Union army in the War Between the States. A few officers had taken note of his military presence in several activities demanding skill, intelligence and bravery under fire, and he was marked for promotion almost from the start.

But there was a downside about Pilsner that none of the officers were aware of.

This night brought the downside into a new focus, within the person of Norman Dupres, the company clerk and a mere private in the ranks.

Norman Dupres was a French-Canadian, from New Brunswick, a student of languages, self-taught, who had been caught up in the fervor of the war and enlisted in the army from the Massachusetts area of Lynn where he was a laborer. His wife and child were now living with her family in Massachusetts. He had not seen her in more than a year and thought about her continually, talked to her in his mind in the several languages he kept studying, all which helped his fluency. Some days he thought about her using nothing but English or French. This day was set aside for German appreciation. That appreciation did not go far with the death of the German speaker who tried to run away. He kept hearing the escaping prisoner's final words, "Helfen Sie mir. Helfen Sie mir. Er ließ mich so los er konnte mich schießen. Pilsner ist ein Mörder. Er tötete meine Frau in Deutschland."

Dupres, of course, heard it first as, "Aidez-moi. Aidez-moi. Il m'a libéré ainsi il pourrait me tirer. Pilsner est un meurtrier. Il a tué ma femme en Allemagne." Then moved it to, "Help me. Help me. He set me free so he could shoot me. Pilsner is a murderer. He killed my wife in Germany."

Dupres had no trust in Pilsner from the first day he had been assigned to this company and Pilsner swaggered in, almost as if he still wore some kind of Prussian embroidery on his uniform. The colonel's orderly, Desmond Riley, had spoken of him in an aside to Dupres; "He comes here like he's going to win the war himself, but is content to sit here at regimental headquarters and not in a unit on the line. Some hero, heh?"

Dupres had said, "Well, some of us escape the carnage being here at this level. The colonel needs support around him."

Riley responded with, "The colonel doesn't need heroes here; he needs heroes up there in the line units, up where the real fighting goes on. Back here we're only mere pawns, dummies if you will, in this game of war."

"I suppose you're right on that account," Dupres said, "but something about this man is cold and very devious, the way he looks at things, the things he says in explanations, and the things he mutters under his breath almost."

Dupres immediately wished he had said nothing about the muttering, which was always in German. He felt he had some kind of advantage by knowing German and keeping it to himself. And he'd never want Pilsner to know about his language abilities.

Of course, there were other German-born soldiers around the Union forces, and also in the Confederate army for that matter, many of them having served in the Prussian army in the first Schleswig War that supposedly was over in 1851. (It had started up again in 1864 and ended with the Gastein Convention of 1865.) At this time Dupres knew of no others in the company who had served in the Prussian ranks during that first war or in the period thereafter and had brought that experience with them, but they were in the ranks about the regimental company.

Dupres and Riley were in constant contact because of their responsibilities and a bond developed between them. Once, in secrecy, they had agreed to help each other if the need ever came, from their basic responsibilities, Dupres as the company clerk and Riley from his association with the colonel.

With luck on their side, all three men, Dupres, Riley and Pilsner, were separated from the army in July of 1865. The colonel had by that time promoted both men to sergeant and Dupres saw that the records of both men were taken care of promptly, showing time in rank somewhat previous to the official word, all with Riley's help. Riley told Dupres that Pilsner mentioned to the colonel that he was headed west to Abilene, Kansas to become a sheriff.

The night before leaving the army, Riley was killed with a single stab wound in the chest. He was found behind a supply tent by a sentry who told Dupres that Riley had stuck three fingers wet with blood onto a piece of canvas. Dupres knew immediately that Riley was telling him who had killed him.

Five years later, Dupres and his family, now with two children, headed west.

Dupres knew they'd end up in Abilene.

There really was no way that Dupres wanted to work as a cowboy, having seen too much of their work on the way west. He planned to teach school and open a language school on the side. His wife agreed with him. "You came through the war, Norman, and you say that was luck. Those cowboys have a harsh life. I've seen that every time they are near us. I am positive you can make your way with the skills you are so good with."

Abilene, as if waved at with a wand, came as their destination after significant changes en route, and Dupres found work as a school teacher, all based on army records that Riley had "taken care of."

One day when he was with his wife, he saw Pilsner standing outside the sheriff's office and the jail. Dupres said to his wife, "Never let that man know that I understand German. Never. If you ever see him talking with others, tell me who those people are, or who they might be from any source you can. It is important to us."

That's all he had to say.

And the day came at the store where she worked when she saw Pilsner talking with a man wearing a black derby hat and a gray vest with a feather on it. She told her husband. The next day that man approached Dupres and asked if there were any openings in his language classes held in the evenings. "I wish to learn German," the man said.

Dupres said, "I only teach French and Spanish, and I am fairly new myself to the Spanish, but we could grow together in it."

The man in the derby hat said, "You do not teach German?"

"No," Dupres said, knowing where the word would go.

The derby hat was doffed and the man left and made his way directly to the sheriff's office. Dupres, who had followed him, did not know where to turn for help. But when he discussed it with his wife, she said, "Some men at the store talked about him in a corner. They don't trust him at all and believe he has convicted some innocent men to gain a solid foothold in this town. In the past two years several men charged with crimes have been hung by a court that has pushed the charges according to the sheriff's word. They are convinced he is a killer in his own way."

"Do you know who those men are?" Dupres said.

"I know one of them. He is the husband of a friend who comes often to the store for her yarn. His name is Victor Stanbury and he has a ranch not far from town. One of his men, a man by the name of Schneider, was convicted of a killing and hung in a matter of hours after the guilty verdict. Stanbury said that his man knew of Pilsner in the other country."

"We have to get to Stanbury and I will not leave you here with the children. We have to go tonight and don't let anybody know. Don't tell the children. We'll wake them when we leave. I have to tell you that two of Pilsner's deputies speak German."

In the middle of the night, they hitched a carriage to a horse and slipped out of town. In a few hours they were at the Stanbury ranch. Dupres told Stanbury all that he knew about Pilsner, and told him of his fears of the man, and that two of his deputies spoke German.

"I knew none of that," Stanbury said. "What else bothers you?"

"He will find our trail out here. We will push on and try to get somewhere else before he finds us."

"Well," Stanbury said, "I believe that you best make a stand here and help us. I am bound to disclose this man. He arranged the death of one of my men, and others no doubt. Some of us have felt that all along. He manages to get too much done in too much hurry. We will make a stand here if he comes for you. You'd be at his mercy out on the trail, you and your wife and your children."

Stanbury called in his foreman and said, "Brad, I want you to get to Joe Mulcahy and Swede Malvo and tell them we need help. I think Stanbury and his deputies will come here later today and make a charge against Dupres. We have to stop him before he goes further in his masquerade." He paused and said, "Do it pronto, Brad, and get them here with as many of their men as they can afford or muster. We'll hide them in the barn. Get to it."

Stanbury's foreman was on his way in minutes.

Later in the afternoon, one of Stanbury's men sauntered into the ranch yard and casually said to Stanbury, "There's five riders coming up the trail, studying ground, and I'm sure they're following the tracks of the carriage that came in last night." He went off casually to tend his horse.

The ranch yard was quiet when the five riders came into the ranch, Pilsner leading them, two of them his deputies, and two he had called for a posse ride.

"Stanbury," Pilsner said, "we had a murder in town last night and we know that it was committed by that teacher and language gent, Dupres. We tracked him this far. Did he stop here last night?"

"He sure did, Sheriff," Stanbury said. "We sent him on his way with some grub my wife scraped up for them in a hurry. She knows that woman of his. They went on their way before daylight."

Pilsner did not like what Stanbury said. "Well, you won't mind if I look around, will you? Just in case they didn't get out of here."

"I just told you they left here," Stanbury said. "That should do it."

"Well, it doesn't do it for me. This is a murder case and I won't leave a stone unturned to bring that killer to quick justice."

"Just like you did to my man, Sheriff?" Stanbury said, the bristles starting to show in his make-up.

"I don't care how you feel about another murderer who got what he deserved, and I don't care what you feel about Dupres either," Pilsner said. He turned to two deputies standing apart on their horses and gave an order. "Hans, George, geht überprüfen die Scheune. Wenn irgendjemand im Weg ist, sie schießen. Wir sind in der Verfolgung eines Verbrechers, eines Mörders, und niemand kann uns aufhören. Gehen."

The two deputies started off to the barn. Dupres, hearing the order, stepped forward at the loft door and yelled out, "Stanbury, he told them, the deputies, 'to go check out the barn. If anybody gets in your way, shoot them. We are in pursuit of a criminal, a murderer, and nobody can stop us. Go.'"

He screamed it again as the two deputies raced toward the barn, only to be met by a wall of men who came out of the barn, rifles leveled at every member of the posse. The two deputies stopped short, reached across their bodies and dropped their guns on the ground with their left hands. Pilsner, irate, caught in the middle of all his evil works, reached for his gun, brought it out of his holster and aimed it at Dupres still standing in the loft door.

Stanbury shot Pilsner out of his saddle, his gun still in his hand when he hit the ground.

The German-speaking deputies told all they knew, which was enough for court held on the spot. They were advised to leave the territory before they would be brought to a quick trial of their own. They left, heading south in a hurry.

When Norman Dupres erected his sign for language classes, he listed French, Italian, Spanish and German as his disciplines.

****

The Soul of Shiloh Two

For anyone's money's worth that summer in Shiloh Two, the summer of 1872 in Nevada, the pair of them was the strangest sight seen in a long while. At first people became gawkers, then studied the pair for a while, and found resolve or resistance of a sort in their feelings. That was when the two pals were perhaps arm in arm having a drink at The Lost Mine Saloon or when Good-shot Charlie Magnum sat out front of Shen Tu's tent like he was on a veranda back east. But Good-shot Charlie Magnum and the Chinese cleaner, Shen Tu, were buddies from the first day and Magnum let it be known from the first sense of conflict: "This here is Shen Tu, my good buddy, and nobody plays games with him, games of any kind."

He stuck his rifle in the air at the statement as though a flag had been posted on hallowed ground.

Shen Tu smiled. That's all he ever did was smile, except provide good service with his laundry and cleaning efforts ... and share a few drinks with his pal and, on a rare occasion, say, with brief acknowledgment when introduced, "Zhè shì wǒ de péngyǒu, wǒ de hǎo péngyǒu." "This is my friend, my good friend." And he'd manage a weak "Scharie," at which point Charlie Magnum would drop a commending hand on Shen Tu's shoulder and issue a smile that was, in this instance, as broad as a shield.

Magnum was cast with a devil's smile that might play tricks, but he set solid as a man at introduction. His hair curled over his head and atop his ears the way picked cotton plays games in the breeze, and with the smile he disarmed women, who looked on him as part boy and part man, both parts needing their care and devotion. He smiled endlessly at any task, could shoot a can of peaches at a hundred yards so only the syrup would drip, and liked being what he believed he was, an upright western man who rode well, shot well, stood by his friends, or endangered folk, the way a man should.

The word on the pair spread, of course, and bound it was to bring on a few loudmouths and flannel mouths and plain old racists.

One evening, sun setting, prairie whispers on the rise, a lone horseman rode by Shen Tu's tent as the friendly pals were having a drink to celebrate the end of the day. It had been a warm day, Shen Tu's business heavy, Magnum back from work on a hurry-up posse for the sheriff. The rider, having heard some tid-bits about the duo, looked down at them and said, with a twisted smile on his face as if he had eaten a rotten apple, "Do you do harmony, you two, Shen Tu and you, or is it you and Shen Tu?"

Good-shot Charlie Magnum knocked the man off his saddle with a slash of his rifle, stood over the bigmouth and said, "You got anything else to say, save it for now, get on your horse, get out of here, and meet me in front of the saloon at seven o'clock. Bring a good weapon with you. You're going to need it." The laugh leaped from him as he pointed down and said, "Don't bring that piece of junk you're wearing on your belt. It won't do the job."

Before he helped the man get back on his horse, and just as he recognized the brand on the horse, he said, "Tell me what your name is and who you work for."

Groggily the loudmouth answered. "My name's Jack Toland. I work for Chaz Henry."

"Well, I'll tell you, Jack, so you can tell Chaz himself; anyone comes chasing me or my pal here, he's going to get shorthanded in a hurry." He waited a second or two, long enough for Toland to catch what came fully at him. "You can also tell him that he owes me, too, for something private."

Word spread through Shiloh Two like a windswept blaze on dry grass. A crowd gathered, both the really interested, and the not so interested, it appeared, because Shiloh Two had been quiet for much too long.

Well before seven o'clock, Chaz Henry, not Jack Toland, sat his horse in front of the Lost Mine Saloon.

The sun was good for at least another hour. The breeze had settled down. A ghost of a moon began its early-phase entry on the horizon, above a dark mountaintop. In windows, doorways, along a stretch of the two-foot high boardwalk in front of almost all buildings on one side of the street, required to fight winter snow and spring thaw, the folks of Shiloh Two gathered. There had not been a duel in town since Rufus Clayborne and Shawn Gregory had caught each other cheating on a big pot at The Lost Mine. Each one was permanently damaged by the other, but neither was killed. A pair of aces, both spades, were stuck into the big mirror behind the bar, a bullet hole in each one. When the cheaters left town, in different directions some weeks later, they were never heard of again.

Instead of riding to the rendezvous, Magnum walked down the center of the road, fully exposed, not approaching so as to be thought possibly obscured on the boardwalk or in shadows.

He called out to Henry sitting on a black stallion looking as big as a Clydesdale, with the pale moon rising ghost-like in the sky. "Chaz, it looks like you had the better sense than let your man come along by himself. I appreciate that. I bet he does too."

Magnum was as loose as the riverbank in spring.

"Best for him and me too, Charlie. But I'm most concerned how you think I owe you a damned dime. We never had no business together that I know of. I ain't seen you since we chased that Sherwood hombre off the Porterfield spread with the sheriff. We should have caught that skunk."

"That's four months ago, Chaz. Oh, that skunk got caught, only after he caught me in a tight squeeze."

"He get away again?"

"Well, he did for a bit, but there's a whole big story that goes with all that. By the way, I guess you haven't heard from your cousin Victor over in Chalmers, or his daughter Vicky."

"What've they got to do with this, Charlie?"

"You ought to be interested in it enough to get down of that big mount and go inside and have a drink with me, and," he added with a spread of his arms, "spoiling the fun of all these nice folks just out for an evening stroll."

Henry got caught up in interest, humor, irony, and the personality of Good-shot Charlie Magnum standing in the middle of Shiloh Two as though he could take on the whole world, not just the little town.

Magnum said, "I'm bringing company with me, Chaz. My friend Shen Tu."

"Don't bother me none, Charlie, that China boy. That's your business. I want to know about Vic and Vicky."

Magnum nonchalantly waved over his shoulder and yelled out, "C'mon, Shen. Drinks are on me."

After the three men entered The Lost Mine Saloon, nearly half the town managed to get inside too, stragglers squeezing in through others to find a place against a wall, to watch, to listen, to be part of it all.

In a rush the bartender had poured a pitcher of beer and set it up three glasses on the table closest to the bar. He scrambled to get back behind the bar.

Magnum poured, first a beer for Shen Tu and then one for Chaz Henry and then filled his own glass, all the time being very slow and deliberate, as though he was enjoying the limelight.

Shen Tu smiled, tipped his glass, said, in his manner, "Yuàn nǐ de mèngxiǎng bǎituō dìqiú." "May your dreams escape the earth."

Chaz Henry tipped his glass when Magnum whispered, "You think they're all listening, Chaz?" He was looking around the crowded room.

"Yeh," Henry said, taking his first swig after lifting his glass in a mock salute to something or someone. "Now how do Vic and Vicky get into this?"

"How long since you've seen Vicky, Chaz?"

"Five or six months anyway."

"You know what she likes to do, don't you?"

"Sure. She collects them pieces of bone and stuff off the mountainsides. Those little chunks that are like part of the rock walls. She'd done that for years, since she was a kid. I think she calls them fossils. Old-time animal stuff."

"She's got plenty of them too, hasn't she?" Henry said, "Practically one whole shed full, as I remember. Vic built it for her special."

"Do you know how she gets them, Chaz?"

"I suppose she finds them all over."

"Maybe, and sometimes she follows things into canyons, maybe a line of something in a cliff wall, a trail marker of sorts, and chinks them out of the walls with a hammer and a small pointed bar. Sometimes she goes alone, even though her father doesn't like it. That's where I last met her."

Magnum let that set into place, and continued after another swig of beer, "She was riding up along an old Indian trail on Turtle Mountain and her horse was skittered by a cat or something and she went down in a tough fall. I heard her crying and went to help. That's when old Sherwood we had chased into hiding that time got the drop on me. He lives in a cave up that way. Been hiding for all this time. Had me on the point of his gun all the way until I got her loose and back up to the trail. I had no idea what he had in mind and I'm willing to bet she never thought about any of the consequences, but none of it was any good, as you can imagine."

Magnum took a new swig of beer, finished his glass off, poured another and topped of both men's glasses, still slow and deliberate as all Hell. The whole room was on its toes, leaning forward, scratching to catch every word from Good-shot Charlie Magnum.

Both his table partners enjoyed his moment in the sun as the moon dipped in through the saloon windows and over the door. The room itself sat still as midnight.

"I knew he must have been hiding out in a cave and wasn't about to show us where because he started to scoot us down into the canyon floor, me carrying Vicky most of the way. I figured he'd knock me on the head once I got her down to the canyon floor. Also figured he didn't want either one of us connected to his cave in any way."

Chaz Henry drank off his glass, set it up for another pour, gathered himself, and said, loudly, nervously, "What the hell happened, Charlie? Get on with it, will you. You're giving me a pain in the gut."

"Aye, yeh," said the saloon congregation in one exhausted voice. "Aye, yeh. Aye, yeh."

Magnum put his arm around Shen Tu, the Chinese cleaner still smiling broadly. "That's where my buddy here, Shen Tu, from the heart of China, who loves rocks and fossils and all that kind of stuff, got into the act. He was out there looking for the same kind of stuff that Vicky was after. He saw the whole thing from wherever he was, and when I finally got to level ground where I could put her down, a rock came tumbling off the canyon wall and when Ben Sherwood jumped and turned to look I swung Vicky's whole body at him and down he went, and afore you know it, I was standing over him with his rifle bore stuck right in his mouth. Vicky, of course, started crying again. I think that's when she got her leg broken, but it was a good swap."

Magnum rubbed Shen Tu's hair, the ponytail tightly in place as though it had grown on him that way. "My buddy here saved the day for Vicky and me, 'cause when he climbed down from what he was looking for, we tried to tend to Vicky in turns, and Sherwood, of course, tried to make a move and that's when the posse's job got finished off, right there in a canyon of Turtle Mountain. One shot with his own rifle that we can believe must have been the same rifle killed the Porterfield folks that time we were after him."

A hum began to run through the whole saloon, an understanding hum, and then a barrage of hurrahs erupted and backslapping and outright cheering followed until it was like a thunder in the saloon. People from outside were still squirming and trying to get in and the sound came bouncing out of The Lost Mine Saloon as if there had been a cave-in. The bartender began pouring pitchers of beer on his own, not caring where the boss was or what was being tabbed for business.

At the table, Shen Tu smiled, fully satisfied with things as far as they had come. But he had no idea how good they were. He said, in his way once more, "Wǒ zhǐshì zhèndòngle dìqiú yánshí tuī." "I just push the rock that shook the earth."

A commotion started outside, the outside crowd now in on their own show. Lots of shouting came and also a separate round of applause that continued to grow so that the people on the inside show wondered what was going on outside.

One burly man, pushing himself through the throng at the door, yelled out, "Hey, Chaz, here comes your brother and his daughter with the broke leg."

There was a parting of the sea of people at the door of The Lost Mine Saloon and Vicky Henry, with assistance from her father, skipped into the room.

She was a beautiful girl of about 21, with dazzling black hair flowing down over her shoulders, eyes with the blue skies sealed up in them, an elegant frame in plain clothing, and one leg wearing a kind of protective device wrapped around it. With amazing lightness she moved toward the table where her uncle sat with Good-shot Charlie Magnum and Shen Tu, the Chinaman. Her first hug was for the Chinaman, almost demure in his posture, slowly realizing what was happening to him.

Then she hugged her uncle, Chaz Henry, a deep and solid hug, but a hug between relatives, as one would expect. Finally, the whole place on its veritable edge, she wrapped her arms around Good-shot Charlie Magnum and kissed him long, and longer, until the whole of Shiloh Two must have been in on it by that time.

That, some people will swear, was the one time the inner soul and the outer soul of Shiloh Two managed to celebrate at the same time, with a glorious silence at first, and then with an avalanche of good feelings that stayed on as if the town was hung up in a timeless zone.

Shen Tu, his mind leaping for a comparison, found it quickly coming out of his past, and said, heard only by Magnum, "Yīzhǒng kuàilè qūsàn le yī bǎi bēitòng." "One joy scatters a hundred griefs." Magnum did not understand the words, but had a good feeling about them, as Shen Tu smiled again at all of Shiloh Two and his place in it.

****

The Shepherd's Keeper

At a campfire in foothills of the Sierra Nevada Range, Igon Mendoza, a Basque sheepherder 24 years of age, industrious and as bright as a reflection, listened to the wind caressing the rocky crests above him. For a moment he again imagined hearing the great singer Gotzen Bartolomine he had heard on the ship that brought him to the Americas from his home high in the Pyrenees country. The man had the voice of an angel, a spirit beyond the clouds, and it could soften a lonely heart. Ten years here and Mendoza still remembered the man and his voice.

The last man Mendoza had spoken to, however, was a fellow Basque as they left a drummer's wagon down on level country a month or more before, both buying olive oil and garlic buds from the drummer. The Basque had said, in his native language, warming Mendoza's soul regardless of the content of the message, "Watch mendietarantz, Igon. Arraro rider A askotan ondotik igarotzen, izan zen guardia ibilaldiak ere, baina entzun dugu adibidez falsities aurretik. Keen begi bat eskatzen, Igon. A gogoa begia."

The drummer, if the message had been said in English, would have heard the Basque say, "Watch the hills, Igon. A strange rider passes by often, as though he rides guard, but we've seen such falsities before. A keen eye is demanded, Igon. A keen eye."

Needless to say, the drummer, otherwise able to spread the word with his usual contacts, had no idea of a mysterious rider.

There came the times when Mendoza, instead of singing the words he remembered from Bartolomine's song, would reflect on his countryman's message and say to his two dogs, a continuation of the warning. He'd say in a soft voice, a tinge of mystery attached to the warning, bringing their names into it, "Watch mendietarantz, Domingo, Jose. Arraro rider A askotan ondotik igarotzen, izan zen guardia ibilaldiak ere, baina entzun dugu adibidez falsities aurretik. Keen begi bat eskatzen, Domingo, Jose. A gogoa begia."

On a later afternoon, off to the side of one hill, there issued another muffled sound, a sound hidden by a barrier, but different in context. Some of the sheep began to bleat, and Mendoza came all the way back to earth and listened for more sounds. During the earlier calls of evening, shadows falling like autumn's whispering leaves, he had heard other singular disturbances, ones he could not recognize; not a falling stone, not a dead limb dropping out of a tree, no heavy footstep of a heavy man off his horse. He swore he had not heard the sounds before.

Mendoza whistled through his teeth and his two dogs, from out of sight, slipped into his sight, paused when he chucked their names softly, as if in salute, whispering, "Ah, Domingo. Ah, Jose."

Once so subtly recognized, they moved on. Feeding time was on a schedule, and not yet due.

Perking his ears, staring into darkness, the dogs back to stealth work, Mendoza took himself aside in solitude to soften his anxiety. He thought about the attributes of his sheep, as he often did, admiring their qualities, comforting himself with their goodness, their promise. He'd love them like children if he had any. Unlike some breeds, his small Mexican _churros_ were more valuable for meat than for wool, because they could survive in a harsh and arid environment, which, in time, would come to them. It always did. The host of miners, in the mountains and on the other side, seeking rare fortunes, still needed to eat, and they had no time for gardening, watching crops, harvesting. They worked and they hungered, for food as well as other things. Mendoza fully understood them. In quick reveries he'd think of lamb stew or lamb chops being the meal in a miner's stomach when he spotted the flecks of gold in a tunnel wall, shining at him like stars in a black sky. How would that excitement be suppressed when there was no need for suppressing it at the moment of discovery. Stories of great discoveries, though, were touched by strange outcomes.

His sheep, for that matter, faced the wolves or the coyotes, and he'd have to contend with them, him and Domingo and Jose. The realizations sat with him as if they were partners at the evening campfire.

Though for many days he'd been aware of "some other person being about," since his friend had warned him too, Mendoza had not once seen the lone rider in the hills, looking down on him like an angel on horseback, different than Bartolomine in his sweeping red cape. For fact, the lone rider wore all black except for the broad-brimmed white Stetson that sat on his head, and a cord with a strangely-shaped knot that hung below his chin, almost like a medallion. Unseen by Mendoza, or his friend, this horseman was an enigma.

Though the alarm feeling persisted for a long period, calmness finally came over the herder because he felt no threat from "him out there, the phantom of the hills." There had been no threat to him personally and he managed to relax with that knowledge.

As he listened he heard the winds whistling in the aspens and then across the faces of figures that had been carved into tree stumps. The carving was well after the rest of the tree had been used for firewood or for erecting temporary shelters. Arbor glyphs, as they were to be called later on, had been carved by other Basque herders who had come to America from the Pyrenees Mountains, set partly against France and partly against Spain. The carvings were odd, old and open, from memorable names and dates, to poems for lovers they had left back in the Pyrenees, and to secret words or messages for other Basque herders always to follow these trails, like pages of a book. Easily imagined in Mendoza's mind, because all herders share loneliness, were some delicate naked women carved truly to their loveliest attributes. Goddesses of the mountains, he called them, the dream-makers of the mountains, stationary lovers for lone men on the loose.

From a high point above him, as if from a hidden place inside the mountain, he again heard a sound. This time he knew it was a horse clinking a horseshoe on stone; but there followed only new silence, as if the horse was held in place, the rein pulled by the unseen hand.

For an hour, Mendoza listened, and heard nothing, and sleep finally took him down, as his dogs moved on the perimeter of the flock. The last thing he would remember before dozing off was a story about the Horseman of the Davidos, a hero to some Basque in another region of the new country. Every shepherd he met told him at least one new story of the Davidos horseman. "A countryman," they would exclaim. "A true countryman who has grasped these ways."

Even as he slept, Mendoza was prompted by deep thoughts; thinking back over his route, he remembered where those best-looking girls were located in their stationary positions, across the breadth of the mountains. All of them were generally away from water and the great grassy acreage where other Basques lead their sheep. Though their churros, hardy sheep of the first order, often did well in dry or desert conditions, it was most pleasurable when they had the advantage of opulent grass, and herders had time to cut into wood, to whittle, to carve. He wondered if the phantom rider, who might be watching guard over him and his flock, took such care of the beautifully carved women of the hills. He wondered if the man loved one of them in particular, if he looked back over the trails at her from time to time, saw her standing by the door of a small cabin in the Pyrenees.

And the herder could look back over his life, as he looked over his sheep. Memories matched up with new days, took new turns at being old. The Sierra Nevadas, for this Basque, were like his homeland mountains, with hardy sheep, such as the Mexican churros, being their source of sustenance. The animals, here as there, wintered in the lowlands, and were driven to summer in the high grazing lands of the mountains so much like the Pyrenees. Mendoza's father had brought him here, to these few valleys, just before a bear killed him at a campsite in the lower Sierra Nevada. He had made the two-boat trip with his son, from Basque country to South America, and then to California. The pair traveled with some sheep in order to begin a new flock.

Later, wide awake, with his mind continually full of thoughts of all kinds, Mendoza planned his meal, while working the easy slopes, the grazing underway, and his eye as keen as any. He loved beans and potatoes, like all Basques, and cooked them often during lonely months on the grass.

Always he tried to have a hearty meal— lamb stew with potatoes and beans and sourdough bread, accompanied by a good red wine. Basques loved red wine and homemade cheese. Their "fromage de brebis" or sheep cheese was made from pure sheep's milk set aside while ewes were being milked. Other Basque sheep's milk cheeses had names like Ossau, Iraty and Idiazabal, names almost tasty enough to sit on the tongue or the lip, but best by far with wine.

Mendoza felt the angel on his shoulder like a soft feather sat there, until the day he heard a single shot. It rang clear and true from a high place in the rocks and peaks, the echo pounding down stone walls.

There was no return shot. There was no galloping horse. Stillness reined on the mountainside

Dusk came and Mendoza lit a fire. In the following darkness he heard a whisper. It was in his native tongue, and said, quite near him, a simple but distant plea from an overhead ledge: " Mendoza, ikusten duzu dut, paisano bat naiz guardia on." ... "Mendoza, I watch for you, I am a countryman on guard."

Pause, breath slow, breath gathering itself.

"Txarra gizon bat zauritu dit. Ni hilen naiz, baina ez utzi hura ezagutu." ... "A bad man has wounded me. I will die, but don't let him know."

Another pause as Mendoza reached the speaker.

"Hartu nire arropa bihurtu nau. Inoiz ez zion utzi eta beste batzuk ezagutzeko aukera ematen dit hil zen." ... "Take my clothes, become me. Never let him and others know that I have died."

