Rough Justice

Rough Justice By Lee Pierce

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Edited by Jake George Copyright © 2007 Lee Pierce. All rights reserved. Reproduction or utilization of this work in any form, by any means now known or hereinafter invented, including, but not limited to, xerography, photocopying and recording, and in any known storage and retrieval system, is forbidden without permission from the copyright holder. ISBN 0-9782157-6-1 Published by Intellectus Enterprises www.intellectusenterprises.com

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Table of Contents Chapter One ................................................................................................................ 1 Chapter Two ................................................................................................................ 7 Chapter Three ........................................................................................................... 14 Chapter Four.............................................................................................................. 20 Chapter Five ............................................................................................................... 25 Chapter Six ................................................................................................................. 31 Chapter Seven ............................................................................................................ 37 Chapter Eight ............................................................................................................ 42 Chapter Nine ............................................................................................................. 47 Chapter Ten ............................................................................................................... 52 Chapter Eleven .......................................................................................................... 58 Chapter Twelve ......................................................................................................... 65 Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................................... 71 Chapter Fourteen...................................................................................................... 77 Chapter Fiveteen ....................................................................................................... 83 Chapter Sixteen ......................................................................................................... 91 Chapter Seventeen .................................................................................................... 96 Chapter Eighteen ................................................................................................... 101 Chapter Nineteen .................................................................................................. 107 Chapter Twenty ..................................................................................................... 113 Chapter Twenty-One ........................................................................................... 119 Chapter Twenty-Two ........................................................................................... 126 Chapter Twenty-Three ........................................................................................ 132 Chapter Twenty-Four........................................................................................... 139 Chapter Twenty-Five ............................................................................................ 144 Chapter Twenty-Six .............................................................................................. 149 Chapter Twenty-Seven ......................................................................................... 155 Chapter Twenty-Eight.......................................................................................... 160 Chapter Twenty-Nine .......................................................................................... 165 Chapter Thirty ....................................................................................................... 170 Chapter Thirty-One.............................................................................................. 175 Chapter Thirty-Two ............................................................................................. 181 Chapter Thirty-Three........................................................................................... 186

Chapter Thirty-Four ............................................................................................. 192 Chapter Thirty-Five .............................................................................................. 199 Chapter Thirty-Six ................................................................................................ 205 Chapter Thirty-Seven ........................................................................................... 210 Chapter Thirty-Eight ............................................................................................ 218 Epilogue .................................................................................................................... 222 Biography of Author ............................................................................................. 223

Lee Pierce

Chapter One Silverjack reined in the big roan mare. Horse and rider stood on a narrow granite slab, high atop a black volcanic bluff. The sun glared a bronze orb in the western sky. A soft breeze blew in from the west beginning to cool down the eastern New Mexico landscape. Massive rock walls and boulders began to moan like long dead spirits, the cooling effect of the approaching night releasing their wailing cries. Silverjack shivered. “Dang it Bess,” he said to his horse. “This country is beautiful, but I ain’t never gonna get used to them rocks caterwaulin’ like they do every time the weather changes. I won’t be happy until we get back to the Texas panhandle and home.” Looking out over the brush-strewn desert, the big rangy Texan made out the silhouette of a town in the distance. “Look out yonder, Bess. I believe I see a town. Somebody else’s cookin’ and a night’s sleep in a bed sounds doggone good to me right now. What do you think, old girl, want a big bag of oats to eat tonight?” The trail weary mare whinnied and tossed her head about. “That sounds like yes to me. Let’s find us a way off this hill and get on down there.” He nudged Bess, and she began walking along the narrow rock ledge. Silverjack spied an old game trail, and after looking it over, decided the path was worth a try. Even though Bess was surefooted, Silverjack was still a careful man. The fact that he was alive after many years of living by the gun was ample proof of that. They negotiated the trail with ease and headed toward the distant town. At the town’s edge, a weather beaten old sign proclaimed “WELCOME TO DRY CREEK, NEW MEXICO.” As he read the sign, Jack noticed a commotion some ways down the street. I don’t know what that is, Bess,” he said, “but it ain’t any of our business.” He touched her flank and she started toward the noise at an easy walk. The closer they got to the ruckus, the more concerned Silverjack became. He did not like what he was hearing. Silverjack drew the roan mare to a halt outside a small crowd gathered in the middle of the street. A sour faced young man was the center of attention. He was dressed up in a black broadcloth suit and a stiff white shirt. A fancy -1-

Rough Justice

string tie, cinched up with a shiny piece of turquoise, hung around his neck. A silver Concho band strung around his flat brimmed black hat glistened in the sun. The young gunny held a .44 pistol in his right hand, with which he was taunting an ancient looking Mexican man. Although Silverjack knew Spanish, it didn’t take knowledge of that language to know the Mexican was pleading for his life. Tears had turned the old man’s face into a mask of salty mud. Blood trickled from an ugly gash on top of his head. The syrupy liquid matted in his greasy hair and dripped onto his shoulders like fat scarlet lice. Some of the people watching the spectacle seemed to be enjoying the sadistic show; others bore concerned looks but seemed afraid to interfere. “This youngster must be thought of as a bad man in these parts,” Jack said to the mare. “I didn’t want to find trouble today, but I hate bullies more than just about anything.” He moved Bess through the crowd until her shoulder was almost touching the gunman. A bizarre change began to take place on the left side of Silverjack’s face. On skin permanently darkened by the sun, an ugly gray scar, a souvenir of a long ago knife fight, ran from his temple to his jaw line. When Jack became angry, the scar turned deep crimson. Now, the old wound seemed to have a life of its own. Blood pulsed through the gash like a raging swollen river. “What seems to be the problem here?” asked Silverjack. The young bully’s head jerked up. Contempt masked his features as he eyed the stranger. “Shucks, friend,” said the young man, spitting out the words. “There ain’t no problem here. I got everything under control. It’s just that I don’t like greasers, and today is my twenty-first birthday. So, for a birthday present to myself, I’m goin’ to put Pancho here out of his misery. After that, me and my friends are headin’ for the saloon to have a drink. We’re goin’ to drink to one less Mex to get underfoot, and one more year in the life of me, Bob Ray Woolens.” “Turn the man loose,” said Silverjack. Bob Ray eyed the big rough looking drifter dressed in old faded buckskins. The man wore a shapeless brown hat and silver-toed boots. A -2-

Lee Pierce

narrow scar traversed the man’s face and long silver hair hung down his back, Indian style. The stranger’s six-gun rode low on his hip. The young tough looked up at Silverjack and smiled. “Whoa, now, oldtimer, like I was sayin’, there ain’t no problem here, so far.” The smile faded from Bob Ray’s face. He stepped up next to Silverjack. “Saddle tramp, I think you’d better ride on out while you still can and forget everything you’ve seen here today. Otherwise, you might be creatin’ a big problem for your ragged old ass.” Silverjack reacted with a startling swiftness that belied his age and great size. He leaned back in his saddle and swung his Silver-toed boot upwards in an arc, knocking the pistol from Bob Ray’s hand. Jerking his leg back down, Silverjack’s boot heel landed square on top of the young gunman’s head, crushing the fancy black hat. The Concho headband popped like a firecracker, hurling dollar sized discs of silver through the air like angry bees. Bob Ray Woolens dropped like he’d been pole axed. Removing his sweat-soaked hat, Silverjack ran a massive hand through thick grey hair. The vertical scar on his face changed to a dull ashen color. He maneuvered the big roan mare into a position where her hindquarters were straddling the head of the unconscious bully. Leaning forward, Silverjack whispered in the mare’s ear while giving her a gentle nudge in the ribs with his boot heels. Bess emptied the entire contents of her bladder into the face of Bob Ray Woolens. The crowd scattered in all directions, yelling like they just glimpsed their own death. Disgust masked Silverjack’s face as he watched the people run. “When ‘Piss face’ wakes up,” he yelled, “you people tell him that if he tries to pistol whip anybody again, I’ll know it, I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. Tell him Silverjack McDonald said so.” Patting Bess on the neck, he said, “Come on old girl, let’s find another place to bed down for the night. This town ain’t for us.” The mare took off at a quick trot. Soon, Dry Creek, New Mexico was behind them, and they were back on the trail to Texas and home. As they disappeared out of town, one of the townspeople, a ragged oldtimer with a dirty white beard, swore under his breath. “I’ll just be damned. Silverjack McDonald his own self.” -3-

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“I heard that Texas hell raiser was long dead,” piped up his scruffy looking companion. “I reckon that ain’t exactly true,” said Dirty Whiskers. “Naw,” Scruffy said, “I reckon it ain’t.” **** Virgil Harp yawned and scratched between his legs. “This sure has been a long hot summer,” he said. “Yassuh, either that ‘ol sun is gettin’ hotter or all them years I’ve done lived is catchin’ up with me.” Virgil looked around, and realizing he was alone, snorted a chuckle. “Well,” he said, “it looks like I’ve started talkin’ to myself, too.” He stretched his stiff body and arose from his sleeping place. Most of the time he slept on the ground, but the previous evening’s rain had forced him to spend the night on the Scarlet Dragon’s front porch. The ex-buffalo soldier had lived most of his life outdoors, and he felt all crowded in when he stayed indoors for too long at a time. Virgil Harp was an outdoorsman, a man of the frontier, and damn proud of it. He yawned again and ambled to the well house to wash up. Virgil was in charge of the security force at the Scarlet Dragon brothel. He used two to six men, depending on the time of year. Prostitution was a seasonal business in the Texas panhandle. The steamy summer days were slow times. Because of this, only three men were working security this time of year. The two guards under Virgil were young, and he didn’t care for them too much. Virgil finished washing up and looked out across the prairie. The flat brown land reminded him of a pie baking in the scorching heat. Blistering waves of steam slithered from the wet ground in long slender tendrils curling upwards toward the sun. Virgil was thinking about the heat, when he caught site of a distant spec of movement on the horizon. Good Lord,” he said, “I sure hopes that ain’t no customers comin’ yonder. Everbody knows we is closed on Sundays. Oh, well, I guess I’d better put my old ragged boots on and straighten myself up a bit. Miss Mai Ling will tan my hide if I don’t look good for the customers.” Virgil grinned at the thought of his leather tough ebony skin being ‘tanned.’ -4-

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Mai Ling was the owner and Madam of the Scarlet Dragon brothel. Everyone called her the Dragon Lady, but not to her face. Mai Ling was a shrewd businesswoman and tough as bamboo. She ran a clean house with attractive girls. Cowboys and politicians, outlaws and miners, everyone was welcome at the Dragon as long as they obeyed the house rules. The approaching men were coming on like the devil himself was on their trail. Virgil tucked his shirt into his faded pants and squinted his eyes trying to make out how many riders were coming in. He counted twelve, thirteen, fourteen, no, just thirteen. Virgil thought about strapping on his six-gun but decided not to. It was the Sabbath, the one day he didn’t work, and the one day he didn’t like wearing his gun. Besides, his double-barreled ten-gauge shot gun was within reach if he needed it. “I hopes they’s people I know,” Virgil said to himself. “I don’t need no trouble today. I gots to go to town and see how my boy’s doin’ in jail.” The riders galloped their horses right up to where Virgil stood, slinging red mud in every direction, much of it landing on Virgil’s pants and boots. He looked down at the mess in disgust. Still, he managed to smile up at the men. A large swarthy-looking man on a black Arabian stallion wiped his dirtcaked face and spat out an evil looking wad of chewing tobacco. The dark brown mass flew to the ground, landing at Virgil Harp’s feet. “Hey, old man, go inside and get that damned Dragon Lady out here now,” said the man on the black stallion. Breath, rank with the smell of alcohol and tobacco, assailed Virgil’s nostrils. Virgil could read sign and he could read men. He didn’t like what he saw. “I’m sorry gentlemen,” he said, forcing out the words, “but Miss Mai Ling is not working today. This is Sunday and we are closed.” “Goddamn it, you old bastard, I said get the Dragon Lady right now before I blow your black ass to nigger hell.” Virgil Harp wasn’t a coward. He had lived his life like a man, and he would die like a man. His only regret was that he might die at the hands of scum like this. He glowered up at the thirteen riders, hate and contempt exploding from his eyes. He spat hard. The greenish chunk of mucus flew -5-

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straight and true, hitting its mark just below the leader’s right eye. Thru clinched teeth, Virgil said, “I told you no!” “Kill the son of a bitch!” yelled the leader. Twelve guns roared, shattering the silence of the still prairie. Virgil wished like hell he was a little bit closer to his shotgun as two dozen bullets tore thru his body, making it jump like a rag doll on a string. The deafening burst of gunfire startled Lupe Velasco, and she dropped the bowl of tortilla masa she was mixing. The crockery bowl hit the floor, bounced once and broke into a dozen pieces. Outside of Virgil Harp, the little Mexican cook was the only one not in bed when the men rode into the yard. As quickly as she was startled, Lupe regained her composure. She crept out the back, catching the screen door before it banged shut. Lupe peeked around the side of the building. She crammed her flour covered fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. “Madre de Dios,” she whispered. “If they see me, they will kill me, too.” Lupe’s mind raced out of control. “I must leave now,” she said. “Where is my little burro? Aiiee, I do not have time to look for him. I have to go from this place, pronto.” Lupe started for her home. Walking, slow at first, then faster, and when she felt far enough from the murderers to not be seen, she ran fast as her pounding heart and shaking legs could carry her away from that awful horror.

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Chapter Two “I just about forgot how big Texas really is,” Silverjack said to no one in particular. No one in particular was within twenty miles of the big Texan and his mare. Despite the solitude, or perhaps because of it, he continued to talk. “How long’s it been, Bess, five years, maybe more?” Six days had passed since Silverjack McDonald had ridden out of Dry Creek, New Mexico. He had crossed the border into Texas three days past. Texas was home and Jack had been away for a long time. He was anxious to see his brother Clay Thornton, Capt. Clay Thornton, of the Texas Rangers. Although they shared the same mother, but had different fathers, the two were as close as two full-blooded brothers could ever be. The old gunfighter was proud of his younger brother. At least one of mamma’s sons turned out to be respectable. Lord knows it ain’t because she didn’t try. Silverjack’s father, Big Tim McDonald, had been a hard rock miner. He was shot to death trying to stop a bank robbery in Silverton, Colorado. Big Tim had left his wife, Katy, six months pregnant and alone. Katy could not face living the hard mountain life without her husband. She had to find a more hospitable place to raise a child. She decided to go back home to east Texas and live with her sister, at least, until her baby was born. On March 1, 1849, Jack O’Roarke McDonald came into this world kicking and screaming. Katy considered him the spitting image of his father. She was soon to find out that young Jackie McDonald would become a bit too much like Big Tim. Silverjack was thinking about his mother and father when Bess gave a loud snort. He scanned the countryside trying to find what had spooked his horse. It turned out they were standing on a small rise overlooking Justiceburg, Texas. Silverjack nudged Bess into a slow walk down the gentle slope towards town and home. Her worn shoes made clicking sounds as she descended over the rocky terrain. “Boy is my brother gonna be surprised. Most everybody in these parts think I’m dead.” -7-