A cough, a deep cough issued as the wounded man said, "Hil ditut artzainen etsai asko." ... "I have slain many enemies of the shepherds."

Mendoza was dumbfounded, struggled for his voice, as the man, wearing a mask, continued his plea in a series of short statements:

"Wear nire arropa, ride nire zaldia, izan dit." ... "Wear my clothes, ride my horse, be me."

Words tumbled from him after more slow breaths:

"Ez huts euskara" ... "Do not fail the Basque."

"Kezkaturik ditut sakon." ... "I have worried them deeply."

It was with great difficulty that Mendoza finally said, "Nor zara zu?" ..."Who are you?

With pain evident, the future dim, the wounded man took off his simple mask with one finger and said, "Abeslari Bartolomine naiz Eta zuk ezagutu urtez." ... "I am the singer Bartolomine and have known you for years."

Bartolomine, in the little time he had left, told Mendoza about the gangs that raided shepherds of their flocks to sell them to miners after the shepherds got close to their selling point. He told him how they'd let the shepherds do all the work, all the herding, survive all the dangers of a long trip, but step in just before the pay-off.

The saddened shepherd stripped the clothes from Bartolomine and buried him under rocks in a blow-down hole.

Domingo, with a sniff of Batolomine's shirt, found his horse behind another blow-down, and Mendoza, wearing the man's shirt, easily brought the horse to camp, befriended him, watered him, rubbed him down, and hid him out of site after all the good care.

When another shepherd with a similar flock was spotted in the next valley, Mendoza swapped his flock for a piece of the coming sale.

But he could not part with his dogs.

That night, in thick darkness, in the company of only his dogs, Igon Mendoza did not become The New Horseman of the Davidofs, but the Phantom from the Pyrenees. Now the legends continue, with great evidence remaining today in many of the arbor glyphs where Basque sheepherders ranged their sheep over the mountain passes to markets fit for meat or wool. At such sites many horsemen carved into tree trunks wear the slim black mask that Gotzen Bartolomine wore as keeper of the shepherds, Phantom from the Pyrenees.

****

A Dragoon's Adventure

The cowman Oliver Weddle sat his horse on a small hillock, looking out over his ranch, the grass running off to the hills, Texas itself stiffening his backbone as it always had. He tried again to count the help he'd need to get the ranch back in prime order after his return from the war, wishing that some of his command had come along with him when he separated from the service. They were good soldiers, good riders, and courageous and loyal to the duties; but had their own visions of search. Three foremen in a row had failed him and their mission, one or two of them he suspected had complicated issues on purpose. So glaring were the failures that they cost him a good deal of his money. Now he was contemplating what would happen if he did not get a good man for the job.

Even as his backbone stiffened again, hope still working him with its lures, he caught sight of an odd rider coming his way, ramrod straight in the saddle, commanding the horse, pride in the pair, but an unusual pride and seemingly an uncomfortable pride.

The rider was odd because of his manner and because he wore a strange hat, its brim swept to one side and up along his head, a long loop of leather twine hanging about his chest to catch that hat if blown off when riding. A saber's sheath and holsters for a rifle and an ax were strapped to his saddle, a definite portion of each weapon clearly visible. The saddle itself was different than a western saddle. Such equipment immediately set the rider off from the usual rider in the west, marking him as an object of attention and potential derision. A cardinal red shirt, scarred or stained where military chevrons once were attached, was filled by a rugged body, huge upper arms and prominent, wide shoulders. The man's neck was thick, tanned, muscled. Weddle suspected the man was not comfortable in the saddle but bore any and all his discomforts with command and control, like a poor cowpoke dancer challenged at a barn rally.

"Sir," the rider said on reining his horse in at Weddle's side, "I am one-time Sergeant Branwell Kirkness, late of His Royal Majesty's 6th Inniskilling Dragoons Cavalry Regiment, war my training ground and war my nature. Finding my pay cut after harsh service in India and South Africa, my comrades so treated likewise, I departed the military in 1865 and I am looking for a job riding herd here in western America. The chip I carry on my shoulder concerning my military treatment is most likely evident in all my outward manners and can be determined, by the most observant people, as roiling under my skin. But I am a hard and loyal subordinate when treated with respect and will protect with my life if necessary all trusts given unto me."

He stared into Weddle's eyes when he said, "Do I have a position in your employ?"

"That you do, sir," Weddle said, the iron up his back stiffer than ever, and hope as firm.

There, at that moment, began one of the great associations in Texas cow history.

Kirkness said to Weddle, upon being hired as foreman, "Tell me what you need done, but don't tell me how to do it."

"I need a crew to drive a herd of 3000 cows to Fort Gibson and merge them with two other herds for a drive up the Shawnee Trail to Abilene. I've heard they'll be 10,000 cows in the final push into Kansas. There's money to be made while the opportunity lasts."

"That I will do," Kirkness said, his voice as sure as a line sergeant's voice. "When is the drive to start?"

"In two days."

That evening former Dragoon sergeant and new BLB foreman Branwell Kirkness was in the Barrows Saloon, leaning against the bar, talking to one man who was a possible hire. "I don't expect promise from anybody, only duty from men with heart. Of course," he added with appropriate needling, "not all men have such heart. I am too particular to hire a slave or a roustabout or a lackey. I just want men. It may seem such a simple demand, but it has a lot at stake. Real men are rare when it gets tough."

"Yeh," said a voice from a nearby table, "how come the BLB hires foreigners wearing funny hats to be their top man? Ain't that a kinda funny hat?" A big, bony man, looking hard as a rock, stood up and faced Kirkness. "What is that hat, mister? Your mother make it for Christmas or did you bring it all the way from Inja with you?"

With one punch Kirkness dropped the big man beside the table. The big man did not move. Five minutes later he was still motionless. Stillness, sudden stillness in a noisy saloon, came with the mystery that silence has.

Kirkness eventually said, to all the cowpokes in the saloon, "I'm looking for real men, not flag mouths that can't take a punch. I wouldn't have that man now prone on the floor handling my wagon on a Sunday ramble. In India he would not have lasted one skirmish against the Gurkhas or the Sikhs at their worst. Nor would he have made his way against the Africans bent on freedom. If you want to measure men, measure me. I would guess that the prostrate figure there on the floor is typical of you westerners; all mouth and no guts for a long drive, or taking orders from their betters, or averse to good pay, real decent pay and a piece of the big pie, as the boss man has promised. How you ever did wrest the colony from the Mother country goes beyond my ken."

So convincing was Kirkness's approach that the following morning he arrived at the BLB Ranch with 11 men, and more on the way. The sun was shining on the small parade, with former sergeant Kirkness riding out front of the new hires, straight and upright in the saddle, his funny hat perched atop his head. Some of the new hires were battle-tested on the way to the ranch when Kirkness was openly challenged. He pummeled three men before dawn slipped up on them. Now, in the clear sunlight of morning, Oliver Weddle watched his new foreman bring a trail crew to the BLB. A sudden shot of surprise and happiness flooded his frame and he rode out to meet the men.

Weddle stood in his stirrups to get a clear look at his new crew. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am pleased to meet you. I trust you have met Sergeant Kirkness and know now who the real boss is. I too am a mere hireling here, but with a great project in front of us, with the promise of a great payday for all of us, we can complete our task." He pointed at Kirkness and added, in a voice full of will and determination, "That man will take us to Hell and back if that is what it will take, clear through the Oklahoma Indian territory. I don't doubt for a minute that he'll get us through and that some of you, wiser after the journey, will start your own business. There's room for all in this part of the land. The east is hungry for good beef, from Chicago to Philadelphia to New York City to Boston, Texas steaks have caused a craving. I don't know how long it will last, but let's get in on the feeding."

In the ranks a soft voice said, "Amen."

In the matter of two days a cook with trail experience was hired, a remuda assembled for herders and a remuda boss put in charge, assignments wagered between the men, and a partner system set in place. Kirkness was highly in favor of the partner system. "Stony, no matter where Clint Harkness goes, you be his pard. Keep your eyes open when it's your turn to do so, and he will do his in turn. The man who falls asleep at his watch gets the holy hell from me, and then some. And you've seen some of that _and then some._ I don't have time to fool around or play games this side of beef delivery. Be alert. Be aware. Be smart. It'll all come back on you.

At the outset of an Indian attack in the middle of Oklahoma, the Indians rode in against the herd in a double column, as if trying to split the herd and drive cattle off through whatever proved to be the weakest side, a maneuver none of the cowpokes had seen before.

"What the hell they up to, Cap'n?" one rider said. "I ain't seen them do this before."

Kirkness replied from horseback, "I've seen this before, in India, at the hand of the Gurkhas, some of the finest fighters in the world, and the meanest I've ever seen in action." He yelled to any herder close enough to hear him, "Fire on the right column. Concentrate on the right column. Obliterate the right column. Fire on the right."

He said it a dozen times.

Then, heedless of the onslaught and the odds, he swung head on at the left hand column and brought his rifle to bear on the column heading in on his herd and emptied the rifle. Then he blazed away with his six guns and saw several Indians fall from their mounts in succession. The raiders veered off from the left hand column as the right column suffered significant casualties as they were repelled by the herders, and the cattle in a mad turmoil it would take hours to arrest. The main attack, though, was stemmed in a matter of minutes and three other riders rode out and joined Kirkness in his continuing rush at the Indians.

Kirkness made a point of driving a couple of cows toward the retreating Indians, knowing it was cheap enough to buy some time by assuring they had meat for their meals. When the Indians were all driven off, including the few cows that Kirkness assured were in close pursuit of the fleeing braves, night came down on the herd as most of the herd was finally rounded up. Kirkness went on a regular night watch. He had done so since the drive first started.

Near midnight, from the edge of a small dip in the land, he heard the moans of a distressed person and found an Indian suffering from a serious wound. He managed to stop his bleeding, bind him with a piece of his shirt, and hustle him back to the chuck wagon where his cook could better treat and dress the wound. The cook was a good man at his trade and almost as good as any doctor in the area, and had no aversion to treating the Indian who was still unconscious.

"You know what this'n be like when he wakes full, boss. He won't be any less meaner'n he was afore. Too bad he won't git to know what you done for him. Want me to tie his hands?"

"Best do as you ask, Silas. Tight at each wrist but loose enough between them so he understands he's been left to have some use of his hands. We will try to communicate any way we can. Let us hope he has some understanding of the situation." Looking down at the brave, who was obviously a normally rugged individual, he added, "Poor bloke is not about to go too far in his shape. Set a bit of food where he can have it if he chooses. Keep trying to communicate any way possible." He went back on his watch for another hour and came back to sleep. In a matter of minutes, under a blanket and beside the wagon, he went to sleep.

Just as dawn broke over the plains, Kirkness was awakened by the coughing of the wounded Indian, who had risen on the other side of the wagon. The rope at his wrists allowed him to kneel, and then, with a struggle, stand upright. Kirkness pulled on his boots, went to the Indian, and put his hand on the bandaged wound. Then he set the food the cook has prepared at the feet of the man, taking a piece of dry beef for himself and chewing on it. Retrieving his blanket he put it about the Indian shivering in the morning light.

Silas the cook, already awake, said, "Boss, some of the boys be mighty upset at the kindness you've spent on the critter. They been shootin' at us and tryin' to make off with our pay stake 'n' that don't sit well."

Kirkness was back to his old self in a hurry. "Any man wants to change things, tell him to see me, Silas. I'll take care of his ailments too."

The story, the rest of what has come down to me, went something like this, with portions or snippets some of which I must have conjured up in my own way of telling it; but Kirkness, that late afternoon, rode off with the wounded Indian on another horse toward the far hills. The Indian sat a horse that Kirkness told the remuda boss to "get the one we can most spare."

Half a dozen riders watched the boss man ride off with the Indian still trussed up like he'd never get any place on his own. But somewhere out of sight of the herd and its riders, Kirkness untied the bound wrists of the brave who rode on ahead of him, turned on the crest of a small hill and held his hand palm upward. Kirkness did the same, the universal salute between warriors of the first line. The Indian rode down into a wadi and was out of sight and Kirkness, a sense of timing and circumstance working in his mind, sat his horse and waited.

He might have been waiting for a sign, an omen, any signal that his efforts, his belief in man, would have brought off a response of a similar nature. Most men would bet against him.

Kirkness stayed in his place, giving his horse a bit of water, watching for the evening star to give promise of night, hoping one harsh day would lead into one of clearer comfort and ease. Man, at his labors, at his wars, whatever the causes and the reasons, needed his rest. He clearly wanted his. This business he was into, the adventure in a new land, this liaison with a trusting owner like Oliver Weddle, had come like a reward to him, even though the costs might be high. He again hoped for the best in man, as he had often seen the worst in man ... on both sides of the fray.

It was at first a small illumination that came to him in the wavering shadows, from north of him, from where they were planning to drive the herd, right through country inhabited by Cherokee or Cheyenne or Arapaho. He could not tell the difference from one to the other if they stood in front of him at parade rest, but assured himself that they were as different as Gurkhas and Sikhs standing in the same formation, under the same colors.

The illumination grew, brightened, came on the obvious rise of a small hill hidden in darkness. It was, he knew, a signal, for the Indians could have gotten a lot closer to him. In the morning, he assured himself, other signs would be evident.

He hoped he had made peace for the time being.

He would like to do the job right for Oliver Weddle; trust was always part of his duties.

Beside the wagon, under the light of stars, the former Dragoon slept a deserved sleep.

Silas shook him awake. "Boss, coffee's up, biscuits on, shift change." And in a most condescending tone, said, "It looks quiet out there 'n' all the way back toward the risin' sun 'n' clear through to Montana up in front of us I'da bet." It was an affirmation of what the old soldier had done the night before.

Kirkness, with soldier skills still working his system, changed his socks, pulled on his boots in preparation for his day. When he rinsed his used socks and hung them on a pin on the wagon, he spotted the dried blood of the wounded Indian on the spokes of a wagon wheel and thought of the flames from the night before. "There, he said lightly, was enough light for all of us."

Again, as it had so often happened, his whole life passed in quick review, as if a silent bugle had summoned his thoughts. "Call to Colors" came to him and "Reveille" and other bugle calls that were locked into his system. He remembered, coming this way, arriving at this place, the morning he walked through West Point and felt the ramrod spiking up his back. The military in him would, even in separation, carry him through. It had made him the man he was.

Oliver Weddle, of course, finished off the story as it had begun with him. Time and time again, in all his meetings with old friends and old comrades, in saloons, at card tables, at the spiked bowl at a now-and-then barn dance, said always that "Branwell Kirkness, late of His Royal Majesty's 6th Inniskilling Dragoons Cavalry Regiment, is the best herd driver I've ever known, the toughest man I've ever met, and the most trustworthy man that ally and foe can possibly know."

He told them all that Kicking Horse, a son of a Comanche chief, had cleared the way for Kirkness's herds for three years in a row. Not a shot was fired, not a cow was lost, though other drivers had their problems.

"The man's a soldier no matter what he wears," was often the way he said goodnight.

****

Freighter's Holiday

They were paired up for six years in a freighter's seat, content with each other's attitude and contribution, survivors of scams, battles, life's threats on their persons by a scattering of road agents, brigands and renegades of different orders. Harry Molson and Gobi Manfred were partners in the Molson & Manfred Movers, which became known as The 3 Ems across the territory. The team sported four of the biggest, grandest, handsomest Percheron horses in the whole land. The two freighters had done well in their time, but they realized the railroad, in many growing branches and lines, was chasing them clear across the territory and would one day boost them right out of place.

"Another year, Harry," Manfred said, a broad smile on his face, a deep thought being exposed to his friend. They were headed north off the Plateau Road, crossing the tracks of the Wyoming Plateau Railroad near Upper Springs. "Another year and we can pack it in, start raisin' our own cows. That piece of land is just waitin' for us. I can feel it. Lester Hennings says he's happiest doing cow work, long as he gets rain enough he's prayin' for all the time."

Molson read his partner easy as a page in a book.

"He's a good man, old Lester is," Molson said, snapping the reins lightly in his hands, clucking softly in his throat. The lead horse stood one ear up tall. "Can't forget him that time we was pinned down in Grotto Canyon and them bums was wantin' all we had."

Manfred jumped right in. "Yeh, old Lester's 'bout as good with a rifle as we are with this team of horses." He looked down with pride on the four huge horses under his reins. Percherons from French Horse Heaven, he always called them. "But I was sure glad he was uphill of us and them and made like he was a dozen Lesters at protectin' friends. Yes, sir, knows how to make up his mind, old Lester."

It was 1875, the war long over, railroads on the open road but years away from "uphill places."

Their horses, Percheron-Normans, came from a breed developed not far from Paris, France, a place called Le Perche. Before the Civil War between the states, a good number of Percheron stallions and mares had made the trip from Le Perche. They could trot up to 10 miles a day, day after day, and haul a heavy load behind them, rugged animals doing what they were bred for.

Gobi Manfred had won a team in a card game and Harry Molson, trained in the army, saved a family that had turned around in Oklahoma to go back to Rhode Island. On safe departure from a train station the family gave Molson their team of horses, a pair of Percherons. How he loved those mighty horses. In a small town in lower Wyoming, it was the two teams who noticed each other at a small freighter's office as their owners gabbed away with a mutual friend. The horses drew the two men together into a series of conversations, at the bar and at the card table, and they started a freight line to work mostly in the Wyoming territory.

~

They worked hard, fair and square and enjoyed a solid reputation for getting the job done, sometimes in extreme situations. "Them 3Ms's is good old boys 'n' knows what they're doin'," was heard in a number of quarters. It helped them attract new customers in the high country.

On this day, an early chill in the air, a few leaves caught unawares by a breeze off the hills, the 3Ms were hustling a load of ammunition disguised as crates of canned fruit. They had just crested an incline in the road south of Portsby when Manfred, scanning not just the road ahead but the other side of a twist in the road that showed downhill. Three men were working on a tree at a narrow place in the road and he realized they were going to drop the tree onto the road. He estimated that they'd be there in a matter of ten minutes, with another incline to contend with.

"Harry," he said, "how far back was them soldiers we saw?"

"About five miles. Why?"

"We got company ahead. They're gonna stop us in our tracks, so we gotta turn back or fight 'em off. I seen three of 'em around the double bend ahead. I 'd say they know what we're haulin' here."

"Hell, Gobi, I been dreamin' all the time too about that ranch of ours. Let's run for it. Maybe them soldiers ain't too far off and can hear any shots we fire." The reins were already laid over and twisted in his hands, and the lead Percheron, Big Abe, was leaning for a turn, drawing his mates with him. There was plenty of room for the wagon to turn around.

"C'mon, Abe," Molson yelled. "Dig in, boy. You got depends settin' on you." His hands flashed on the reins and he leaned over as if to prevent the wagon from tipping on one side. His mind found an image of the load slipping its ropes, sliding off the wagon, business going downhill.

That's the moment when a single round slapped into the side of the wagon from close range. A rider rode himself into view, his rifle lowered and aimed at them. He was thirty feet away and wearing a bandana over half his face. Under his sombrero brim his eyes were dark.

"Hold it right there, you two. We got you tied up already, so don't play any games with us. You can't go on and you can't go back. All we want is your load. You be careful, no tricks, and we'll just ride off with your wagon."

Without moving his lips, Molson said, "Gobi, I know this fella. Seen his belt buckle someplace before. So don't do nothin', sit tight and we'll catch this fella when he least expects anythin' gonna happen to him."

In the same kind of whisper, his lips still, Manfred said, "You sure on him, Harry? Real sure?"

"Yup."

"You fellas stop that damned chattering and climb down off that wagon real slow and careful and leave your guns on the ground. Maybe you can have them when we leave, just in case some animals come callin' on ya during the night."

Manfred, setting his rifle down in the bucket of the wagon, said, "That's right sociable of you. Some mighty potent critters up in this neck of the woods. But I gotta tell you somethin' real important for you and your boys up there to remember ... you take damned good care these animals. Not many of them around. They's real special to us. Let 'em loose and we'll find them. 'Spect you can do that."

"Sure, old timer, they'll be loose enough to find, after we get what we come for, that ammo. We heard all about it at the ... oh, well, no mind of that. Just no tricks. Deal?" The rifle was still pointed at their midsections as three other masked men rode up.

Manfred, looking over the new arrivals, whispered to his pal, "Harry, you know any these others? See 'em before?"

"Nah, just the fella with the belt buckle like it wants to say his name on'y can't spell it. I'd know him in Heaven or Hell where his final word carries him."

One of the newcomers, maybe the boss of the gang the way he looked things over, said to the others, "Take the whole wagon like we planned and make sure all their guns go with us."

He looked at Molson who was staring at him. "You got something to say, old timer?"

"Don't hurt them horses none is all. Feed 'em when it gets dark. They'll work all day tomorrow for you depends how far you go."

The gang leader laughed. "Check the old timer telling us what to do. Wonder he got this far with his big mouth." He looked everything over. "Toss their guns up here. Don't leave nothing else."

"Don't we leave 'em a canteen? Only right." It was the first robber talking.

"Nothing, I said. No way we're leaving stuff they can track back. Nothing they can track us with." He said to one of the men, "Jack, you give me your horse and then drive the wagon where we said we would. Go ahead now. We'll take these boys and leave 'em off the road aways. Make 'em walk a bit."

He told Molson and Manfred to mount double up on the extra horse and then they all rode up into the hills. In an hour the two freighters were dropped off in a wooded section after a hard ride.

It took the two freighters a whole day to find their way out of the woods and get a ride to the nearest town where they reported the holdup. The sheriff said he'd check the area and try to backtrack on the wagon. "Anything special about them," he asked.

Both men shook their heads. "Just masked robbers," was their dual replies. "Just masked robbers."

Molson told the sheriff they'd be buying a couple of horses and looking on their own. "You boys be careful. I know you want them animals back, but don't get shot trying that."

For a full week there was not a word, not a trace or a sign that the sheriff could follow all the way. "They been in and out of the river three times at least. No sign anywhere else, but if they didn't kill them animals, they'll be spotted. Someone will see them, don't worry. You boys just be careful out there. I don't want any killing going on."

But for that week Molson and Manfred only stayed on the roads of the area, and they hit every saloon in a hundred mile radius.

A week later, on a Saturday evening, they walked into the Pearl Bottom Saloon in Shepherd's Hill, Wyoming. The crowd was noisy, the bar was full, and the ladies were singing and working favors and selling drinks. In one corner a man in a derby hat played the piano.

Three men walked in, studied the bar, looked at an empty table in a far corner and motioned for a waitress to come take their orders. Each man wore his guns in hip holsters, wore decent sombreros and vests over their shirts, and spurs on their boots, like they had just finished off a trail drive and wanted to wipe the dust from their throats.

Molson said to his pal, "Gobi, you sit here until I come back. Don't let no one take our table. I got some settin' up to do and a little close range spookin'." He walked over to the bar and said to the barkeep working the far end of the bar, "You folks got a good gunsmith here can fix a couple of shotguns I got broke?"

"Sure have. He ain't here now but he'll be in pretty soon. I'll let you know."

"Thanks," Molson said, "I'll go get them shotguns right now. Might save some time this trip." He walked to the door and just before he went outside he yelled to Manfred, and said, "Gobi, I'm fetchin' them shotguns gotta be fixed. Fella comin' in soon. Be right back."

In a few minutes he returned with two shotguns and put one on the table in front of Manfred and spoke extra loud. "This damn thing's still plumb bad, Gobi. I don't know if it can be fixed. You best keep it until I see if the fella can fix it when he comes in."

Just then, as another customer came to his end of the bar, the barkeep yelled to Molson and said, "The gent's here can fix or take a look at your shotgun, mister." He pointed to the new customer.

Molson, with one shotgun in his hands, walked toward that end of the saloon. As he walked by the table where the three gents had sat down a bit earlier, he laid the shotgun on the shoulders of one of the men, with the bore right against the man's ear. "Don't move, mister, or you're dead. You stole our wagon and our horses. If you hurt those horses, you're dead again all over."

One of man's tablemates moved as if to draw his gun and Manfred, with the other shotgun, was standing ten feet away with a bead down on the table. "Don't try it, sonny," he said, with the surest conviction in his voice saying that he'd shoot as soon as look.

Molson yelled to the barkeep, "Send for the sheriff. He's across the street in the general store. These fellas stole our wagon, our load of ammunition and our team of horses. If this man moves, he gets dead. If any of his gang here at the table moves, Gobi behind me will blast him to Kingdom come, bet on it. He loves those horses much as I do. Now get the sheriff."

The barkeep pointed across the room and a young man scooted out the door.

Molson nudged the robber chief with the bore of the shotgun. "No games, like you said when you stole our stuff, or you're dead." He nudged him again.

The sheriff came in and said, "How do you know these are the gents that robbed you?"

"Check his belt buckle," Molson said. "It got the biggest star on it I ever seen. I wouldn't forget that buckle ever. Ask him if he killed our horses or where he's got them hidden. Four proud Percherons from the Heaven of Horses. I'm gettin' itchy with this here gun about wearin' me down."

The sheriff, with his gun on the robber chief, said, "What do you say to that? That buckle's sure a dead giveaway."

"I just got it a few days ago. Bought it off a drummer on the road. Gave him 20 dollars for it."

The barkeep said, "He's lying, Sheriff. He was wearing that buckle two weeks ago at least when he was in here a few other times. I remember it."

The sheriff said to Manfred, "Try one of the others, see if he knows where the horses and wagon are."

Gobi Manfred, lover of Percherons, laid the shotgun on the shoulder of another man, and slid the cold bore against the man's ear. "I'm gettin' awful anxious about my horses, mister, and I can only count to sixteen, so I'm gonna do all my 'rithmetic and then shoot." He jabbed him again.

"We tied them off in that canyon by the river, a dozen miles up the river and on the other side."

Molson said, "You need help with these gents, Sheriff? We can stay with you, but we'd rather find our horses."

The sheriff pointed at three men at the next table. "You three are now deputies. Put your guns on them." Then he said to the robbers, "You three gents drop your guns right now. You're under arrest."

Turning to Molson and Manfred, he said, "You gents go fetch your horses and come back here. We'll have court in two days when the judge comes through. I'll need you here."

In unison the two freighters said, "We'll be here, Sheriff. These boys better pray them horses ain't dead from mountain lions or squaw cookin' 'cause they's Hell to pay for that."

Molson added, "We ain't worked in a week, Sheriff, like we been on vacation. Let's hope we get to work pretty soon."

With their shotguns over their shoulders the two freighters walked out of the saloon and went to find their Percherons.

****

A Western Proposal

A fanatic reader of western stories, a dreamer of the wide and far land and what it had to offer, Fenwick Mercer had come all the way from Boston to find his way in the western plains. Early on he was proper, courteous, well dressed, but that demeanor, raiment and habit became old, worn, discolored, faded, as the west introduced its real self. He was entranced and enraptured, yet frightened to the bone in the beginning just about every minute on a saddle. As it turned out, for nine years of his quest and his adventure, he had been a saddle tramp, moving from town to town, ranch to ranch, herd to herd, seeking his place in the world, not without some trade-offs in his ongoing western education.

At the start he might have been meek and mild, a bit lost under the wide skies and open plains, the legends unfolding all around him in one fashion or another, but Fenwick Mercer was a good student and learned quickly and well. He had encountered Indians, rustlers, owl-hoots, card sharks, as-fast-as-you drunken gunslingers, and all the in-betweeners. That he was still alive and kicking pleased him no end, and the west kept tempting and teasing him. The sky was the highest, mountains the biggest, nights the loneliest. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Eden surely flourished, and Utopia spread its arms.

His face was slightly angular, of some Scottish stock, with a straight nose, blue eyes, thick brows that matched his blond hair, and he walked with a tolerable gait for a stranger. That gait went with his Scottish twang that soon wore off, the two essentially disappearing the more he mixed with company.

The western brand, of course, the cowboy brand, at length began to settle on him. He could comfortably wear the west, as if age and experience began to matter. His face carried the weathered look no matter where he was, dry in the saddle, wet in a saloon, as tricks and the trade came into place. Dust found a home in his clothes, rawhide became the major connection in life, and awareness loomed as a necessity at all times.

His place in the world, though, was always at a distance and at a reach, toward the high blue morning, the evening red sky, the green foothills leading to another monster of a mountain coming up proud at the edge of everything flat. That's the way it usually went for him. Out of the fire and into the frying pan; bullets, beef, hardtack, scrimpy outings, dusty herds, dry lands crying for water, hard climbs between jobs. A man against nature and all the frills and thrills that came to hand.

Most saddle pards called him just plain Fen. He got used to it. Early in his quest, some people called him other names, but they too fell to the wayside as time passed.

Most all of those names had faded when he heard about the Fenns. He came into Bola City to grease his guts, clear his skin, mellow his needs. It was the Fenn name that grabbed him upright in the saddle, as stories unfolded about the widow Fenn. The name association made an instant play for his mind.

Tom Fenn had been the sheriff, a decent man on the job through the birth of two children, and one night a stray bullet from a crooked card game found him. His wife, Annabelle, as it turned out, wanted a man and needed a man to handle her small spread. Rancher, rider, coachman and stray from any rank, began to spread the word. Annabelle, to most eyes, was a most beautiful woman and was most practical. "I will do what I can to feed my kids, but I can't make any great promises for them. In the end of all arguments, I will need a new husband. It is the law of the land. Anyone trying other persuasions will be shot dead on the spot. I am a most honorable woman." She did laundry, waitressing, odd jobs for married women who needed a break, or whose husbands could afford it, and kept her eyes open for the new man who would surely come into her life.

The first time Annabelle saw Fenwick Fen Mercer, she didn't really see him. Dust is what she first saw, and she could discount that, but when she heard about the things the man could do, interest sparked her. Her neighbor, Bethany Milrayne, mentioned the new man in town they called Fen. "I heard from Josie Grey's husband that he's from back east maybe ten years ago, made himself a cowpoke and can just flat out do anything. He can shoe a horse, run a mule, and shoot like a hunter needs to shoot. He's kept store, tended bar, been on a posse or two from what they say. And they say he reads anything he gets his hands on, newspapers, books, posters of any kind. Knows every darn word he comes across. Real educated man spells good for learnin' kids." She flashed her eyes in proposed delight and self awareness. "He ain't Mister Handsome, Annabelle, but Mister Handsome ain't about to come to Bola City."

The interest brought Annabelle Fenn back to town that afternoon and in the front of Jade's General Store and she wangled an introduction as Fen sat out front with Chris Jade and a few other townies. She found Fen's looks acceptable, his manners polite, his clothes for the moment clean, and his eyes full of a secret or two from back down the trail. Those intrigues caused a glow within her.

"Mr. Mercer," she said, after proper introductions, "what brings you to Bola City? You passing through?" Time was not to be wasted, she believed. She looked him directly in the eyes. They were blue and clear.

At that exact moment, the way fate hangs around on corners, shots rang out from the Bola City Bank and a stray round thudded against the store. Glass shattered. People in the street screamed. More shots sounded. Fen Mercer just about tackled Annabelle Fenn, as he drove her into the store through the open door, ending up lying across her body, his arms shielding her face for the moment. He had covered her completely. His eyes, she found, were still blue, his weight most comfortable, and she said, "Thank you, Mr. Mercer. Welcome aboard." She kissed him before he could move. "When this is all over, the robbers caught or jailed, when the posse comes back if there is a posse, I've got me a new husband if you're willing." She kissed him again.

Fenwick Mercer, in due time, found Eden, of course, and Utopia.

****

Cowboy from Afar

He knew he had passed out from the pain at least twice. He didn't know how many other times it had happened. But he was still here, moving a bit though not kicking, at least not with the leg in the cumbersome splint he had constructed. The revolver was in his belt, tucked there for easy transport. The spyglass was slung over his shoulder in its special pack. He thought: "I am on another excursion, as short as it is." The journal was under his shirt, it too in a protective pack, but a soft one. He looked at the scratches on the wall of the cave. He had his schedule noted. He had theirs noted too. "Today the red men will dance. Tomorrow they will start their hunt."

His grandfather, far off in deep Europe (he hoped he was still alive) had said, "Yesoff, know where you are and when it is. Mark your times. Your life is as important as anybody's life. Watch the curve of the moon." The old gentleman was a mystic and a master at getting his attention. His voice he could still hear, the haunting of it, and the forecast.

More than once in the cave he suspected that an Indian, or someone who knew his way around the mountains, had been at the entrance, possibly smelling the smoke residue from his fires, or an odor of cooked meat. He'd heard them moving about outside and used the rattle in the depths of the cave, not shaking it with vigor but with a definite sound of a rattler hidden in the darkness of the cave. It had worked each time and had frightened him too with its natural sound, but there was no way of knowing how long the ruse would work.

For the start of a new day, Yesoff Zingelarq crawled out of his cave in the Davidos Mountains, the small fire behind him doused, a meal under his gut. He'd keep looking for help to get him out of this bind he was in ... the self-constructed splint on the broken leg he'd set himself, unable to walk far, no horse or mule to ride, hiding from Indians that would not understand his long presence in the mountains.

Perhaps, he thought, he'd see someone today, signal them, get rescued out of this mountain range. The cold weather would come in time; when it came and he was still here, it would keep him forever in the cave, in the mountains, lost to eternity. He had come to America to be a cowboy, the romance and the adventure drawing him endlessly as a boy in Europe, and now he was an excellent drover. "Make no mistake about that," he'd say, "six trail drives under my belt, wearing two scars left by arrow and slug, and an uncompromising admiration for the tribesmen that circulate the rivers, prairies, foothills and mountains spreading across the land west of the great river I have crossed five times."

A chance to view the Indians from afar, coupled with word of a gold strike by a prospector who died in his arms, had drawn him into the mountains ... gold found, leg broken in a fall, horse also with a broken leg and devoured soon after by wolves or peccaries or the vultures themselves gliding overhead. But he had survived the fall, the break, the long stay, by finding ways to snare or catch food, drag wood for a fire into his cave, crawl or stumble out each day with his long glass and sidearm to signal anyone he saw who might help him.

But in the daily process of studying the Indians in the valley below, he began to understand himself, what drew him, what really interested him, what caused the vacuum in his system to slowly fill with knowledge and wonder. This became a rare satisfaction for him after endlessly driving cows to corrals, to railheads, and to the butchers waiting in Chicago and points east. A certain satisfaction surfaced in the work as a drover ... the endless hours on a horse, kinship with the horse as well as with those who rode with him, odd and varied views of a new country and a new culture that he vaguely had dreamed about.

And there were these Native Americans whose lands they often drove herds through. The colors and customs came at him in huge gulps. He loved all of it, and it balanced the agonies of long hours of bouncing on a horse, though he came to love also the animals he rode.

So, whenever he could, he watched the Indians in rituals, habits, and in their proficiencies. Their lodges and teepees of one tribe were now spread in a ring down in the valley below him, a valley green as a new bud, a continuous waterfall coming off a rocky crest adding to the comfort of the location. They could pass the winter in this place, he believed ... but he could not.

His favored possession was the spy glass or looking glass made by a French company, Bardou & Son of Paris, that his grandfather had given to him on his 12th birthday. It was brass, 10 inches long when closed and 31 inches when extended and had a shutter on the eyepiece to close when not in use. The spyglass had a grand magnification caliber. He treasured the piece and loved watching Indians from high and distant places, from secret places, like the current one he'd been forced into by an accident. His admiration of them was unbounded, from their riding and hunting skills, their art of war, culture separation, distinctions of tribes, clans or nations, and adaptability in strange situations that called on native skills of survival. His small journal began to bulge with notes he penned from sights and determinations he had seen or made about Indian behavior. There were times he felt he was at a footnote of history, or turning the good pages.

On this day, he thought it was his 13th day at the same cave, he saw two braves mount their ponies and travel in opposite directions. This action he had not seen on any earlier days, and his intuition kicked in at almost the same time the riders disappeared, east and west of his position. He recalled more advice from his grandfather: "Remember always that a beginning action has a finish; try to see the finish before it comes. If it's not habitual, try to see what the gain will be, where it will be."

"They do not hunt until tomorrow," he offered to himself, "because they only hunt after the ceremony, which they celebrate later today. So it is another target they seek, which can be me."

On the edge of a steeply inclined ridge rim, not 20 feet from the narrow opening into his cave, Yesoff Zingelarq adjusted his spyglass and looked at the last places where each of the braves had disappeared. Trying to remember what trail he had taken up here, the left one seemed most likely the one. That meant the rider on that course would end up here. It was simple to envision the second rider coming up from the other side and arriving at the same point. The two braves would meet near here, near the cave, near where he had used the rattles to throw off the unseen searchers. It was a cinch to believe that they were looking for him then, and looking for him now. He must have left a track, a trail, a minute sign that gave him away at some point.

Zingelarq estimated it would take each man at least two hours to reach his position. The internal clock turned itself on at that very moment, and he set the glass on the chief's teepee where two maidens were twisting some kind of fabric into 6- or 7-foot lengths. "It must be rawhide," he mouthed, "or some kind of sinewy remnants or vine work, which they are turning into a rope product. The speed of the two maidens amazed him, for they worked like their hands were made of a silk as rapid and as strong as a spider's spinning. Once or twice he caught himself trying to focus more closely on the faces of the maidens. That too intrigued him.

The internal clock, in the midst of a reverie or two, made known its alarm and he withdrew to the cave, even though he had seen nothing or heard nothing. From the inside he pushed a rock larger than the opening as close as he could to the opening. Three smaller rocks were wedged under the bigger stone so that it would be most difficult to push the stone into the cave. From a shelf of sorts Zingelarq retrieved the rattle and put it near the opening. If necessary, he'd use that ploy again if any intruders succeeded in pushing the rock inwards.

In the cave, not aware of any disturbances outside, Zingelarq finally went to sleep, the rattle in his hand. Sleep, after a fashion, was deep and pleasant. He woke hungry, lit a small fire, and heated a remnant meal and a tin cup of old coffee. As he prepared to leave for the morning look down into the valley, he gathered his gear ... the spyglass, the pistol and a few rounds of ammunition, and the journal in its wrapper so he could add to it during the tribe's hunting day.

His newest lesson was learning of the patience of the Indians.

After Zingelarq rolled the rock away from the opening, and slipped outside with his gear, he was immediately accosted by the two braves who had waited all night for the chance to catch him. They were rough with him. Knocking him down, picking him up, studying his gear, and laughing at his little pistol. Both braves carried bow and arrows, and one carried a big ugly knife that looked like it had been beat out of another metal application. It was once pressed against Zingelarq's throat so that he could feel the keen edge.

When the other grabbed the spyglass in its case, he could not figure it out, and he spoke to his tribesman in a tongue Zingelarq could not begin to understand. The two jabbered and laughed and jabbered again. Zingelarq tried to read their body language and failed to dent it at all. When the Indian with the spyglass case seemed poised to throw it over the edge, to certain ruin, Zingelarq screamed. The scream was enough to deter the brave from tossing the instrument to certain destruction. That brave now looked at the instrument with more curiosity and interest, and spoke to his companion in a subdued tone. At least, that was Zingelarq's interpretation.

They had made much of his splint in a tone of voice that sent various messages for Zingelarq's further interpretation. He thought some of it to be curiosity, and then admiration, and then, perhaps because he had been captured so easily, disdain. The two braves walked him, half pushing him and half carrying him, to their horses. A third horse was there and Zingelarq learned a new lesson in Indian confidence ... it was apparent that they knew they were going to catch him and bring him back to the village. He was disappointed and elated at the same time, for he'd see their village as close as he'd ever get.

One of the braves untied the string on his bow, pulled Zingelarq's arms behind him once he was on horseback, stuck the bow behind his back and in the crook of each elbow, then tied his hands in front with the bow string. He was completely helpless now, and had to press his knees against the flanks of the horse to keep himself upright.

But they were not done with him yet. One brave pulled his boots off, looped them with a piece of rawhide and threw them over the neck of his horse. For all matters, Zingelarq was immobile in the terrain; he'd have difficulty, if he were loose, going anywhere.

The ride downhill was frightening at first, but he became used to it, and seemed to sense that the two braves would assist him if he were to fall.

They brought him eventually to their village, to a quiet and reserved reception, where he thought it would be a victory of sorts, and so celebrated. But the Indians all remained more curious than excited. It was he who was excited, getting so close to the villagers, seeing close at hand their clothes, their gear, the children, especially the babes, and the women of the tribe. Most of the women wore the same type of deerskin dress, with only adornments being varied.

They pulled up in front of an older Indian who Zingelarq took to be the chief, wearing a long war bonnet that Zingelarq had seen enough times to be able to identify the wearer, this man, as chief. He also wore a fringed shirt decorated with animal teeth, quills and some red beading, a breechcloth, leggings and tan moccasins with the same red beads on the instep. The chief would be amazed, Zingelarq decided, if he was to open the journal with a drawing of him that took an entire page, all that he had observed from afar with the spy glass. There was another page with a drawing of a woman in a fringed dress adorned with elk teeth, he had assumed, shells, and some porcupine quills. There was a subtle difference in her dress from the other women and he figured her to be the chief's woman, for the beading on her dress was a mix of orange and green colors and no other women wore that combination of colored beads.

These observations would be heightened by the explanation and use of the spyglass. He couldn't wait for the lessons to begin, but he'd have to initiate it carefully in light of the brave who wanted to toss it off the mountainside.

The bow behind his back was removed and the rawhide string taken off his wrists. Zingelarq rubbed his wrists and nodded to the chief. He still had the journal inside his shirt. He hoped it was his out, or his rabbit's foot. And supported, in a way he might maneuver it, by the spyglass.

The chief, his war bonnet full of bright feathers, at least 6 inches taller than Zingelarq, a sudden smile on his face as he looked at Zingelarq' splint, followed by a knowledgeable nod, said, "Cartier teach me you talk. Talk like wolf or talk like owl when meet white man. What you want, hide like prairie dog in mountain, let vulture eat your horse, not you? What your name? I am Three Stone Tall, chief of Cheyenne."

At that moment an Indian woman, most gorgeous, in a dress he remembered having drawn in his journal, came out of the teepee behind Three Stones Tall. Her elegance was beyond anything Zingelarq had ever imagined for a Native American, in her face, in her shape, in her obvious charm. She wore a long deerskin dress with a running border of orange and green beads. With no disdain, she looked at Zingelarq and said, "Chief think sun shine on you, man who walk tall on bad leg." Staring at his splint, she said, "He lose son, Beaver Tail, from bad leg in horse fall. You fix more than medicine man. He see it all. Teach him what you do. Why you live in mountain." She pointed off to the distant peaks.

With a slight twist of his body, trying not to surprise any of the Indians, Zingelarq reached inside his shirt to draw out the journal. He'd show her something.

Twang! A sudden movement at the edge of the crowd and an arrow landed right between Zingelarq's unshod feet, a sound of swiftness arriving after the arrow did. There was a hush, a fearful look from the chief, who said, in so many Cheyenne words, "Do not hurt this one," as he stepped forward and held up his hand, stopping any more threats to Zingelarq.

The situation came at Zingelarq rapidly. He pointed up to the mountain, then at the woman, doing it repeatedly until he thought she, the chief and others, might have gotten the idea of seeing things at a distance. He pointed at his eyes and then at the mountain and then at the chief and the woman. He did it again and again, much as a marionette on a string while the chief, his woman, the two braves who had captured him, and the entire village by this time, were staring at him like he was a clown.

When he opened the journal and showed the chief and his woman the drawings of both of them, there was a hush from all close enough to see the drawings, and then a flurry of excitement on their part. Colors on the pages leaped at them, all the oranges and greens and reds and yellows. The woman smiled widely, spoke in the Cheyenne language words that Zingelarq could only guess at, as if she had seen herself in a mirror.

Zingelarq pulled the arrow from between his feet, raised it only to the level of his eyes and drove it back into the ground. With that movement he pointed overhead, and then at the chief, and then at his chest, and said, "Yessoff Zingelarq does not fight the gods or the chiefs of the Nations. Yessoff Zingelarq does not fight the gods or the chiefs of the Nations."

There was silence in the village, a question caught on the last breath taken in.

The chief said, "Jessop Single ark?"

His woman, putting a hand on Zingelarq's shoulder, said, as clearly as possible, "Yessoff Zingelarq." The smile was still wide on her face.

Zingelarq knew this was his chance. He looked around him, mostly at the skyline, and at distant trees at the edge of foothills. In the top of a tree on the edge of the grass, on a bare branch, he saw what he thought was a hawk sitting and watching for a meal, his head probably turning slowly in a sweeping search.

He took the spy glass from its case, extended the scope to its full length, amazing all who looked upon him, focused and found the hawk, and let the chief's woman look through the scope as he did. His arms flapped in mild capture of wings.

The woman shrieked in a most pleasant manner, spun about, aimed the glass at the mountaintop, exclaimed in the Cheyenne language again and again some kind of delight, her face crowded with surprise and joy. She handed the spyglass to Three Stone Tall, who followed her example. For a solid ten minutes, uninterrupted by any of the activity about him in the village, Three Stone Tall observed distant objects with the spyglass.

The village again was silent, caught up in question, newness, and interest in the momentarily unknown.

At length, with an excitable voice, the chief directed a brave to his tent. The brave returned with the chief's smoking pipe, his peace pipe, and for the better part of a month, while his leg fully healed, Yessoff Zingelarq became a guest of the Cheyenne chief, Three Stone Tall. The two men saw and journalized many objects, tools, weapons, and animals important to Cheyenne history and survival.

At the end of that period the chief closed the cover of Zingelarq's journal and handed it to him with a smile. Zingelarq handed his spyglass to Three Stone Tall, and the two men shook hands.

Yessoff Zingelarq rode off on a pony with his original saddle retrieved from the mountain. A beautiful young maiden rode off with him, only looking back once at her village as she and her betrothed headed toward another life.

Someplace in Wyoming today or tomorrow or next month, in a small room set aside for collected antlers and other artifacts in an old ranch house at the end of a pretty valley, a young man reading this account will smile as he holds in his hands the journal that was once the property of his great grandfather. He will study it again for the thousandth time, sense the connection through his fingers, and understand the connection. He allows that it vibrates within him every day of his life.

He knows he will never part with the journal, which very few people know about.

It is best that way, he believes.

****

Biography of a Cowboy or The Nevada Nuisance

At two minutes past midnight of October 13, 1858, in the back of a Conestoga wagon en route to western plains, to an Indian maiden was born a son. His father, a dreamer of wide expanse, named him Colin Hardy Cosgrove, Jr. His mother, Full Wing Up, named him Dark Horizon, part Irish boy, part Sioux warrior, who was bound to find his way in the darkness.

At one year of age, in a small adobe shack in Arizona, he and his parents managed to survive an Indian attack by hiding in a covered-over hole his father had dug in the ground and which his mother asked the great god Wakan Tanka to keep sacred. Cosgrove promised that his son would someday know the ways of the Sioux, as his birthright, and told him of the family history in Ireland, where another people's land was taken from them.

When the boy was 7 years old, and his parents were working a small ranch in Nevada territory, he was taken by Indians in a raid on the ranch. All the family's horses were taken also, but the parents were saved by a lightning storm that frightened off the Indians. Full Wing Up changed her name to Bright Torch Bent. It was her third name change; and she knew more changes would come because her son's eyes were particularly bright, his breath sweet as prairie flowers, and his promise open.

When the boy was but a week with the Indians, a squaw noticed a birthmark on the back of his neck and exclaimed about it. The chief, seeing the sign it carried, ordered him to be returned to his parents. Two braves approached the parents' home, called out to them, and pushed the boy toward his parents, along with the horses they had run off with. The Indians rode off in the darkness. Cosgrove Sr., exalted with the return of his son, was mystified by the turn of events, which the boy's mother explained easily. "He is a child of the god Wahima from the great god Wakan Tanka who marked him on his neck. It was this way before he was born, for he was promised to me to be a great rider of the plains when I cried for a vision for him, in my 'Hanblecheyapi.'"

"Who is Wahima? Have I heard that name before?" Cosgrove Sr. said.

Bright Torch Bent said, "He is the God of names and the god of families, who comes forward in the 'Hunkapi,' that is 'in the making of relatives.' He is the Great Watcher of Souls. He speaks to him who listens. He is grandfather to our son. It is he who sent you that day when you found me at death's open door and brought me back to my full self. Wahima has promised me to you and this son to us, and says that he will be our son as long as water runs from secret places or the air moves unseen or the sun shines behind clouds few can touch, for Wahima exists where all these things exist.

Cosgrove, trying to recall all the events of that memorable day when he heard a woman's voice in the forest calling for assistance in a strange tongue, had difficulty realizing the whole scene. Rushing into the thick copse of oaks, he had seen the Indian maiden with a long stick in her hands standing up to a large black bear. She was bleeding heavily from wounds on her arms and one thigh, and her buckskin garment was partly shredded. With one rifle shot he dropped the bear at her feet. He could not remember her crying at all, but found something of hope in her voice after he dressed her wounds. For two weeks he took care of her, fed her, and slept beside her on the cold nights as they moved from the grounds he hunted back to his cabin tight against a canyon wall.

With clarity he did remember the night she said, "I am your woman and my 'hunkapi' is here. " The revelation of that promised vision came at Colin's birth in the Conestoga wagon heading further west.

At thirteen, an expert on a horse and with a bow and a rifle, Colin Hardy Cosgrove, Jr., called "good son" by his father and "Wings with Air" in the language of his mother's people, was hailed by all who knew him as a true westerner who had been gifted from birth to do good and honorable deeds.

The promises bloomed early. Once, riding alone, searching for stray cattle and letting some Indians take a few head of cattle for meat, he caught three rustlers who that night had run their catch of Cosgrove cattle into a small canyon. All three were wounded by arrows he shot at them in silence and all three rustlers, bound in good fashion, were brought to the ranch by young Cosgrove, and then to the sheriff in Rockville, the nearest town. He was hailed by all the townsmen who heard the story.

At the general store, run by Arnold Hult, he heard murmurs from the corner where three girls about his age were talking. Hult's daughter Miranda had a distinctive voice and he swore ever after that he heard her say, "My father says he will be a great man one day, and he's really handsome too." That day of promise was marked in Colin's mind, and he was able to bring those words back any time, hearing the promise in them, and the small dreams they shook awake.

At fifteen, shoulders and chest full, he was on his first cattle drive up the Reese River with his father and a dozen other drovers. Nothing significant happened on the drive, but he saw how full-grown men acted in unison, at one task, and saw leadership working as good as it gets.

It was on the way back from the delivery point that young Colin Cosgrove first fired his rifle at another man, as a band of riders tried to steal the money from the cattle sale. One of his shots knocked a man right out of his saddle, and his second shot took a revolver from the hand of an onrushing thief who threw his hands in the air. When the other robbers saw their apparent leader knocked out of the enterprise, they fled en masse.

Colin Hardy Cosgrove delivered his fourth and fifth prisoners to the law, the last two hurting and complaining about the keen shooter that had brought them in right through the heart of Rockville, like it was a parade. The sheriff told them their disappearing reputation was building onto the newest reputation of a young man that other brigands and road agents had started to call "The Nevada Nuisance." He also said he'd love to have young Cosgrove on one of his posses, to see how he would act in that oftentimes thankless task.

It was not long after that, in the following spring, Cosgrove just turned 16 and sweet as ever on Miranda Hult, when a prisoner killed a deputy and made his escape from Rockville jail. Colin Cosgrove mounted up with the Rockville posse and set out after the escaped killer. All the details of that chase were explained over and over again by the sheriff every time he stepped to the bar at the saloon or had a new listener at hand, as if he was the young man's proud father.

"We were near a feeder to the river where the escaped killer's trail had led us, and we were sure the trail had finally died out. Some of us went downstream and some up, but young Cosgrove, studying everything in the lay of the land, just nudged his horse into some deep brush and sat in the saddle, watching the other side of the stream. After a long spell, the killer came out of the trees on the other side and started to backtrack on his own trail. Cosgrove, like he had seen the whole thing the way it would happen, waited until that hombre was in mid-stream before he fired a shot over his head and ordered him to drop the guns he had taken from the dead deputy. None of us knew what was happening, but we heard the shot and rode back. He had the killer hog-tied and walking beside his horse and was headed back to town just like it was another day at the ranch."

Once in a while, as though he had his own vision of things coming down the trail, the sheriff would say, "One day that young man will be a great star wearing a star. He'll be a sheriff or a marshal and his name will spread to all corners of the west."

The word spread on the wind about the kid as people all over began to call him The Nevada Nuisance, the name spoken in hideouts and dens of thieves, rustlers, claim jumpers and killers, only not with the same disdain. The saloons of Nevada echoed the same message, how a half-breed sheriff or marshal was going to take care of the land and all its people. And they heard his mother's words of the given prophecy: "He will ride the morning star into evening and come out the other side of night. My 'Hanblecheyapi' says it is so, my vision for him."

On his 20th birthday he married Miranda Hult and carried her into a home he had built on a piece of land his parents gave him, not far from the family ranch house. The traffic between the two homes was constant, as the two women both loved Colin Hardy Cosgrove with an unrelenting love. When a son was born, his grandmother called him Son of the New Star and said very private words over the new infant. Her vision was a new vision and nobody in the family questioned her about it.

Just after the sheriff of Rockville was killed by a desperado he encountered on the trail, Colin Hardy Cosgrove Jr. went out and brought the killer back to town, across the saddle of his stolen horse. Town fathers pinned the sheriff's badge on the shirt of young Cosgrove as his wife, mother and father looked on, as did a pair of eyes from the second floor of Rockville's hotel. Those eyes belonged to the son of the man that young Cosgrove had brought to justice, and his hanging for the murder of the sheriff. Reason found no place in the mind or heart of Booth Blackmon who sustained his own promises. Descending to the street, Blackmon retrieved his horse from the livery and left town without a soul noticing his departure.

Two days later a man and his son were murdered beside the well on their property and their house set on fire. Three days after that discovery, about a six miles further down the river, a man and wife were killed in their barn and their house set afire. Four days later, the same type of grisly murder took place. On the next morning, Sheriff Cosgrove, the Sioux part of him leading the way, rode up into the mountains along the river. From a high point on the mountain he could see where the murders and fires had taken place, and knew where the next one would take place. Near darkness he came down from the mountain, crossed the wide grass along the river, and secretly entered the property of one Grant Purbonne and his two sons. With some difficulty, he convinced Purbonne and his sons to leave the ranch in darkness and go to a neighbor's ranch up the valley.
In the morning, wearing Purbonne's dark green shirt and vest and working close to the barn, Cosgrove spotted a rider approaching the ranch openly and directly from the river road. He stepped into the barn carrying a small wooden box he had been working on. His rifle, Purbonne's rifle, was leaning against the worktable where he had been banging nails into the box, when the rider yelled out, "Hello the house. May I get some water for my horse?"

Cosgrove yelled from the door of the barn, "Come ahead, stranger, I can't drink all of it." He waved him on, adding, "Be with you soon as I set this contraption in its place." He showed the wooden box. "Be a minute. Help yourself."

When Cosgrove walked through the door of the barn, Blackmon had Purbonne's rifle aimed at him. "Don't bother to come out of the barn, mister. We're going to take care of some business in the barn."

Cosgrove backed into the barn, his hands over his head, Purbonne's sombrero pulled down over his eyes. He wore no gun belt at his waist. Blackmon, with half a laugh and a sneer on his face, pulled the trigger on the rifle. The near silent "click" sounded all the way into the depth of the barn. As Blackmon pulled the trigger again, and nothing happened, he dropped the rifle and reached for the handgun at his waist.

With a deft motion, Cosgrove withdrew the revolver at his back waistband and shot Blackmon in his right shoulder, stepped closer, whipped off Purbonne's sombrero, and said, "Mister, you are two days from your hanging." He nodded at him and said, "You laid out a path for me like I was stupid enough to follow you to my death. You killed for one purpose, to draw me into the spider's nest, but that is an old tale that my mother taught me long ago. You have no idea of the way of the Sioux. Your path was straight and unerring all the time and yet erring all the way from its concoction. The Sioux believe the spider is known by the bird above him, high above him."

He tied Blackmon onto the saddle of his horse and led him off to find Purbonne and his sons.

"You folks come on into town with me," he said in explanation, "and collect the reward for this fellow who has killed a number of our neighbors, and who was trying to lure me into the spider's trap for some reason, which we will bring to light. I promise you that. He would have been waiting here for me or in the next place, in a straight line right from here and those other places he has destroyed. For your part in this, you have earned the reward."

Heavy praise rained down on Sheriff Cosgrove, and his fame spread across the territory and across the west, The Nevada Nuisance arriving everywhere in stories, newspaper headlines, and in the body of lore and legend extending all the way from a small Indian village in the mountains. In a short time he was Marshal Cosgrove of the whole county. His wife had four more children, two boys and two girls and they grew with special knowledge coming upon them.

After many escapades in the coming years involving claim jumpers, rustlers and murders right from the card table, Cosgrove retired to his ranch that his brave and curiously intelligent children ran for him and his wife.

When his wife died, the family returned her to the mountains, and when Marshal Cosgrove died a few years later, he was taken to the same exact spot by his children who knew all the ways of the Sioux, a trail of stones setting the way.

****

Full Flight From Yuma

Crackbak Mellon-Mellon sang the song endlessly, "Ain't No Jail Aholtin' Me," sang it, mouthed it, uttered it, yelled it, from one minute of the day to the next. For his five years in Yuma Territorial Prison the guards always knew where he was, in what disposition, secure in one cell or another, or laboring on a prison work detail. Prisoner #127 was known by the only name ever used by him, Crackbak Mellon-Mellon, but history had other versions that are worth unveiling if the man is to be known if not understood. Yuma Territorial Prison, as described by some Arizona folks in the know, was "200 miles of nothing between here 'n' there," and about the driest and hottest place in the territory. He was 24 years old when he was brought to Yuma, the prison then just over a year old, and 29 when he escaped, in 1881.

That truth said Mellon-Mellon was born Richard Bannister Barrows, III, to the Barrows of Jamaica Plain, Boston area, Massachusetts, USA. His parents, the Richard Bannister Barrows II, were engulfed by the great fire in 1857 that burned to the ground the stately home of the Barrowses in a very posh section of that village. The only child, Richard III, was rushed out of the house at the height of the immense conflagration (fueled by almost 100 oil lamps spread throughout the mansion), by the nanny Auntie Lidz, a large black woman who dearly loved the child as if he was her own. He was four years old and her lap was the warmest, sweetest and most loving lap he had known, and the only one most likely, because the parents were caught up in a serious social life, the father being a successful ship owner.