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As he rode in from the west, Silverjack noticed that the town had grown much bigger while he was gone. “Looks like a different place than when we were last here, don’t it Bess,” he said, “I reckon change is bound to happen, old girl, but that don’t mean I have to like it. You can’t stop progress; hell, you can’t even slow it down.” Silverjack let the big mare have her head, and they meandered thru town at a leisurely pace. “You know, Bess, this is a nice place,” he said, looking around. “Maybe we’ll just settle down here and grow old. What do you think, old girl, should we spend our last days here living off the fat of the land? Let’s go see if little brother will grubstake us until we can get on our feet.” He snapped his heels into the mare’s sides and they covered the short distance to the livery stable at a brisk lope. After making arrangements with Moss Newcombe, the livery man, for a big bag of oats and a brisk rubdown for Bess, Silverjack took off down the street toward the local Ranger station. The long legged Texan covered the distance to the low roofed adobe building in a dozen strides. He stepped up on the plank sidewalk and went inside. Right off, Silverjack noticed it was much cooler in the office than out on the street. “Yep,” he said, “I believe I could get used to this pretty doggone quick.” A young ranger at the desk gazed up with a bewildered look on his face. He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of a man who had been too long in the saddle. In the Texas Rangers less than three months, James R. Harper chafed at his desk job. He believed he belonged out with the other rangers chasing down bad men for the glory of Texas, not in this office gathering splinters, and having to suffer the indignities of dealing with the likes of this saddle tramp. As he eyed the unkempt stranger, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. An inner voice told him to be careful of this man. The intruder had all the trappings of a gunfighter, and judging from his rugged look and age, a good one. Ranger Harper was on edge and expecting a confrontation when the man spoke. “Excuse me, young man,” said Silverjack in a cheerful voice, “Is Captain Stubby in?” -8-

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“Huh!” said Ranger Harper. Leaning too far back, his desk chair shot out from under him and banged into a door marked “Captain.” The sound of the crash thundered inside the small building. Ranger Harper was trying to scramble to his feet when the “Captain” door burst open, and a short stocky red-headed man came charging out. “What in God’s name is going on out here?” said the man. “Oh, no,” said Ranger Harper. “Hey, Stub, guess what?” said Silverjack. “I ain’t dead.” “Umphurgh!” said Capt. Thornton, who looked like he was going into shock. “Sweet Jesus, Jack, you’re alive!” “Slow down there, Stubby,” said Silverjack, trying to disguise his pleasure at his brother’s discomfort. “Don’t die on me, little brother. I just got here and we got five years of catchin’ up to do.” Clay Thornton staggered around like a drunken man. His left hand found Harper’s desk, and he tried to steady himself. Harper grabbed the office chair and slid it up behind Capt. Thornton. He took the captain’s arm and guided him into the chair. “Jack, you son of a…” Captain Thornton stammered. “I mean, what in the…” For the moment, the Captain seemed unable to finish a sentence or a blasphemy. After what seemed like forever, Capt. Clay “Stubby” Thornton began to regain his composure. “Damn, it, Jack, you durn near scared me to death. We were told by reliable sources that you were killed three years ago outside of Tombstone.” “I think you’d better check out those sources of yours, Stubby. It looks to me like they ain’t all that reliable.” “What happened, Jack?” “Who knows, Clay? I was in the San Juan Mountains, up Colorado way, when I heard the news. I was doin’ some prize fightin’ up there and makin’ pretty good money. About half-way through workin’ the Gold camps, I learned Silverjack McDonald had been shot to death down in Tombstone in a fight over a woman. My head was shaved and I had cut off my moustache. Usin’ the name, Fightin’ Father O’Roarke, the Catholic heavyweight champion of the world, I was takin’ on all comers. Nobody knew who I really was, and I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything.” -9-

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“Jack, I don’t know what to say.” “Welcome home would work for me, Stubby.” “Welcome home, big brother, and don’t call me Stubby.” The two stood for a moment, and then stepped forward and hugged each other. “Harper,” said Capt. Thornton, “we’re going into my office. Don’t disturb us for any reason outside a full scale Indian attack.” “Sir, there are no hostile Indians around here.” “Exactly, Harper.” Captain Thornton led Silverjack through the door marked Captain into an office even smaller than the one they had just exited. The walls were unadorned and the furniture was only the barest of necessities. Clay Thornton was as plain and unassuming as Silverjack McDonald was loud and boisterous. He motioned for Silverjack to sit in the lone cane bottom chair setting in the middle of the room, while he stepped behind a massive oak desk and eased down into an ancient looking leather chair. “Cigar, Jack?” asked the Captain, holding out a box of expensive looking cigars. Big fat black cigars were Clay Thornton’s great weakness. A look of disgust covered Silverjack’s face. “Brother, I don’t stick nothin’ in my mouth that looks like it fell out of the back end of a dog. Cigars and dog turd’s smell about the same to me. Look here, Stubby, how about me and you gettin’ out of this office and rustlin’ us up a couple of the biggest beefsteaks in Justiceburg? Then, after chowin’ down, we could head out to the Scarlet Dragon for a big time. Man, I ain’t seen them girls in forever. Who all’s still out there, anyway?” Clay took a deep breath and let the air crawl back out of his lungs. “The Dragon’s not there, anymore, Jack.” He paused and stared at his cigar. “A week ago, Sunday, somebody burned it down.” Silverjack’s face lost all expression. “Oh, God, Clay, how did it happen?” “Nobody knows for sure. A couple of punchers from the Zbar8 rode out there Monday morning and discovered the tragedy. By the time we got out there, the Dragon was a pile of smoldering ashes. We found old Virgil Harp lying there on the ground, damn near shot to pieces. Some son-of-a-bitch had dropped a big rock on his face. The only way we recognized him was by the color of his skin and by all those battle scars he used to brag about.” - 10 -

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“What about the Dragon Lady and the rest of the girls?” “We found the remains of six bodies. All of them were burned up real bad. Hell, Jack, we couldn’t even tell if they were male or female.” Silverjack took off his hat and ran a gnarled hand through his hair. “What about Fat Alice or One Eared Jenny or Lulu Bangs?” He paused for a long moment. “Was Crystal still working at the Dragon?” “Yes, Jack, all of them were still there.” Silverjack had remained placid throughout the conversation. The only sign of the emotion that was churning inside him was the slow darkening of the dull gray scar that traversed the left side of his face. It had become deep crimson and angry-looking. “Oh, damn, damn,” Silverjack whispered, then in a louder voice. “Any idea who did it?” “So far, no one has come forward with anything. I sent as many rangers as I could spare to check with the few people who live in that area. It’s mostly poor Mexican goat herders out there. If any of them saw or heard anything, they’re not talking. After three days I had to call off the investigation. I couldn’t spare the men any longer. I don’t know if everyone was killed, or if some of them were taken captive. I’m not even sure how many people were working at the dragon. In these hot summer months, that sort of business slows down. I’m guessing a dozen or so ladies were there, and maybe a cook. The ladies did their own housekeeping in the summer. Mai Ling was real frugal that way.” The ranger captain seemed to drift away in thought. “Oh,” he said. “There was Sergeant Harp and two more guards.” Clay hesitated for a split second. “It’s odd with Virgil going down like he did, there was no sign of the other two.” Clay lit up the cigar he had been chewing on and took a deep puff. An enormous, near perfect smoke ring escaped from his rounded lips. He watched it expand and dissipate as it floated toward the ceiling. “I remember when Virgil last came to town for supplies, about three weeks ago, I reckon. Mai Ling had just hired the two new guards. Hiring the guards was usually Virgil’s job, and he told me he didn’t much like those two boys, but Mai Ling was the boss so he would do the best he could with them.” “Where’d the Dragon Lady find the new men?” - 11 -

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“Oh, let me see, Jack. Seems to me they drifted into town about a month ago looking for work. I believe it was old Moss Newcombe, down at the livery stable, who told them about the Scarlet Dragon.” “They have names?” “Now, wait a minute, Jack. Don’t go getting involved in this mess. It could only bring you trouble. You’re my brother, you know I love you, but I will enforce the law.” “Aw Clay,” said Silverjack smiling for the first time since his brother dropped the bad news on him. “It’s just my natural curiosity, that’s all.” “Dad gum it, Jack! Leave this to the Rangers. It may take a while, but we will get to the bottom of this thing. The guilty parties will be brought to justice.” “Yeah, I heard you Rangers always get your man, Clay.” “Stay out of it Jack; I mean it.” “Okay, Stubby, okay.” Silverjack seemed to be back to normal. “Let me, at least, buy you a drink. I been on the trail, seems like forever.” “I’d like that, but I have too much paperwork to catch up on. I stay tied down to this danged office way more than I want to be. But, it has to be done. You go on and have a drink. I’ll finish up here, and then we can have dinner and visit some.” “Okay, Stubby, your loss.” Jack stood and stretched his tired body. Weary bones creaked and complained. “Say,” he said. “Does old Half-Jack Perkins still run that saloon down the street?” “He still runs it.” “Good, pick me up there on your way to supper.” As Silverjack was leaving, Clay had one last thought. “Jack,” he said. “Have you ever heard of anybody around here who had a taste for donkey meat?” “Donkey meat!” Silverjack stopped in his tracks. “For some reason, there was a burro at the Scarlet Dragon. Somebody killed it, butchered it and cooked part of it using the burning building as their cook fire. It looked like they ate some of the unfortunate beast right there while the place was still on fire.” “Well,” said Silverjack, “that’s about the damnedest thing I’ve heard of, lately.” - 12 -

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Captain Thornton started to say something else but changed his mind. Silverjack’s brain was laboring as he stepped out of the cool office into the scorching afternoon heat. “Who eats donkey meat?” he said to himself. “There used to be a couple of ‘ol boys livin’ over close to the Dragon that loved the taste of donkey meat. I believe I’ll ride out tomorrow and see if I can find them. We need to have us a little chat.”

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Chapter Three Silverjack ambled down the sidewalk toward the Red Peg-Leg saloon. He looked around at the simple false fronted structures lining both sides of the street. Directly across from the Ranger’s office was the First National Bank of Justiceburg. Good place for a bank. Jack passed an apothecary, a barbershop and The Dinner Bell Café. There was Gruber’s General Store, a tiny millinery shop, and Wang’s Chinese Laundry. Across from the saloon was the Imperial Hotel. He needed a room and a bath, but first, he had to wash down his insides. When he reached the saloon, his gunfighter ways took hold. Jack stood to the side of the swinging doors and peered inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dark interior. Satisfied that he could see well enough, he stepped over the threshold. He stood just inside the doors for a brief moment and surveyed the room. The saloon was almost empty. Four men were playing cards at a front corner table. He didn’t recognize any of the players. A small Mexican man was down at the far end of the bar drinking a beer. A drunk lying on a table in the back snored softly. Jack spied the owner of the bar and strode over to him. When Silverjack reached the edge of the bar, Half-Jack Perkins was bent over tapping a fresh keg of beer. Jack slammed his massive hands down on the polished rosewood surface. “Hey cripple,” he said, “how about a drink for a whole man?” Half-Jack Perkins jerked his head up and found himself face to face with his antagonist. His right hand held an enormous bung hammer. He drew it back and swung the heavy wooden mallet straight for Silverjack’s head Realizing Half-Jack didn’t recognize him, Silverjack ducked just in time to avoid being brained by the bung hammer aimed at his head. “Half, it’s me, Silverjack. Watch what you’re doin’ with that danged club.” “Doggone it, Silver, I could’ve killed you.” Half said his eyes big as tendollar gold pieces. “Hey, you’re supposed to be dead already.” - 14 -

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“I was dead, Half, but things just didn’t work out. I said to hell with that and came back to life. So, here I am, livin’ proof.” “Livin’ proof of what, Silver?” “Well, old pardner, I ain’t exactly figured that part out, yet.” Grinning like a drunk monkey, Half-Jack reached under the bar, and groped around until he found a bottle of his best whiskey. He raised the bottle up and gently set it on the bar. Half-Jack Perkins had seen the elephant more than once. He lost his left eye in a barroom brawl when he was twenty years old. A year later, half his right ear was bitten off in a whorehouse fight. While setting a bear trap in the San Juan Mountains of Southern Colorado, carelessness cost him three fingers. His right leg was missing just below the knee, sheared off in a riverboat accident. In its place was a wooden peg-leg painted bright red. It was pretty obvious, even to a casual observer, how Half-Jack got his name. In spite of all the misfortune that had plagued him, he remained a genial easy going man. “So, where you been, old timer?” asked Half-Jack. “Old timer, hell,” said Silverjack, “I ain’t near as old as your half-ass.” The saloon owner almost choked on the shot of whiskey he had just thrown down his throat. “Silver, you surely do look like hammered buffalo chips, though.” “Yeah, well, at least I ain’t scattered all over the danged countryside.” “You are a cruel man, Silver hair.” “It’s just part of my charm, Half.” Both men laughed and began to give the bottle of whiskey their undivided attention. In the meantime, the card game had ended. Three of the players meandered out of the saloon. The fourth man walked up to the bar and ordered a beer. Half-Jack served him and went back to his whiskey drinking. “Half,” said Silverjack, “what do you know about the burnin’ of the Scarlet Dragon?” “All I know is that the Dragon Lady, old Virgil Harp, and them others out there were good people. Everybody’s got to make a livin’ doin’ somethin’. Those folks never hurt anybody. It’s a damn shame what - 15 -

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happened out there.” Half-Jack spit a slimy stream of tobacco juice straight at the cuspidor. The greasy wad landed dead center with a wet thunk. “What about the two guards she hired on a couple of weeks ago? You know anything about them?” “Not much, Silver. One was short, a little bit on the heavy side. The other one was medium height, skinny as a rail. They sure was an odd couple, alright. The skinny one always acted a little squirrelly. He had a big chip on his shoulder, always rattlin’ on about somethin’ or another. The fat one was real quiet. He about never spoke at all. I didn’t pay ‘em much attention. I didn’t like their looks, though. I think they called themselves Jones and Smith or somethin’ like that.” “Shuckert and Marfa.” Both men looked down the bar to see where the new voice had come from. It was the fourth card player. “Odie Shuckert and Cut Marfa are the names of those two men,” said the card player. “Excuse, me pardner,” said Silverjack, “but, uh, how’d you come to know them two boys names?” “I got out of Huntsville State Prison six months ago. Odie Shuckert, the fat one was in there, too. He got out about a month before I did. I knew Cut Marfa’s old man. I shot his sorry ass to death years ago in Waco. He was sleeping in the hotel room next to mine and snoring like a damn steam engine. I knocked on the wall, but the drunken son of a bitch wouldn’t wake up. So, I put a couple of .44 slugs through the wall. He sure quit snorin’ then, alright.” The card player chuckled to himself. “Seems I’d blown his jaw clean off.” The hair on the back of Silverjack’s neck jumped up. This was a dangerous man; one to watch out for. “Come on down here, Wes, and I’ll introduce you two hard cases. This gray haired old man is Silverjack McDonald. Silver, this is the famous shootist, Mr. John Wesley Hardin.” The notorious killer extended his right hand. Silverjack reached out and shook it. Hardin’s grip was strong. His hand was slender with long bony fingers, and his flesh was like ice. Jack’s gunfighter senses hastened to evaluate the man. Wes Hardin’s reputation as the most proficient killer in - 16 -

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Texas seemed well deserved. His angular features, coupled with his average height and build, did not promote the image of a bad man. It was his eyes that gave him away. They were opaque, cold and carried death in them. As their hands parted, Half-Jack slid another beer over to Hardin. The gunman thanked him and gulped down half of the cold draft before setting the mug back on the bar. “I was born and raised in Texas, and I love her like a mother,” said Hardin. “But, I’ll be damned if I ever get used to this heat. Someday, when I cash in my chips, I’ll be going straight to hell, and I bet it ain’t even this hot down there.” He laughed, and chugged the rest of his beer. “How’d you end up in these parts, Hardin?” asked Silverjack. “I studied law in prison. I had planned to go to El Paso and hang up my shingle, but my wife died a month before I got out, and besides, I was in jail too long. I couldn’t stay cooped up in one place, so I decided to drift for awhile. I’ve been in Justiceburg for about a week. I came by this way heading for the Scarlet Dragon, until Half filled me in on what happened out there. Outrageous! A damned abominable shame it was.” Hardin motioned for another beer. “You can damn well bet those two young gun slicks are involved in this. I think the Scarlet Dragon was torched to cover something up. There’s a lot more to this than just burning down a whorehouse.” “I’ll find the bastards that did it,” said Silverjack, “and I will exact a heavy toll upon them. I have a couple of leads that I’m goin’ to check out in the mornin’.” “Mind if I ride along with you?” asked Hardin. “Suit yourself. We’ll ride at sunup.” Wes Hardin nodded his approval, and went back to drinking his beer. Other people had begun to come into the saloon, and Half-Jack moved to wait on them. Silverjack sipped his whiskey and drifted off into thought. The Mexican from the opposite end of the bar sidled up to him. “Perdon a me, Senor, may I speak with you?” asked the man. “Sure, hombre,” said Jack. “What can I do for you?” The little man moved a bit closer to Silverjack. The smell of beer and hot chilies escaped with his breath when he spoke. “I have some information for you about the fire at the Scarlet Dragon, Senor. It is for your ears only.” - 17 -