People of Jamaica Plain village assumed that Richard III died in the fire that leveled the huge home, along with "that governess or nanny they had, with a funny name, who must have burnt with poor little Richard, but nobody can remember her name." Before dawn the next day, Auntie Lidz was in the house of a relative in West Cambridge, and a week later in the back end of Rockport, near Gloucester and the Portuguese-manned fishing fleet, at another relative's place of employment, with another ship owner who saw no color in people, and asked no questions about "the black lady, who could cook like a god sent from Olympus, and a white child, perhaps little more than a tot."

Even there, Richard III was caught up on two levels, a white boy in the brace of black servitude. But Auntie Lidz's employer hosted the most elaborate parties with the grandest food imaginable, great reams of it, elaborate loaves and cakes and icings, greens with magical tastes, and a miracle mix of fish and meats, "sea and sod" as the ship owner called it, all cooked up by "that woman in his kitchen, the mother of that poor child with that strange name, Crackbak Mellon-Mellon." Interest piqued, spoken for, and accepted, so thusly the boy grew up in two worlds, but knowing at all hours the warmest place on earth, the lap of Auntie Lidz who became, one unsuspecting day as declared by the boy himself, Momma Lidz. The woman sang songs to the child the minute she left off her duties as cook, maid, live-in factotum, endless singer in her own mind as she spun through her duties ... big, black, gracious for her size, elegant of hand, songs in her throat for every deed required of her, mythical songs that called on her past and the memories she strove endlessly to keep alive in her mind, and in so doing presented to the loving child an extension of her own history. From her lap he caught a sense of music that swelled in him but especially off by himself. It was when he was alone that he could enjoy the joy that leaped out of him as he sang, knowing Momma Lidz's voice, the magic of her words, the love that rose from her lap, from her sweet embrace, while she sang "ole Afridca comin' home agin."

Now and then, in moments of deepest sadness, she told him of her journey in chains and all imaginable pains on a dark ship when she was just 13 years old. How she survived by being freed of her chains on calm nights and was brought to the captain's cabin. What her survival had cost her. What she was taking back that was her own to give, not to be taken at threats of death. Only when he had come of age did rage enfold him, the night in the haymow when a girl, another mixed person, played games with him. His rage came apace of all the pleasures he would come to know.

When a white boy of that end of Rockport, a constant companion of Crackbak's, began to steal from Momma Lidz's employer, he dropped clues that it was Momma Lidz who did the thievery, small and unobtrusive clues he had discerned about the woman and "that stupid boy who don't know if he be white or black, who ought to know his place."

Beset by doubt, called upon by friends to "get rid of that disgrace he harbored, that woman and that child," the employer and ship owner was caught in a quandary. The solution was never his, as he was robbed one night coming back from Gloucester and shot dead on the road. Momma Lidz and Crackbak didn't last a week, as relatives of the ship owner ushered them out of town. Crackbak was 12 years old. Momma Lidz died of a heart attack in her flight. A week later he snuck back into Rockport, killed the thieving boy, was seen, and ran. When it leaked out later that he had killed the wrong boy, his brother having committed all the thefts, Mellon-Mellon made a vow that he would seek revenge.

He was still running 12 years later, still promising to avenge Momma Lidz' death, when he was sent to Yuma Prison for holding up a stage outside of Mineral Park, Arizona Territory and taking the strongbox away with him.

Such is history of one person, boy to man, freed to be imprisoned, man on his own in this world of two worlds.

Two passengers of the stagecoach that Mellon-Mellon robbed were from Bisbee, almost 100 miles back on the trail. They had seen the robber on a number of occasions, back in Bisbee. Doc Parsons, a general practitioner, and his wife Mildred, town stalwarts, solid citizens, stood up in court and pointed at Mellon-Mellon as the coach thief. They identified him by the scars on Mellon-Mellon's body, on wrist and face, that the doctor had seen two visits to his office. Parsons, once on General Grant's staff as a medical aide, was firm and definite in his identity. The judge, knowing some of Mellon-Mellon's background, much to his chagrin, said at the sentencing, "Young man, I hate to see a whole life wasted, so I am going to send you to Yuma Territorial Prison, not for your whole life, but for 10 years. I sincerely hope that you get out of there someday and move on with your life."

The judge never realized, for one minute, that Mellon-Mellon would escape from Yuma. It appeared impossible from his personal survey, the facility new, the walls solid, the guard force strong, the surrounding territory, for miles and miles on end, a sure deterrent to escape. The land was inhospitable to say the least, natural enemies growing out of that inhospitable geography, dangers found deep in canyons, hidden up wadies, in the way of any man on the move. Whatever the judge gleaned about the young prisoner, he did not find the resolve that Mellon-Mellon had formed and held in deep reserve.

Only two days in prison, knowing the jeopardy that daily surrounded him, including one mouthy prisoner making serious jokes about his name, Mellon-Mellon made a small, deadly weapon, a knife of sorts but jugular sharp, out of a metal dish "lost during mealtime." Other prisoners took the hint when the mouthy prisoner was found, in his cell, almost bleeding to death from a jagged wound on his face. Mellon-Mellon, always singing his song, "Ain't No Jail Aholtin' Me," was never bothered after that, and was able to plan his impossible escape from Yuma.

It only took him five years.

Six months after his escape, through the curried intervention of a guard, with not a single sighting of the escapee, the doctor, his wife, and the judge managed to relax their vigilance about revenge. They believed, as did many people, that the fugitive had perished in the desert. But, then, each got a copy of a letter found secreted at Yuma, that said, "I don't blame none body of my jailin'. Not youse too. I ain't none bad accep what I did to nudder boy. I thot he real kilt Momma Lidz all alown, but his bruder did it. Who come after me gettin' hurt ever time. That come promise. I ain't kep no hate wi me, but mak sure the killer be kilt."

Despite Rockport, Massachusetts being too far away to be reached by an escapee without funds or friends, a letter was sent by Arizona prison officials advising Rockport officials of Mellon-Mellon's promise of revenge.

Yuma, indeed, was too far away to be any kind of a threat to Rockport, or to the real thief who Mellon-Mellon believed had killed his Momma Lidz by causing her heart attack.

It only took Crackbak Mellon-Mellon eleven months to walk into Rockport after dark on the last evening of August, 1882. The August moon was not shining, but a west wind came steady and the tide was out, the air so fully fresh and invigorating that he could easily measure the difference with his Yuma cell. He thought it was like finding a salt cache on his escape route through Utah. The salty air, full of memories, made him cry at first, and then the hateful resolve overcame him. He knew for only bare moments the safety of Momma Lidz's bountiful and heavenly lap. It was never to come back to him, that acre of pleasantness, that sea of warmth.

During his long stay away from Rockport, he found out, the real killer had died, leaving Mellon-Mellon unresolved.

Lost in his desolation, figuring a way out of his present situation, he dreamed of walking back westward as the fulfillment of his life. "I kin do thet less'n a year, betcha betcha betcha," he mouthed to himself in the darkness of the night. He remembered the heat of his cell at Yuma, how it burned his skin, laid him down trying to recall how to breathe properly, saving himself by absolute stillness, wasting nothing of his mind.

At a moment of fearful realization, that Momma Lidz's warm lap might be gone forever, that darkness had stolen her, that the death of a thief had no resolve for him, he found himself at the edge of the sea. Boats and craft of all sizes bounced on the slightly angular waves coming inward with the tide. He heard the music of the sea and the hulls being washed by the grace of the ocean. The stars had flung themselves out over the vast sea and seemed to touch the far line of the horizon. One star close to the horizon blinked continually at him, as if pointing.

"West go east and east go west," he said under his breath, knowing that there would be no place to hide any longer. In the steady motion of tide, the water touched warmly on his legs, not as warm as his Yuma cell, but warm, invitingly warm. The walls in his prison cells had been hot on his skin, some days as hot as the sun itself, but the floor of those cells was really the rooftop of Hell. The threat, ever-there, every minute in Yuma, disappeared. "Ain't no more fallin' t'rough," he sang, "fallin' down the Devil's lap."

And there was real music out there, where that bright, glorious single star still blinked at him, Momma Lidz's kind of music! The smooth throb of it came on the tide, moved with the breeze, with the full sky of stars keeping pace. His fingers could almost touch it, move with it, as the beat ran on his skin. All of it enveloped him, promising a blanket of heaven.

The revelation came alive; Momma Lidz was still warm in whatever place she waited. He had done his revenge, and she had to be warm as ever, her lap as bountiful. He remembered how she had always wanted him to learn how to swim, always being near the sea, or connected to it somehow, but he had an inevitable fear of water and never learned how. So it was his own miracle when he said, almost sang, "Ain't none too late learnin' now, Momma, none too late for learnin'."

Again he heard the music as he had in the foothills of wild western mountains, in Utah and Wyoming and other places on his way to forever, the music that belonged to her, that came with the wind in canyons, across lush prairies, up and off the peaks "prayin' right up to heaven itself."

He leaned into the slight white line coming at him and swung one arm forward. He sang the song that had carried him for such a long time; "Ain't No Jail Aholtin' Me," letting the words rise from his throat as the warm September water washed against his face.

****

The Broomstick Cowboy

In the heart of Chicago's new butchering center, in a ramshackle apartment in a ramshackle house, a truly destined cowboy was born to a hard-working Scots-born butcher and his wife. The year was 1864 and the Scotsman had just got a job with the newly formed Union Stock Yards. Ralston Condor was a meat cutter, one of many that came with the swelling herds in the yards. Eventually, after 7 years on the job, he'd come home at night and tell his wife and son all the stories he heard during the day, at work, at the tavern on the way home, from friends on the corner ... all about the great herds of the west, the cowboys and drovers and ramrods and trail bosses and the Indians along the way as cattle headed for Chicago and the stockyards and the butcher plants. For all those years he longed for the open country again, like the land he had known on the moors of Scotland with Angus cattle, a distinguished and hardy breed.

On a drear Sunday afternoon in 1871, finding a resolution mounting in him, Condor said to his wife, "One day, we are going to get to the heart of this." His wife did not know what he was actually looking at as he spoke, but would know those simple words all her life, knowing he had made a significant judgment ... not what it was, but knowing that it would come to pass, whatever he had meant. The look was on his face.

He had pointed, over the nearest roof, to the stockyards less than a half-mile away. The smell was immoveable and steady, and only promised hard work, little money, and fewer chances. She remembered the day, in Scotland, when he said, "Soon we will move from here." She did not know how far that would be.

Their son Alec, bright as new coins, full of imagination, sociable as an ant or a bee, spent hours riding on a broomstick horse in the dusty road in front of their row house. Older neighbors, laughing heartily, called him The Broomstick Cowboy. The name stuck where it was pinned, firmly in place on young Alec Condor. They saw how much he enjoyed the imaginative ride he was on, the wide country around him, the great herds he was leading, the good friends and staunch companions that rode with him through the terrors of the long trail and, at length as evening drew down upon him and his broomstick horse, the flickering camp fire with his drover companions ready with songs, stories, and their judgments of the day.

It was easy for him to fall asleep, and thus to dream his day all over again.

As all their Chicago stockyard days went on, any and all spare funds went into a tin can hidden in a special place in the floor under a matt. The sum grew with take-in sewing money Mrs. Condor earned, her husband's winning at cards, plus small gifts from the old country. The two parents were planning for the day they would leave this drear and wretched apartment, the stockyards, all of Chicago ... leave them behind forever.

Came the day the decision was made, and the arrangements to head west, into the wide spaces where young Alec , The Broomstick Cowboy, one day would get his chance to become what he played at, what he dreamed about, that daunting rider on a daunting horse and nothing but wide prairie around him.

By chance meetings, directions, talk with people met on the way, the family ended up on a wagon train in Independence, Missouri, headed for the land of promise in Texas, cow country as far as one could see in every day of travel.

The journey was long and arduous at all points, but proved to be a veritable classroom. Too long a meat cutter, a butcher, Condor, smart as he possibly could be, studied everything about them as they moved ... the people, the animals, and the vegetation. He saw, he absorbed, he remembered. He asked innumerable questions of innumerable tradesmen and bystanders, those he observed to be alert, industrious, proficient at their task at hand. And decisions came of his observations, his study of the land, of perennial opportunities.

Raising cattle for the Chicago market was his goal, for the most concentrated activity he saw on the way was the movement of cattle heading back eventually to the place he had left, Chicago and the railroad stockyards and butcheries, and the eastern markets.

Condor mixed well in social situations, his gutsy Highland dialect welcomed, or disdained by newly met people, making inroads possible or calling upon his fortitude and ability at handling odds head on.

So it was in one chance encounter, when he detected the Highlands dialect coming from a man in the midst of an argument that seemed to threaten the lone man. Condor jumped in to give his help.

The unknown Highlander was in a loud argument with three men who seemed to dwarf him considerably, but Condor's intrusion evened matters immediately ... his long-worked butcher's arms exhibited solid muscle and his demeanor as forward as a bayonet showed he had no fear.

"Aye, Laddie," Condor said, as he thrust his way into the center of the discussion, "Are you in need of assistance?" His huge arm looped around the stranger's neck like a noose, and his presence was an immediate difference.

"Oh, Laddie," the stranger said, "these men have a high dislike for Scottish Angus cattle. No horns to fight off their adversaries. Nothing like the Texas Longhorns they dwell upon."

"Well, now," Condor said, in his purest Highland voice, "I have studied every herd on all the trails I've come across, and that includes every cow I've seen. There is nothing these cattle need any more than one good Red Angus Bull to even matters for them, to make them the choice of meat cutters from here to the rail yards in Chicago and all the way to the finest restaurants in New York and other points east where all the best meat goes."

To settle matters fully, Condor, with an arm around the Scottish stranger, grasped one of the arguing men about the arm and sank his thumb so deeply into muscle that the man flinched visibly. "We'll let these gentlemen go on their way while we see if we have mutual acquaintances in the old land."

One of the other men, a crude looking fellow with an exceptionally round face and a permanent scowl, tried to draw a revolver from his holster, The strong hand of the butcher closed down over the reaching hand and Condor said, "I wouldna if I were you, Laddie, else you'll be wearing the whole belt about your neck too tight to make any difference." He patted the revolver worn in his own belt.

The three men walked off.

"My dear fellow Highlander," said the stranger, "my name is George Grant and I have brought yon Angus bulls, off there in that corral, all the way from Scotland to breed with the Texas Longhorns those men seem to hold in great esteem. And you have the same dream that carries me. Where are you bound?"

"I head for the western lands to find us piece of land. I too will raise a breed of cattle the world will exclaim about."

"Do you have any Angus stock?"

"None yet," Condor said, "but I will do all in my power to get some there, to wherever I end up."

The Scottish breeder, studying Condor all the way, said, "I had serious problems myself getting my stock here. I had to defend the measure many times, against taunts, aggression of all orders, near death at times of some of my best stock, as if people here are afraid of the Angus, the bare look of them. Times I think they believe their stock will be tainted, but those longhorns are not native to America to begin with. So we swell the opportunity to improve what came here before us, even before them."

Grant realized he was tossing history right into the lap of history. He decided to keep going. "When you get there, wherever that is, write to me in Victoria, Kansas or send me a message anyway you can. And I promise I will send you a new Angus bull right from my new stock. An Angus bull born in America, in the coming season. I guarantee he will be a choice one of the lot, a wee laddie later for all the ladies of the herd. Aye, Laddie, Scotland comes to America in wide intents. "

He snickered in his humor, even as they parted company, with his parting thoughts. "Be well, Laddie, you and the lady of the wagon and the young one there riding that fair horse of his."

He patted young Condor on the head. "Before you know it, young Laddie, you'll be in the saddle for days on end. That's the way it goes out here on this wild grass. There are cowboys and horses and Indians and rustlers and stampedes and dry land as far as you can ride in a day and rivers that are plain hell to cross, and then a new kind of heaven if you're the right man. I've found mine in Victoria, Kansas."

Grant turned to the elder Condor and said, "You write, Lad, and I'll answer right properly, as promised."

Ralston Condor saw how Alec's interests expanded at the many sites of their journey westward, and the boy would not let go of the Broomstick horse. Every time down off a wagon, every night stop, every watering hole, he rode the Broomstick horse. Around campfires he rode, always showing off his dream.

It all happened in a few years ... the land found and purchased, the herd started, and the letter written and sent to George Grant in Victoria, Kansas.

A few months went by and a wagon train, headed further west, stopped for a night near Kirkness, Texas. In the morning, before the wagon train started off, the wagon master and a drover completed George Grant's promise made out on the trail: a young Angus bull was delivered to Ralston Condor at his ranch near Kirkness, Texas.

"Mr. Condor," the wagon master said, "I bring you an Angus bull from Mr. George Grant of Victoria, Kansas. I deliver him and need you to sign this receipt so that I can prove the delivery. Mr. Grant said, in no uncertain terms, that this delivery be accomplished upon my sworn oath. I gave my oath and have carried it out through some harsh circumstances and animosity met on the way. Once there was a threat to kill the bull for meat, which we needed at the time, but my oath held me. And the fact that sometime in the future I will have to face Mr. Grant, a most persuasive gentleman."

Condor, delighted with the young Angus bull, thanked the wagon master and gave him two head of meat cows for assuring the delivery. And Condor, respecting Grant's instructions, crossed the bulls with Texas longhorn cows, producing a herd of hornless black cattle that survived well on the winter range. The cows bred with Angus fared better in winter weather and weighed more the following spring. To Condor, it was the dream resolved, having the best breed in the new land, just as he had crossed the ocean to accomplish.

At the time of the bull's successful introduction into the Condor herd, Alec Condor, the Broomstick Cowboy, was just past ten years old and he kept the old broomstick, a souvenir of his youthful days, in the barn loft. He now rode a checkerboard Paint with the name of Broomie.

The boy and the horse were inseparable at all tasks and as time passed the boy grew into an accomplished drover, herder, wrangler, cowboy, any and all declarations of his duties, and his dreams. He rode night guard, point guard, trail breaker, was remuda boss, took turns at cooking when needed, and became a significant breeder of stock from Texas Longhorns and Angus cattle, once off the heart of Scotland. When he was 20 years old, both his father and George Grant now dead, the Broomstick Cowboy was the owner of a large ranch in Kirkness and had bred a great herd of beef cattle.

Once in a while, memory grabbing him by the hand and taking him elsewhere, he'd look overhead in the barn where the old broomstick looked down on him with constant reminders of Chicago, the smell of the stockyard, the miseries of a harsh life refusing to let go even in the face of great success, telling him that memories, dreams and hopes are all pushed into a breed mix of its own, knowing that he had his own place in the history of the new land, the new breed, and the new market, however long it would last.

****

Plumbeck the Fiddler

Watching every move about the campfire, studying each face lit up by the flickering flames, the fiddler Sam Plumbeck idly held onto his instrument, waiting for the proper moment. Time, he could feel, was pressing down on him; it had different parts that moved in different ways. The stars all the way to the horizon dip were many and miraculous, the horses silent for the most part even though a coyote cry filtered in now and then, and the darkness beyond wrapped them like a giant robe spread under those stars. He had ridden in, apparently aimlessly to all the trail hands, and joined up with them on their way back to their ranch, the promise of music being hailed by all the hands who had delivered the herd, were through with the drive. He alone, out of all these trail hands who had hit the jackpot, knew what was coming down on them. Nothing is supposed to be perfect or fair; at least this side of heaven, or the mass of a blue sky, or the dash of sunlight on a rainy day. And he, just a picker of strings, with not a coin of the gold in the lot having his name on it, could only wait it all out, hoping for the best and only seeing the worst coming up.

It had been that way for him since his wife Elsie had died and left him to tend their 8-year old daughter Alma.

And now Alma was gone, stolen from him a night earlier, right from their little cabin, in the middle of the night, and him bleary-eyed and hung over and not knowing until well after dawn that she was gone.

They had made themselves known a day later, riding up from right out of the cluster Pinon pines, as if they were lost, to greet him in the yard. They rode two roans and a paint that looked out of place for a minute, and Plumbeck noted the animals seemed well cared for. Small signs gave bits of evidence he could trust as being the real thing. A long time ago he had learned that a man's audience gave away as much as it took in, whether they knew it or not.

There were three of them, well-armed, with six shooters on both hips and rifles tucked into saddle leather, the stocks he saw scarred and showing long wear or use. Because they were strangers, he studied the three men quickly, putting away as much detail as he could; right off he swore he could pick two of them off skyline silhouettes, how they rode tall in the saddle like they owned the earth. He decided he didn't like them, any of them, and wondered why else he had made such a quick decision.

It didn't take long for him to discover why.

The slim fellow, in a Stetson fitting on his head like a giant mushroom, too big for the little stem of a man, did the talking, though the other two riders were bigger men, thicker in the chest, wider in the shoulders, meaner than each other, if that was possible. They all wore trail-dusted outfits, and a bit raggy at that, heavily-worked denim shirts and pants grained with the trail they rode, and each one with a dark red bandana looped at the neck. All three of them were soft riders, he said to himself, sat the saddle well, were at home there.

"Know your audience from the very first note," his father had told him long ago, in advance of life alone, life in front of people, fiddlers holding sway in the family for generations.

The slim speaker's voice came softly, almost diminutive, the words deliberate, as if he was a bank teller doing regular business with regular customers. "We know where your daughter is, Mister Plumbeck, with friends of ours. She's okay, but to get her back, and safely at that, you have to do a few favors for us. It should be pretty easy work." He stared at Plumbeck the way a teller stares at a little old man struggling to put a few dollars to account.

Plumbeck, quickly alert to other causes, said, "She's not hurt is she? She's all I have. What do you want?" He tried to remember Alma's face; only small pieces of it came back, how her lips curled in an honest smile, how the dimple, like Elsie's, came back before anything else and lasted longer. It was the dimple he was seeing now. He couldn't remember if he had kissed her when he came in from town, or the Mexican woman who took care of her some nights. Sometimes he kissed her too, and now and then she'd kiss him back when Alma was asleep or when they were in the barn saddling her horse to go home.

"First off, you were pretty much out of it last night. We walked in and walked out with your daughter all wrapped up and warm. She's with lady friends. A ways from here. You'd never find her. Neither would the sheriff, not a posse either if they mounted one for searching, which I doubt they'd do anyway. "

"What do you want of me?"

"You see the Double-Bar X boys in town the other night, after they delivered the herd?"

"I heard them more than I saw them."

The slim talker said, "They worked off a whole lot of the trail in town, now they're going to head back home with a passel of horses, and a whole lot of money that didn't get put into the bank. The safe was blown up a few weeks ago, by some hombres not us. I don't like big noise. We know their money's in the chuck wagon and we aim to get it. But they won't let us ride in on top of them in the daylight, and they'll be twice on guard at night. With a week on the trail ahead of them, there's time enough for trouble to set down on them."

"Where's that leave me?"

"They know you, every one of those boys. They liked your music in the saloon those two nights of resting up. Really liked it, how you pick at that thing like you're a magician. Not often we hear the likes of it. Not that way, leastly. We could tell from all the way across the road. You had them boys really hooting it up. Brought the Texas right up out of their boots, them dancing like they did, half crazy with all the ladies of the premises, like there was a full moon shining down on them." His eyes closed for the merest second. "Especially that one called Wilma who wears all that red stuff comes ashining back in the night when you least expect it." His eyes went flickering and shining and sent off messages that Plumbeck knew from way back when he was the youngest fiddler in a Texas band, fourteen if he was a day and life opening like an open road across the wide prairie.

"How's that go for me and my daughter?" He was hoping he could stay in some kind of control, not of them but of himself. He saw Elsie's dimple and it sat like a warm pool or a small star on Alma's face, grabbing all the attention he could muster, and there came the same secret smile that she could flash when nobody could see her but him, like it was a signal of times to come.

He began to add things up: there were two of them, the ladies in his life, but really, at this time, there were none of them. They were both gone. All he had left was the fiddle, and the mule, wherever he was chewing the cud now, and this suddenly diminished piece of property.

"You somehow get yourself attached to them, play them a few songs, warm them up and relax them. Can you do that? We got an extra horse here for you, in place of that old mule you ride. By the way, where's your mule?"

"I fell off him last night and lost him. Just about got home."

"You know the song _She's Just a Mountain Girl?'_

"Yes, I do."

"Let's hear how you do it." He sounded like a bank president more than a teller.

Plumbeck reached behind him and picked up the fiddle. In a swift and trained movement he swung into _She's Just a Mountain Girl_ as easy as plucking strings, all of them.

Mr. Smooth Talker turned to his riding pards. "Listen to how it sounds. That's how we'll know when to rush them, when he plays this song." His head was moving smoothly, as if still in tune with the music, remembering another time, another girl shining in red. He turned to Plumbeck and said, "Play it again, Sam."

Plumbeck, natural as they come with the strings in his hand, bounced through the song again. The way he played it, with all he could get from those thin wires, had the two big pokes bouncing in their saddles, nodding at the rhythm, accepting his delivery, maybe wishing it was Saturday night all over again. It was in their faces, but wasn't that way with the little gent, the slow talker. He decided there was no music the second time around in the obvious leader of the pack, but only because the other two were so open, so transparent. The big cheese had to keep some secrets from the open mix.

"Let's go talk in the cabin, if you will," Mr. Smooth Talker said, as if he was putting the frosting on Plumbeck's idea of him. "There are a few facts I want to make sure you understand." He nodded at the other two, and said, "Keep your eyes open for any strangers. Make sure nobody has any idea of what we're up to. There's a sweet payday coming. We can count on that." He waved the two big hombres away from the cabin. "Keep your eyes open. Never know who's tracking us from back there." He looked off toward the town a few miles away.

Plumbeck had hailed the trail boss from a distance, waving at him, yelling his name. "Hi-yo, Alec. It's Plumbeck here. Heading back to Texas and I'd like to ride along. I brought my fiddle."

Alec Winship said, "It'll be a pleasure having good company, Sam. Boys'll love it. They had a hard time coming up here. You sure had 'em goin' the other night. Really got them goin'. You do that every time out of the corral?" He looked at Plumbeck's horse. "You been ridin' hard to catch us? Don't wear that animal out. Out here he's your best friend. Even comes ahead of that there fiddle you're totin'."

"I didn't want to be alone tonight, not out here," Plumbeck said, putting a little doubt into his voice, shrugging his shoulders, appearing fearful of the open plains.

"Well, we all got company tonight, Sam, and plenty of vittles. Homer says he's got bean soup and steak and his best biscuits for the night meal. How's that sound?"

Plumbeck slapped his fiddle. "I got my vittles' chit right here, all tuned up." He shrugged his shoulders in a universal gesture, some decision left up to others, a yes or no in the movement as if he was asked a question that might not demand an answer. At the same time his eyes shifted across the grassy horizon, and then glanced east and west, north and south, the whole compass in two moves.

He was sly about it, thought he could be nauseous if he let himself go.

They rode after the chuck wagon setting up for the night less than a mile ahead of them just before a narrow pass in the hills. The two men had fifteen minutes of honest conversation while riding. The evening sun, beginning its descent, touched the tops of the hills in a fond farewell to another good day. No stars had shown up yet, but the moon pushed up its silver crescent in the eastern sky and gave off the promise the sun had set free that morning. Horses, driven together, nickered as if they too were having late conversations.

Six hands were setting up camp for the night stop, and odors had already begun to circulate from the chuck wagon. Beans and onion smells swirled smoothly in the air. A few other hands continued tying up ropes for a horse tether for the night. All of them, in turn, hailed Plumbeck with favored salutations. "Hey, fiddler, we wuz talkin' about you all day, 'cause that wuz some night we had for ourselves, that last one." "Glad to have yore company, fiddlin' man, and I see you brung the tools." "Hey, that you, Sam? You look different sittin' that animal 'stead a strummin'. That thing you're carryin' there, does it get shook out of tune ridin' side saddle like that?" "Hi-yo, Sam, you headin' back to God's country? Sure can make this trip short."

To a man they were pleased to see him, perhaps a bit excited. Their jabbering said so, even the unintelligible parts of it, the distant remarks called out across the good grass, the asides tossed to one another at odd tasks: "oh, what that man can do with skinny wire," or "We got a good time comin' tonight even if them girls ain't here." All the while the food smells continued to swell and circulate in the late evening air. A coyote acknowledged the speed that aromas moved on the seemingly still air. The crescent moon continued its ride into the night sky, even the slice of it promising hence its full golden orb. Another coyote, from another direction, started a conversation about the infiltrating aromas. Man was again penetrating domains.

Plumbeck, hearing a distant sound that sounded like a trumpet call, spun about quickly, on guard, until he realized the sound was coming from Bugle Pass ahead of them. He'd been there before, the wind whistling in from the other side of the hills and hustling through a series of boulders set on the peak of the hill in the long past by the Indians. He didn't know what tribe had erected the odd formations but believed they were musical in their nature. At another time, in another place, he'd think about _Retreat_ being sounded behind a fort barricade.

Winship, eating from his tin plate across the campfire, was staring at him in somewhat of a lazy manner, smiling, enjoying his meal, fully at ease, the easy-riding crescent moon sailing across the ocean of the sky. The jug he had promised the crew sat untapped at his side, like a reward to be earned. He smiled again at Plumbeck and raised his hand when his plate was clean, as if he was the maestro out in front of an orchestra.