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Jack set his whiskey glass on the bar and looked over at Hardin, who was still drinking next to him. Hardin nodded and moved out of earshot. “My sister was the cook there. It was a very good job, and she liked it mucho.” Jack’s hopes fell. “I am sorry for your loss, Senor.” “No, no,” said the Mexican. “She did not die. She escaped and ran all the way home. In her great fear, she left her little burro behind.” “That explains the donkey.” Jack said. “Please, please go on. Can I buy you a beer, Senor?” “Gracias, pero no, I have drunk my limit.” His eyes revealed sadness, as if he regretted having to refuse the beer. “My sister has been too frightened to speak of this terrible thing. When the rangers came, asking questions about the fire, she ran and hid in the shed with the goats. She is much afraid. I do believe, Senor, it is possible she will talk with you.” “Why me?” “Oh, I am sorry Senor. I have not told you my name. I am Manuel Velasco. My brother has spoken often of El Pelo Silver, Silver hair.” “It’s true, some folks call me, El Pelo Silver, but I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone named Velasco.” “My brother has chosen to go by another name. He does not want to disgrace the family name. He is called Jesus Campo Santos.” “Lord, a mighty!” said Silverjack. “The Graveyard Kid is your brother? Is he around here now?” “Si, Señor, es mi hermano. He is not here, but a message has been sent to him in Sonora. I believe him to be on his way here now. Senor Jack, will you talk to my sister, por favor?” “Tomorrow morning I’ve got business to tend to, but in the early afternoon, I’ll ride out and talk to your sister.” “Muchas gracias, Señor, muchas gracias.” Manuel Velasco removed his sombrero and bowed to his knees. Putting his hat back on, the little Mexican goat herder hurried towards the door and was gone. Not having eaten since daybreak, Silverjack felt like he could eat a whole cow, hide, horns and all. He decided it was time to drag his brother away - 18 -

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from work and find some dinner. Saying goodbye to his companions, he started for the door. About to step outside, Jack had another thought. “One more thing, Half, does Virgil’s son know what happened?” “He knows alright, but he can’t do nothin’ about it. He’s been in the town jail for nearly three months. Him and Bodie Watts got into a big ‘ol brouhaha over One-eared Jenny out at the Dragon. Damned if his old daddy didn’t corral and hogtie both of them boys. He held ‘em at gunpoint ‘til the rangers got there. Clay had ‘em locked up for ninety days. Man was Virgil’s son mad. He was still hot when we got the news about the Dragon fire. It just about killed that boy. He near went crazy. I reckon his time ought to be just about up in there.” Jack hesitated a moment, and then nodding at Half, stepped outside. Random streaks of crimson, pink and orange spread across the cobalt blue sky in ever changing patterns as the sun began to sink beyond the far horizon. Silverjack McDonald was a simple man with simple pleasures. Watching the sun go down was one of his favorite things to do. He was enjoying the spectacle, when his stomach began to protest. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I got the point.” He would find his brother and go eat, but first, he had to make a detour to the Justiceburg city jail.

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Chapter Four When dawn broke the next morning, Silverjack and Wes Hardin were already on their way, heading northeast at an easy gallop. Jack was aboard Bess. Hardin sat astride a black gelding he called, The Beauty. “So, Jack,” said Hardin, “Who are we going to see?” “There are two brothers that live about twenty miles up this way. Those boys will eat just about anything, and they love donkey meat.” “How close to the Dragon do they stay? Six, maybe seven miles I reckon.” “Sounds close enough that they may have seen the fire.” “Yep,” said Silverjack, “that’s what I’m thinkin.” The sun was approaching its zenith when the two men rode up on a small hummock overlooking a ramshackle bunch of dilapidated buildings. A few scrawny chickens scratched in the hardscrabble dirt, while a skinny hog rooted around in a makeshift pen. The chickens scattered as the two riders rode down to the largest of the shacks. “Hello the house.” Jack hollered. There was no answer. He called out again with the same results. The scar on his face darkened. “Dadgum it, Rooster, I see your pie-face peekin’ thru the window. Get out here, now.” The door of the shack creaked open and a shirtless giant in filthy overalls inched through the opening. His small pig eyes squinted at the bright sunlight, as he tried to make out who the riders were. Silverjack spoke to the disoriented man like they were old friends. “Hey, Rooster, where have you been, lately? We’ve been missin’ you in town.” “In town?” said Rooster. “Yeah, ol’ pardner, all your pals sure enjoy the way you crow like a rooster. My friend here don’t believe you sound more like a rooster than a rooster itself.” “Oh, I reckon I can crow alright.” “Go on, Rooster, let fly with a big one. Show Wes what you’ve got. We sure would be obliged.” “I ain’t supposed to crow when Hank ain’t here. He don’t like it, none ‘a tall, no sir.” - 20 -

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“Look here, Rooster,” said Silverjack, “I’ve done bet two dollars with this man that you are the best crower in Texas. If you crow for us, I’ll give you one of the dollars.” “One whole dollar just to crow, mister, you’re gonna owe us one dollar a piece, yes sir.” Rooster raised his head and crowed like the only rooster in a coop full of young hens. When he finished, he had a big grin on his face. “Damn, Silver, if that’s not the best crowing I have ever heard.” Hardin guided The Beauty up next to Rooster. “I bet you crowed like that when you cooked that donkey the other day, didn’t you, Rooster?” “I don’t know nothin’ about no donkey,” said Rooster. “Where’s my whole dollar? Don’t you try to fool me with a danged ol’ two-bit piece, neither, ‘cause I can tell the difference.” Wes Hardin fished around in his vest pocket until he came up with a silver dollar. “I’ve got a silver dollar right here, Rooster. I’ll give it to you when you tell us about that donkey you killed and cooked.” “I didn’t kill no donkey. That donkey was already dead when we found it. We just cut it up a little bit and cooked some of it. That stuff sure tasted good. I like it better’n chicken.” As Rooster reached up for his money, a smaller version of him riding a worn out looking mule came riding hell for leather over the rise. The man was cussing a blue streak as he rode. Almost to the rundown buildings, he pulled a pistol out of his belt and pointed it at the two men with his brother. John Wesley Hardin palmed his .36 Navy and shot the man out of the saddle. “Damn, Hardin,” said Silverjack, “we came out here for some answers, not to kill anybody.” “He ain’t dead,” said Hardin. “I just shot him thru the collarbone.” Hank Strayhan struggled to get to his feet. He made it to one knee when his brother reached his side and helped him to stand. “Hank, that feller with my dollar just shot you.” Rooster’s eyes were bigger than the silver dollar he had won. “Dad blame it, you idjit, ain’t I a’ knowin’ that I been shot.” The wounded man yelled at Rooster. He grimaced in pain and held his left shoulder. - 21 -

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“I’ll shoot you again,” said Hardin, “if you don’t tell us what we want to know.” “Christ a’ mighty, what do you boys want with us?” “We want to know about the donkey you ate the other day,” said Jack. “We didn’t eat no….” Hank started to say. Hardin sent a fiery piece of lead between Hank’s legs, less than an inch below his balls. The older Strayhan brother turned the color of soured milk. Rooster whimpered and edged closer to his brother. “Roster told us you did. Now, you best tell us the truth, Hank, because I don’t know how long I can keep Wes Hardin, here, from blowin’ out your candle.” “A man’s got to eat, don’t he?” Hank said. “Yeah, we ate some of that donkey, but we didn’t kill it. We didn’t kill nobody. We didn’t start no fire, neither. It was them other fellers that did that. They killed that old nigger, too.” “What other men?” “Them boys that came ridin’ up that Sunday like their tails was on fire, that’s who.” Hank gritted his teeth against the pain and tried to stand as tall as he could. “Now, let me see, fellers, there was about a dozen men as best I recollect. Uh, huh, I believe that’s right, and they was all loaded for bear.” Hank scrubbed the toe of his boot around in the dirt. “Any more’n that, gents, and my mind gets a mite hazy. A big ol’ swig of some real good drinkin’ whiskey just might make me remember a little bit more.” His mouth opened in a toothless grin. “How about it fellers, either one of you bad men got any drinkin’ whiskey with you, today?” This time it was Silverjack who reacted. He jerked his .44 and blew off the little finger on Hank’s right hand. “Damn you, you miserable bastard!” Jack yelled. “I’m gonna kill you and your half-wit brother in about three seconds if you mess with me one more time.” Hank hopped around like a one-legged toad frog, and Rooster started to cry. When Hank slowed to a bounce, he started talking. “We was almost there when we heard the riders comin’. We didn’t have no idea who it was, so we hunkered down behind some brush and watched the goin’s on. They was thirteen of ‘em in all. That’s includin’ the two boys who was supposed to be helpin’ that darky guard the whorehouse.” - 22 -

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“Who else was with that bunch?” Silverjack asked. “I didn’t know any of the rest of ‘em, but I sure would remember the leader if I saw him again. He was a great big feller; not as big as Roster but almost. His face looked like he’d had the pox. His skin was sort of greenish brown and he had a big crooked nose.” Hank was loosing blood from two places and he was becoming woozy. He staggered a step and fell on his backside. He tried unsuccessfully to get back up. “That’s all I remember, I swear it. I don’t know nothin’ else. Please help me. I think I’m dyin’.” “A piece of mule shit like you ain’t gonna die from a couple of chunks of lead in your system,” said Jack, rubbing his beard with his right hand. “What happened to the Dragon Lady and the others?” “I don’t know,” said Hank still sitting on the ground. “That ugly feller was hollerin’ at the Dragon Lady about money or sump ‘n other. Right about then we snuck back into the brush and kept our heads covered until they was gone. When we did look up, that whorehouse was burnin’ like hell itself. Them that was inside had already burned up. There wasn’t nothin’ we could do.” Silverjack’s stomach churned, and he turned to his companion. “Let’s ride, Hardin, before I do somethin’ I might regret.” Wes Hardin laughed and holstered his pistol. They started to turn their horses to go when Rooster piped up. “I know where them fellers was goin,” he said. Rooster’s brother shot him a look that was pure evil. “Shut up, you damned idjit! You don’t know nothin’,” he said. Wes Hardin glared at Hank, and the wounded man averted his eyes toward the ground. Hardin looked at Rooster with what would pass as a sympathetic smile. “Where were they going Rooster?” he said. “I got to see my whole dollar afore I tell anybody anything,” he said, sticking out his massive paw. Hardin took his pistol and pointed it at Hank’s head. Hank looked up into the barrel of the six-gun and threw a pleading glance at his brother. - 23 -

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When Rooster saw the scared look on Hank’s face, he started to cry again. “Don’t hurt Hank, I’ll tell you what I know. I heard that ugly man talkin’ to somebody, real loud. He said, uh, let me see, he said, ‘we got to… we got to take some ‘a these whores up to, up to, oh, yeah, up to Dixie City.’ Then he said sumpin’ ‘bout…sumpin’ ‘bout, dang, I can’t remember what else that ugly man said, ‘ceptin he shore was mad.” Hardin turned his attention to the man on the ground. He didn’t have to speak. Hank filled in the missing details. “There’s a little town borderin’ the territories called Dixie City. A feller up there, who calls hisself the Colonel, is tryin’ to put together an army. I don’t know what for, but the word is he’s payin’ shootin’ wages for men who’ll join him. Me and blabbermouth was thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ up there, but we ain’t got no horses. If that ‘ol crow bait mule yonder could carry both of us, we’d done been gone.” Hank wiped his nose on the sleeve of his good arm. “We’s gonna be stuck in this shit hole forever.” “Where’s Dixie City?” asked Silverjack. “I know where it is,” said Hardin. “I was there once. It’s a damned snake’s den. Col. William A. Pickering, late of the War of the Secession, is the honcho up there. I don’t think he runs it, though. He just thinks he does. He’s got a handful of lieutenants who pretty much run the show. The Colonel believes he can bring back the Confederacy using a mercenary army made up of the dregs of society. He believes he’s right and that right will prevail.” “Whew!” Silverjack exclaimed. “He sounds like un hombre loco, to me.” “He’s crazy, alright, but he’s dangerous just the same. The ugly bastard with the green skin is called ‘The Butcher’. He’s one of the old man’s lieutenants. There’s bad blood between me and him.”

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Chapter Five “Well, Hardin, looks like we got us a startin’ place,” said Jack. “We best be ridin’ on if we want to talk to that cook lady.” Silverjack looked down at the Strayhan brothers; cold hard contempt masked his face. “If I ride back this way again, and you two are still here, I’ll build my own fire out of these rat hole buildings and I’ll have my own roast. It won’t be donkey meat, either.” “But, sir, where will we go?” pleaded Hank. “Go to hell!” Silverjack yelled and kicked Bess in the flanks. The great roan mare took off like a scalded hog. Wes Hardin was about to do the same when Rooster spoke up. “Say, mister, what about my whole dollar I earned?” Hardin rode up next to the retarded giant and stuck his pistol on the bridge of Rooster’s nose. He cocked the hammer back. “My whole dollar.” Rooster demanded without flinching. Hardin’s face broke into a smile, and he laughed. “By God, Rooster, you’ve got sand. You’re my kind of hombre.” He flipped a silver dollar into the air, and took off after Silverjack. Rooster Strayhan’s left hand shot out and caught the silver dollar on the fly. “Yes, sir,” he said, “and I got me a whole dollar, too.” Silverjack rode hard and fast, intending to put as much ground between him and the Strayhan brothers as possible before Wes Hardin caught up with him. He needed to get the stink of the whole situation out of his nostrils. Lord, I hope them ladies are still alive. Crystal’s got to be one of them. One way or another, I’m gonna find out. Crystal Amberson had come west to find a husband. She thought she had found one in a dashing young Texas Ranger named Jack McDonald. He was as wild the March wind and as unpredictable as a cyclone, but she knew in her heart she could tame him. She was wrong. He’d told her he loved her, but he had to roam. He lit out one day on the trail of the Baca gang and it was three years before she saw him again. He’d written her for a while, but eventually, the letters stopped coming. Even then, she had never stopped loving the young ranger. - 25 -

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Back east, Crystal had been a teacher, but work for an educated woman was hard to find in a town like Justiceburg. She was forced to take a job at the Scarlet Dragon brothel. The Dragon Lady needed a bookkeeper, having shot the last one, a man, for stealing from her. Crystal was honest and the Dragon Lady paid her a fair wage. Soon she became a full time manager and part time mother confessor to the women who plied their trade at the brothel. Thoughts of the past were coming hard and fast when Silverjack caught the sound of a rider approaching. He turned in his saddle in time to see the big black gelding of Wes Hardin come barreling over a small hill a quarter mile behind him. Jack reined in Bess and threw his left leg across the saddle horn. He half-smiled as Hardin pulled up beside him. “So, Mr. Shootist,” Silverjack said. “Did you leave them ‘ol boys breathin’?” “What?” said Hardin, surprised by the blunt question. “Uh, yeah, I did. I even gave the big one a silver dollar.” “What’d you do that for?” “Hell, he earned it.” “Yeah,” said Jack, “I reckon he did.” Looking pensive, Hardin changed the subject. He told Silverjack there was some unfinished business he had to take care of and would be back in a couple of days. Jack nodded and took off towards Manuel Velasco’s place. As he rode, a slate blue cloud blew in from the west. There would be rain before morning. It turned out, the frightened young woman was happy to share her nightmare with someone who might be able to do something about it. Lupe told Silverjack everything she knew. The time was doubly well spent for Jack. Manuel asked him to stay for supper and Jack was not the kind of man to turn down a home cooked meal. The beans, chili peppers, fresh goat cheese, and corn tortillas filled Jack up just fine. After the meal, Jack waited what he hoped was a respectable amount of time, thanked his hosts, and stepped aboard Bess for the long ride back to Justiceburg. He was anxious to share what he’d learned with Clay. Maybe now the ranger captain would let him ride with them, if not, he would take care of business himself, in his own way. A plan was beginning to form in - 26 -