The single musical instrument in the campsite appeared from the slight flames touching the edge of the circle. The boss man's signal had been sent. Pot and pan and tinny sounds stopped as Plumbeck stood up with the fiddle. A few notes escaped their long internment and fled across the wide grass, the slivered moon giving a hint of silver in its touch at grass. The distant coyotes, nuzzled in satisfaction, did not take note of the signal. Night began to move on.

The meal finished, tasks completed, a good number of men relaxed, some obviously still on night tasks with the animals or night riding, Plumbeck rose with the fiddle in one hand. It swung easily in that hand. Standing at the edge of flame light, he played a series of favorite songs for them. They were boisterous, but listened well, especially at refrains that rose up and fled across the grass, lifted up to the moon as if being freed forever.

The whole crew liked the first medley, _Round Tree Willy_ and _Moses Ward Goes Astray_ and _The Girl from Calico,_ all of them fiddler favorites for as long as he could remember. Plumbeck had often thought that _The Girl from Calico_ had been his father's favorite and many times he had wondered if there was some secret behind that favoritism. He had come to accept, and even forgive, many of his father's transgressions beyond the front porch back in Tennessee. Starkly he recalled when his younger sister died from a childbearing incident resulting from an abusive salesman, his father angrily striding off with his rifle never to be seen again.

That disappearance shifted his mind again, recalled alertness from where it had gone. He heard a coyote from as far away as imagination would allow, perhaps in the depths of a canyon, then a whistling moan from Bugle Pass, and a wolf, loudest at the top of the food chain, taking vocal command of the once silent world.

Across the fire, almost prone on his night blanket, his gun belt flopped at the edge of the blanket as well as his rifle, Winship turned his head to listen to the same sounds Plumbeck had heard. He lifted the jug off the blanket and Plumbeck, at that movement, suddenly broke into _She's Just a Mountain Girl._

He was hardly into the song when five men, from the shadows like Indian ghosts raised from dark graves, broke into camp, their rifles leveled and ready to fire.

The Smooth Talker, his hat still too big for his frame, his body still slight out here in the darkness, but his voice decidedly harsher than Plumbeck could remember it, was yelling at them.

"Don't reach for any guns. First man gets a gun in his hand gets dead in a hurry." He swung his rifle around at the men at the campfire. "I mean it well, don't grab an iron or you're dead in a minute. We just want the gold in the wagon. We want every last piece of it. From where I stand I don't think we can see any heroes. Whoever decides he wants to be a hero gets dead just that quicker."

He looked at Winship, without a weapon in his hands, still flat on the blanket, his boots standing beside him like sentinels. "The rest of your crew sleeping under the wagon, Boss Man? Better get them out here under the same terms; they're dead if they go for their weapons."

Later, much later, Plumbeck remembered how cool Winship had been. That coolness was in his voice as he said, "They don't need to go for their weapons, mister, 'cause they already have them and there's four fully loaded rifles pointed at your midsections right about now. This I can tell you, four of you die in the first round, and one will live for a bare second until he gets rounds from all them rifles together. You think about that hero stuff. And put this in your pipe and smoke it ... the gold's not in the wagon 'cause we buried it earlier out on the range, and one of the boys has gone off to get the sheriff. We knew you were coming. It's that easy. The fiddler there, he's no fool. If we find his daughter is the slightest dead, you guys get strung up on the nearest tree we find. Now what do you say to that?"

The loudest sound was from the darkness as rifle bolts slapped home.

The intruders dropped their weapons at the side of the fire, and Winship, all Texas coming up from his bare feet, jammed his revolver into the mouth of one of the two big men that Plumbeck had told him about. "Where's the girl? I am only going to count to three." He raised three fingers and dropped one immediately, as he counted, "One-two-..."

"Wait," the big guy mumbled, "she's at the Kilgore place, the other side of town. She's okay. Nobody touched her, I swear."

He looked fearfully at the Smooth Talker, just as Plumbeck, with all his vented fury, remembering his sister, his wife Elsie long gone down the trail as well as his father, his daughter tossed into strange hands, smashed his fiddle down atop the head of the Smooth Talker.

Winship nodded at the coming silence, knowing what a fair swap was.

****

A Greater Kingdom and a Lesser Court

"Hey, Ward," said the livery man, "did you see that new dude in town, looks like he got dressed up in New York for fun and was kicked out here on the stage to give us all a laugh. Sure is a funny lookin' dude. I almost laughed aloud when he near fell off'n the stage with them funny boots he's awearin', never mind the flummery shirt with ruffles a girl can't get enough of."

"Don't know nothin' 'bout that gent," Ward Hagler said, running the oil swab over his gun again for the hundredth time in the afternoon. "Man don't mean nothin' to me dressed like that. Could be a drummer drummin' up business by his looks 'fore he tells us who he is. Guess is as good as mine."

The liveryman knew Hagler, a gun polisher, had been in town for more than a week and seemed to know just about everybody, at least by name. And Hagler was a customer, so there were no more questions. About anything.

Reverend John Sloan Whitaker, leaving his one bag of property on the boardwalk, walked from the stage stop and stood in front of his new assignment, the small Church of the Western Star sitting on the main road passing through Jitney Falls, Colorado Territory. His gaze swept the skies looking for the first cloud in weeks, and a sign of blessing on his new position. Nothing appeared in the sky, not cloud or sign. He settled on watching a whirl of dust rise in the middle of the road and saw it disappear as it thinned out. "The sins collected in Jitney Falls can also be dissipated," he said to nobody around him, "as long as I stay dedicated to my vow."

The old fear was hanging on. Perhaps a reminder, he was thinking, not to stray afield. Then someone spoke from inside the open door of the church. "I suspect you're the new minister assigned here. We've been waiting on you. Glad you arrived before Sunday's on us again without a sermon to mull over during the week."

A comely woman in her mid twenties, lips ablaze, teeth shining like stars, in riding garb, a wide-brimmed hat hanging on a leather string around her neck, wearing a pale green blouse that almost leaped up into her eyes, stepped from the interior of the church. He saw neatness, trimness, each quality adding to the basic beauty about the woman. He affirmed that she was lovely, even at first glance.

She spoke again, her voice still warm, hosting, "I'm Pamela Hanks. The congregation appointed me as a welcome committee of one because they all have things to do and we've been waiting for weeks, really."

The softness of her voice grabbed Whitaker swift as a lasso. "Whoa, Lord," he said under his breath, "don't rush me now, I beg you." The woman was most beautiful, with the pearls of pale green eyes sitting on a lovely face, a complexion clear as a spring rain, and a subtle motion crowded with grace as she offered her hand. Neither her work-worn riding pants, nor a pair of work gloves idly tucked into her belt, changed any mark of grace.

Nor did the touch of her hand.

As swiftly as he could, Whitaker collected himself, knew the indescribable softness of the extended hand, and said, "I'm John Whitaker, at this new assignment. Sorry I'm late, but there were a few problems on the way. I am sincerely pleased to be here, to serve the community, and to meet such a pleasant member of the congregation." Both of them were aware that the handshake lasted at least a second longer than either had expected.

Her gaze was full of immediate concern, as were her words. "I hope nothing happened on the road. There's been an indecent amount of trouble on the run between here and the capital. Anything serious?"

"We were held up. The shotgun rider was killed by one of the bandits. There were three of them and they were mean as they come. But two of them, by the hand of one of the passengers, were fully dispatched and are now in the hands of the good Lord."

"Oh, my goodness. You didn't get hurt, did you?"

"Not a bit. Good fortune and the good Lord were willingly on my side." A look crossed his face that she understood immediately, when he said, "But I am hungry. Perhaps famished is the word. Where's the best meal served in town?"

"It isn't served in town," she said quickly. "It's served at my parents' ranch not too far out of town. You get squared away on your lodgings across the street there at Mrs. MacGregor's. She has a small place for the minister of the church. It's part of her tithing, and she's quite proud of it. Pretend that you're not hungry and can't eat right now, for she'll try to insist on it. You'll love her like your grandmother, I promise. And I'll meet you here in about an hour. That sound okay to you?"

"I'd be delighted."

Pamela Hanks understood the message passing between them, and enjoyed again the nimble hand and fingers of the new minister as they shook hands again. She couldn't wait until she told her mother about the new minister in Jitney Falls, Reverend John Sloan Whitaker who could outshine the outlandish clothes he wore. She wondered where he had come by them. His shirt was about the stuffiest and most overdressed ever seen in Jitney Falls. Why, she thought, hadn't she noticed it the first thing.

In the saloon that night, Dumper Squalls, a part-time everything including being a talker of known proportions, held the fort at the bar, trying to describe the new visitor in town. "I saw this guy get off the stage and talk to fancy-pants herself, Pam Hanks. They looked like a pair, the kind that get dressed up when they only got to buy some trinket at the store. Looks like he's right out of St. Louis or Chicago with them duds he's got on, then I hear he's the new minister. An odd lot if you ask me. Ain't they supposed to be the salt of the earth? Regular as they can be without doing too much about it, them ministers of the church?" He shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands over his head as if all was lost. "Leaves me plain all-out wondering. All I got to say."

Of course, it wasn't.

On the edge of town, out where the trail leads off to the Hanks' ranch, a rider in the deep evening shadows of a cottonwood copse, a slim rider, moving cautiously, watched another man on horseback leave the Hanks' ranch and head down the trail to Jitney Falls. The rider in the shadows gently touched his spurs to his mount and the horse nickered, one nicker in the growing darkness. When the rider looked up, the other horse, hardly visible, was rushing down the trail, away from him.

The shadow rider spurred his horse, ran him for half a mile and came across the other horse standing in the trail, his rider nowhere to be seen. He approached the stilled horse cautiously until the reins were in his hand. The saddlebag, sitting in place, appeared stuffed, and he put out his hand to touch it. It was too soft to be the money he was looking for.

"Mister," he muttered, "whoever you are, and wherever you fell off your horse, I'll find you and the money."

About to turn around to go looking for the other rider, now afoot, he heard the gun click off the side of the trail.

"You move a muscle, Sherick," a voice said from the darkness, "and you're dead." The tone was calm though serious, but had no edge on it. "Get off your horse real slow. Drop the reins over the muzzle and onto the ground. Let go the other reins. All of it easy, all of it slow and sure. The shotgun rider on the stage is dead, his two sons are out there now looking for you, as well as every sheriff and marshal from here to the state lines any direction you want to look."

The tone changed a bit: "The promise, what I hear, is they'll be meaner than you and a lot quicker."

Sherick said, "You took the money we aimed to get. You're a thief too."

"Dead wrong about that, Sherick. The money was wrapped in the window curtains of the stage. Someone somewhere let on that you boys were going to give it a try, but west of Jitney Falls, not where you tried it. You surprised the stage driver and he surprised you. He wasn't counting on anybody getting killed."

"So what are you going to do now? I don't think I ever saw you before the robbery. I know you from someplace that won't come back to me yet, but I'll get it. What's next? You could kill me here and you'd be clear. Anyway, how'd you know my name?"

"I heard the gent who gave the word said 'Sherick's the boss,' so that's you from what I saw. Besides, Kripps the shotgun was a good guy. I'll let his kin do the joy work. You start walking down the road after you drop your guns and I'll give you a chance to get your horse and come back here, after I'm gone, to get your weapons. That's all I'll do this time. It's about all the goodness I have left for you. It's just enough to get it done this way. Now move out."

The sudden hardness in his voice seemed generated on the spot.

Sherick said, "Yeh, like that first time wasn't enough." He dropped his gun belt and started down the road. The darkness swept him up as he listened, hoping to hear the hoof beats retreating the other way.

Rev. John Sloan Whitaker, moving back towards the Hanks' spread, recalled his evening with Pamela and her folks, overhearing her father say to his wife that "the minister sure dresses mighty peculiar for my taste. Looks like he's more for the stage than the pulpit."

Other than that summation of his appearance, the evening was thoroughly pleasant, and the reverend knew he was in love for the first time in his life.

At the door, parting, she said, "Don't worry about my folks and their ideas about your clothes. As for me, clothes don't make the man." She held his hand tightly, sent a message or two, and kissed him lightly before he knew what was happening. Like a wispy shadow, she slipped back into the house, leaving him stunned on the porch.

A short way from the ranch, he stripped his outer garments and put on a shirt and pants from his saddlebag, strapped on a gun belt with a single revolver. He was disappointed that he had to wear the same boots, but his regular boots were with his gear at Mrs. MacGregor's place.

It felt good to get his regular clothes on, even as he felt unsettled in his new role. He felt like he was pinning the tail on the donkey, a kids' game he had played once as a boy. He knew he was trying to figure out how best to play his role ... he had no idea of what lay in front of him. Jake Stoddard himself was ignorant of that also ... though dedicated to find the problem and solve it.

Even before he heard Sherick's horse in the darkness, he continued to scour his past for what had brought him to Jitney Falls in the first place.

It was an unnerving drama that had sent him this way, and in the manner he had arrived.

All that came back to him too, as he rode away from the Hanks' spread, the shadows deep, him as deep, wonder and question riding his saddle as though they belonged there.

Only a week earlier, 100 miles down the trail in Linden, he had been simply walking past the bank when gunfire erupted and all hell broke loose, inside the bank as well as outside. Three men, with a woman hostage, emerged from the bank with bags of money. A man in a strange looking outfit, but wearing two guns on his belt, walked across the street and said, "Hold on there, gents. Let the lady go and you can go on your way. No more shooting. Is that a good deal?"

"Listen, Fancypants," one of the robbers said, "We keep her. We keep the money. You keep still and drop your guns right there."

Fancypants, a complete novelty in his garb for a town of the west, kept walking toward the robbers, now trying to mount their horses and the hostage trying desperately to get out of the clutches of one of the men.

Whitaker watched the whole show from his spot against the wall, his hands at his sides. He appeared useless, harmless, and almost invisible against the bank wall.

"Don't come any closer," one robber yelled at Fancypants, aiming his gun at him, and Whitaker, standing still long enough, took that moment to go for his guns.

Fancypants, in the middle of the road, ducked as the bullets began to fly. Whitaker fired. The robbers fired. Whitaker went down and Fancypants stood over him until a bullet took him down, sprawling across Whitaker, still protecting him.

Action continued in a hasty manner as the town erupted.

The woman hostage got loose, the robbers fled with the loot, and Fancypants whispered to Whitaker, not letting anybody else hear him, "I'm U.S. Marshal Jake Stoddard heading to Jitney Falls disguised as the new minister of the church there. Some big doings up there where a lot of people are going to get hurt. We got to find out what's going on. Please take my place. All my gear is up in the back of the livery, under some hay. Way in the back it is. Please do my job for me. I know you tried here. I think you owe me that much."

His pause was sincere and necessary.

He coughed, gagged, spit some blood and said, "Until you get this done for me, bury me on Boot Hill as J.S. Noone." He laughed. "My pa will love the humor in it when he realizes what we can pull off when we want. He always wanted me to be a lawman. I've tried my best. Later you can take care of things. My folks'll understand. They're in Clamitch Hills, Texas." He spit again, coughed again, and said, "Swear you'll do it."

Whitaker swore an oath.

Jake Stoddard, a real marshal and a fake minister, died in the arms of a fake minister and a fake marshal whose real name was John Sloan Whitaker, good gun-hand, sometimes drover and dreamer, especially for a real woman in his life, coming actor pretending to be a minister, but a marshal for real in his own mind.

Whitaker took care of things in Linden, retrieving the marshal's gear, taking care of the burial, locking things in his mind.

The next morning he took a stage headed west. He went as plain John Whitaker, changed en route in a small settlement, took another stage, heading for Jitney Falls, as Reverend John Sloan Whitaker, in clothes he had never worn before ... and he hoped he wouldn't have to wear them for long. He was especially upset at the boots, too pretty, too fluffy on his feet, no horse command in them.

Even by accident, things progress around us, happen to us. He remembered his mother saying that, too. "When you hitch a wagon, John, you best ride it no matter what happens. Make your decisions count."

In Jitney Falls, within his first hour, he met Pamela Hanks, whom he fell in love with in an instant, got rooms at Mrs. MacGregor's establishment, was invited to dinner at the Hanks' ranch, fell deeper in love with the woman he thought he must have been looking for his whole adult life, and was nearly accosted on the road by a bandit he had seen at work one time earlier.

On a small rise looking over the Hanks' spread, he watched for half the night, worried that Sherick would try to enact some measure of revenge. He wondered what had made him let Sherick go, as if he had not done anything illegal. Perhaps the role of the minister, seeking goodness in all things, was working on him already.

Sherick did not show and before dawn, Whitaker slipped back into his small cabin at the rear of Mrs. MacGregor's place.

He slept until noon when Mrs. MacGregor woke him for lunch. "Up and at 'em, Mr. Sloan. The day's near done. I know you came back late and I know you were invited to Hanks' house. But this is your real home while you're in Jitney Falls. At least, I'll try to make it so. Lunch is about."

At the table they gabbed for a short time, before Whitaker asked his first question. "What's going on behind the shades in this town, Mrs. MacGregor?" he said with a half laugh, "and I'm not talking about family matters, if you know what I mean."

"I sure hope you don't speak twisted like that from the pulpit. Mr. Whitaker. Folks won't take well to it. They're looking for plain talk all the way. That's what they need, just all-out plain talk. They've been fed so much mush these days you have to wonder how dumb or how smart they really are."

"So what's behind the scenes?" His gaze was steady on her.

"I'm no country bumpkin, Mr. Whitaker. You didn't light here one day and the next day be full up of questions like that. I suspect that you're not all the collar man that you try to be." She stopped, thought it over and said, "Or what looks to be." Then came again, saying, "I bet your horse likes those boots you're awearing, though, soft as duck mush, kind as kisses." She laughed long and loud and cut him another piece of pie.

They talked well into the afternoon, before he sauntered over to the church, his suspicions correct, because Pamela Hanks was doing a serious job of housekeeping, dust occasionally rising from her broom, a hand wiping her brow. She looked as elegant as ever, he decided, and recalled instantly that she looked just as good in work pants with a pair of work gloves folded in the belt line.

As she came to the front of the church, she said, "Well, how did you like Mrs. MacGregor? Isn't she refreshing?"

"She really is," Whitaker replied, "and we had a long and serious conversation about things in general?"

"And nothing in particular?"

"Oh, we did that side of things too."

*

He recalled a good part of the conversation when it had turned quite serious, hitting on the interesting spots.

"Listen," Mrs. MacGregor had said at one point, "what's going on hereabouts has nothing to do with rustling cattle or water rights of the river or the stream or the spring up there in Calamity Hills, or fenced property or mine claims. That stuff is as old as the hills, as the Old Kentuckian says."

"That about eliminates everything possible, doesn't it?" His look was serious, yet still held a question in it as if he readily agreed that he did not know as much as her. She had another option to present, he suddenly realized.

"That's easy, son, though the problem won't be coming along just yet." The light was in her eyes when she said, "It's statehood, plain and simple. People gathering momentum for the changeover. Power plays will be coming because controlled power comes with statehood, not the sporadic power of the territory."

She watched for the reaction, measured it.

"Are you political? she continued. "Are you for statehood or a territory? You can't have both. If you want to be piece of a bigger pie, go for statehood, but in statehood hungers have to be tempered. That's all the caution I can provide for you at this time."

She leaned forward and gave him another thought to fret over; "Because I cringe in the face of stubborn formality, stop calling me Mrs. MacGregor and call me Kate. Kate it is, plain and simple."

She measured the impact, smiled the way only a woman can smile in such a situation, and added, "And I'll call you Reverend or John or whatever pleases you for the duration." Her eyes were lit like flares.

Full of wonder and more mystery, laughing at their sort of understood stations, Whitaker laughed and said, "You're not just a lady living here, running rooming services, getting mellower with age, and more beautiful, if I may add, are you?"

Perhaps, he thought, a mask is being taken off.

Mystery and wonder coming together.

She had another piece of advice that definitely touched on inside knowledge of the statehood situation. "If they hired a gunman, keep your eye on a gent named Ward Hagler." Her mouth sat as firm as her jaw.

She was tying things together, slowly but surely he figured.

The mystery almost asked another question on his part, but Kate MacGregor came up first: "Years ago my husband was killed ... by a man who's now a big shot in politics. I could never prove anything beyond my husband's dying words, and the killer had too much clout for decency's sake, so I was lost in the morass. I have been waiting for years to get him, praying for the day of justice. It's coming, believe me."

"What side is he on?"

"Believe me," she said, "it makes no difference. He will pay. George MacGregor was shot in the back but he was the light of my life. The eternal light." The glow in her eyes set like a memorable evening going downhill.

It touched him as deeply as he'd ever been touched. John Sloan Whitaker realized, in a hurry, that he now had two women in his life.

And Pamela Hanks, in her own ways, had called the shot on both of them.

He felt as lucky as a race winner, running ahead of the pack.

When he said, "Who are the dealers and the players in this?" she answered, "That just makes me figure the collar you wear isn't the soft and holy stuff we think it is."

Kate MacGregor went right to her backbone when she said, "Are you going to tell me who you are, or what you are, or what you're supposed to be? It's only fair from where I stand, and you know where I stand."

Oh, she had a way with her, he thought. If she were 30 or so years younger ... then he thought, that's just where Pamela Hanks is right now, 30 or so years young. None of that could be denied.

Pamela stood at the door of the church, looking at Whitaker with a leveling stare, and said, "I hope you have a sermon ready for Sunday; people will be expecting the good word to ring again, as loud and as true as the bell above. Her eyes shifted to the small steeple and the small bell overhead, the bell carried west by a now forgotten family who had brought also their hopes with them. Names were lost, the transfer of the bell forgotten and lost forever, only the good intentions might echo with the ringing of the bell.

Whitaker was stunned by his predicament; he had to carry off this accepted assignment, the promise made to the real ranger, the vow that he had settled on himself, the hope he had for Pamela Hanks in a whole new life for him, the belief he had that Kate MacGregor was going to finally get her long-awaited justice.

The predicament would turn on him, solely on him, as his vow had secured. The law of the land and the law of the good Lord overhead, and everywhere one wanted or could believe it to be, would have a meeting ground. He had to provide that meeting ground. What could he say that would touch on all things? It was not his best feature, he knew, the summation of ideas, the joining and the casting of words. He'd have to run anything he came up with past Pamela, let her be his judge in the matter.

She was right at hand. What could he say?

It blurted out: "What do you think about statehood for the territory? Do you have a preference? Has anything been going on that bothers you or your parents about this?" He wanted to tell her what Kate had said, but he held it back. Also, he wanted to bring up Ward Hagler's name because of Kate MacGregor's warning, but thought he'd hold that alarm from her. No sense throwing too much at her at one time.

"Oh, I'm for statehood," she declared, "as long as we don't let in too many politicians who have learned on the job how to cheat the people of rights and property. We've had some strange things going on around here, and across the territory from things I've heard."

Her brow squeezed tightly above her eye line as she further declared, "And we've drawn a few strange faces here that look to be up to no common good. One of them, Hagler by name, with the out and out look of a gunman, has been nosing around for more than a week. I fully suspect that he's nothing more than a hired gun. My father has the same opinion, and he believes these things all tie into the statehood question. There is apparently too much to be gained, or lost or misappropriated from loose ends during the transition."

Whitaker almost roared in glee as he realized Pamela was so much more like Kate MacGregor than he had initially thought. He could have kissed her, or both of them, at that moment. Life also held some dear things in its arms.

And the vow he'd made welled up in him as if balancing all the goodness coming at him, happening to him.

"Well, Miss Hanks," he decided to say, "I'm not sure where I stand on statehood, but I am firm on a few other things ... I have a sermon in my mind, Kate is as much like you as you are like her, and I am getting fonder of both of you by the day if not the hour."

Having said too much, he sensed, he hastened to explain. "I will work on the details of the sermon, first word to last word, and will acquaint myself with Mr. Hagler. That will be coming up pretty quickly."

Pamela said, "Do I need to add a note of caution here, or is it fully understood?"

Her smile broadened his heart; the expansion ran clear through him.

With the sun slanting out over the mountains, the foothills beyond Jitney Falls already into minor shade, Whitaker approached the livery where he heard that Ward Hagler kept watch on the town ... who came and who went, who needed horses tended, who else had a new face in town.

The play-acting marshal play acting at ministry saw Hagler sitting in front of the livery, one of his guns just being rubbed clean, the scent of oil carried on a breeze.

Hagler looked up to see the minister, in the funny clothes and the funny boots, walking toward him, and wearing side arms that sat too comfortable on his belt. He tried to understand the message that was coming at him but never got the full grasp. Instead, he said, "Hey, Minister, I see you still got the funny boots on. That mean you're not going any place soon, at least not on horseback?"

Whitaker said, "I'm not going to be chasing any hired punk gunman out of town, because he won't even get to his saddle."

The alert was in more focus as Hagler said, "And who says so?"

"The man who says it owns the hands that got Diamond Dick Reddly and Poor Soul Jack Simmons on the same day in that little settlement down the river, at which you might have been a visitor."

The alert was all the way home, and Ward Hagler, nothing more than a hired gun, suddenly measuring all his opponents of late, realized he was out-matched. "Not me, Minister. I'm out of here." He turned to the liveryman and said, "Saddle up my horse. I'm leaving town." He added, in a hard voice, "Now."

He turned to Whitaker and said, "Who are you, Mister?

Whitaker, finding words leaping up for his use, said, "I am the judge of the lesser court." It sounded so good to him that he repeated it; "Just the lesser court. All the rest has another judge." Oh, would it be this way for his sermon.

It felt like a working charm coming off his lips, coming out of his mouth, as Hagler, his guns swinging when he hustled to his horse, mounted up and rode out of town.

The livery man said, "You know who he is, Minister?"

"What he was he no longer is," a smiling Whitaker replied, his tongue most comfortable in his mouth. He thought he could feel the sermon gaining full headway in the back of his mind.

The play-acting minister being a play-actor marshal walked about town for almost a whole week, getting to know people, talking, listening to glad stories and stories of woe. He discovered that a lot of activity was taking place in the town, some of it all hidden in the folds of the community. Some of it was so overt it was never conceived to be connected.

He also understood that an undertone of discussions was taking place, with him as the center. It was determined that he was different as ministers go, and some of that came from the livery man who mentioned a number of times how Ward Hagler had ridden out of town on his own.

From that, of course, other points were noted; his interest in Pamela Hanks, his connection with Kate MacGregor, his surfacing at odd hours in the oddest place, like a fisherman looking for a good pool to drop his bait in.

A freighter at the saloon said, "If he's a proper minister, why's he wear guns some day? I swear I saw him out of town and not wearin' them stupid clothes a his. And wearin' real boots, too, 'cause he was on horseback."

But it was Kate MacGregor who broke the big piece of news to him. "Listen to what I'm going to tell you. There's a big man coming in to town tomorrow who has stolen some huge tracts of land by legal thievery, and he's looking for more. He wants to have the biggest ranch in the west and he's well on his way to get it. He wants nothing to do with statehood until his claims are all fixed legal like so the transition can be made legal when Colorado becomes a state. It's coming down to that."

"What's his name?" Whitaker said. "How do you know so much?"

"My sister's boy works for him. Has been in his camp for years. He lets me know certain tidbits of information, but has to be very careful. I worry about him a great deal." She told him the name of the thieving politician, pretending to be against statehood for Colorado, but down the road, all for it.

The politician's troupe entered town in the morning, with the tragic news that one of their party had been killed on the trip, at night, by an unknown killer who fled with no gain for his act.

Kate MacGregor was beside herself with hate and anger, feeling the victim was her nephew. It wasn't, as it turned out, but one member of the troupe who had borrowed her nephew's horse to ride into a small settlement, supposedly to mail a letter back to his sweetheart. Kate knew what the real scenario was supposed to look like ... the rider slipping off to mail a letter was leaking information, and was doomed.

It all fell in the lap of the play-acting marshal play-acting at being a minister.

The next day, Sunday, broke clear out over the far hills and ran on the grass it seemed for a hundred miles. The Church of the Western Star was full to capacity before services started, including the political shiners ready to work their end of things in the town. A few children sat stock-still in their seats. Two elderly people, both crippled, sat at the back door. A mix of middle age and senior age citizens made up most of the congregation. Kate MacGregor's long-sought enemy was there surrounded by his entourage, and when Reverend John Sloan Whitaker stepped to the pulpit, Kate nodded towards her sworn foe. Almost at the same second, Pamela Hanks shifted her eyes to identify him to Whitaker.

Though a sham at what he was doing, the man in the pulpit felt absolutely lucky in having two grand women in his corner. All he had to do was carry it all off the way he figured Marshal Jake Stoddard would do it.

He began: "All of you, or most of you I will say to correct myself, have come here to please yourself and the Good Lord who watches over you. You will ask for things that seem impossible to come to you, or thank Him above for what has come to you in the past. That is all standard stuff from the pulpit. It will be said today a thousand times in this spreading land, and indeed it is spreading. Many of us at the same time are bound to atone for sins we have committed against each other and against the Good Lord who provides for us."

"Those transgressions, to use a polite word, range from horse stealing, rustling, thievery, abuse upon our weaker brethren, and range all the way from bushwhacking murderers who have long thought their deeds are behind them, to those who currently are proposing not what they believe in but trying to throw those beliefs falsely to the wayside, the liars that they are."

"All these transgressions, these foul deeds, these rotten-to-the-core acts, these deadly sins, are passed through a Lesser Court in this life. Sometimes that Lesser Court works well and sometimes it doesn't even scratch the surface. The guilty may be forgiven, chastised, let go or, indeed, possibly honored for their misdeeds. What a sham it is in many cases, this Lesser Court of ours."

He scanned the congregation, looking into eyes, measuring his delivery. "It only stands in the way of the Greater Kingdom that waits beyond. Some of us will not get there. That is what I am preaching today. Those killers among us, those bushwhackers, those who have pulled the wool over the eyes of too many people for too long are coming to the Gates of the Greater Kingdom, after eluding the Lesser Court that serves us."

Whitaker caught his breath, looked into a few pair of eyes as intently as had ever done, and continued. "Much of what I say has roots in the politics of the land. The territory has been the subject of statehood on a number of occasions and a number or referendums, none yet accepted, but be sure to know that statehood is coming upon us. Those who deny it or misrepresent their aims in the matter will not prevail."

"If you want something to think about during the coming week, the coming month, the coming year until we enter statehood, remember who stood up for you."

"If I pulled my pistol now and pointed it at you, waved it around, how many guilty ones among you would run for their lives?"

With a sudden move he dropped his hand below the pulpit. Benches creaked. Chairs squeaked. Boot soles and heels suddenly twitched on the course wooden floor. Some of the congregation heard their hearts pump, the pounding in their chests, pumping up into their necks.

Kate MacGregor, standing like the avenging angel, had dropped her hand on the shoulder of her husband's killer who thought he had died. She stood in place, nodding at the preacher, then raised her free hand over her head and yelled out so that the words bounced off the walls of the little church, "Lord, strike us down."

There came pandemonium in the Church of the Western Star as the political and moral adversary of Kate MacGregor fled the scene with his cohorts. They said later that he was dead out on the street of Jitney Falls before he hit the dust.

All the pretenses were revealed, some accepted and some not.

Whitaker married Pamela Hanks in the same church. Kate MacGregor was the matron of honor. On their honeymoon the newly married couple went to Clamitch Hills, Texas to tell Jake Stoddard's parents how his last duty had been most honorably discharged in the new state of Colorado.

****

Jehrico's Tub

From the top of the ravine wall, in a remote canyon of the Drago Mountains, Jehrico Taxico spotted an old wagon on the canyon floor, hundreds of feet below him. It was hidden from any lower view by a few trees and brush and a huge chunk of palisade wall that had fallen long ago like a dish on its edge. He judged that the wagon had not fallen from the high escarpment because it looked to be still in one piece. Probably its driver and occupants had sought safety by hiding in that place, he thought, only to get caught by whatever they were hiding from, or yielded at length to animals or nature getting as cruel as it could. No survivors lurked in the scene, or any horse or mule or ox that had hauled the wagon to this point. Only the long shafts for a single animal hitch appeared solid still sitting at an angle on the ground. A fallen rock had crushed one of the rear wheels. There were no other traces at all. And not a bone to be seen.

He could not tell how long it'd been there, but the wagon was now, without any doubt, his bounty, his possession. Perhaps, he thought, some good luck was coming his way. Lots of folks in Bola City looked on him with a bit of disdain, some of them calling him shiftless and worse, mostly because he would not kowtow to the demands of harsh bosses who treated him meanly simply because of his name. He would not work very long for such men. There were times he'd quit after mere hours because "I ain't putting Mildred through that sort of treatment without getting her fair share of feed." Even the part-time minister, butting into a morning church gathering, said, "Why, Jehrico's name is just a trade off with the Good Book, daring to match it up with a foreign name. That's near blasphemy from where I sit." He got up on his high and mighty horse and added, "A good lesson is not too good for him every now and then." Some people in Bola City looked differently at the good minister after he said that mouthful.

In that high morning of discovery, the skies bluer than ever, random clouds throwing shadows into the canyon on top of other shadows, Jehrico Taxico rode down off the edge of the plateau on a narrow ledge. At the back of his mind he cradled two thoughts, that Mildred his mule was as sure-footed as any animal ever known ("she had better be" came up a third thought on its own) and the ancient people who had carved this path along the edge of the cliff must have spent whole lives working on it. He couldn't imagine how many of them might have fallen over the edge while doing their work or coming and going. Their days, obviously, had to be long and arduous, and filled with immediate danger.

With those thoughts the ancient people took over his mind, which said, "Mildred hasn't let me down yet in our long journeys." Jehrico whacked her on the neck, knowing it was a love tap accepted by the mule. She made a funny noise for that acceptance. She had better accept, for the pair of them was a long-distance odor to anybody they met on the trail.

"J&M ain't goin' to surprise anybody," Collie Sizemore once said in Hagen's Saloon. "I smelt the pair of 'em long before they was near enough to hear." Collie, like Jehrico, was a fixture out and about Bola City. Where Jehrico's claim was sometimes in dispute, like some cowboys with bad smellers 'cause they were disturbing on their own account, Collie's distinctive claim was the reduction in identification of things, as if he wanted to be spared of too much speech. A shot and a beer became "an S&B" and Tally Rand, saloon owner and his woman Laverne, became simply T&L, and from that initial declaration he nevermore spoke of, to, or about them as singular entities, but as T&L, the one and only T&L, the pair of them, the barsome twosome, the great salooners. A stranger, in town even for a few days, would find his head spinning on his shoulders trying to divine what Collie was saying, for in one breath of conversation he might hear about J&M and T&L and S&B and J&R and Q&A and L&D, while the other listeners nodded, and M&M, which eventually meant Me and Mine, Collie and his family, out on the M&M spread south of town. He had odd mouthfuls of the King's English, as one patron of the saloon, passing through, was heard to utter as he climbed back on the stagecoach moving further west.

So, on this day of a major event coming to Bola City, there is M&M talking in his way out front of T&L's place of wetness and watering and J&M going behind the huge rock slab once fallen endwise off the face of the canyon wall. The first thing Jehrico noted was that usual leather traces had disappeared. He believed them to be either taken away or eaten up by the laws of nature. "Look at that, Mildred, ain't a good piece of leather left." He did not see any human skeletons or bones on the ground or in the wagon's front seat and there were no weapons, no ammo of any kind, no tools. "They done got took away, Mildred, that's for sure." He saw no trunk remnants or any clothing usually carried by people moving west. Thieves of some order or other had executed their claims.

"Hey, Mildred, take a peek at that natty piece of canvas flopping atop somethin' large in the back of the wagon." Jehrico thought the little flutter of canvas to be from a breeze he had not felt. "Best not take no chances." He drew his rifle from the scabbard and held it steady as Mildred walked closer to the wagon. "It sure used to be green, Mildred, that canvas, but it's gone brown and black streaks now and hardly no patch of green at all." But it did not move again. When Jehrico pulled on it, it came apart in long thin pieces, the way frayed silk finds its end. He harrumphed and said, "Imagine what them bones is like right about now."

To his eternal surprise, he admitted later all down the line, "That old, torn canvas was coverin' an iron bathtub, a real iron one, with claw legs for its four feet like it could walk away on you if it had a mind to. Two people could fit in the dang thing at one time, it was so big. Ain't that a pretty picture for thinkin' about? I seen pictures of such tubs and knowed immediately that there ain't no other tub like it in all of Bola City, or in the whole of the territory. I never had me a bath in anythin' of the sort: the river, every once a blue moon, as old Crowley said, was good enough if a woman teetered herself on the bosom of the horizon, being as what hope is."

The cowpoke Crowley had spoken likewise for Jehrico Taxico, whether he knew it or not.

Jehrico Taxico, as slow in his thinking as Mildred his mule in obeying the strap, began to think how he could best utilize his new found treasure: a sole, unique, one and only, bathtub for all of man.. with appropriate dues paid for its use. He wondered aloud where in Bola City it could be best used. "Sure enough, Tally Rand would offer a goodly sum for its purchase, or Scales at the other end of the street. But I'm thinkin' real hard here that a separate place would be best, could get more users, make more money." His mind wandered through all the citizens of Bola City who could backbone a new enterprise. At length, after close measurements and other judgments, Jehrico Taxico informed Mildred, "Molly Yarbrough at the livery's the one most promisin', and the most honorable. Though tough old Barnaby Fremont does all the heavy work and fronts the livery from dawn to dusk, it's Molly Yarbrough who holds the purse strings close to her bosom."

"But, Mildred," he added, as he looked at the tub again, "we got to get the damn thing to the livery." He set to work.

The shafts were apparently still in decent shape, and when he took them apart he pictured them closed on Mildred. With a half-day's work, he had the front wheels and axle free from the wagon and the shafts ready to mount. Not without a struggle, he managed to get the bathtub off the wagon and lowered down onto the axle. He had to balance it and tie it down, with the claw feet in the air and rope lashed around them.

As he and Mildred headed back toward Bola City, a squeak of humor hit Jehrico Taxico right where it's funniest. It felt good, almost as if his whole body regaled with the feeling, and he could see the good townsfolk of the place lined up all along the street and pointing at him, making the silly noises they sometimes do. "They can laugh all they want, Mildred, but we got the last laugh this time." He looked over his shoulder and the tub sat as even as it could be, balanced over the heart of the axle, the single line of rope as taut as it was at the beginning of their ride.

"When we decide we're ready to go to St. Louis, Mildred, with all the money we're gonna make, we'll be used to all the hullabaloo. Even old Collie's got to fathom somethin' new outta this, like JTM or JMT or TMJ or MTJ or however he'll have me and you and this here tub of ours. Yes, siree, Mildred, we is now a triple measure of names and bound for St. Louis in a few years."

It was, in fact, Collie Sizemore who first spotted them coming into town and he rushed into Hagen's Saloon and yelled out, "T&L, you gotta come see what this is paradin' into town, if you want to believe it. It's J&M and somethin' I never seen before, all scrunched up on half a wagon and tied off like the damnedest windstorm's a comin' cross the Big Divide. Looks like a boat, it does, all tied up with rope and plunked down on wheels, and Mildred hustlin' along like she allus does. Just J&M and this thing I ain't got a name for."

Tally, in a second, knew what the trophy catch was that Taxico was parading into town. People were coming fast along the street, making noise, exclaiming on high that a mystery was upon them, and Scales was in the lead.

"Jehrico," Tally said, "if that thing is yours by found, I'll buy it from you, fair and square. You name a goodly price and we can discuss it over a few pints a beer."

Scales cut him off at the pass. "Forget him, Jehrico, I'll give you top dollar for it, and you get first and last wash of the day any day of the week you choose, and that's my given promise."

"You neither one spoke any money yet, not for real. I got lookin' in other places to do." Jehrico let Mildred drink from the water trough. The crowd was bigger, the word already spreading wide.

Most honorable Molly Yarbrough, by now standing front and center of the gathering, smiled at Tally first and then at Scales, knowing which way their roads took them. She said, loud enough for everybody to hear, "Jehrico, I won't buy it from you, but I'll rent it, for out back of the livery where my two rooms are, and you get free use of it every day if you so choose. You get half of what comes in and washes off, trail dust and all, as what can fit it. We can be pards in a new business and I'm thinkin' now of a name to go with it."

She saw Tally and Scales trying to measure things. "Like a big sign that says Jehrico and Molly's Emporium of Cleansing," and she smiled as she saw Jehrico Taxico nod his approval and Collie Sizemore, his mouth set tight and his head tipped in thought, already going to work on a short cut.

****

The New Balkan Empire

The showdown came in the middle of Cross Corners, a small town that no longer exists in Texas, and a stray bullet from that face-off hit a lamp hanging lit in the livery. When the wind whipped the resulting fire with a frenzy, coming in the open front door and out the back door, the small gathering of townsmen and ranchers were watching Jerry Zambaza and Gus Luongon staring down each other. Zambaza had been ranching here for 25 years, from a country in far Europe, and Luongon was the shiftless son of a Zambaza contemporary.

The fire, with so much wind behind it, had too much headway to be beaten down before it consumed half a dozen buildings.

And Jerry Zambaza's opponent went down, in a heap, having no idea the little man was so quick pulling his weapon, and never realizing how good a shot he was. Zambaza had said, just before Luongon drew his weapon, "I told you once, Gus, never to cross me again, never to bother my family or my cows. You know nobody does my dirty work for me and this is going to be dirty work."

Later, in the saloon at Corpus, a dozen miles up the edge of the river, Zambaza told his story again, as if it belonged with any death he celebrated, for he saw to it that Gus Luongon was properly buried, if only on the side of a hill while part of Cross Corners still smoldered. It was a continuation of the burial procedure that talk, somehow connected with the death of a man, was a salute in its own way regardless of the dead man's ways in life. Nothing is quicker, he believed, and more final than the death of a man; one minute he's on his horse, the next he's in the ground. It is good to carry death past the grave, for the grave holds without failure someone's son, father, brother, friend or foe.

"He came after me one time too many," Zambaza continued. "First it was my daughter he tried to squeeze some land from, and then he tried to steal more cows. He'd done it before, I am sure. Tracks never lie to me. He thought I would not miss a few cows, but he was wrong. I would give them to a hungry Indian rather than let him have them without my say-so. I can say with all honesty that he was not a worthy man and brought shame on his whole family. His father, an honorable man, would have understood what I say."

He tipped his glass, "To my friend, Alfonso Luongon, who deserved a hell of a lot more than he got from that son of his." When he looked as if he was out on the prairie checking the horizon, the folks there knew he was thinking about his lost son now gone for too many years to count. Only Jerry Zambaza knew how long it had been since his son had been dragged into the army.

There was silence in the room; folk listened when Jerry Zambaza talked, which was never out of the corner of his mouth, or with twisted lips, or with a tongue that turned two which ways at once. He had started from scratch and almost had his new empire, and his mark was made, though he never paused to realize it, or relish what he had done, for there was more to do.

"I came on a boat with 342 poor souls, the dregs of Europe and Asia clustered within their sweetest dreams. We buried some of them at sea, with those very dreams. The lost souls of the deep I have always called them. 342 got on the boat in Greece, at the port of Corfu, at midnight, as if we were prisoners setting out on an endless journey. I had come overland from my old home in a trek that took me five months, down long rivers, over mountains, across crude straits of the sea sneaking in behind parts of Greece. On the way I fought bandits and robbers and thieves of every sort. I learned in five months what it takes some men out here in the west many years to learn, and they lose a lot while they learn."

He paused on that assessment, and then said, "I could not afford to lose anything I carried. Even on the ship heading for promise and freedom, it was every man for himself. Thieves abounded there too, in the crew and in the passengers. I saw two of them thrown over the side of the ship in the middle of the ocean by men who believed in each other, who had their own wars. The hungriest thief was thrown over the side even before we got past the big rock of Gibraltar. He had tried to steal a family heirloom from the time of Charlemagne. We knew we had to protect each family, and what each family had; we had nothing else but hope and dreams. There was no sheriff to do justice for us, so justice we did. 246 of us got off the ship in New York. I heard the captain say he only had food for half of us, as if he knew nearly half of us would die on the passage. He counted on it. I swear I was hungry for more than half the trip."

"From New York it took me two years to get here, where I dug my first post hole. I came alone, all the way. My people back there waited for me. I got my first cow and my first bull, and added more, always adding no matter what it took. It took me ten years to send for my family. Three out of five made it here; my wife, my twins, a daughter and a son." He stopped talking, looked out over the sea of grass, and said, "One son is missing. I am still waiting for him and I am not done digging post holes yet." Jerry Zambaza was about to crack the whip again, but mostly on himself.

It was another empire, his Balkans spread, 80,000 acres and growing on top of Mexico like it was a serious mole on the wild perimeter. It began innocently enough; in 1856 a newcomer, speaking poor English and poorer Mexican-Spanish, came into the territory and began to scratch out a living. Inside of 25 years, his land extended beyond the flat horizon of the plains, and he thought of it as his empire. Those he traded with, who were aware that something rare ran inside the man like the bloodlines in a good horse, paid attention to him, yet did not seem aware of his dreams and his intentions. His eyes were on a larger target; he wanted a new nation unto himself and he would call it The New Balkans.

He had not come this far for nothing.

His name was Jerlid Zambaza and the Indians he traded with early in the game gave him a new name, as Indians always have a way of short-cutting names on the way to the true name, so Jerlid Zambaza became _Jer-ry_. Jerry he was from then on in the New Balkans Empire. The Mexicans, who often came over the river to trade, also adapted to the name, to the goods he moved to them through his empire, to his stance when the little man stood tallest, in any fight with any adversary who questioned his family, his markers, his land, his dealings. The Comanches, Jumanos, Conchos, Lipan-Apaches, Coahuilticans and other tribes who passed through west Texas and who saw advantages in good dealings, knew _Jer-ry_ as a totem of fair advantage.

Many people realized he brought ingenuity with him, quick response to troubles, keen reading of his opponents, belief in a free society, as long as he could move within its promise. And his word was better than a handshake ... until he was cut of his gain. He had little room for loss, and they all knew it.

"Listen, sheriff," he said once when some of his cattle were being rustled, "I don't like to hang any man, it lacks dignity, but if any man takes one of my cows, I will have him hanging from a stout limb for a week before I see him buried. You tell that to those who practice such deeds, any man who abides within your jail at this time, any men you manage to place behind bars, that the Balkans is not the place to stake a claim to anything at all. Not my cows, not my daughter, not my land."

In this latest action with Luongon he had come upon fifty or so of his cattle held in a makeshift corral in a clustered canyon. The boy on guard, barely fourteen or fifteen, felt the round hit between his feet as dirt and rock were thrown up at him. "Who was the other rider with you?" Zambaza said, as he rode up and aimed the rifle again at the boy's feet. "The next shot is for you who stands guard on my cattle with my brand. You are small potatoes in this. I want the one who left here an hour or so ago from what I see of his tracks. Who?"

The rifle was at the boy's mid-section. "His name. Last time."

"Gus Luongon. He's gone to Cross Corners to find where the other man's herd is so he can dump them off. He said I get a month's pay for helping him add them to the other herd."

"He have more of my cows corralled somewhere?"

"Has another hundred or more in a canyon further up the river. That's what he told me, but I haven't seen any of them."

"What's your name?"

"Luke Hightower, from Pembert."

"Well, you get riding, Luke. I catch you again on my land I'll have you strung up. You tell your daddy what I said. Your daddy around?"

"Yes, sir, but sickly. Fell off his horse. Can't ride no more."

"Gus say who that other man is, running that other herd?"

"No, but says he's his pard."

"Go, Luke, before I change my mind."

Zambaza watched as the boy rode off. He hoped he would never see him again, and thought once more of his lost son on the other side of the world. It was sad what he faced every day, he realized, but he also had to make amends for another transgression. If he did not take care of things properly, as he had always done, it all would be lost: he'd have nothing for his lost son if he ever showed up. It had been that way on the ship so long ago, and was still that way. A man had to watch what was his and take care of it, from a pocket watch to a whole empire; there was no other way of doing business.

That, in short order, brought him to Cross Corners and the showdown.

From the street he called out Gus Luongon. "Come out here, Gus Luongon. I just sent home the boy you left minding some of my cows you rustled from me."

Luongon stepped out the door of the saloon to see the little Balkans rancher standing in the middle of the road, obviously a bit slower at everything at half a century of age, twice his own age. "You're an old man, Zambaza, an old man. Don't push nothin' on me that ain't mine. You got no proof of anythin' you're guessin' I did.'

"This much I'll tell you. The Hightower boy is gone. My boys have gone after the cows you have hidden up the river, and then they'll go after that other herd and your partner. That'll wrap it all up in one saddlebag, and no sheriff and no man will stand against me. You have that chance right now. Once I threw a thief over the side of a ship in the middle of the ocean. He was an out and out thief of the worst sort. I'm not afraid of putting you in the same place, down and gone. I won't hesitate a minute, even if your father was a dear friend of mine, one who died long before his time. He'd be ashamed of you, a common thief, a rustler, plain and simple. I told you once, Gus, never to cross me again, never to bother my family or my cows. You know nobody does my dirty work and this is going to be dirty work."

Shame and anger flooded Luongon as he went for his gun. He envisioned the end of everything just before it came.

And the emperor of the new Balkan Empire saw once more a familiar military-like figure, on a tall horse, galloping up to his front door, a known waving in his arms, a known look on his face that years upon years could never erase.

He didn't know if it was another one of his dreams or his hopes or his own good wishes, but he knew he could not live without them, though he had been 25 years living without his son. He remembered he had seen him that other time, on the ship heading away from Greece, coming at him off the horizon in a small boat, trying to catch up to him, waving at him, smiling his surprise.

****

Note for The Bright Star

Fred Chandler, editor of the weekly and only newspaper in Quipilanta, _The Bright Star_ , enjoyed looking out one side of his shop window the day the issue was printed. He'd already have placed the front page in the window and watched early risers stop to look at the page, read some of the items on the page, and pass on. A few other shop owners, real early risers like he was on most days, with a lantern to guide them to their work place, read the page under the light of the lantern, swinging their lanterns to assist in their reading. The lanterns threw soft shadows into his editorial office. The lighting activity was, he had decided early in the career of the paper, a significant part of issue day.

Also in the window this day, in the other corner from the front page, was a personal note, the first one Chandler as an editor had ever posted. The note said, in an elegant hand, "Will, if you're alive, I'll be in Boston. You know where. I'll love you forever. Shirley Grace."

The editor went back in his mind into the quick history of the note.

A beautiful young woman, Shirley Grace Hazelton, married not yet a whole year and newly located here with her husband, an adventurous sort, had handed the note to the sheriff, Tim Caswell, and explained its creation.

"They were renegade whites and Indians," she said, "that hit our place. Will was hunting, gone most of the morning. They invaded the house, grabbed me and tied me on a horse. We were riding on the Quipilanta Trail and suddenly there was shooting. It might have been my husband Will. My horse was hit and went down the ravine. The rope broke free and I fell behind a rock. A prospector found me wandering a whole day later and ministered to me for over two months, in the back part of his mine, and protecting me, before he brought me here to town. My husband, I firmly believe, is out there looking for me. Maybe they caught him too. I don't know, but it's been five months and no word. I'm going back home to Massachusetts. Please keep this note posted on your office door and in the window of the newspaper. Have the editor print it too every once in a while. I'll send money for it. Will may be dead, or he may still be alive. I'll be praying for him. Tell him, if he comes in, I'll be in Boston."

She had taken the afternoon stage to connect with the railroad in Carver City, heading back to her family in Boston. Both Chandler and Caswell had seen her off, saying they'd do their best to keep the word alive and available for Will if he ever showed up in town. Silently she had hugged both men, hope and thanks intended in her gesture.

Caswell said to the editor, after the stage had departed, "Those were the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a woman, Fred. I swear, the saddest. But I don't hold much stock in her husband getting back here again. If he was okay and fixed on getting back here, he'd have done it by now. The odds are too much against him and her, but if I was a betting man, I'd hold out for her doing well in life despite how this may turn out for her husband."

They stood in the dusty street of town as the stage disappeared in a swirling cloud out on the trail, two men looking at the same incident from two angles. The sheriff had seen many harsh revelations on his job, the worst thing possible happening in too many cases. The editor, on the other hand, was thinking that somewhere down the line he could write a happy ending to the note on the window of _The Bright Star._ It would be true justice, true melodrama, and yet a kind of fairy tale. He realized that last point as the stage was seen no more.

In the following weeks, Sheriff Tim Caswell was searching for the small band of renegades that had hit the Hazelton place and had continued their raids, with robbery and kidnapping of women as their chief aims. Two more small ranches on the far side of the river, one upriver and the other downriver, had been hit by the renegades. One of the women was missing, the other had hidden in a drop-down her husband had dug under the barn floor and escaped her possible kidnappers.

Caswell's posse had scoured the two areas and found all kinds of tracks leading every which way, telling him that the renegades knew they'd be tracked at first by the sheriff and his deputies and had purposely put off their trackers. Caswell also realized that at least some of the band were men that came into Quipilanta on occasion, men that he invariably had seen in town. It severely bothered him that he might have put out his hands a few times and grabbed some of the band.

The thought made him formulate a plan, realizing the "cowards and skunks that they are," who hide themselves, become someone else when they visit the town, come into the saloon or the general store, possibly even walk into his office once in a while. It also bothered him that a few of the drunks he'd locked up after an occasional Saturday night free-for-all might have been renegade members.

He approached The Bright Star editor to enlist his help in the plan. "Fred," he said one night at the end of the bar in the saloon, "I'd like to shake some things loose in this gang of cutthroats we got in the area. I can't get the idea of Ella May Swenson out of my mind since she went missing. I just feel she's been taken off by them and is suffering who knows what up there in the rocks and the high canyons of the mountains. We probably haven't scoured a tenth of the possible areas where they've got a hiding roost."

"What do you want me to do, Tim? You name it. I keep thinking about that look on Shirley Hazelton's face when she left town. It haunts me yet, and now I see Alan Swenson every time he comes to town with that haunted look on his face. I know he's been weeks up there in the mountains looking for his wife and hasn't seen hide nor hair of her or any of those cowards. I heard he sat at one place on a mountain trail for a whole week swearing they'd have to come by him and he'd trail them to find his wife. Man looks half dead when he comes in for a rest and to stock up again."

"They're outright cowards and skunks, Fred, but they got to have feelings somehow, at least one of them. We've got to get that one break and shake one of them loose. Let's make it a high public thing, the rats and cowards that they really are, and shake it right out in the open, maybe break down the one weak link we're looking for. You write it up in the paper every issue and I'll shout it out every chance I get." He paused in his delivery, as he thought of the hours that faced him out on the trails searching for clues, whereabouts. "I'll start tonight in the saloon. I just hope I can get my feelings into it as clear as I'm feeling right now."

In the saloon that night, Saturday to make it special, the sheriff shared a place at the end of the bar with a few cowhands. Before he could break into some sort of arranged tirade against "cowards and skunks that might live among us," Chandler walked in and was asked in a loud voice from a corner table, "Hey, Fred, some of us was wondering why you named your newspaper The Bright Star. Seems like an odd name for a cow town newspaper. We was talking about just this minute, and here you are."

Chandler stepped right into the breach of the sheriff's plot to shake things loose. I'll be glad to fill you in on that. On my way here, to do what I was not sure of, becoming a cowboy, do some mining, maybe start a newspaper in some nice little town. One of the last nights on the trail, out in the open, near midnight, I saw the brightest star I had seen in years. It sat out over this area where I knew the next town was, Quipilanta. That star just grabbed me with its splendor, its majesty, its lone beauty. It brought the idea of a newspaper into my mind to extol the beauty of a place like Quipilanta, to let everybody who'd read my newspaper know what a lovely little cow own I had found for my future, and a place to start a newspaper."

He shook his head at that last part even as many in the audience were nodding their heads in confirmation of his speech.

There was a silence at his pause, the roomful of men waiting for him to continue.

Sheriff Tim Caswell, still at the end of the bar, stepped into the silence. "Well, Fred, I guess you didn't know how damned wrong you were with those thoughts of yours about this nice little town as you called it. What do you really say about this place now, about what might be living here among us citizens of Quipilanta, who might be sharing space with us some days and some nights, just like tonight for that matter."

He swung his gaze around the room, let it rest now and then, not on individuals, but on clustered men at tables. "What comes to mind now, Fred? You got some more explaining you'd like to drop on these folk right now? You have some real stuff to chew on, but only for the able men among us, not for those hiding behind a mask of sorts."

Chandler, feeling the sudden change in the air, the abrupt tenseness that the sheriff had caused, said, "How right you are, Sheriff, now that among us live or spend time with us, a scurvy bunch of cowards and outright skunks, those bandits that are hitting lone houses where only the women are at home, only them able to fight back. It's amazing how most times these scurvy cowards know when the men folk are out and about their work, herding or driving or hunting or catching up strays. That says they have spies among us who hear of plans or see opportunities they're looking for and advise their cowardly and scurvy comrades that a raid is in order. Isn't that the height of cowardice so gross that when a man dies with that on his soul, the evil Satan sits waiting for him to come down among his kind."

The charge was like lightning loose on the grass.

The Bright Star editor ran right into his next thought, and said, "The day that Shirley Hazelton left town to go back to her folks in Boston, and her husband maybe looking for her for months out there, or being plain all-out dead, was one of the saddest things I've ever seen. We've never had a single word about Hazelton, not a good word or a bad word to send back to his wife in Boston about him. That's horror enough for a lady, except when I see Al Swenson come in from another leg of his search and think of his wife out there with those skunks and cowards and wonder what she's going through. Tell me what a good old town Quipilanta is, go ahead, I dare you. None of you have the guts. And I'm convinced there are a few scurvy cowards wearing a different face sitting right here now, trying to pry information loose about when the next gent might leave his wife alone so the house can be robbed and she can be grabbed. Look at your neighbor, look at those at the table where you're sitting now. Is there anyone there you wouldn't trust your life with out on the trail, wouldn't trust your wife with, or your daughter?"

That was like Thor's hammer had slammed into the middle of the room. Righteousness had certain ways of being recognized

He paused once more, the silence sitting in the room like a tornado waiting to bust loose.