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Silverjack’s mind when he felt the first chill wind blowing in against his neck. The blue cloud was now black as the devil’s heart and covered the western horizon. Jack shivered and pulled his collar up around his ears. He nudged Bess into a fast lope, hoping that, with a little luck, he could beat the storm to town. He didn’t. As Silverjack galloped towards Justiceburg, the bottom fell out of the sky. At first, Bess ran at a steady pace, but when the whole countryside turned into a quagmire, Jack was forced to slow the roan mare to a walk. The road became a sloppy mess as Bess slipped and stumbled her way along. Jack dismounted and walked the final mile into town. Despite being worn out, he still managed to get Bess into the livery and gave her a quick rubdown with a few handfuls of straw. Satisfied she would be alright, he headed back out into the rain. Moments later, it was a tired, wet old Texan who trudged up the stairs to his hotel room. Silverjack dropped his saddlebags inside the door and began to undress. He hung his gun belt on the head of the bedstead within easy reach of his hands. After removing his boots, Jack slowly peeled his leather clothing off and dropped each article it into a wet pile on the floor. Each successive garment caused more pressure on the sopping pile until fat rivulets of water began to trickle across the floor and gather at Jack’s feet. Oblivious to the brown puddle, he dropped back onto the bed and tried to sort out the day’s information. All he came up with was what a fine meal he had eaten tonight, or was that yesterday, or the day before. He closed his eyes to combat the confusion. Silverjack’s ancient hat squished forward as he laid his head on the pillow. Water gushed from the rain soaked hat and cascaded down Jack’s face. His tongue flicked at a tiny river pouring over the corner of his mouth. That was the last discernable movement in that bed for the next ten hours. Who the hell is using dynamite this early in the morning? And why, every time it explodes, does somebody yell out my damned name? The explosions lifted Jack out of his stupor, and he realized the noise was coming from outside his door. - 27 -

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“Jack, wake up!” Boomed a voice. “Jack, Jack, I know you’re in there. Wake up, boy!” The pounding and hollering continued until Silverjack couldn’t stand it anymore. He rolled out of bed, took one step and tumbled, head first, over the stinking pile of leather clothes lying in the mud puddle where he had dropped them the night before. “God a’ mighty,” Jack mumbled as he struggled back to his feet. The voice at the door continued to trumpet in his ears. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Hold on a minute, dadgum it. A man can’t get no rest with all that caterwaulin’ goin’ on. Who is it?” “Lord, Jack, it’s me, Clay. Open this dang door.” Jack jerked the door open and Clay Thornton stomped into the room. “Jack, correct me if I’m wrong. Did I tell you to leave the Scarlet Dragon thing alone?” Silverjack thought the bright red hue covering his brother’s round face looked pretty good on him. He tried to think of a quick lie but nothing popped into his mind, so he did the next best thing, he told the truth. “Stubby, I was just asking a few questions. What was the harm in that?” “Jack, Hank Strayhan is over at Doc Millers office, right now. Somebody hit him on the fly with a .44 caliber bullet. Then the gunman shot off one of his fingers. I know of no one around here that could have or would have shot that man but you.” “Little brother, I was there, but I didn’t shoot that idiot in the shoulder, even though he deserved it.” “If you didn’t shoot him, who did?” “John Wesley Hardin shot him, and, no, he didn’t escape jail. He served his time and got out a while ago.” “Hardin is here?” Clay’s voice dropped to a whisper, like he was concerned someone would overhear the question. “He was here, but he ain’t now. He said he had some business to take care of, and we split up just before that gully washer hit last night. Damn, Stubby, I near drowned in that deluge. Before it was over, I commenced to lookin’ for an ark full of animals.”

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“At least, that explains the mess in this room.” Clay squinched up his face. As he looked around, he waved his hand in front of his nose. “What is that God awful smell?” “Well, excuse the hell out of me,” said Jack. “The maid plumb forgot to change my dirty clothes for some clean lilac smellin’ ones.” Clay changed the subject. “Why did you go out to the Strayhan place, anyway? Those boys aren’t my favorite people, but they’re not killers.” “Donkey meat, Clay, donkey meat,” Jack said with a mysterious look on his face. “Donkey meat!” “That’s what I said, little brother, donkey meat.” Silverjack made a deal with his brother to meet him in an hour at the Red Peg Leg. As Clay walked out the door, Jack yelled down to the desk clerk to bring up a tub, some soap and lots of hot water. Jack took a leisurely soak and then scrubbed the trail off him at a brisk pace. When he finished, he dressed in tan buckskin pants, and a red flannel shirt. Since his boots were still soaking wet, he pulled a pair of moccasins out of his war bag and slipped them on his feet. He brushed back his hair and decided to wear it Indian-style. Silverjack left the hotel and strode down the plank sidewalk at a brisk pace. He felt good. He felt free. He hoped Clay would go along with his plan to find the survivors of the Dragon fire. If Clay wouldn’t help him, he had another plan in mind. One thing was for sure. He would go it alone, if need be. Jack dropped off his nasty clothes at the Chinese laundry, and then he headed for the saloon. When he entered the Red Peg Leg, he saw Clay seated at a table in the back. Passing through the saloon, he scrutinized the faces of the half-dozen men who were spending their midday inside out of the heat. For a flickering moment his eyes rested on a man drinking at the bar. Built like an enormous barrel, the giant towered over Jack’s 6ft. 3in. frame. The fellow had long flowing wheat colored hair with a bushy beard to match. Jack knew the man but couldn’t place him. The man mountain was having a spirited discussion with Half-Jack. He glanced over at Silverjack as he went by, but gave no sign of recognition. - 29 -

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He would, eventually, remember the man, but right now Jack had more important business on his mind. He reached his brother’s table, said hello and slid into a chair with his back to the wall. “Stubby, you ever see that big fella over at the bar before?” Jack couldn’t get the man off of his mind. “No I haven’t.” Clay said, frowning. “Your hour was up forty-five minutes ago. What took you so long?” “I had to take a bath, remember? It was your idea.” “Okay, Jack, can we get on with your report, now?” “Sure Stubby, but I ain’t a ranger, and this ain’t no report. I’ll just tell you what I found out.”

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Chapter Six “That’s about it, Stubby,” Silverjack said leaning back in his chair. “We’ve got go get those sorry hombres.” Clay Thornton rubbed the back of his neck. “Jack, like I said, you know I appreciate what you did, but you have to leave it to me and the rangers. It’s our problem.” “I want to talk to you about that, Clay. I want back in the rangers. I’m gonna be smack dab in the middle of this thing either way, and you dang well know it. I just think it would look better if I wore a badge.” “Jack,” said Clay shaking his head, “there’s no way they’ll let you back in the rangers.” “Look here, Clay, I know the rangers are short of men right now. That stuff over Tascosa way, and the problems you boys are havin’ down around Round Rock with the Ketchum gang have got the rangers spread mighty thin. Fact is, brother, you need me and a few other men I think I can scare up to help you boys out. You can make us rangers and everything will be all legal like.” “My God, Jack!” Clay’s face blossomed red. “First it was you. Now it’s some of the cutthroats you’ve ridden with. What are you trying to do? Ruin the rangers once and for all.” “No, Clay, “Silverjack’s voice dropped an octave. “I just want to catch the men who killed those ladies and tore up Virgil Harp.” Clay Thornton let out a long slow breath. “Jack, I feel the same way you do, but if what you say is true, Dixie City is out of the rangers’ jurisdiction. I’m not going to swear in a bunch of hard cases so you can ride into the Territories for revenge.” “Aw, come on, Stubby. Those ladies that got burnt up might have been whores but they were human bein’s. Don’t nobody deserve to die like that. And, Virgil, Godamighty, Clay, you rode with him. He was a helluva man. All I’m askin’ you to do is think about it. Will you?” Clay sighed. “Okay, I’ll think about it, Jack, but don’t expect any miracles.” “Hot damn!” Hollered Silverjack jumping out of his chair. “Gotta go, I’ve got things to do. Be seein’ ya little brother.” - 31 -

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“Jack, I said I would think about it. Dadgum you, you old hell raiser. You’re going to be the death of me yet.” Clay fumbled through his pockets until he came up with a half-smoked cigar. He jammed it into his mouth and struck a lucifer. Silverjack was trotting toward the door when, all of a sudden, he gave a jerk of recognition and cursed under his breath. “Damn me! I know where I’ve seen that straw-bearded mountain before.” He walked up to the bar and settled in next to the big man. “What’s for you, Jack?” asked Half as he wiped down the bar with a reasonably clean rag. “Gimme a beer and a shot,” said Silverjack trying to act nonchalant. “Say, amigo,” Half said setting Jack’s order on the bar, “this here is Aloysius Haybinder. He rolled into town this mornin’ on a freight wagon from Silverton, Colorado. He was tellin’ me the doggonedest story about a man up there in the minin’ camps who was goin’ from place to place fightin’ people for money. Mr. Haybinder fought that feller; said the man dressed like a priest, but he weren’t no sky pilot.” Silverjack hunched over his beer like he was praying. “That’s right,” he mumbled. “Mr. Haybinder,” said Half grinning, “what did you say that feller’s name was?” The man mountain’s voice boomed like it echoed from the bottom of a rock lined well. “Why, I believe he called himself Fightin’ Father Tim O’Roarke. Uh, huh, that’s it. Said he was the Catholic Heavyweight Champion of the World. Truth be told, I think he was bein’ a little less than honest.” Silverjack winced at the fake name and false title he had used to make money off the miners some time back. Listening to Al Haybinder, he sensed a gentleness in the way the giant spoke; not really the type to carry a grudge. Jack sure as hell hoped so. “I’ll tell you another thing about that priest feller,” said Haybinder. “That man could fight, and I reckon I know a little bit about fisticuffs. You can’t tell it by lookin’ at me now but I used to be Heavyweight Champion of New York City. “Course I was a lot younger then.” Haybinder ordered a beer and continued. - 32 -

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“Now, I ain’t braggin’, or maybe I am, anyway, I once had the pleasure of fightin’ Mr. John L. Sullivan, himself. He wasn’t world champ yet. That was a few years away, but even back then he could knock down a full grown mule. Now that I think about it, ol’ John L. was probably, the only man who ever hit me harder than that O’Roarke feller did. The biggest difference is Mr. Sullivan beat me, knocked me out, but I whipped that Fightin’ Father.” Silverjack pulled his had down lower and nodded his head. While, Half Jack, grinning like a possum, urged the ex-boxer to continue. He drew another for the giant. Haybinder was feeling little pain and he was getting into his story now. “Fellers, I’d hit that O’Roarke with everything I had and he’d drop like a ten pound sack of gold nuggets. But before I could get a short breather, that sonof-a-gun would be back up and swinging for all he was worth. If I hadn’t have had a whole bunch of professional fights, I’m not sure I could’ve beaten Father O’Roarke.” Haybinder scratched his scruffy yellow beard. “No, sir, maybe not,” he mused. “You know what, Jack?” Half Jack was speaking now. “Mr. Haybinder told me that there Fightin’ Father had the dangdest scar on his face; said it looked like an old knife wound. I sure wonder how a priest would get all cut up like that. Sure is strange, ain’t it Jack.” Silverjack stood silent. “Mr. Haybinder, let me introduce you to my good friend, Silverjack McDonald.” “Please to make your acquaintance, Mr. McDonald.” The former bareknuckles champion stuck out a ham-sized paw. “Uh, yeah, likewise,” said Silverjack raising his head until he was staring up into Haybinder’s face. He tried to smile, but his face looked like he had bitten into a sour lemon. His expression was nothing compared to the look on Aloysius Haybinder’s face when their eyes met. “Say, you look a lot like….son-of-a-bitch!” “Howdy Haybinder,” croaked Silverjack. “What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here?” Haybinder looked like he had seen a ghost. - 33 -

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“Uh, let me buy you a drink, champ,” said Silverjack regaining his composure. “Yes, sir, Half, this big ol’ hombre near beat me to death up in Creede. We did have us a time, though, didn’t we Aloysius?” The ex-pug looked half stunned. He didn’t speak for a moment, then, hesitantly, he said,” My friends call me Haystacks.” “Well I sure want to be your friend,” declared Silverjack. “Let’s drink these two beers Half brought us and talk about old times. What do ya say?” “First, you’d better explain that Father O’Roarke thing, and you’d best not leave anything out.” So, that’s what Silverjack did. With his Irish gift of blarney, he had Haystacks Haybinder roaring with laughter in two shakes of a shamrock. The two old warhorses shared yarns for over an hour. When they finished they had become friends. After a while talk got around to the Scarlet Dragon tragedy. Silverjack considered himself a good judge of character, and he felt he could trust this man. When he explained his intentions, Haybinder offered to help. The two men moved from the bar to the table previously occupied by Silverjack and his brother. Clay had long since left for his office. After elaborating his plan to Haybinder, Jack made the decision on which men he would try to contact. Al Haybinder had even heard of one of them, Ike Calcott. Calcott was a part-time outlaw, part-time bounty hunter and a fulltime wild man. Silverjack and he weren’t friends, but to pull off his plan, Calcott was the kind of man Jack needed. Silverjack decided to send telegrams to the last known places where some of the men he needed were located. Others lived within riding distance of Justiceburg. He planned to ride out to find these men himself. Haystacks was to wait in town and check with the telegraph office for answers to Silverjack’s requests for help. Silverjack left the saloon, went to the telegraph office and sent the wires. Then he made a quick stop at his hotel room where he packed his war bag for a short trip. With a minimum of sleep he figured to keep going and be back in Justiceburg in three days. Hauling his gear, he headed to the livery stable and saddled Bess.

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By the time Silverjack rode out of town, the sun was a glowing orange ball, overlapped by long thin wisps of snow white clouds. Riding northward in the direction of the Scarlet Dragon, Silverjack let his mind wander. “Dammitall!” he said, “It just ain’t right to burn down a whorehouse. It was a four-hour ride to Silverjack’s first destination, a wide spot in the road called Cottonwood, Texas. Al Haybinder told Jack he had recently seen Ike Calcott dealing Faro there. Calcott was wild as a panther and meaner than a wolverine. Folks called him ‘Crazy Ike’, but not to his face. Jack pulled up in front of the town’s only saloon, a narrow unpainted building that looked like a stiff wind would turn it into kindling. After looking it over, he stepped inside. A battered old upright piano sat in a far corner. Two bored-looking saloon girls worked the small crowd with little success. Calcott sat behind a faro table over by a side door. Jack sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer and a shot. He watched the faro game as he drank his beer. Ike Calcott looked all dandified in a red shirt with green garters holding up the sleeves. A purple string tie circled his neck, cinched up with a rattlesnake’s rattle clasp. On the back of his right hand was a crude tattoo of the Ace of Spades. The Ace of Hearts decorated his left hand. The only visible hair on Ike’s head was a neatly trimmed black mustache. Silverjack edged over to the table and stood next to the dealer. “Howdy, Ike,” he said. “Hello, Jack. I seen you when you walked into the place. I thought you was dead.” “Naw, Ike, I was just playin’ possum for a while, that’s all.” “Anybody got a poster out on you?” Ike asked. “No, sir, I’m clean as a whistle.” Ike stopped dealing cards, and looked up at Jack with opaque blue eyes. “Boys, this game is over,” he said, as he raked in the faro cards and what money was on the table. “I got bigger business to tend to. I’ll see you rannies in hell. Now, get away from me and my friend.” A big rangy cowpoke, who was next in line to play, started to protest, but his friends pulled him away to the bar. “Rest your load, Jack,” said Ike, pointing to a nearby chair. - 35 -

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Silverjack grabbed the chair, spun it around and sat down straddling it backwards. Before he could tell his story, Ike beat him to the punch. “Jack, I know what happened, and I know why you’re here.” “How do you know that?” “In my business, Jack, a man’s got to keep an eye out for them rangers, so they don’t spoil any of my parties. I pay good money to keep myself informed. Hell, old son, I knew you were comin’ before you did.” “I reckon that means you’re still collectin’ bounties.” “I do when it’s worth my while. I’m sort of semi-retired now, and I don’t go after nothin’ but a sure thing. Six-months ago I took down old Abe Packer. Got me five thousand dollars for that one.” Jack sighed and took a mental note to scratch Packer off of his list. “After that, I decided to settle in here and wait for somethin’ big to turn up. Patience has brought me that opportunity in the person of my old saddle pal. I appreciate you thinkin’ of me in your time of need, Jack.” “Then you’ll ride with me?” Jack asked. “On my terms, I will. This is the deal. I get all the bounty money that’s on the heads of anybody I kill, and I get first chance at that son-of-a-bitch Butcher Blake. Them’s my terms, Jack Take ‘em or leave ‘em.” Silverjack didn’t hesitate. “That’ll work, Ike, but I tell you now; I’m in charge. You will take orders from me. And I don’t want no freelancin’ goin’ on, understood?” “Understood,” said Ike. He told Jack he would meet him in Justiceburg in three days. They agreed and Silverjack took off out the door. As he swung aboard Bess, he heard Calcott yell that the faro table was open for business. Silverjack rode westward out of Cottonwood, across a rickety bridge over the trickling stream that fed the trees that gave the hamlet its name. In a few minutes he turned south. Two hours down the road, Jack spied a likely camping place and settled in for the night. After coffee and hardtack the next morning, he was back on the trail heading due south. An unseasonably cool breeze shuffled in from the west. Silverjack removed his hat and stuffed it into his saddlebags. The breeze blowing through his long hair relaxed him. He rode along that way for a couple of hours, at peace with the world. - 36 -

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Chapter Seven After awhile he reached a towering limestone bluff that stood out as far as the eye could see. Riding a little more than a mile along the pockmarked wall, Jack began to search for something. Within minutes, he found what he was looking for, a narrow slit in the rock face, invisible to the untrained eye. Jack dismounted, and leading Bess by the reins, disappeared through the opening. The narrow passage widened after a few yards. He climbed back aboard Bess and rode the rest of the way through the stone labyrinth. After a quarter mile the limestone gave way to a canyon about three-quarters of a mile wide. Surrounded on three sides by the remnants of an ancient limestone reef, the valley stretched for more than a mile ending in a series of small hills covered with an impenetrable growth of scrub oak and thorny mesquite trees. Large blackjack trees and small cedars dotted the emerald landscape. Almost directly in the middle of the oasis, stood a small cabin. An artesian spring bubbled noisily behind the log building. A long time before, a friend of Jacks had built the cabin for his bride to be. The man had been a notorious gun for hire, known for his speed and the quickness with which he made his kills. Then he’d met a woman and almost overnight, his whole life changed. They had planned to get married. On the night before the wedding, an old enemy appeared demanding that the former gunfighter meet him outside of town and settle their differences. His fiancée did her best to talk him out of the foolish fight, but to him it was a matter of honor. He had no choice. The way of the gun had been his life for too long. He gave her his word this would be the last time he ever strapped on a gun to face another man. She gave him an ultimatum. If he went through with the insane gunfight, she would not, could not marry such a childish man. She told him if he went out to face his old enemy, she would not be in town when he returned. He kissed her and said he would return in a little while, and then they could talk about it. He rode to the rendezvous, made quick work of his foe and hurried back to his bride to be. She had been good for her word and left town right after he did. He never saw her again.

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After a while he came to believe she had been right. His foolish sense of false pride had forced them apart. He moved to the little cabin and began to live the life of a hermit, swearing to never use his gun again. Silverjack could see no sign of life as he rode up to the place. He hadn’t been there in over two years and wasn’t sure the man was still there. “Anybody to home?” He hollered. A gunshot rang out. The bullet screamed over Jack’s head as he threw himself backwards out of the saddle. He hit the ground hard on his belly and knocked his breath out. Bess spooked from the sudden sound of rifle fire and ran. She stopped a few yards away and stood still staring at Jack. Unsure of his next move, Jack lay stone still. He was having a hard time breathing, but he was alive, and he intended to stay that way. While he was cogitating what to do next, a voice called out from the cabin. “Don’t go trying to play possum on me, pilgrim. I know you aren’t dead.” “Naw, I ain’t dead, I ain’t a possum, and I sure as hell ain’t no pilgrim.” “A man rides up to a strange house and starts hollering is either a pilgrim or a fool. Which one are you?” “I thought I was an old friend, but now, I ain’t so sure. “I don’t have any old friends that look like you.” “Alright, Conn, dadgum it, if you’ll let me up, I’ll hightail it right out of here, and you’ll never see me again.” “You seem to know who I am. Who are you?” I’m Jack McDonald, Conn. What the hell has got into you?” “Silverjack is that you?” “Shit, yes, it’s me. Are you deaf as well as blind, too?” The door to the cabin swung open and a tall gaunt man emerged. He ran out to where Jack was still hugging dirt. The man reached down and helped Silverjack to his feet. “Lord, Jack, I’m real sorry about this. I thought it looked a lot like you, but I heard you were killed down in Tombstone. I guess I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.” Jack rolled his eyes when it came to the part about his demise. “Hell,” he said, “I would almost be better off dead. It’s safer.” While Jack dusted himself off, Conn Havens apologized again. As the two old friends walked back to the cabin, Jack looked at this man who had - 38 -

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been one of the most feared gunfighters in Texas. Conn Havens name was mentioned in the same breath as John Wesley Hardin’s. Since his disappearance into his hidden valley so many years ago his name and reputation had faded. While Conn put on a pot of coffee, Jack scoped out the inside of the cabin. It was clean enough, as far as bachelor’s quarters went, but there were no curtains on the windows, no pictures, no decorations of any kind. A bed, a table with two chairs, and a stove were the only visible furnishings. Conn might stay here, but this ain’t no home. Coffee ready, the two men sat down across from each other at the table. “Conn, this ain’t a social call,” said Jack, blowing on the hot coffee. “Time is short, so I’ll get right to the nut cuttin’. I got me a Texas size problem and I need your help.” Jack told Conn about the fire, the murders, and the kidnapping in as few words as possible. He shared his plans on how to stop the Dixie City bunch. When he finished his spiel, Jack feared he had wasted his time. Conn got up and refilled the coffee cups. He handed Jack one cup, and walked across the room. He stopped by a window and stared out, not speaking for a long time. When he did speak, his voice sounded weary and far off like his body was present but his mind was back in the past. “Jack, you know I made a vow never to use my pistol against another man, ever again. In all these years since, I never once considered breaking that vow.” He turned and walked back toward the table. “God knows I’ve had a lot of time to think this thing out, and I’ve come to a conclusion. At the time I made the vow, it was important to me. It still is. But, I have wallowed in selfpity long enough. It’s time Conn Havens returned from the missing. Jack, when do we leave?” “Hot damn!” Jack hollered. After leaving Conn Haven’s cabin, Jack headed east. He had a good three hour ride to his next stop. He was going after the Tucker brothers. Will Tucker had been fifteen years old, his brother Obie, twelve, when their father, a Texas Ranger, was killed while working a case in Tascosa. Ranger Tucker had been a mentor to Silverjack, and Jack swore to help take care of the two boys until they were old enough to fend for themselves. - 39 -

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Over the years, Jack had kept in touch Will and Obie. Smallish as a boy, Will never did grow all that much. Still at six inches over five foot and 150 lbs, he was leather tough and rattlesnake quick. He was the brains of the two. Obie was the brawn at six feet and two hundred and twenty-five pounds of powerhouse. The last Jack had heard they had settled in Good Luck, Texas. Silverjack took his time getting to Good Luck. His thoughts were on the chore that lay ahead. He had been fortunate in lining up two good men so quickly. He hoped that was a sign of things to come. It was going to take a strong battle tested bunch to do what he had in mind. As he rode through Good Luck, Jack looked around for the sheriff’s office. Any sheriff worth his salt would know everybody in his jurisdiction and where they lived. An old plank building with sheriff painted on it in faded black letters caught Jack’s eye. He dismounted, tied Bess and walked inside. A big man sat, with his back to Silverjack, hunched over a decrepit old desk. The man’s head was buried in a dog-eared dime novel he was reading and, apparently, he didn’t hear Jack come in. “Excuse me,” said Jack, “I’m looking for a couple of ‘ol boys who used to live around these parts named Tucker. Do you know if they’re still here?” At the mention of the Tucker brothers, the man’s back stiffened. “What do want them boys for?” “Why, me and them fellers have been friends ever since they was young ‘uns. I need their help, and I sure would appreciate it if you would point me in the general direction of where they might be.” “Well, friend,” said the man, swiveling his chair to face Jack. “I reckon this is your lucky day. I’m Obie Tucker.” It took Obie a few seconds to recognize Silverjack. When he did, he let out an ear-splitting war whoop. “Mr. Mac, we thought you were….” “Naw,” said Jack, looking annoyed, “I ain’t dead, I ain’t no ghost, and I ain’t gonna talk about it no more.” Obie Tucker grabbed Jack in a bear hug and started dancing around the room with him. “Hold it there, son, I’ve grown fragile in my old age. Put me down you big buffalo. Obie, Obie,” Jack pleaded. “That’s enough. Put me down.” - 40 -

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The powerful young man eased him down. Jack shook his head a couple of times to clear it. After he did, he wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse. “Obie, I’ve got some trouble to take care of, and I need you and Will to help me. Can I count on y’all, like always?” “No, sir, you can’t.” Obie lowered his head and stared at the floor. The words caught Jack flatfooted. These boys were like sons to him. “I’m sorry, Obie, but I don’t think I heard you right.” “No, sir, Mr. Mac, you didn’t hear wrong. It’s just that right now I have a job to do and I can’t leave it half-done. I’ve got a prisoner to guard in the back and I can’t leave him alone. I’m awful sorry to let you down, Mr. Mac.” “What about Will, can he help me, or is he guardin’ a prisoner, too?” “Mr. Mac,” said Obie, “I see your scar gettin’ redder, and I swear to you, we would go if we could.” Jack took a deep breath. He knew Obie Tucker and he knew the young man would do anything for him if he were able. He fingered his mustache and smiled at the big ox. “So Obie, I see what you’re doin’ these days. What’s your big brother up to?” Obie answered in a whisper. “He’s the prisoner I’ve got to watch, Mr. Mac.”

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Chapter Eight “What!” Jack said. “How in the world did this happen? “Dang it, sir, it’s a big ‘ol mess. I’ll let you go back and talk to Will. He can tell you better than me.” Obie unlocked the heavy oak door separating the office from the jail’s three tiny cells. Stepping into the back, he hollered at the jail’s only occupant. “Will, you’ve got some company out here.” “I already told you, Bubba. I ain’t gonna see nobody,” Will Tucker yelled back. “Tell them to go the hell away. I don’t give a damn who it is.” “Well, I’m just about heartbroken,” said Jack. “I come back from the grave to try and cheer up the accused, and this is how he treats me.” “Oh Lord, Jack, is that you? Come on back, please, come on back.” Jack and Obie walked back to Will’s cell. Will stuck his hand through the bars and pump handled Jack’s hand. “What happened, Will? I didn’t raise you boys to be jailbirds.” “Aw, Jack, I’ve been framed; they say I molested the banker’s daughter.” “Why, I don’t believe that at all,” said Jack. “It’s the truth,” said Obie. “Is not,” yelled Will. “I never touched that girl.” “I don’t mean you did, Will. I just mean they said you did.” “Same ‘ol Tucker brothers,” Jack said. “Obie, let Will tell his story.” “Jack, me and Minnie Calhoun had eyes for each other. Her old banker daddy forbade me to see her, but we kept meeting’ on the sly. Her old man found out, and all hell broke loose. He had me arrested, and sent Minnie back east.” Jack took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “Son, it looks like you fell in the well this time.” “That banker wants to hang me! He says I violated that girl. Minnie was a lady and I respected her. I swear it on my daddy’s grave. Jack, you’ve got to help me.” “How long ‘til the trial, Obie?” “Three weeks Mr. Mac, maybe more. The circuit judge will be in town sometime around then.” - 42 -

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“God damn a bear!” Jack said. “Boys, I understand your problem, but I can’t help you right now. I’m puttin’ together some men to ride into the territories and clean out a town full of snakes. But, Will, I give you my word. Soon as it’s done, I’ll bee line it straight back here and help you out of this foolishness.” Watching Silverjack ride away, Obie Tucker had a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t believe I ever heard of a town full of snakes before,” he said. “I wonder what kind they are.” Will looked at his younger brother and rolled his eyes. He fell back on his cot and covered his head with a pillow. As Jack rode toward his next destination, his mind wandered to the women he had known at the Dragon. One Eared Jenny, Debbie Blue Eyes, Fat Alice, and others. His thoughts turned to Crystal. A long ago spark had almost turned into a flame, but it had flickered and died. Or had it? Jack shook his head trying to toss the thoughts from his mind. “To hell with this,” he said, and dug his heels into Bess. The roan mare stepped out into a steady trot. With two more stops to make, Jack hoped for better luck down the trail. He rode all afternoon, alternately walking and trotting Bess. It was the middle of the afternoon when they reached the town of Haitsi, Texas. Haitsi is Comanche for friend. The town had been founded by the Comanche people in an effort to combine native cultures with white man’s laws. The experiment had been successful for the most part. Jack was after one of the town’s founding fathers. Halfway through the settlement Jack spotted a small wooden sign swaying in the breeze. He dismounted, tied Bess, and stepped up on the wooden sidewalk. A large plate glass window proclaimed in big gold letters, “L. J. Bear, Attorney at Law.” Jack shook his head and smiled as he opened the front door and stepped inside. The law office was striking in its absence of decoration. Tall wooden cabinets covered over half the wall space on the left side of the room. In front of the cabinets stood an enormous plain but solid-looking desk. On the right side of the office was a smaller version of the desk. An attractive young Indian woman sat at the smaller desk. - 43 -

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“May I help you, sir?” She said, in perfect English. Her smile lit up the whole room. “Yes, mam, I hope so.” Jack returned the smile. “I need to see Mr. Bear. It’s a matter of life or death.” “Life or death?” The young woman’s chestnut brown eyes opened wide. “Yes, mam, it’s urgent.” “Daddy, uh, Mr. Bear stepped out for a moment, sir. I’m sure he will be back, momentarily.” “Excuse me,” said Jack, “but did you call Bear, Daddy?” “Yes, sir, he is my father, but I’m not supposed to call him Daddy when we are at work.” “How old are you girl?” “I’ll be twenty-one in two months.” “What’s your name?” “Angelina, sir.” “Do you have a Comanche name?” The young woman’s copper skin reddened. “In the Comanche I am called Huutsuu Waipu, Hawk Wing.” “Well, howdy, Hawk Wing. My Comanche handle is Silver hair.” “Silver hair! My father has spoken of you many times. He says you are the bravest man he has ever known.” “The hell you say! You know ‘ol Bearkiller and me are blood brothers.” “Possibly, one of my bigger mistakes,” Boomed a voice from the front doorway. Jack and Hawk Wing had been in deep conversation and had failed to notice the man enter the building. He stood well over six feet tall, and though he was dressed in the latest eastern fashion, it was obvious he was no dude. His skin was the color of dark copper, and his straight black hair was close cropped. The man carried himself with the regal grace of a Comanche warrior, which he was. His mother had been a plantation slave in east Texas when a band of Comanche raiders captured her. Because of the fierce fight she put up, a Comanche brave named Horse Hunter took her to his lodge as his wife. Their first born child was called Lee John Bearkiller. - 44 -

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“Lord almighty, Bearkiller,” said Jack, “you look like one of them itinerant preachers that ride all over the place tryin’ to save souls.” “If that was the case, Silver hair, I would be wasting my time with you, wouldn’t I?” He smiled and extended a hand to Silverjack. “Aw,” said Jack, “you never can tell about somethin’ like that, Bear.” “Silver hair, I heard you were killed in Tombstone, in a gunfight. I knew it wasn’t true.” “It was a case of mistaken identity,” said Jack. “Hell, Bear, I ain’t even been sick.” Adulation filled Hawk Wing’s eyes, as she watched the reunion. She had never seen her father get so excited. Suddenly, she remembered Jack’s plea for help. “Daddy,” she said, “Silver hair needs our help. He said it was a matter of life or death.” “What does she mean, Silver?” L. J. Bear stepped behind his desk and sat down. Jack pulled up a cane chair and sat in front of the desk. He told his friend the story in as few words as possible. The Comanche lawyer listened in expressionless silence. When Jack finished, a troubled look covered L.J. Bear’s face. He lowered his head and exhaled as if he had been holding his breath. “Jack,” he said, the friendly tone gone from his voice, “you’re talking about taking the law into your own hands. I understand your reasons, and your cause is admirable. But, the days of vigilante justice are long past. Let the rangers take care of this problem.” “Clay will swear us in as Texas Rangers, Bear. Then we will be legal.” “The rangers have no jurisdiction in the territories. You know that, Silver. Your heart is leading your head.” Jack leaned back in his chair, his face masked with a frown. “I was afraid you’d say somethin’ like that, Bearkiller. Ever since them missionaries talked you into goin’ off to that big eastern law school, you ain’t been the same.” “Nothin’ worse than an educated Indian, eh, Silver. I’m sorry old friend that I cannot go with you, but as a representative of my people, I must retain my respectability. I hope you understand my position, Silver.”