Not a soul in the room said a word, though chairs shifted and creaked under moving weights and the shuffle of boots swept across the floor like a single broom was working the sawdust into place. The sheriff and the newspaper editor left the saloon together, stares following them, measurements being made, assessments working in the spirits of good men, and guilt starting to work, perhaps, in the innards of a few bad apples poisoning the room.

Oh, there was talk after the pair left, noise, braggadocio, exclamations, denials, and a rustle of discomfort sitting like a pall over the whole saloon. Certain fears were loosed that day in the saloon by the sheriff and the newspaper editor.

And word spread around town in a hurry.

For all that matter, Quipilanta was quiet for more than a week. It was not another raid that broke the silence, but another note, not to the editor of The Bright Star, but to the sheriff. It came under his door in the dark of night. The hand was crude but legible and simply said, "Swenson's wife and that lady's husband are working as captives up in Davidio Canyon. They ain't the only ones. Look for a tight passage way past the end of the canyon to the other side of the mountain. Two lookouts always watch from the high trail. They sleep a lot."

A righteous posse of townsmen, all volunteers for the "crusade" as the sheriff called it, was led by Caswell into the sly exit from Davidio Canyon to the site of the bandits' lair. It was a cakewalk unnoticed by posted lookouts and both Al Swenson's wife and Shirley Hazelton's husband were freed from the captive torments, both hurting but alive. Two other kidnapped "slaves", both women, were freed at the same time. Six captured men were hanged after a quick trial where the "captives" were the chief witnesses for the prosecution. It was a 30-minute trial.

And it was Fred Chandler, editor of The Bright Star, Quipilanta's lone newspaper, who sent off a telegram to Shirley Grace Hazelton in Boston, saying, "Do you come here to greet your husband or do we send him off to you."

All of Quipilanta, seeing the telegram now sitting in the window of The Bright Star as a second note, waited for the reply.

****

The Aztec Raiders

It was, all of them would agree later, as if they had passed through a sense of time. And few of their countrymen, and few occupants of the first saloon they'd go to to singe their thirst, would believe where they had been and what they had accomplished ... gone deep into Mexico and brought home a chunk of the Aztec treasury, right out of one of Montezuma II's formidable Holy Caissons dug for eternity. Where many historians attested to the grand structures the Aztecs had raised in the midst of jungles, Pappy Dyk, in his own right, knew about the secret caissons the Aztecs had dug and chiseled into Mother Earth herself. No one in Hidalgo but Pappy Dyk knew from what tribe he had come on the land, coming a whole year earlier to Hidalgo to plan the expedition, now coming back from Mexico.

Time after time, on their way home, on the way to get across _the final river_ , they traversed death-borne areas covered with bones and burial markers, ravines and canyons and mountains that put heavy strain on their horses and spirits, thick jungles crawling with threats, and then, in one canyon after another, wild rivers claiming some of their more timid horses. The remuda had been good size at the start, with pack animals a necessity for the expedition, as Pappy Dyk called it. It was, from beginning to end, fraught with physical perils from all corners and all comers, as well as the insidious likes of dysentery and scratching hints of morbidity.

But, all in all, it was the biggest heist in the west, led by the renowned Pappy Dyk, surname never revealed, who, in spite of his appearance, his language and his morals, always knew that history sat on his lap every time out of the corral, so his aspirations were always monumental. This time he had not ignored the summons at all, for Mexico had called him, the Aztecs had called, Montezuma II himself had called, from beyond the void, from his unique place in history's queue, atop a holy mountain of wealth.

His voice had come loud and wide and rocking with vibrations into too many of Pappy Dyk's deep sleeps, too loud to be ignored, too rocking with dare and challenge, too mystic to call it a dream. It shook him awake on those many nights, a simple message waiting for a reply.

Pappy Dyk, with a faint prophecy of a tribal shaman, heard of the Holy Caissons of the Aztecs, the deep sanctuaries where the wealth of the emperor was distributed into parcels of value so that each caisson was unique in its own contents, deep, virginal, pure of insurmountable wealth. It was told him that a single yellow-breasted verdin had gained entrance to the secret caissons and came away with the knowledge of all therein, and sang of it to those who could hear the music in the magical places of Mexico and southwest America, calling with its sweet song ... _tswee-swee, tswee_ ... _tswee-swee, tswee_ ... _tswee-swee, tswee_. Pappy Dyk heard the music calling, heard the song it sang, knew the words it spoke.

Pappy Dyk could, in some inscrutable way unknown to the rest of the party, measure history and his impact on its pages, knowing he was born for great things. Did not the Shaman and the sachem say at his birth, in a cave in the Tetons, at the bottom of the earth where the tremor fires kept them warm all their first winter, that he was born to move men and the time of men? That he was born at the very foot of Earth was a sign in itself. He did not feel at all squeamish about taking any of the Aztec treasure; they had hidden enough to light up the continent, he was sure, though the blood of thousands of slaughtered, sacrificial innocents had stained the emperor's hands and in turn had tinted gold and jewels in the hidden treasuries. The payoff would transcend many levels of recompense.

Thus, as the stories tell it, the expedition came back from the border beaten to a pulp, every one of them. But if not whole as men, for in truth most of them were shot up or carrying arrow wounds, one hand missing, a few fingers, one big toe still under a huge rock back down the trail, they were still whole as a gang of adventurers. And Pappy Dyk was still out front, the leader, his saddlebags full. When they crossed the tough rivers, he made sure his saddlebags were set on maneuverable log rafts and not placed within the peril of frantic horses caught in an awful stream.

As they entered the quiet town of Hidalgo, latest part-time home to most of the men, hoof beats setting a musical tone and touching his mind, Pappy Dyk was remembering, to the last detail, how the Indians had come out of a wadi as if they were cavalry horsemen, in skirmish lines, bare feet apart, headlong in their run, feathers and spears and all colored ornaments waving like streamers in the awful sunset. It was the way Custer would have trained them. Or some old line officer now sleeping with a squaw in a teepee village or, more likely, in a cave of Mexico's high mountains.

Shaking his head in admiration, he was still thinking about that charge as they rode into town, looking for a bath, a shot of whiskey, a woman, and a bank where they could do business.

It had been a perilous adventure. Now, on entrance, coming home to a new depository, he reflected on the men who had made the journey with him, whom he called the Redoubtable Nine, him included. They still rode with him and had never faltered in their quest, not in the face of steepest odds, gallant warriors, or geography so harsh they'd have a hard time describing it to people. Yet here they came with the hoof beats and he looked slowly at each man, marking him, measuring him, wishing he could mend him: Quincy, Tanker, Yancy Joe, Berlingswell the Brit, Black Dan'l, Volkstaj, One Big Water they called OBW and the Comanche named Sheep Peril who had the finest eyesight and the keenest ears of any man yet born of woman.

In turn Pappy Dyk smiled, laughed inwardly, shook with pride, felt the pains of bodily loss, knew courage and valor had ridden with him on every foot of the journey. The hoof beats continued their music, their cadence, like a line of march was sounding out. Indeed, he had moved men to a world away from their natural confines, and had moved them into another time, all as prophesied, all part of history moving within his vision. He imagined Quincy's thumb under the rock he had pushed Pappy Dyk away from, only to have the rock smash and obliterate his thumb. They had cut it off, the straggly remnants, even as Quincy had said, bowing to accolades, "We ain't getting' there without you, Pappy Dyk, and we sure as hell ain't getting' back home without you leadin' the way."

In one visionary leap he caught Tanker, as the line of Indian infantry came in on their flank from the defiled wadi and what they had seen in passing the day before as a blind canyon, take down with his rifle nine of them abreast in the front line of the charge, not sweating, not rushing, barely breathing, his rifle smoking, him talking pause and patience all the while: That's a one ... that's a two ... that's a three ... that's a four ... until the whole of the line was down, half the horses down and broken too, his mouth never closed, his voice a soft hunk of security with every word he uttered. Pappy Dyk remembered another incident as he sat by a stream soaking his feet in the rushing water, and Tanker, from the shadows, saying, "Don't you move none, Pappy Dyk, when I squeeze off this trigger 'cause there's a mean lookin' snake comin' up on you from the backside and I aim to cut off his head."

"Don't talk," Pappy Dyk had said, holding perfectly still, not even swishing his hot feet in the cool water, "just shoot."

Shoot Tanker did and the head of the snake, having left the main body, popped in the air like a jack rabbit had jumped in place and fell right beside Pappy Dyk 's hand.

"How long did you have your eye on him, Tanker?"

"Oh, a bit. If he went away I would have saved a bullet. Never know when we'll need the last one."

"No other options?"

"Not for the livin'. Only for the near dead, and you was it."

The hoof beats, like drums at a tattoo, came again, dust rising in the road, the images leaping, as OBW loped into his vision, and the restful night, deep in the jungles after a perilous river crossing had been accomplished, and Berlingswell the Brit, just putting a fresh log on the fire, asked One Big Water where his name had come from. "Were you pointing at a massive lake or a wide river or the very blue Pacific Ocean itself? Is that how you received your name? I understand that is how names get assigned, the signatory act of the individual." His head was cocked in its professorial angle, curiosity a familiar scamp on the face of the deadliest knife fighter Pappy Dyk had ever seen in action, like a Whitehall's Jack the Ripper in a southwestern costume.

"Oh, no," OBW said, "in my Nation we have no names other than a papoose name until we reach the age of 20 moons."

"Well, what came about then? What should I surmise from that, if there is no forthcoming explanation?"

"It is a simple tale. I was with my elder brother and my father on the appointed day of naming and we had been fishing on a wide river and woke after spending the night beside a great waterfall, and they were both taking a leak, and crossing swords as you say it, off the high cliff edge down into the deep ravine and I simply said, when pointing at them, 'One Big Water.'"

Pappy Dyk shook again with the laughter that had exploded in the jungle that night, which somehow softened the entire jungle, setting leaf and frond and blossom at grateful ease, their sleep the first solid sleep in a month, their guard down one time and one time only. That is the one night, the one moment of relapse, he believed, that they could have been set upon with little recourse to saving their butts, but laugh again he did, a muted laugh, a pleasurable laugh, as if all good things were at hand after the completion of the perilous expedition, and Hidalgo coming to wrap its arms around the troupe of them.

He added a soft "perhaps" to that last thought.

He felt good, extremely grateful, saved. His senses warmed him all over, and in one look, warned him.

It was at that moment, when he saw the sheriff who had long professed his disdain for black people, that Black Dan'l rode into Pappy Dyk's vision. "I hope," Pappy Dyk said in another whisper, "that that mean son of a bitch doesn't open his mouth about Dan'l because I'll be the one to shut it first. We all know he's got some of the blood in him, and that makes his life a whole rotten lie."

Black Dan'l, handsome as a sunset, singer and hummer of innumerable songs, wayfarer of pleasantness, deadly with fist, knuckle, knee, elbow, head, and now and then a knife or a bow or a machete in a perilous swath, rode beside Pappy Dyk in some kind of a salute. He harrumphed loudly, a personal knock at a known adversary, the sheriff, letting the sheriff know that he was on the aft end of a great journey, that he had carried his weight as well as any man, that Black Dan'l was a man entirely accountable in a match, a scrape, an invasion into the heart of the old Aztec Empire. The sheriff should know that half a mountain in Tennessee was waiting on his return, a mountain begging to be bought by a promising son.

If there was one act that Pappy Dyk would see commissioned before all this was over, it was Black Dan'l's purchase of healthy land for his parents, for his family.

"See him?" Dan'l said, riding up closer beside him, "setting back like a lavender toad, the sun a lie all around him, squeezing what he can before he finally tempts the good Lord with persuasion."

"He tried riling last time, Dan'l, and you put him solid in his place, and I know you'll do it again before this day is out, the way he's wearing that tin of his, all shined like he was the real luster."

"No luster about him, Pappy Dyk," Dan'l said. "That man's more coward than sheriff."

"Don't let him stand in the way of that half of a mountain back there in Tennessee, Dan'l. He sure isn't worth it."

"Only if he goes for a weapon, Pappy Dyk. I'll take anything for my folks, but not a weapon. He's dead then."

The finality of that expression socked home with Pappy Dyk as if the old shaman had made another prophecy and Dan'l dropped back in the line of march into Hidalgo as if he had been dismissed.

Djon Volstaj, on the same horse he had left Hidalgo on three months earlier, a huge and long-legged roan stallion, chest thick as a tree trunk, two searing scars across his chest from gunfire on a riverbank fight that Volstaj had treated with devotion, wearing white stockings on three legs, came up beside Pappy Dyk.

"Is Dan'l worried about that rat ass, Pappy Dyk? Set me on him tonight and I'll clear it all the way back to Tennessee for Dan'l. That night in the big cave, when he caught them rabbits of sneaky knifers, is due a lifetime of payback as far as I'm concerned. If anything happens to me, tonight or ever, I want my share to go to Dan'l and no chances otherwise. Every dollar of it when it gets to be counted that way, or my lump of everything else coming my due. If Dan'l gets messed up, see that his folks get that whole damned mountain for their own. It's the least I can do for a man who stuck his butt in the way of death for me."

"The man knows a knife, doesn't he, Djon?"

"Slicker'n butchers afore a shivaree, Pappy Dyk. I bet some of them gents ain't felt the slice of that blade yet."

He shook his head as he looked back at the sheriff sitting back on the small porch of the general store like he was the clerk taking a break from work. Sunlight glinted off his badge and shone like a ray into Volkstaj's eyes.

"Man's a pretender from the starting line. Nothing lower than that. Playing games, making believe. Makes me throw up when I think about him, ashamed of the woman brought him into the world. That's a horror story I would have ended in a damned hurry if I was on that drive. I can't imagine them cowpokes taking a black woman on the trail, tying her up during the day and letting her loose at night for favors. I'd a shot them all. Maybe it's him just hating anybody rides horses, herders or not." He paused, bouncing in the saddle, looking around, seeing a woman now and then on a boardwalk or at a building's doorway, his head keening with pleasant memories almost half a lifetime ago. "Where was them drovers from? How'd she ever get away?"

"Some Shawnees set on them," Pappy Dyk said. "Dropped all the riders, and the father of her baby, I'd guess, but she was tied up in the bed of the wagon and the Shawnees wouldn't go near her. Afraid of some spirit hanging around. Just rode on and left her there in the wagon, to her own being or whatever god might come her way. Run off with the entire herd, they did, enough to feed a whole Nation, but wouldn't go near her. Some other wagon driver came by and freed her. Some months later, not back in town but at the ranch of a widow, she gave birth to the baby. Before they knew it, he became sheriff."

Volkstaj slowed his horse, looked back again at the sheriff, nodded at Pappy Dyk and said, "I was always counting on you, Pappy Dyk. No different now, or tonight, rich or broke to the last dollar." With that said, he slipped back in the line still advancing into the heart of Hidalgo.

In a matter of seconds, Yancy Joe was at his side. "I guess this is my turn in the turn of goodbyes, or how you'll have it Pappy Dyk. We sure are going on from here in short order. I know you're headed up river and somewhat overland, and Dan'l will be hightailing it for that damned mountain he's been dreaming about for years. Blessed be a man who carries a decent dream that long in his tote bag. Speaks well of him, he's man enough for any mountain Tennessee has."

"Yancy, don't get me crying after all this time. I had a good laugh back on this road about The Brit and OBW's name day."

"Well," Yancy Joe said, shifting the conversation, "I can't stop thinking how Sheep smelled out those bandits that night on the river. They had to be a mile away and he said he got them on the wind. I swear, Pappy Dyk, I wouldn't want him chasing me even in the dark. He said it was no more than ten men and it was nine of them. I don't know whether he smelled them or heard them or saw them, but none of any way would surprise me."

He held his hand out, touching Pappy Dyk on the sleeve. "You're the best man I ever rode with, Pappy Dyk, and they're the best damned bunch of hoot owls ever skinned half a continent. Glory be, Pappy Dyk, we did it." He let out a victorious, unabated howl that went right on down the street and was bound to wake up any girl who was still sleeping behind shades. Pappy Dyk was positive more than one of those girls would recognize that yell and would be scrambling already.

He was sure that his men, before the liquor got to them after the long ride, before a woman took hold of any one of them to her own covers, before a sack of gold and a diamond or two dropped into their hands, had arranged among themselves to pay personal tribute to the man who took them into the heart of Mexico and brought them back, onto the main street of their part-time hometown, and most of them soon to leave it behind.

It touched him deeply, and it was not yet over. Sheep Peril, dressed in solid black, a warrior of the night, a telltale black band still circling his forehead like a tattoo, a formidable foe by eyesight and hearing, sidled up beside Pappy Dyk. He was somewhat of a chameleon, whether afoot or on horseback, and in his turn at accolades and thanks came forward cautiously. Though he rarely spoke, much of his communication coming from hand signals, a shushing was at his mouth as he tested his senses, or expressed something he had discovered, behind them or ahead of them on the street.

Looking like an Indian deacon rather than the full-blooded Comanche he was, Sheep Peril said, giving his warning in short words, his voice little more than a whisper, "Two man leave chair back there. Go behind big barn, I think come up ahead of you. Before you get to bank. One is tin man."

Pappy Dyk whistled lightly and the rank of horsemen stopped. He told them, in a huddled group, "Sheep saw the sheriff, and another gent, duck behind the livery and he thinks they'll come out in front of us, with some more men hidden, before we get to the bank and divvy up the goods. That's not about to happen now. Brit and Yancy go on ahead, making noise like we're all coming. The rest of us are going to follow trail. If they aim to bushwhack us and grab the goodies, we're giving them a similar dose. We have to cover both sides of the street, because it smells like those two have it all planned and they sure aren't doing it alone. Let's split up and do it our way. Now let's trot."

The two smaller parties, well schooled in such tactics, slipped in between building on the street and were out of sight in seconds. Only the trail dust moved in the road, and very few innocent people.

Berlingswell the Brit, in his fancy hat still in one piece though it wore a few holes, and Yancy Joe, looking twice the size of his horse, took to hollering and setting claims on the world and all its worldly women. Yancy Joe yelled as loud as he had ever yelled. "Maxine, Maxine, darling, are you out of bed yet or ready to get back in it?" He said it three times, loud and noisily, as if he was on a weekend bender; and the professorial-look-alike and sound-alike Berlingswell started shooting his Peacemaker revolver in the air, emptying it, and making his horse rear up and paw the air for balance.

They came on as hellions, but had reduced their approach to a slow saunter as they beamed in celebration and good causes.

"Maxine," Berlingswell the Brit, yelled in his turn at sociality, "There's a man out here waiting to see you, darling." He laughed and roared and stood his horse again on its rear legs.

It came off as a fair and noisy disruption, and only that, and the commotion was duly noted by hidden parties who were ready to pounce on them and relieve them of their burdens. The sheriff, leading the men, had posted half a dozen men out of general sight from the road. None of them had any idea they were, in their turn, about to be set upon, despite the disruptive but harmless noise bouncing in from the road.

Not a shot was fired at anybody in desperation or in the act of attempted murder, by either function, as Pappy Dyk, putting one harmless round between the legs of the sheriff, ceased all clandestine activities with the one shot. "Tell them all to put down their guns, sheriff, or you're going to be hanged first from the tree out front, as a plain old bushwhacker, and the others will follow in turn, each one of them."

He then yelled across the road, "You got them covered over there, Comanche?" Pappy Dyk knew the word would stick right in the guts of all cowards who dared sit in wait.

"All on knees," the Comanche Sheep Peril answered, a guttural exclamation, but one loaded with quick disgust. "All on knees," he said again, and the pain of embarrassment was worn on a half dozen faces.

The council sat uneasy as Pappy Dyk consigned the sheriff and six other men never to set foot in the town again. They rode off in a bunch, not to be seen again. The town grew quiet, but fully curious, as the Redoubtable Nine entered the bank.

Proceedings went quickly. The bank president called a carpenter and the wagon maker into his office and gave instructions on how to further protect the bank. Even as the meeting proceeded, lasting well over three hours, men were making changes suggested by Pappy Dyk to the building entrances, covering up the back door, blocking off two windows with solid boards taken right off a building next door. A barkeep brought pitchers of beer, with a sidekick carrying meals that sat uneaten until the beer was replenished.

Pappy Dyk made further demands. All were signed and legalized. A lawyer was summoned to assure all the promises of the meeting would be legally written down and witnessed.

A few of the Redoubtables began to get uneasy. Pappy Dyk kept them in place. "We are one group and we act as one." It was a dictate that none would disobey.

As the meeting began to draw to a close, Pappy Dyk had visions of them scrambling down into the Holy Caisson, guns blazing, knives flashing, yells and screams of horror coming from their mouths as they released more horror than banshees were ever capable of issuing. He looked around the room, at the last gathering they would ever have, and saw them in their redoubtable actions. The Indians, honored guards for all the years, from a tribe that still demanded sacrifices on every new moon, finally had met their match. The song of the verdin had told Pappy Dyk everything he wanted to know, and what the Indians feared most, dreaded to the roots of their souls, was the spirits of the sacrificial lambs coming back to haunt them in return visits. They had dressed as women, every one of the Redoubtables, like the lambs that had been tortured for the gods. They had screamed in higher octaves, like women shrieking in their death knells. The Holy Caisson ached and echoed with their screams, their gunshots, their knives slashing in the air and at tender bodily parts. The lambs, indeed, had returned with a vengeance.

Pappy Dyk, almost in a trance, finally stood up. "Beware of your travels. Men will be looking for you, seeking you out. The story will travel far and fast, so keep your eyes open, your nose clear, like Sheep Peril, and your hand on your weapon. Remember, that you are, from this minute, marked men, at least in this locality, in all of Texas I would fear." He paused, as if taking his last look at them, and said, "We must know where each other is, at all times. Lay out your plans and destinations now, so we will know each other's whereabouts, just in case. We went too far, did too much, and came back almost whole." He laughed as he looked down at the remnant of Quincy's thumb, "Mark of a man, sir," he said. Quincy blushed. The room was silent again, waiting for Pappy Dyk to send them on their way.

He said to Dan'l, "We all know where you're going to be, Dan'l. Say hello to that mountain for us, and your good folk."

Dan'l simply nodded, though the dream sat in his eyes, like it had always been. He patted his saddlebag, and then his hidden money belt.

Pappy Dyk said to Djon Volstaj, "How about you, sir, where are you bound?"

But all in the room knew what his answer would be except Dan'l. "Hell, captain, he said, standing as if in the ranks, "I ain't got any place to go, so I'm hitching along with Dan'l to see that mountain he's been dreaming about, to say hello to those who been waiting on him all this time, and to those who might be along the way planning on no mountain for Dan'l or his folks. That just drives me crazy, and I almost been there a few times already."

Dan'l stood again in a solemn salute, though no words were exchanged.

"Hell," Berlingswell the Brit said, "I haven't any idea of destination for my own purposes, so I might as well plan a Tennessee itinerary." He smiled at his own sense of humor.

Dan'l stood again.

Quincy stood and said, "I'm sorry I can't keep you gents company on the way to Tennessee because I am going to Montana and am going to have the biggest cattle ranch up there. It's been my own secret dream." His nods were a decided affirmation of promise; he kept nodding, as did the others.

Tanker, sitting in place, said, "I'm off to Chicago, Pappy Dyk. I've had my share of horses, campsites, cold meals, hot fights, and no woman to give my life to. I will find her in Chicago, or New York. I think she's a singer or an actress. I hope her name is Genevieve or something like that. Maybe Justine or Christine or plain old Molly, but she'll have dreams that I will fit into." He closed his eyes and nodded into infinity. "When you gents get to that mountain in Tennessee, or wherever you'll be, send me wires or mail in Chicago. I'll tell you what her real name is." He laughed and said, "When I find out for sure."

There was significant banging on walls of the building. More beer came in pitchers. Pappy Dyk, waiting on Sheep Peril and One Big Water to advance their own plans in their own time, sat back with a whole pitcher of his own. He heard the verdin singing to him, heard the prophecies on the air and the secrets that had come unto him, and marveled where he had been in the company of these men. There was no other group like them and he had taken them elsewhere, to another time, and brought them back, but with all their prodigious help. He felt the marveling of it really beginning to unfold itself, flicking through his mind in innumerable images that moved onto each other in smooth succession.

Knowing where Pappy Dyk was at that moment, Sheep Peril waited for visions to subside, songs to fall away into far corners, satisfaction to sit down in its place, before he finally said, "I go into the Nations. To my mountain. It waits for me. The papoose I left will ride with me. I go now."

As slick as a greased skid, Sheep Peril, in black, the fearsome headband in place as a sign for all, was gone. Pappy Dyk knew only another Comanche would stand up to him, threaten him. The future for his chief scout was assured. He could see it.

One Big Water, smiling all the while, seeing old visions come anew, said, "I go to see my father and my brother, to make three swords of water, to fish the big stream for the big fish I lost as a boy."

The Brit laughed again, and then they all laughed and the banker sat in another room hearing them laugh and contemplating the promising future.

In an hour all the men but Pappy Dyk were gone from the room, some of them en route to their wherever, some to their whomever. He went to the banker's office, closed the door behind him, and said, "You shoot off your mouth, mister bank president, and I will personally rob this bank of all it contains. If I did the Holy Caisson, I can do this place, and there's no doubt about that. Not a single doubt in my mind. You are going to make some good money here. Don't spoil it. And, if I'm hearing it right, there may be more. Much more."

He looked out the banker's window, saw the setting sun, heard a bird sing and, cocking his head as if listening, held up one finger for silence.

The sunrays and the song settled into the room. The bank president felt like rubbing his hands together, but dared not.

The song continued.

****

The Kelly Green Colt

This story can begin anywhere; back there, up here, at the site of the Double-NN ranch, on the dusty roads beyond the ranch, with any one of the characters caught up by the presence of the colt, by the colt itself that caused the uproar. But I suppose it comes mostly from the itinerant peddler Jervis Bracko who moved predominantly east and west with his wagonload of goods and his special delivery of tales, rumors and the "latest fact of fiction that spurs my mind to these doors." The Double-NN Ranch of Shaun Treacy was one of Bracko's favorite stops, and in his lexicon soon became _The Dublin Ranch,_ a piece of Ireland at long reach.

The day that Bracko had come away from seeing the new colt at The Dublin, he went in haste, his stories suddenly fortified with the most mythical of his tales. It was something the Little People must have weaved for The Dublin, and he himself had seen the physical proof of it all... a stark, green-all-over colt, born to the mare Cavanish shipped all the way from Shaun Treacy's birthplace in the old country.

Treacy, big and bony and handsome as an Indian chief, treated solid daylong labor as his inheritance on earth, and brought his family of four boys and two daughters along with the same fervor. Usually friendly to a fault when he was not working, courteous as all-get-out, he was the one who invited Bracko into the barn. "Come, Jervis, and take a glorious little peek for yourself at a mighty small miracle, which may soon change of its own accord, pray the Good Lord. But while you are here, good man, best see for yourself what might damn me as a liar later on."

"What in the thundering name of heaven is that, Shaun?" Jervis said as he first looked at the colt standing in an immaculate stall of the barn. "Did you paint him yourself, man? Who has seen this sight? There'll be some strange comments coming your way, if you'll have it from me. Strange comments indeed, about some unknown but sprightly small creature from the old country itself playing games with your stock. Pity might mount itself, or stark terror that there is a new revolution here from the old land and riding on the back of a green colt. Goodness, my man, a Kelly green colt." He swung his arms as if beseeching the very heavens above.

Treacy jumped at that. "I did nothing but bring him free of his last hold on the mare, I swear to the Almighty. In dear fact, man, it near bowled me over, for he was Kelly from the first venture into this life. Kelly green, though I think he has darkened a bit since the first day."

"How old is he now, Shaun?"

"A mere week, with strong legs and ready to run for himself, but I have kept him under covers the while, thinking he'll go brown or black before he sees the outside of the barn. A strange happening for us here, so far from the dear land of green vales and stout cliffs. My daughter Tess, dear girl born to love the animals, thinks the colt's a gift to us, to take care of, to sponsor his way in the world, whatever that may be. I swear, man, all red I could handle, or all white, or as blue as the other part of the flag, but green, Kelly green, makes him a spectacle for most people. I fear for the young thing. If he's blest, it's one thing, but if he's pure oddity, it'll be a damned shame."

At that point Treacy made his one and only plea to Bracko. "All I'd ask of you, Jervis, is to hold your tongue on this until we see what happens to the colt, what happens to his color. I'd not want all of Meridian City clawing around the place seeing what nature might have done to torture us or, or begorra, to please us. Nor all of the curious from here to Copa Verdi or Big Red or Clay's Pit. For that matter all of the western part of this glorious land and all the curiosity that roams as wild as the wild horses. Can I have your word on that, Jervis?" Despite all appearances and the gist of the conversation, Treacy held some consideration for the happy peddler, who had his own magic with branding irons, adding a side value of interest such as The Double-NN coming up finally as The Dublin. Treacy knew that part was devised from the onset by Bracko, part of his ingenuity. He also wondered what Bracko held in store for Cavan the Great.

"On my best honor, Shaun, on the honor of my dear departed parents. It's a mystery I am only too pleased to share with you and the family." He bowed his head in deep thinking, not sure of how to further endear himself to his usual customers along the length of his route. Or where to start. Then he said to the big Irishman, "How fares the mare, Shaun?"