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“Aw, hell, Bearkiller, it was worth a try. Good to see you, anyway. It was nice to meet you, Hawk Wing. Take care of this old warrior. He’s one helluva man.” Jack tipped his hat to Hawk Wing and disappeared out the door. L. J. Bearkiller and his daughter watched Silverjack ride away. After Jack was out of sight, Hawk Wing turned and glared up at her father. “Daddy,” she said, “that man needs our help.” “I understand, Angelina, and I empathize with him, but we cannot become involved in any form of illegal operation. We are not ignorant savages, anymore. We have accepted the white man’s way and we must obey his laws. Besides, it would be suicide for a handful of men to ride into Dixie City and try to rescue those unfortunate women.” “Speak for yourself, Mr. Bearkiller. You used to tell me stories about you and Silver hair. Oh, what great warriors you were. Just the mention of your names brought fear into the hearts of your enemies. Grandfather Horse Hunter must be looking down on you with shame in his heart.” L.J. Bear reached toward his daughter, but she pulled away from him. “Be calm, Angelina. It’s not like that at all.” “Yes, it is like that! I can ride and shoot as good as any man, and the blood of my grandfather runs strong in my heart. I will offer my help to Silver hair.” Hawk Wing stomped to her desk, grabbed something and headed for the door. As she opened it, she turned back to her father. “From this moment forward,” she said, “I will answer only to Hawk Wing, my true spirit name. Do not call me by my slave name, Angelina, for I will not answer.” She slammed the door and was gone. L. J. Bearkiller stared after her in shocked disbelief as his daughter stormed down the street. “Her slave name!” he said.

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Chapter Nine Silverjack was in a foul mood as he rode into Rio Sangre, Texas. This was his last stop, and after a promising start, his search for help was not going well. If he didn’t find the man he was looking for in Rio Sangre, he was in trouble. He hoped the telegrams were producing better results. He decided to have a cold beer and rest up a bit before beginning his search in town. Jack stopped in front of the first saloon he came to. After tying Bess to the rail and surveying the street, he stepped inside. The saloon was half-full but it seemed peaceful enough, so Jack walked up to the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought the beer, Jack wolfed it down in one gulp and let loose a huge belch. The bartender did a double take, but Jack just smiled and waved his empty mug around in the air. The bartender took the mug from Jack and refilled it. Just as the weariness of the trail began to loosen its grip, a loud voice behind Jack caused the old gunfighter to tense up. “Damn, Hovey!” said the voice. “What the hell was that awful noise?” “I don’t know, but it smells like somebody just shit their pants.” The first voice rang out again. “Wait a minute, Hovey. That ain’t shit you smell. I believe it’s that ragged old feller at the bar.” “You know, Kid, I think you’re right,” said Hovey, smiling. Ignoring his antagonists, Jack waved the bartender over. “I’m lookin’ for John Benteen, barkeep. Is he still around these parts?” “Why, yes, sir, he sure is. He’s the town marshal.” “Well, doggone,” said Jack, “I’d heard that, but I really didn’t believe it.” “He’s done a durn good job of it, too. There ain’t no real trouble happens around here anymore. Ever since he run the riff raff out of town, ‘bout all we get is an occasional gun happy drifter passin’ through.” As the bartender spoke, he raised his head and nodded in the direction of the two young men who were harassing Silverjack. Jack offered a weak smile of recognition. “Hey, old timer, you got dirt in your ears, or are you just plain deaf?” Jack recognized the voice as the one called Kid. He heard the sounds of chairs scraping the hardwood floor and knew the two young toughs were - 47 -

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approaching him. He looked over at the bartender. “You know I didn’t ask for this.” He said. “Yes, sir, I know,” said the bartender with an odd gleam in his eyes. Silverjack turned to face his adversaries. Right away, he knew which one was Kid. The man on his right was dressed all in black. Jack would have laughed at the man’s outfit, except for the two nickel plated, pearl handled Colt .45 Peacemakers resting low on the kid’s hips. The other fellow was dressed like an ordinary cowboy. “Old feller, maybe, you don’t know who we are,” said Hovey. “Well, I’ll tell you. My name is Hovey Lester and this here is The Chalk Bluff Kid.” Hovey Lester stuck out his skinny chest like he had just said something important. Jack cocked his head slightly to the right and tapped a finger to his left ear. “Damn Hovey,” said the Kid. “Maybe, the old timer really is deaf.” Jack smiled and motioned for them to step closer. By now, the saloon had gotten church pew quiet. All eyes were on the impending showdown and no one saw the swamper scoot out the front door. Hovey and the Kid stepped into reaching distance of Jack. Both were grinning like possums fartin’ persimmons. They had this old man treed and they were ready for some fun. “My goodness, old timer, we didn’t know you really was deaf,” said Kid. “We sure are sorry, and we hope we didn’t upset you none.” Hovey giggled like a schoolgirl. “I ain’t deaf, you simple shits,” said Jack. “But, I’m gonna be killin’ a whole bunch of bad hombres real soon, so you little boys are plumb lucky I ain’t in the killin’ mood, today.” The Chalk Bluff Kid’s face turned the color of an overripe tomato. Hovey Lester started looking around like he was getting ready to run. Jack stood relaxed, ignoring Lester. His eyes stared a hole through the Kid’s forehead. The Kid acted shook, but he had talked the talk. Now he had to walk the walk or crawfish. His right hand shot to his Peacemaker, and he cleared leather. As the pistol came up, Jack’s right hand shot out in a blur. He - 48 -

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stripped the six-gun from the Kid’s hand and smacked him on the right temple with it. The Chalk Bluff Kid dropped like a chunk of cow flop. A split second later, Jack’s left hand streaked up and grabbed Hovey Lester’s nose. A quick twist and the cartilage crushed like an eggshell. Lester’s eye rolled back in his head, and he toppled sideways, landing hard on the edge of a poker table. The table flipped in the air and dropped down on top of the Kid and him. Right away the saloon door flew open, and there stood the town marshal, John C. Benteen with a nasty looking Greener shotgun in his hands. Behind him, two deputies appeared carrying shotguns identical to the marshal’s. All were pointing at Jack. “Alright,” said the marshal. “Who shot these men?” “Nobody shot ‘em, marshal,” said the bartender “They were hurrahin’ this feller, here, and they got a mite too close to him. I ain’t never seen hands move that quick before.” The bartender explained to Marshal Benteen, what happened, as the deputies examined the unconscious men on the floor. The marshal gave Jack a head to toe once over. “What’s your name?” He asked. “It’s Jack McDonald, marshal.” “Jack McDonald’s dead, mister. Try again and don’t be foolin’ with me. I’m not in the mood.” “I hate to go against you, marshal,” said Jack. “But you ain’t quite right about me bein’ dead. That was just a nasty rumor.” “Turn your head to the left,” said Marshal Benteen. Jack complied with the request. As he turned his head, the long ugly scar on the right side of his face came into view. It was still red from the confrontation. “My God, Silverjack, it is you.” He looked at the bartender. “Amos, I need a beer.” Jack and Marshal Benteen found an empty table and sat down to reminisce. “Johnny, you ain’t aged a bit since I last saw you,” said Jack, pouring down another beer. - 49 -

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“Why, thank you, kindly, Mr. McDonald. I wish I could say the same about you.” “You could, but it would be the biggest whopper you ever told, and it wouldn’t do much to enhance your reputation, Honest John.” John Benteen smiled. “Jack, nobody’s called me that in years. I’m just plain John Benteen, town marshal of Rio Sangre, Texas. The people here are good folks. If any of them know about my reputation as a riverboat gambler or a gunfighter, they’re not letting on. I like this place, Jack. I’ll most likely stay here until I cash in my chips.” At one time Honest John Benteen had been known up and down the Mississippi as the best gambler on the river. Now, as then, he wore a .44 cal. Army Colt in a holster on his right side, but his weapon of choice was a short barreled .31 cal. Whitney five shot revolver which he wore in a custom designed leather sheath strapped horizontally on his belt, just to the left of his belt buckle. “I’d heard you’d left the river.” Jack said. “But I lost track of you up until about two years ago. A feller up in Ouray, Colorado said you were a lawman down here. I was in these parts, so I thought I’d look you up.” “Don’t bullshit me, Silverjack. I know you better than that. You want something from me, you spill it out, you old conniver.” “Never try to lie to an honest man. That’s what my old daddy used to say, and he was sure right.” “This ain’t Clay you’re talking to, Jack. You never even knew your father. He died before you were born. Get to it.” “Okay, I’ll get serious. I expect you heard about the Scarlet Dragon fire.” “I heard about it.” “Well, it’s like this,” said Jack, and he told Marshal Benteen all that had transpired up until the time he rode into Rio Sangre. The marshal sat in silence, listening to Jack speak. About half-way through, he closed his eyes and remained that way until Jack finished. “And that’s about it,” said Jack. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever saw.” John Benteen opened his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Jack,” he said, “Do you remember when the riverboat Natchez Queen caught fire and burned up in less than twenty minutes back about six years ago?” - 50 -

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“I heard about it but that was all. I was down in Arizona at the time. Lots of folks was trapped on it and died as I recollect.” “Eighteen people got off that riverboat alive. I was one of them. Fifty-two poor souls burned up on that hell barge. My baby sister, her husband and their two year old daughter didn’t make it off.” Benteen’s voice cracked a little, but he continued. “They said a gambler named Ace Perdue torched that boat because he had lost too much money the previous night in a poker game. He claimed the game was crooked. The law arrested him, but he escaped jail the same night. No one ever saw him again. The son-of-a-bitch got away Scot free.” “Aw, damn, John,” Jack said. “I had no idea that happened. I’m sorry I told you about my problems. I’ll get out of here and leave you alone.” As Jack got up to leave, Marshal Benteen reached out and grasped him by the arm. “Silver, that card game was mine. I took all of that crooked bastard’s money, and I cheated him to do it. I thought I was teaching him a lesson. Instead, it cost me my whole family.” John Benteen bowed his head and wept. Jack sat there with his friend holding on to his arm not knowing what to do. After a few minutes, the marshal looked up. “I’m going with you, Silver,” he said. “My deputies can handle things here until I get back. Give me half an hour to pack my war bag and I’ll be ready to ride.” Marshal Benteen got up and walked out of the saloon. Silverjack waved at the bartender. “Whiskey,” he said, “and leave the bottle.”

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Chapter Ten A fiery red ball glowed on the horizon as Silverjack and John Benteen rode out of Rio Sangre. Riding all night would get them into Justiceburg by morning, but both men felt the weariness of a long day. As darkness settled in, they stopped for the night. A large grove of cottonwoods growing along a small stream offered a prime camping spot. John picketed the horses near the water while Jack built a fire and put a pot of coffee on to boil. Jack was slicing bacon into a skillet when John walked up. “Lord, Jack, I’d plumb forgotten how everything smells so good out in the open.” He closed his eyes and breathed deep. “I don’t know which smells better, that Arbuckles or those thick pieces of fatback frying.” “Ain’t nothin’ like it,” said Jack. “There’s gonna be plenty of both in two shakes of a coon’s tail.” When the grub was ready, both men chowed down in silence, letting the fire burn down to embers. After the meal, John Benteen stretched out on his bedroll and rolled himself a quirly. He yawned and leaned back, looking up at the stars twinkling like silver crystals in the black velvet sky. Jack scraped the utensils, and then walked to the stream to check on the horses. He found the two animals munching away on knee high bunch grass. He ambled back to camp and loaded the cooking gear into his saddlebags. “You know, John,” he said, looking at the stars, “there are so many purty things for a man to see when he’s outdoors. I sure do enjoy lookin’ at everything Mother Nature has to offer. There ain’t a thing out here that’s not good to look at, but I believe all the stars on a clear night like tonight are my favorites. How about you, John, you got a favorite?” John Benteen answered with a thunderous snore. “Aw, hell,” said Jack. He walked over to his bedroll. On the way, he squashed the smoldering cigarette that had fallen out of Honest John’s hand. “Them nasty things’ll kill you, John.” Jack said, flipping out his soogan. They arose before sunup, stuffed down corn dodgers and coffee, and headed in the direction of Justiceburg. Six hours of steady riding lay in front of them. “John, I’m danged disappointed in the number of men I’ve recruited, so far,” said Jack. “At least, the quality is top drawer.” - 52 -

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“Who all have you rounded up?” “Well, let’s see, I’ve got you, of course, and Conn Havens.” “I heard he went east after a woman a few years ago.” “Naw, he’s around. He don’t look all that good, but he can still shoot. I’ve got first-hand proof of that.” “Jack, Conn Havens just might have been the best there ever was with a handgun.” “You got that right. I was with him down in Del Rio when the Baca brothers called him out. There was five of them against the two of us, and I don’t mind tellin’ you that was a day to make your asshole pucker.” Honest John burst out laughing at Jack’s creative description. “You’re laughin’ but I tell you, them hombres was as tough as they come and meaner than a pit full of Copperheads. When it got down to it, I took out Pablo, who was the oldest, and I wounded Enrique. Conn heart shot Jose, who was the youngest and fastest, then he blowed both of the twins to doll rags. I won’t never forget that day.” “Yeah,” said Honest John, “that must’ve been some fandango. Who else do we have?” “Ike Calcott’s comin’ in and there’s a feller I met up in Silverton named Al Haybinder. I ain’t seen him use a gun, but he’s the best I ever saw with his fists. I sent out a few telegrams from Justiceburg. I’m hopin’ to get some results from that. That’s all we’ve got, except, maybe, one other man. I think he’s with us, but he’s real squirrelly. It’s a man you know pretty well, John. It’s Wes Hardin.” John Benteen jerked his horse to a halt. “Hardin’s nothing but a pure man-killer.” “I know what they say, John, but I spent a little time with him, and I’ve got a hunch he’ll come through when it gets down to the nut cuttin’.” “Jack, I’ll tell you, right now, I’m keeping my eye on him, and if he’s not what he appears to be, I’m comin’ down hard on him.” “Whatever you say, marshal,” said Jack, frowning. Honest John kicked his horse and the animal took off at a gallop. Jack caught up with him and both rode in silence the rest of the way to Justiceburg. It was early afternoon when they finally made it into town. Jack - 53 -