Treacy shook his head, a look of bewilderment crossing his brow. "Constantly on the look for her newborn, making noise like a mother who's lost her child. I must bring them together soon, regardless of what looms ahead for us here." His clasped hands, like joined lumber peaveys, said he was in prayer for the colt.

With that encounter they went their ways, Treacy sure he could trust Jervis Bracko not to say a word about the colt until he was as far away as he could get on his route until he started back, a six-month journey. But whatever might happen, he had a witness outside the family who had seen the Kelly green colt. He named him Cavan the Great, not Cavan the Green, but Cavan the Great. A mere half-hour later he turned loose into the back pasture the lonely mare and her sprightly colt. Treacy knew the lump in his throat was for real. The real world beginnings for Cavan the Great had begun.

Jervis Bracko was almost two hundred miles away, about to visit the last of his customers on the long route, and his mind filled with weeks of wonder about the Kelly green colt, Cavan. So many times he was about to burst his gut, but business made the best decision for him. If he told his first customer coming away from The Dublin, it would spoil the rest of his trip, the whole long route out and back, and Shaun Treacy would know him for a man not true to his word, or to most of it. Plus, all the fun would fall out of his life.

And his life was full of fun, and a decent amount of hard work, just to keep things level. He had won a Springfield wagon in good condition in a bad poker game that suddenly went right for him. No idea came to mind about what to do with the wagon but, he realized, for the first time ever he was a property owner, and he was elated. As fate happens to some people, whether they are waiting for it or not, an idea started to work in his head, and he began altering the plan of life, as he would refer to it later on.

An old handyman about town helped him to dress up the wagon and at the same time make it more useful. They put a high canvas rigging over it, provided a place for Bracko to sleep while on the road, and enough compartments and small segments to carry anything that came to mind. Hooks and nails and odd projections were added and offered many additional catch-all places to hang supplies or articles, "to temper your burdened brow, ease your troubled mind, set your best face forward for the day coming upon you, ladies." The wagon, he often said, was a rolling suitcase and he was the rolling drummer. With some insight, he became a deliverer of goods, a seller of sundries that western women would have a need for, things that would brighten their kitchens, ease their days of long labor, please their men. For the men of his route he carried some cigars, a few choice liquors, assorted ammunition, and every now and then a small armory of side arms and rifles.

His long face-to-face with people gave him an edge in thinking and he fully realized that he needed a little more than what he carried in his wagon, an edge the good businessman needed. That, in one bright flare of light, turned out to be gossip, rumor and other like entertainment. It included white lies, bare fabrications, hyperbole to an unknown extent, and a little bit of forgery. He was an actor, elocutionist, and impersonator. And he loved it all, all part of the fun in life.

Bracko realized, as he headed into the mile widespread of Jocko Doherty's L-Bar-D ranch, that the stage was set for new efforts. The image of Jocko's wife Katherine swept him into the typical kitchen magic that generally came his way. The beams came on his face. The smile lighted his way in the gray morning, and Katherine Doherty, that darling lady, would be at her husband with the latest word before the day was out.

"Ah, Mrs. Doherty," Bracko siphoned from his sweet treasury, "how does the day do you? Sparkle seems the answer, the sun having risen with you no doubt, but that all should fall aside when I tell you, woman, what I have seen with my own eyes. With my own eyes, my good woman, with my own eyes. Right from the old sod and seen with my own eyes, the little people having come all this way to share with me the magic of it all. Oh, the magic of it all and all the way from the dear land itself."

As usual, Katherine Doherty melted at the sweetness of the man and the sudden realization that she would be soon possess a prize story or two from the peddler, a story of her very own.

"Oh, and a cup of tea for you, Mr. Bracko, a cup of tea and some fresh biscuits as new as the dawn and as warm." She too gleamed and beamed and immediately tasted a day's worth of talking and swapping of tales with her family and later with any neighbors that would pass by. There were some days she would beg for company, for the rattle of a wagon or the hoof beats of a horse or two. Now and then she would settle for a posse on its rounds and needing food and drink. The audience make-up made no difference.

She swung the door wide and said, "Please to come in, dear man and share your wealth with me."

And way back down the line from where his trip started, at The Dublin, Tess Treacy, as her father had bidden her, kept the mare Cavanish and her colt Cavan out at the far side of the back pasture. A small shelter had been built, water trough brought in, and a feeding bin as needed. Nobody had seen the colt but ranch hands, and all of them sworn to wait until the Kelly green color might subside or take a turn to a normal hue.

And amid all the surprise, like a gift atop his color, the colt Cavan had the wind with him, and the longest legs and the greatest stretch of ground passing under him faster than any colt 17-year old Tess Treacy had ever seen. She loved the dear animal, right to its green coat and yellow eyes, and fed him and his dam daily with the greatest glee and happiness.

Very early in that first month, her father was moving cattle to the railhead and bent at other tasks. She first caught up to him on a quick trip home, ahead of the remuda and the trail wagon. She was pleased to see him and marveled at the energy that abounded about him.

"Pa, you will not believe how Cavan can run, so young and so fast. He'll be a champion and when he's of age I'd race him against anything born under the sun."

"Now, now, dear girl, no sense to rush at something that may never come to pass. We will keep the dear thing from general view until we know what truly has befallen him and us." But she did detect the interest and enthusiasm that was trying to find a voice, an expression.

"You do not hold to it being a miracle, Pa? Not an ounce of a miracle in it? You're from Ireland, Mother's from Ireland, Cavanish is from Ireland, and by all that's holy, Cavan is too. Straight out of Ireland. Can you not accept the fact of destiny?"

"Miracles come to belief, dear Tess, to belief." His gaze found the colt at the far end of the pasture and saw that the Kelly green had not faded, had not turned on itself. Lost for a moment in that gaze and decent reflections, he did not see but heard, from a distance, the unmistakable shout of long-time pal, Jocko Doherty. It made him smile, for Jocko Doherty was a man of both countries, the old and the new, just as he himself was... belief shrouded them, love of work and what it could produce, energy to unknown limits, and a sense of joy that life was good to him. And Jervis Bracko had accomplished a proper mission.

The hustling figure came around the corner of the ranch house. "Shaun, Shaun," came the hearty and deep voice of Jocko Doherty, "what have you done here? Where is that animal I have heard about? Do you keep him for yourself? Are you now an isolationer in your castle, in your own private piece of royal sod? Shake him out, good man, shake him out. Show me that green Irisher." He leaned forward on his saddle, as if straining for the finish line in a race.

At the pasture fence he came gracefully off the saddle and addressed Tess. "Dear, girl, you light up an old man's heart. Tell me quick that there is a handsome new young man in your life. You make amends for a life too old to remember." He hugged her with a grateful tenderness.

"Oh, Uncle Jocko, see what love has come in my life and she whistled with two fingers in her mouth and the colt Cavan, green as an unripe tomato, sprinted across the grass to stand at her side. Promise of strength shouted from his legs, as well as a sense of unmatched speed. And he was Tess's animal, without a doubt, as he nuzzled close to her, knew her hands on his neck.

Jocko Doherty looked with amazement on the colt shimmering in the sunlight like a piece off a flag at full mast. "Ah, Shaun, let come spring in its full glory and we will have the race of the ages, the Irisher here and my own young black beauty, Bogger, but a few months with me and of like promise. What shall we call it, Shaun, this epic match? Cavan the Great Kelly green colt against Bogger, the black beauty from the hinterlands, descendent of the bogs of Connemara. I can see it now."

"Bye the bye, Jocko, there's but one name we can give it. One glorious name. A name for the ages. A name for all time to come so that our children will march forever to its beat, where we can ultimately rest in its good graces. We shall gather people from all over the west, the cowboys and trail hands galore, the trainmen and travelers, the adventurers and new settlers, the wild and wooly and watchful, from the Mississippi to the Rockies, from every cow town and rail head and those oddly named cities spawned by river or water head or mountain, we will pull the crowd our way and we will call the grand affair The Irish Sweepstakes. Is that not a resplendent name, old bucko? A resplendent name, The Irish Sweepstakes. Ah, begorra!" He caught his breath and continued, his eyes afire, his cheeks as red as mountaintops at sunset. "We shall have music and flags and dancing, with a barn dance the night before and the night of the race. And great roasts all around. The best beef and steak this side of the whole long line of the Mississippi. And real potatoes in the mix of the fire, from our own seeds. Fiddlers will come from a hundred miles away, mayhap two hundred miles to play and be part of the celebration. Will that not be a fair assumption of things, my friend, a fair and grand assumption of a fair and grand time? My heart aches for the time to come."

"Ah, begorra, Shaun, you have done it well. I can feel your smooth practicality at work. You are a pride shining back on the old homesteads, and would you know it, man, not one turnip did I see on my way here. Not one turnip at all. Good lord, how do they live without turnip and the fish the curragh brought home to table? What will become of the young of them, without turnips and the good spuds and the Atlantic's largesse?"

And it was a year later, the wide spread of the great Dublin ranch ready to host an army of curious and pleasure-seeking people, much of the preliminary arrangements made and agreed upon, that Tess Treacy, in tears, burst into the kitchen. "They're gone! They're gone!"

Shaun Treacy and Jocko Doherty, at the breakfast table after a night visit by Doherty, leaped from their chairs.

"Who's gone, Tess? Who?" yelled her father.

"Cavan and Bogger. Both of them," she cried. "Gone during the night."

"How in heaven, good girl?" Doherty said, also rushing to her side.

"The barn door was open, the back door to the pasture, and the gate was down, and that's not all." The quizzical look on her face was beset with mystery, her eyes with a look of disbelief.

Shaun Treacy saw that disbelief on her face. "What else, Tess? You look all atwist, not like your good self at all. What else, girl? What else?"

Tess Treacy looked as if she was about to say something that she ought not to say, but it blurted out. "There are tracks all about, little tracks, tracks of little people, little people with little shoes. They're all around the barn and the gate and they all lead off to the pasture and to the far gate also down on the ground. I tried to trail them, but they withered away, even the tracks of Cavan and Bogger, just disappeared, as if in one stride, as if they had not been there at all."

She kept shaking her head and sobbing in the swinging change between mystery and sadness, and it was Jocko Doherty who said, "The Little People took them back. We will never see them again. Never again!"

It was the firmest statement Jocko Doherty had ever spoken. And the most believable.

Of course, Jervis Bracko ran with the tale for years on his east-west rounds. He was in hundreds and hundreds of kitchens, at the table, seated before the fireplace or the kitchen stove, on wide summer porches of an evening, talking about the Kelly green colt and the black Bogger that were taken away by the little people. The charm spilled out of Jervis Bracko for long years and his business grew heavy and prospered and at length his children and grandchildren inherited a national merchandising chain that eventually moved on from the western territories to encompass lands on both sides of the wide Mississippi and up through the northern territories.

And Leyland Stanford, with the great horse ranch in California, sent a representative to find out the true story of the Kelly green colt.

And so it came down to a resolution of sorts years later, when one five-year-old great-grandson of Tess Treacy, having heard all his life the stories about the Kelly green colt, was visiting a large fairgrounds in far Oregon. He grasped his father's hand and tried to pull him away from a hotdog vendor. "I saw my pony!" he yelled, and kept yelling it as his father was trying to complete the hotdog sale, "I saw my pony! I saw my pony!"

His father, hands full of hotdogs and change, finally said, "What pony, Cavan, what pony?" He looked apologetically at the vendor and shrugged his shoulders, and they both smiled at the boy, still caught up in exclamations.

"My green pony," he said. "My green pony that mom and grandma always told me about," and he pointed off across the fairgrounds to the merry-go-round where, in its circular and continuous path, it showed a Kelly green horse rushing in circles and leaping high and low, and the sun shone on it like a green gem.

****

Two Fathoms Down

" _Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now, lest you ...."_

Anton Chalkov thought he chased only a dream out of Siberia, a dream and nothing more. He boated across the Bering Strait, with divine intervention on few occasions, and into Alaskan waters. Once ashore in Alaska it was obvious he had not gone far enough and set out, overland for a portion of his journey and then back on coastal waters in the company of fishermen, for the New World of America. All this travel in pursuit of the dream. The dogs he bought for the overland portions of his trip were masterful, they too having good blood in them, born for the snow and the task. The dogs got him all the way through a few of Canada's territories, before he swapped them for one horse in Montana territory of America, where he had been headed all the time.

He'd been a Cossack, now he wanted to be a cowboy.

In Montana, once again in the saddle, his blood began to rollick, ride and stride, the blood of a true horseman in the rhythm of the saddle, a Cossack on the move.

Though far from home, he was closer to his dream, even as he recalled the words of his grandfather: Wherever you go, look for messages in your own language. The words will direct you. People of your blood have gone where you dream of going, though many years ago. Their history lies along the way.

Chalkov was 22 years old, a Cossack with rebel Tatar blood in his veins, and all the men before him in his family were Cossack horsemen, of the Siberian Host. He wore the mark of a Cossack host or Cossack voisko (Казачье войско, _kazachye voysko_ ). In several villages, where the Host was quartered after battles, he heard tales about the American west, and the horses that the Spaniards had brought centuries ago from the other end of Europe. He could feel the ride in his seat. Animals like that could run with the wind, turn like a mountain goat out of the Urals or the Ukraine range, bear on one like a wave from the wild Pacific.

If any person of authority on the way asked him where he was from, he knew what he'd say. "I am descended from Mazepa and Petro, great Cossack leaders, and probably from the Tsar himself, for he too rode the horses of the steppes. The horsemen of the central Plains ran with fear as their frontal attack, setting opponents back on their heels."

It was simple. "I am a Cossack," he would be proud to say.

He passed down through Alaska, taking a year to complete the journey, fighting the cold one time and the huge mosquitoes another time. He lived with Eskimos for a while, fishing and hunting and sharing an igloo, learning much from them in the ways of survival.

Then he contended with a section of Canada, and eventually landed in a high Montana village, the mountains wild and savage in their looks. It was the dead of winter, but he had been through three harsh years in his journey, much of it under extreme winter conditions. The horses still called on him, the grasslands he had heard about, spring flowers bouncing across the grass as fast as rabbits. He could hardly wait for it to all come true ... the cowboys and the Indians and the huge herds of cattle he had heard about. Also filtering through to him were stories of gunfights and duels in the main street of little towns and big cities, the shoot-outs among rival forces, like Cossacks loose in America.

In the village, an old Indian he befriended asked his pardon to make a suggestion. "The new land you have entered is a strange one. It is made up of people who came from elsewhere, all of them, and they look back with disdain at those who came also from distant places. My people were here before all of them, for centuries they were here. What I am saying to you is that before we came here, we were there, where you come from. We made the same voyage you did, but many centuries ago and made the journey by walking and not on boats or canoes."

He looked back over his shoulder as if he was seeing all of it again, all the trials, all the troubles, all the history. "What else I am saying is to change your name, merge with the landscape, settle in as though you were born here, give no one an edge on you, or the chance to slight you."

"I am Cossack," Chalkov said, "a Cossack from the Siberian Host. Take me as I am. Take me as what I do. Take me as the man that I am. Why should I change my name?"

The old Indian, putting on the face of a god or a chieftain, said, "They call me John Bush now, even as I fail at holding onto life. It is the only reason I am the last of my tribe that lived here in this mountain range and can live here now. I was 'Wind in the Bush' before. I was saved by a mountain man, Tall John, who gave me a name and I should give you a name. You shall be called Andy Chalk from now on. It will save enough of your energy to go where you want to go and do what you want to do ... ride the horses in the new land, and find the dream that dances at your feet and in your eye. I will make the way clearer for you in the white man's way."

Came then a significant pause, things being measured, parceled out, and shared singly. "You will be granted a formidable gain," John Bush said. "I only want to make the way to that gain as clear as I can. I am the last of my tribe. I am the keeper of secrets. I know that you come here among us as the new hope, for you come here with a new air about you, the freshness of a spring breeze the saplings have found, but more than all things measured, we share the same roots of the soul."

"What is this gain I should be looking for? How will I find it?"

John Bush, ailing as he had for a long while, sat straight in his place. "It will find you. Be aware, for the line you follow comes from behind you. That is less mystery than you can imagine."

Because Anton Chalkov deeply respected the old Indian, he became Andy Chalk and said his new name a hundred times before he went off to sleep that night. "Andy Chalk" sounded, at length, like a rider of horses might say his name to a friend, just a cowboy named Andy Chalk, but underneath a Cossack.

"Who has gathered all this information?" he had asked John Bush, who replied, "The Assiniboin of the Meadows, of the village of Pasquayah. My people cooked great meals over heated stones. Pasquayah was in the land of the Sioux, of whom we were brothers. They told the stories of the Great Crossing in past centuries."

Andy Chalk, Cossack forever, but also now with a new name, was a good and patient listener, as John Bush continued what he knew of the history of his people and the new connection with Chalk. In truth, he felt his end was near, and he was bound to pass on the word of his people. It was his legacy.

"My people," John Bush continued, "the Assiniboin, were not different from the other Sioux in the land. Men wore their hair in many ways; it was not cut very often, and when it got really long it was twirled in locks. They often wore false hair to make the twirl longer. Sometimes it reached down to their feet, but usually wound up in a coil on top of their heads. Their customs were much like our Cree cousins of the Plains. Traders liked to visit them, for they made pemmican, a good barter for liquor and tobacco, among other goods, and, of course, for gunpowder, lead and knives, for warfare and for hunting. "

During much of the night he carried on with history, tales, legends all about his people who had made the same trip that Andy Chalk had, and Chalk waited for the specific information that John Bush was going to give him for a clear start in the new world. "You will need a hand in the new land," he had said.

During much of his sleep, Chalk was visited by visions of his journey at every phase, including the times when his life was threatened or nearly taken away, when danger came from many sources, and signs of odd meanings were visible around him. Some he could read and some he could not.

In the morning John Bush was dead beside the dwindling campfire. In one hand he held a map laid out on a leather skin. It directed the seeker to a mountain tarn where fish birds dare not light. The tarn, according to the map, was not too distant from where Chalk was standing with the map. Landmarks on the map were obvious to him, and a legend at the bottom was in his own Russian tongue ... it said, in his immediate translation to English, _"Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now ...._ " The statement, he understood for some vague reason, was incomplete.

Chalk knew that too was a sign ... and a challenge.

On a magnificent red stallion, Chalk started his short journey as directed by the map. The destination, he figured, was about two days away in the mountains. The horse that he named Pavlo was stronger than an ox and climbed the hills as steady as a current. Chalk was happy and proud as he rode the stallion, a mingled sense of might and confidence filling him.

He carried a single revolver on his belt and a rifle sheathed on his saddle. But those were not his only arms. Back in Russia he had promised he'd not be without his sword in the new land, his Cossack sword. He now carried it also in the sheath with his rifle. Even if he did not say so, some people would know he was a Cossack by that sword.

Preparation, and readiness, had long been needed by him as a Cossack and he had heard many stories of the new land, of its robbers, brigands and road agents. It wasn't that they did not have them in Russia, but in Russia such scum stayed clear of any Cossack, and the Host that Cossack could bring down on a new enemy. Chalk was rigid with that confidence.

He'd be prepared, he vowed as he set out. Steep, precipitous trails met him right at the start, as the first part of the route was a climbing one. He was but a few hours on the trail, on a very steep incline, when a robber on foot stepped in front of him with a rifle in his hands.

"Hold it right there, old pal," the robber said. "All I want is the money you're cartin', your horse 'ats bigger 'n a mountain, and thet saddle you're asittin'." He was young but bearded, carried a scar right across his nose as if he had been wounded in the war, and carried a pistol on his hip. Chalk had measured him from the outset.

The young, scarred youngster waved the rifle in a threat.

But that poor, lonely misguided road agent, that youngster at a new trade, raw as a colt in the business, had never faced off with a Cossack in the blood.

Chalk drove his spurs into the flanks of Pavlo with such a quick thrust that the huge animal leaped forward, knocking the robber on his backside, his rifle falling down the side of the mountain. Before he was aware of anything, he was under the sword hanging over his head, with a slant of sunlight shining off the sharpened edge.

"Take your side arm," Chalk said, "and throw it over the side of the trail. Throw it downhill so it will take you time to get it, but don't throw it so far you can't recover it. You may need it up here. If I ever see you again, I will drop this sword across your neck. That is a promise as dear to me as life. Now go!"

Chalk simply twisted the sword so that the sunlight glanced off it clean as a mirror shot. The young road agent leaped away and ran downhill to retrieve his weapons.

Chalk, climbing uphill on Pavlo, went out of sight. The hoof beats went silent just as quickly.

John Bush had told him that obstacles would appear in the quest for his "clear gain" in the new world that he had promised would come to him. Chalk believed John Bush was a prophet of the new world. That belief was cemented firmly with Chalk for he faced three more robbers or brigands in his own quest. The next one came in a small village at a mountain crossroads, and in its usual saloon.

He entered, ordered a drink, and was assessed by another patron as a "complete stranger from a weird source"

"You ain't from around here, are you, bud?" Here was another young cowpoke stepping out beyond his territory. Of course, the arrogance came with the questions, the stance, the hard look fashioned under his sombrero brim. "You sure ain't from around here, are you, bud? I saw a sword in your saddle out there. What the hell is that? Where are you from? You one o' them strange foreigners keep comin' in on top of us? You a Swede or a Brit or a Harp or a Russkie clammerin' for new freedoms? You one o' them German from thet far place? Them's funny lookin' boots you're awearin'. Them dancin' boots? You feel like dancin' for us, mister?"

Everybody in the saloon thought the young bigmouth was about to draw his gun, but Chalk, fast as a loose pig, snapped a fist in the face of the young upstart. Blood spurted from his nose and he leaned over the bar wondering what had hit him so fast.

Chalk, alert to the whole room, said loud enough for all to hear him, "I am a Cossack. Nobody touches my sword. Nobody makes me dance when I don't want to dance. I can ride better than anybody here. Shoot better than anybody here. Use that sword in a way that none of you can imagine. I am going on my way now and if anybody follows me, tries any tricks on me, the sword of this Cossack will fall on his neck."

As he moved to the door, his eyes on the young bigmouth still bleeding on the bar, he said, "That is a vow of utmost honor I place on myself." He went out the door, mounted Pavlo and rode out of the village.

A mile out on the trail he knew nobody from the saloon would follow him.

In two days he was as high in the mountains as he could get without giving up his horse. Up here in the rarified clime, the sweet air came at him as if he were in the Urals, and the quick turns it had as it whistled within winds off rock walls and pillars of stone and sharp corners. All the while he kept looking for the signs that John Bush said would come to him. Many things caught his eye, but nothing said more than what appeared to him.

And then, as he rode around a sudden tarn in a quick valley off the trail his eye caught signs on a sheer face of stone rising above the tarn. First he saw a fish cut into the stone, then he saw a horse and then a bow. A tipi was next on the rock face and a small boat, maybe a canoe.

John Bush's voice came back, saying "It will find you."

Chalk believed he had arrived at "the place of advantage" that John Bush had promised. He searched all over that wall, as high as he could scale and down to the edge of the tarn's water. He saw nothing that said more. No message delivered.

As he was sitting on the trail, alone in all this mountainous world, him and his Pavlo, he noticed that there was no way to ride to the other side of the tarn. The water shone bright blue in the sunlight, and sat like a clear reflection of all light. When he cast a stone across the surface, skipping off the water a half dozen times, the ripples ran all the way to the other side ... where he could not ride.

As he mused he believed that was the first sign of this place in the mountains. Clearly it said he had to go to the other side and check the steep wall over there.

He hid his weapons, including the sword, in a crevice, took off his clothes and swam to the other side. The water was cool but not cold, as if the sun warmed it with direct rays. He swam easily, quickly, and was at the other side in a short time.

A ledge appeared as a thin line and he climbed out of the water and up to the ledge, which ran for dozens of feet in each direction. At one point he saw the scratching on the wall, deep scratches as if an artist had made the cuts.

Chalk rubbed the words that seemed to appear. More words came visible, and then he saw words that he had seen before in his native language. He quickly translated them and saw them to a conclusion in English, _"Though curious, be you kind to yourself, and leave here now, lest you find yourself two fathoms down."_

Chalk felt the excitement leap up through his body, like finishing a ride on a horse never ridden before. He thought about lightning striking across the sky, or a big fish on the end of his fishing line or the first time he wore his Cossack uniform.

_A_ mere 12 feet down he found a shelf and on the shelf a small crevice in which objects of gold came to his hand, a grand clutch of objects, enough for one man in this life, and much of them solid pieces that took him at least a dozen trips to bring to the surface. One tree stood on the other side, and with his sword he cut limbs from it to make a small, clumsy, but serviceable raft to move what he would take with him. On the second day, he had brought what he wanted to the other side, and left much in place. "If ever ..." he said. "If ever."

When Chalk left the tarn on Pavlo, his saddlebag sufficient for a start at ranching, for having his own herd and driving them on a long trail to market, he thought he was halfway to where he wanted to go.

He wondered what the other half would bring.

****

Author's Note about Cover Design

The cover arrangements and all artwork on these nine collections have drawn from the efforts of Tom Sheehan, Jr., deceased, an artist of note who left us too suddenly at the height of his creative talents, under tragic circumstances nearly 25 years ago; and his youngest sibling, Jamie Sheehan, who moved back home to watch over this old gent after I lost my wife in December of 2010. We know Tommy's work hangs in many unknown places, but all of it shows a great talent not only for art but for history and the human drama. He and his brother Tim, now of Maine, saw a great deal of this country in the 60s and 70s from venues of the young, changing world. Tim continually works at his literary interests along with his farm chores. I have had some meals at his table where every portion of the meal was raised on his land by his hand.

Jamie is a master carpenter and finish man, who once loved construction until he found the guitar and a gift for writing songs. He has framed some memorable songs, works continually on the guitar to improve his playing skill along with his voice, and will pursue a future in the music world. He has arranged all the covers, selected the choice pieces, created his own drawings, and brought them to this collection.

Another son, Matthew, now in Oak Park, Illinois, has brought his considerable computer talents where needed in this cause.

All the boys followed me in athletics at Saugus High School, in football, baseball, and Jamie and Matthew also in hockey, where they were captains in their senior years, and played later at Norwich and Bentley College.

I have always told them that we come with two things in this life ... love and energy ... and we damned well better use them to the fullest extent; they are still listening.

****

About Tom Sheehan

Tom Sheehan, of Saugus, MA and a graduate of Boston College (1956), served with the 31st Infantry Regiment in Korea, 1951. His books are _Epic Cures_ and _Brief Cases, Short Spans_ , both from Press 53; _A Collection of Friends_ and _From the Quickening_ , both from Pocol Press. His work appears in the anthologies _Home of the Brave, Stories in Uniform_ (Press 53) and _MilSpeak: Warriors, Veterans, Family and Friends Writing the Military Experience_ (Press 53). He has many Pushcart nominations, nominations for Noted Stories for 2007 and 2008, and a Georges Simenon Fiction Award and A Silver Rose Award for Fiction.

Tom has hundreds of online publications of prose and poetry, and has published three novels: _An Accountable Death; Vigilantes East;_ and _Death for the Phantom Receiver,_ an NFL mystery. An NHL mystery manuscript, _Murder from the Forum_ , is in the hands of an agent. His work is included in _Dzanc Best of the Web Anthology for 2009_ and was nominated for Best of the Web 2010 and 2011. He has 260 short stories - all Westerns - published online in _Rope and Wire Magazine._ These stories are now being anthologized and released as a series of electronic books by MilSpeak Books.

Print issue publications include _Rosebud Magazine_ (4 issues) and _Ocean Magazine_ (7 issues), among many others. Poetry collections include _This Rare Earth and Other Flights; Ah, Devon Unbowed; The Saugus Book;_ and _Reflections from Vinegar Hill._ With two co-editors he wrote, compiled and issued two books on their hometown of Saugus, Massachusetts. Each book held 400 pages-plus and sold all 4500 copies printed, with all proceeds going toward scholarships for Saugus High School graduates continuing their education. People can search for copies on eBay or Craig's List these days, and can now and then find one.

****

Other Books by Tom Sheehan

_Ah, Devon Unbowed_ (Poetry)

_The Saugus Book_ (Poetry)

_Reflections from Vinegar Hill_ (Prose and Poetry)

_An Accountable Death_ (Novel/serialized in the online magazine, 3:AM)

Vigilantes East (Novel)

_Elements and Accessories_ (Poetry)

_Death for the Phantom Receiver_ (Novel)

_A Collection of Friends_ (Memoir/Pocol Press)

_From the Quickening_ (Short Stories/Pocol Press)

_This Rare Earth & Other Flights_ (Poetry)

_Epic Cures_ (Short Stories/Press 53)

_Brief Cases, Short Spans_ (Short Stories/Press 53)

_A Gathering of Memories, Saugus 1900-2000_ (Co-editor, History and Nostalgia)

_Of Time and the River, Saugus 1900-2005_ (Co-editor, History and Nostalgia)

_Korean Echoes_ (Poetry/MilSpeak Books/2011)

SIED BOOKS - All deployed military members, disabled veterans, and their family members can receive free coupon codes to download all MilSpeak Books. Send an email to siedbooks@milspeak.org

Discover other MilSpeak Books titles at

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/milspeak

Donate to MilSpeak Foundation (501c3)!

Visit http://www.milspeak.org/milspeak/DONATE.html