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and Honest John pulled up at the Red Peg Leg, dismounted and went inside. Something cold and wet was foremost on their minds. Jack was glad to see that Al Haybinder was there. As he walked up to the bar, the giant ex-prizefighter was steady jawing at a man Jack didn’t recognize. “When them Injuns took one look at that dead bear, they commenced to hightailin’ it in every direction.” Haystacks almost decapitated Silverjack, flailing his arms all over the place illustrating the big windy he was telling. He glanced someone out of the corner of his eye and stopped in midsentence. “Whoa, I almost took your head off, friend,” he said. Then, realizing it was Silverjack, he forgot about his audience. “Jack, you’re back in town.” Jack introduced Haystacks to Honest John, and they all moved to a table in the back of the room. “Did we get any answers from our telegrams?” Jack asked Haybinder. “Yes, sir, we did. Two of them came back saying no such persons lived thereabouts. “One other feller is in the state pen at Huntsville. We did get two positive answers, though.” “Who’s comin’?” “Well, let me see, I’ve got the return telegrams in my pocket.” Haybinder fumbled through his clothes until he came up with a fist full of telegrams. He unfolded the pieces of paper, discarding the no-shows. When he got to the telegrams he was looking for, he read the first one. “A feller named Harlan Gilstrap says he’ll be here in three days.” “I rode with Harlan up in Utah,” said Jack. “He’s a good fightin’ man.” “Jack, this other telegram is sort of a puzzle. All it says is, ‘it’s a done deal’.” Jack smiled. “It’s okay, Haystacks, I understand that one.” “So, how many men do we have so far?” Haystacks asked. “We got six for sure and a bunch of maybes. I was hopin’ for, at least, a dozen, but it don’t look too good.” “How many men do they have in Dixie City?” said Honest John. Al Haybinder scratched his beard. “Last I heard, they was around two hundred men up there.” - 54 -

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“Godamighty, Haybinder,” said Jack, “Where’d you get that information?” “Half-Jack’s been keepin’ his eyes and ears open. Any stranger comes into the saloon, he gives them a couple of free drinks, and they usually sing like little birdies.” “Aughh,” Jack groaned. “This ain’t gonna be no Sunday picnic, that’s for sure.” “What’s the plan, Jack?” asked Honest John. “We sure aren’t going to charge in there like old Yellow hair Custer did with them Sioux Indians, unless we want our little hoop-de-doo to end up like his.” “Naw, we have to be real careful,” said Jack. “We can’t do nothin’ that might cause them ladies up there to be in any more danger.” He paused for a moment. “I’ve got to talk to my brother. Haystack, you help John get settled into a room while I go and talk to Stubby.” They agreed to meet at the saloon later that night. Before he left, Silverjack showed the mysterious telegram to Half-Jack. The two of them talked in low tones for a few minutes, and then shook hands like they had just agreed upon a business deal. Jack left the Red Peg Leg headed towards the ranger’s office. Looking up and down Main Street, he thought how Justiceburg was becoming a thriving community. It would be a real nice place to put down roots, get married and raise a family. Crystal’s face popped into his mind. He thought of her long blonde hair, her pale blue eyes and the way her hips swayed, just a little, when she walked. She was a tough lady. She had lived a hard life, but despite the years, Jack knew she was still a fine looking woman. At least, he remembered her that way. He had changed a lot in the last few years, too much. The outdoor life in the mountains and the desert had toughened him, hardened him, and made him look older than his years. Lost in thought, Jack almost walked past the ranger’s office. He might have if Ranger Harper hadn’t been charging out the door just as Jack stepped in front of him. The young ranger slammed smack into Jack’s left side. Jack’s pistol was in his hand with the barrel buried deep into Harper’s ribs before the young man even knew what he had bumped into. - 55 -

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“Hey, what the hell,” said the startled youth. When Jack twisted the .44’s barrel deep into his side, Harper suddenly became mute. Silverjack’s eyes fixed on Harper like an Owl on a field mouse. He eased up a bit on the pistol’s pressure, but still held it to the ranger’s side. “Where you goin’ so all fired fast, son?” “Uh, er, I, uh,” stuttered J. R. Harper. “’Scuse me?” said Jack, who was calm now and beginning to enjoy this little confrontation. “How do you spell what you just said, boy?” Harper just stared at him. “Never mind, kid, is Stubby in?” “Stub, uh, Captain Thornton, sir. Yes, he’s in his office.” “Thank you kindly,” said Jack. He spun his six-gun into his holster and stepped inside the office. Marching over to the door marked Captain, he opened it and walked in. Captain Thornton was at his desk, surrounded by stacks of paper. He looked up as Jack came inside. “Jack,” he said, looking upset, “can’t you knock like everybody else?” “Ain’t got time, Stub. We gotta talk.” Clay leaned back in his great leather chair and rubbed his left hand across his eyes. “Sit down Jack and talk.” “Look here, Stub, I been thinkin’ about this predicament. Somebody’s got to ride into Dixie City and find out what we’re up against. Tomorrow, I’m gonna take one man, ride up there and check it out.” “That’s too dangerous, Jack. You can’t do that.” “Come on, Stubby, you know if I say it, I’m damn well gonna do it. You might as well go along with my plan and support me in it.” “Jack McDonald, you are incorrigible.” “If that four-bit word means I do what I say I will, then that’s me,” Jack said grinning. Clay sighed. “You said two men, Jack. Who else do you have in mind?” “I want the best available Texas Ranger in Justiceburg. I want you Clay.” Clay Thornton choked on the cigar he was lighting. He coughed three times before he could speak. “You want me, Jack?” “You’re the best man I know, brother. I want a ranger’s eyes and senses to look over Dixie City. A ranger will see things differently than I will. That way we would have two different ideas about them scoundrels.” - 56 -

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"That’s good thinking, Jack, but I can’t go. I have obligations to the rangers that keep me office bound. Besides, I don’t think it would be a good idea taking a ranger with you. There would be too much of a chance he could be recognized, then you’ll both be dead, and we would be no closer to the solution.” “How about the kid?” said Jack. “What kid?” “The one in your office.” “Oh, Lord, Jack, you want to take Harper? The boy has a lot of potential, but he’s as green as a gourd.” “I got a feelin’, Stubby, he’ll come through when the time comes. Let him go. You were young and full of piss and vinegar, once, and you turned out pretty damned okay. Give the boy a chance. I’ll take care of him.” “Jack, why don’t you just shoot me now and save me the misery of this whole blooming mess.” “Oh, hell’s bells, Stub, you ain’t no quitter. Stop your bellyachin’ and give me the word. We’ll leave at sunup, tomorrow.” Clay Thornton sat in silence and blew six near perfect smoke rings. He watched each cloudy circle widen and disappear against the ceiling. “Alright, Jack, I’ll let him go with you, but if you get him killed, I’ll never have any dealings with you, again. I mean it, Jack.” “Yes, sir, Capt. Thornton, I know you do.” Jack started for the door. “Tell him to meet me at sunup in the livery stable, ready for a four day ride.” Clay nodded his head, as Jack stepped out of his office. He had just gotten back to his paperwork when Jack stuck his head back through the door. “One more thing, Stubby,” Jack said. “Thanks a heap.” Then he was gone. “Don’t call me, Stubby,” yelled Clay, throwing the fat black cigar at his brother.

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Chapter Eleven Silverjack had Bess saddled and ready when J.R. Harper showed up at the livery. “Howdy young master Harper,” said Jack, grinning. The young ranger answered with something between a cough and a groan. “Same to you,” said Jack, laughing. Then he got serious. “Look here, Harper, I didn’t pick you because of your friendly personality, or your ability to look good behind a desk. I picked you because I thought you could do the job. Son, you remind me of myself when I was your age. If you’ll mellow out a little and listen to what people tell you, you might make a good ranger.” Harper saddled his horse in silence. He secured his saddlebags and slid his Winchester 44-40 into the scabbard on the right side of his horse. Deciding all was right, he stepped into the saddle. “Are you ready to ride?” asked Jack. Harper nodded and both men rode out of the livery, pointing their horses northeast toward the territories and Dixie City. With luck, they would get in and back out with their hides intact, and have enough information to be able to formulate a rescue plan. Jack was worried. At the time, he’d thought it was a good idea to bring Harper along, but he was beginning to doubt his decision. If Harper didn’t listen to him, there could be real trouble. Jack and J.R. rode all day at an easy pace, stopping only to rest their horses. By nightfall, they were well past half-way to their destination. They stopped for the night at a small spring surrounded by blackjack and mesquite trees. Supper was bacon, beans and coffee. Neither man said much as they ate. When Jack finished eating, he sat his plate beside the fire and refilled his coffee cup. Settling back against his saddle he eyed the young ranger. “Tell me Harper, why did you join the rangers?” Harper scooped a spoonful of beans into his mouth and looked up at Jack. He chewed his beans deliberately, and said nothing. After he swallowed, he took a sip of coffee. When he finally did speak, his voice was soft and distant sounding. - 58 -

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“I wanted adventure and excitement. I wanted to work at a job that meant something. All my life, I’ve been on the bottom. People looked down on me, not because of what I was, but because of who I was. A Texas Ranger is a man to be reckoned with. Folks may not like you, but they damn well had better respect the badge and what it stands for. I’m proud to be a ranger.” “You really feel that way?” “Yes, I do.” “Well J.R.,” Jack said scratching his chin, “those seem like good enough reasons to me.” “I heard you were a ranger once. Why’d you get out?” Jack ignored the question. “You’d better get some shut eye, kid. We may not get another chance for a while.” Jack poured his coffee on the fire and lay back pulling his hat down over his eyes. The conversation was over. Sunup the next day found the two men long in the saddle. A few gossamer shrouds of white floated high above them in the morning sky. It was already hot enough to make lizards and horned toads search for a little shade. After four hours of riding in the debilitating heat, the town of Ghost Creek, Texas and the prospect of a cold beer looked mighty good to Silverjack. The settlement served as a supply hub for ranches in the area. A trading post, one saloon, a boarding house, and a few scattered shacks made up the town. Jack and J.R. pulled up in front of the Copper Penny saloon. J.R. saw to the watering of the horses while Jack went into the saloon. It only took him a few minutes and he was back on the street. “What did you find out?” asked J.R. “Looks like we’re on the right trail. The bartender said Dixie City is about two hours due north. He said two or three men a day ride into town asking how to get there.” Jack traced his scar with his trigger figure. “I’m worried, kid. This deal is lookin’ worse all the time. If we don’t do something pretty quick, I’m afraid a whole lot of innocent people are gonna die.” “Is there anything special you want me to do when we arrive?” asked J.R.

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“I don’t know, right now. I’ll let you know when we get there. The main thing is we’ve got to hurry up.” Jack swung into the saddle and Bess took off at a brisk lope. They rode at a steady pace for nearly two hours before stopping at a small wet weather water hole. A concave oblong rock with a three foot deep bowl stood half-full of rain water. They dismounted letting their horses drink and discussed how to enter Dixie City. “Look here, son,” said Jack. “We’re gonna ride into that snake pit like we owned it. If the place is anything like it’s been described to me, we’ve got to be damn careful what we do or say. We might be afraid, but, if we show it, we’re dead men. Do you understand?” “I’ve got it. Let’s get this thing over with.” “I figure Dixie City is less than two miles away. I been seein’ guards up in the rocks for a while now.” “Where?” J. R.’s head turned on a swivel. “Don’t worry where they are. Just take my word that they’re there. We’ll mount up and ride into Dixie City like we ain’t got a care in the world.” The two riders made quite a sight as they rode into the outlaw town. One wore the signs of a frontiersman, a man to be reckoned with. His buckskin clothes were shabby and worn. He was unkempt, rough looking. The other rider looked wet behind the ears. His build was slender and he had a nervous look about him. Alone in Dixie City, his life expectancy would be short. A dust devil swirled across their path as Jack and J.R. rode through town. Both men scanned the old decrepit buildings of the former ghost town. Jack knew J.R. was scared but he admired the young ranger for putting up a good front. The few men on the streets turned away or ducked their heads as the two strangers rode by. Jack recognized some of the men. He had even ridden with a few of them when he took to the owl hoot trail a few years back. He didn’t like what he saw. Colonel Pickering was one man that Jack didn’t know. All he knew about the man was what he had been told earlier in the week. He knew the ex-Confederate officer was an idealist, intent upon creating a new country with himself as its first leader.

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Jack spoke to J.R. without turning his head. “Kid, the old fart that runs this place is one turd shy of a cow pile. When we get off our horses, let me do the talkin’ and don’t piss anybody off.” “Okay by me,” said J.R. looking relieved. The odd couple rode up to the Southern Belle Saloon. As they tied their horses to the hitching rail, Jack surveyed the two men guarding the saloon doors. One was fat and held a sawed off Greener shotgun. The other was of average size with a nose mashed flatter than a pancake. This man held a Whitney-Scharf .44-40 rifle in the crook of his arm. Jack and J.R. stepped up on the sidewalk and started into the saloon. “Howdy,” said Jack. He reached out to push open the saloon doors and found Mr. Fat and his shotgun blocking the way. “I don’t know you,” said Mr. Fat. “I don’t know you,” said Silverjack. Mr. Fat looked unhappy. He ignored Jack’s answer and kept on talking. “You’re a stranger,” he said. It was a statement not a question. “Not everywhere,” Jack said, smiling. “Old timer, I’ve had just about enough of your smart ass mouth.” J.R. tensed up. “Now, I know why you told me not to piss anybody off.” He whispered to Jack. “That must be your job.” Still smiling, Jack stuck his face into the fat man’s until their noses touched. “Fat, if you call me old timer again, I’m gonna take that Greener away from you, stuff it down your throat and blow your balls off from the inside out. Do you understand me, you porked up son-of-a-bitch?” A torrent of sweat gushed from the man’s pores. “We, we have to stop anyone we don’t know and ask their business. Then we got to take them to the Colonel and let him interro.., uh, inturr…” Does he want to talk to us, boy?” “Yes, sir, he does.” “Well hell, Fat, why didn’t you say so? Let’s all go see the Colonel.” Flat Nose, who had said nothing during the confrontation, stayed at the door, while Fat led Jack and the ranger inside. The saloon was filled with dirty rough-looking men. Most of them were white, but there were black, brown and red faces, too. The men drank, played cards and milled about. - 61 -

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Walking through the throng, Jack observed as much as he could. He didn’t like what he saw. Pistoleros, gunfighters, bank robbers, and renegades of all types filled the saloon. Jack recognized many of them, too many. The outlaws ranged from hangers on to genuine bad men. The three men shuffled across the smoky room towards a table by the back wall. A small shriveled-up man of undeterminable age sat at the table. He wore the uniform of a Colonel of the Virginia Volunteers, CSA. The illfitting clothing swallowed the little man up. As they reached the place where the Colonel was holding court, Jack’s heart skipped a beat. Sitting at the Colonel’s left side was “One-eared Jenny”, one of the ladies from the Scarlet Dragon. Jack hoped to hell nobody noticed his reaction. He had known Jenny for over ten years, but if she recognized him, she showed no sign of it. Three men sat around the table with the Colonel and Jenny. One fit the description of the swarthy man that Hank Strayhan had described as the leader of the gang that burned down the Dragon. The Butcher, Hardin had called him. This was the ugliest man he had ever seen. The man’s whole demeanor oozed evil. Another man, sitting to the Colonel’s immediate right wore a Confederate Captain’s uniform. Jack recognized the third man. He was a black gunfighter named Ratfoot Charlie. Jack had seen him work many times. Ratfoot was on a par with Conn Havens in the speed department. Jack nodded his head in recognition, but the black gunfighter seemed not to notice. The man in the Captain’s uniform looked to be in his early thirties. He had neatly trimmed dark blond hair and was clean-shaven. The man looked more like an Eastern dandy than a leader of fighting men. He addressed Jack and J.R. in an aristocratic, educated voice. “Good day, gentlemen, I am Capt. Alfordus Sparks of Virginia. Welcome to Dixie City. May I present our leader, Col. William A. Pickering, late of the Grand Army of the Confederate States of America, and hero of the first and second battles of Manassas.” The ancient Confederate hero beamed at the flowery introduction and nodded his head. - 62 -

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Capt. Sparks spoke again. “Gentlemen, now that you know who we are, you have us at a distinct advantage. May we have your names please?” “Yes sir, Cap’n,” said Jack, “I’m Jack McDonald and this here sprite is the famous Peckerwood Smith, also known as The Buttermilk Kid. We was passin’ through these parts when I got a hankerin’ for a cold beer, and the Kid was thirsty for a big ‘ol glass of buttermilk. Did we do somethin’ wrong?” “That remains to be seen,” said the captain. “Did you say you were Silverjack McDonald?” The swarthy man spoke up. “Mr. Blake, I have the floor,” said Capt. Sparks. Turning his attention back to Jack, his cobalt blue eyes stared unwaveringly into Jack’s eyes. “Are you, in fact, sir, the renowned Silverjack McDonald?” “Well, yes, I believe I am.” “You’re supposed to be dead,” blurted out Butcher Blake. Captain Sparks slammed his hands down on the table. “Mr. Blake, do not force me to take disciplinary action against you. If you speak out again, I assure you, I will have you taken to the stockade.” Blake and Capt. Sparks stared hard at each other, until Ratfoot Charlie broke the silence. “Excuse me, Captain,” He said. “We have the man who supposedly killed Silverjack here in Dixie City. I think he’s in the Southern Belle right now. Do you want me to find him, Sir?” “Yes, do exactly that.” The questioning stopped while Ratfoot Charlie rounded up Jack’s alleged killer. In a short time, Charlie was back with a long lanky hombre in tow. “Captain, this is the shooter,” said Charlie. The black gunman did not sit back down; instead he stood behind and to the right of the new man. “I understand you claimed to have killed Silverjack McDonald. Is that correct?” The Captain was all business. “Claimed to, hell I flat out done it,” said the tall drink of water. “Who’s sayin’ I didn’t?” “Me for one,” said Silverjack, the humor gone from his face. His scar was slowly darkening. - 63 -

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The self-proclaimed killer hadn’t noticed Jack until now. He looked across the table and his eyes bulged out like he was looking at a ghost. He recognized Jack, and Jack recognized him. “Well I’ll be dipped!” said Jack “Hank Summers! How you doin’ Hank?” Hank didn’t look like he was doing well, at all. “Shucks, Cap’n, me and ‘ol Hank here rode together down in Lincoln County during the big ruckus a few years back. Say, Hank, I been wonderin’ all these years. Is the Kid really dead? You knowed him better’n I did. As I recollect, you and him and Pat Garrett was like three peas in a pod.” Jack’s eyes narrowed and stared a hole through Hank Summers. “Maybe you helped make up that lie, too.” “Now wait a minute, Silver. It was just a joke, that’s all.” Hank said, beginning to sweat. “Let me buy you a drink and we’ll talk about the old days. How ‘bout it, pard?” Before Jack could respond, two burley men dressed in Confederate uniforms grabbed Hank Summers. In a panic, the frightened man tried to reach for his pistol, but the firearm was gone. He glanced back to see his sixgun resting in Ratfoot Charlie’s gun belt. Capt. Sparks ordered the Hank Summers taken to the stockade. The saloon had gotten quiet during the confrontation, but in a moment the sound was back up to a dull roar.

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Chapter Twelve Capt. Sparks stood at attention. “Mr. McDonald, we owe you an apology.” “It wasn’t nothin’. Me and ‘ol Hank go way back. I’ve already forgotten about the whole dang thing.” “Mr. McDonald, we are building an army here,” said Capt. Sparks. “We cannot function without discipline. Sir, we have a code of conduct that is strictly enforced. That man will be severely punished for lying to Colonel Pickering.” “Now, enough of that foolishness, gentlemen, your money is no good here, today. The drinks are on the house. Colonel Pickering is partial to buttermilk, so I believe we can accommodate your thirst as well, Mr. Smith.” J.R. managed a weak smile and nodded his head. Silverjack popped a broad grin. “Thank you, kindly, sir. We’d sure be obliged if you and the colonel would have a snort with us.” “I am afraid we have too much work to do. Perhaps you will share a drink with one of my lieutenants, and he could advise you of our modest operation.” “How about you, Lieutenant Charlie?” Silverjack said. “That was slick work liftin’ Hank’s six-gun out of his holster without him knowing.” “I could stand a drink,” said Charlie. “Follow me, boys. We’ll drink at the far end of the bar where it’s quieter than the rest of the place.” A malevolent scowl crossed the features of Butcher Blake as he watched Silverjack, J.R., and Ratfoot Charlie walk to the bar. The three men ambled up to the old pitted wooden slab that served as a bar top. Charlie ordered two beers and a big glass of buttermilk. J.R. scrunched up his face. “Jack, I can’t stand this stuff.” “Drink it, boy, and shut up.” A grim frown replaced the smile on Silverjack’s face. They drank their first beers in silence. After Silverjack and Charlie ordered refills, Jack edged over next to the black man. He spoke in muted tones. “R.C., how long you been here?” “’Bout a week, Jack.” “Found out anything?” - 65 -

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“Not much, but I’m workin’ on it.” Silverjack turned to J.R. “R.C. this here is Peckerwood Smith.” “Uh, huh, Jack, I heard a while ago. You don’t mind me callin’ you Pecker, do you boy? Peckerhead seems a might harsh.” “It’s Peckerwood!” J.R.’s face glowed red. “Oh, yeah,” said Charlie smiling, “sorry about the mistake, Pecker.” Silverjack pulled J.R. between him and Charlie. “Kid,” he said, “this is Ratfoot Charlie.” Jack hesitated a moment. “His full name is Ratfoot Charlie Harp. He’s Virgil Harp’s son.” J.R. stood, his mouth agape, a buttermilk mustache dripping from his upper lip. “As soon as you sprung me from me from the hoosegow, I hightailed it up here and started working my way inside the colonel’s inner circle. It turned out to be easier than I thought. That crazy old man is still fightin’ the war. Most of the time he’s back at Manassas relivin’ his glory days. The rest of the time he’s workin’ on the plans for New South.” Charlie took a long pull on his beer and eyed the room. “Sparks really runs the show. I can’t figure his angle. He acts loyal to the colonel, but somethin’ isn’t right.” “The ugly bastard at the table calls himself Anson Blake. He’s used a lot of names in the past; probably doesn’t even remember his real name. A few years ago he went by the moniker, Ace Perdue. Back then he was a riverboat gambler on the Mississippi. Some sort of trouble concerning a paddle wheeler being burned up caused him to come west, real quick. He’s nothin’ but a two-bit cutthroat.” “My God, Ace Perdue,” said Silverjack. “John Benteen’s family died in that fire. Honest John’s been lookin’ for that man ever since. He’s got to be the one who torched the Dragon.” “It makes sense all right,” said Charlie. “Jack, all three of those sumbitches hate my black hide, but they need me to control the colored trash that’s here.” “Why’d they pick you?” “When I rode into Dixie City, I was afraid somebody would recognize me as Charlie Harp’s son. “When I entered the saloon I was treated worse than y’all were today. Damned if the first hombre I saw wasn’t an old enemy of - 66 -

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mine who knew who I was. As soon as he saw me, he slapped iron. I put two slugs in his breastbone.” Silverjack shook his head. “R.C., you never was a man to do anything halfway.” “Nope, Jack, it’s not my nature. Anyway, Sparks was impressed. Right away, he decided I was the boy to ramrod all the darkies that were beginnin’ to show up.” The saloon began to fill up and privacy became impossible to maintain. Silverjack chugged his beer and told Charlie he would be in touch. “Drink you buttermilk, kid.” Silverjack got an uneasy feeling. “We got to get out of this snake pit.” J.R. gulped a breath and threw down the last of his clabbered milk. He followed Silverjack toward the door. They almost made it outside when a loud high-pitched yell silenced the men in the saloon. “By damn! There’s a Texas Ranger in here.” The young ranger froze. Carefully he turned to face his accuser. Standing six feet away and pointing a crooked finger at him was one of the guards from the Scarlet Dragon—Cut Marfa, the man whose father was shot to death for snoring by Wes Hardin. Marfa was braced to draw. Silverjack was almost at the door and too far away to intervene. The kid was on his on. The men in the saloon stepped back giving plenty of room to the accused and his accuser. Hearing the commotion, Capt. Sparks rushed to the front of the saloon. “What is happening here?” He demanded. “Captain,” said J.R., “One of your men has accused me of being a Texas Ranger. He’s mistaken.” “The son-of-a-bitch is lyin’,” whined Marfa in a strange almost feminine voice. “Captain, I seen him hangin’ around the ranger office in Justiceburg. If he ain’t no ranger then he’s their goddamned errand boy.” “I’m not anybody’s errand boy!” J.R. spit the words through clenched teeth. “Well, Mr. Smith, I believe we have a predicament here,” said Capt. Sparks. You got that right, thought Silverjack. The kid’s got sand, but I ain’t got a clue how to get him out of this. - 67 -

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As Silverjack mulled on what to do, a joker jumped into the fray. “That kid ain’t workin’ for the rangers any more than I am.” The speaker was Wes Hardin. “I know his family. I’ve known him since he was born. His name may not be Smith but he’s sure as hell no lawman.” “Captain, this feller was in Justiceburg, too. He ain’t nothin’ but a tinhorn gambler.” Cut Marfa seethed with rage. “Mr. Marfa,” said Capt. Sparks in an even tone, “This man is known to both the colonel and myself. He may be many things, but he is not a tinhorn gambler. He is the famed shootist, Mr. John Wesley Hardin.” “Hardin!” Marfa exploded. “He’s the one who plugged my old man. Give me some room. I’m gonna end this bastard’s life right now.” “Hey, wait a minute.” J.R. hollered. “I’m the one you accused of being a Texas Ranger, Marfa. You’ve got to get by me before you challenge anybody else.” Cut Marfa snarled and grabbed iron. The young gunny was rattler fast, but not fast enough. As he thumbed the hammer on his .44, two slugs screamed into his chest. Marfa tried to pull the trigger but nothing happened. He looked at Wes Hardin, who was smiling, thumbs stuck in his belt. Cut Marfa blinked twice and fell backwards. “Someone, please take this unfortunate misguided young man’s body and dispose of it,” said Capt. Sparks. Turning toward Silverjack he held out his hands, palms forward. “Gentlemen it seems once again I owe you an apology. I am sorry for this misunderstanding. Perhaps it would be prudent if you both left Dixie City, immediately.” Silverjack nodded to the captain and grabbed J.R. by the arm. They hurried to their horses and loped them out of town. In the saloon things began to get back to normal. Capt. Sparks invited Wes Hardin to join him for a drink. While the bartender searched for the captain’s special bottle of brandy, Capt. Sparks asked Hardin how he happened to be in Dixie City. “Just passin through,” answered Wes, “Just passin” through.” Silverjack and J.R. rode in silence, intent on putting as many miles as possible between them and Dixie City. Recent summer showers caused the parched Texas panhandle to bloom with intermittent patches of red, yellow and blue scattered among the green - 68 -

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grass and scrub bushes. The air was crisp with the promise of more rain. A cool breeze blowing in from the north brought temporary relief from the infernal heat. The freshness of the air made both horses frisky and ready to run. Silverjack and J.R. let them have their heads. As they raced across the prairie Silverjack began to relax. He mulled over what he had seen in Dixie City. Some questions were answered, but the answers only produced more questions. The old colonel seemed to be a disillusioned man nurturing an impossible dream. Captain Sparks was an enigma. What was he after? Ace Perdue, ‘the butcher’ Hardin had called him, was nothing but a bloodthirsty killer. Something other than the ‘New South’ fueled the motives of Perdue and Sparks. The horses got the running out of their systems and were walking at an easy pace. “Kid,” said Silverjack, “I was wrong about you. I had you pegged as some greenhorn farmer looking for glory as a Texas Ranger. You done real good in there today. You’ll do to ride the river with.” J.R. looked at him but said nothing. He had just killed his first man. Bile churned in his stomach and he fought back the urge to wretch. “That was some kinda shootin’ back there kid. You’re about as fast as I’ve seen.” Silverjack sensed what J.R. was going through. He tried to get the young ranger to talk. “That feller in the saloon never knew what hit him. How’d you learn to draw and fire like that?” “My old man taught me. I expect he’s the deadliest man there is with a six-gun.” “Is that right? I don’t recollect hearin’ about any gunslick named Harper.” “J.R. Harper isn’t my real name, Jack. I would’ve thought you’d figured it out by now.” “Reckon I’m a mite slow on the uptake, son, but I’m stumped.” J.R. turned in his saddle and gazed in the direction they had come from. He straightened, shook his head and faced Silverjack. “Jack, since I first saw you, I figured you as a blowhard and a fool. I was mistaken. Can we start again?” - 69 -

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“Sure, kid.” Silverjack stuck out his hand. “My name’s Jack McDonald. What’s yours?” “I was named after my father.” His voice was soft, almost apologetic. “I’m John Wesley Hardin Jr.” “Damn, kid, you’re Wes Hardin’s son. You fooled the hell out of me. I ain’t sure what to call you, now.” “How about Peckerwood Smith?” J.R. smiled. “Life in El Paso wasn’t so bad, but when I heard my old man had been released from prison and was headed home, I lit a shuck out of there. I ran out of money in Amarillo, and I started looking for a job. I heard the Rangers were recruiting men in Justiceburg so I gave it a shot.” “Silverjack fumbled around for something to say. “You and your daddy didn’t get along?” “He’s a brutal killer who ran out on us.” J.R. exploded. “We never saw much of him. He only came around when he wanted something from my mother. I got no use for the man.” Silverjack fingered his scar. “That sure beats all, kid. Wait ‘til Stumpy finds out he hired Wes Hardin’s son.” “Jack, I like being a ranger. Please don’t tell Captain Thornton who I am.” “I’m not gonna tell him, kid. You are.”

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Chapter Thirteen Silverjack removed his hat and ran a finger around the inside. “I’ve ridden with you, I’ve made fun of you and I thought I was gonna watch you die. It ain’t your name that makes you a ranger.” Silverjack smacked himself in the chest. “It’s what’s in here that counts, nothin’ else. You’ve got sand, and you ain’t no liar. But it’s your life, kid. Do what you think is best.” Silverjack kneed Bess and she took off, leaving J.R. to ponder his dilemma. The kid sat for a moment then followed Bess’s dust trail. They made camp under a narrow limestone outcropping. Rain threatened but never materialized. By sunup the two men were an hour in the saddle. Neither man spoke much on the remainder of the ride. Arriving around noon, they rode straight for the livery stable. Silverjack stayed to care for the horses while J.R. headed for the ranger’s office to make his report. Satisfied that Bess was comfortable, Silverjack started down the street toward the Red Peg-Leg. Approaching the saloon he became aware of someone inside screaming. “Can this day get any worse?” He said. “All I want is to have a drink in peace.” He peered over the swinging doors. The sight that greeted him caused him to do a double take. He smiled and stepped inside. On a rickety table stood Bodie Watts. Big and mean, Watt’s Pa owned the biggest ranch in three counties. The bully always went spoiling for a fight. This time it looked like he had picked the wrong man. Watts stood perched on the table, naked as the day he was born. A cuspidor wobbled on top of his head. Standing beneath him, a small man held an enormous knife scant inches below Watt’s scrotum. Half-a-dozen saloon patrons seemed to be enjoying the show. “Cut ‘em off. They ain’t worth much anyway,” hollered a ruddy faced cowboy. The crowd burst out laughing. Watts seemed impervious to the laughter. He screamed every time the little Mexican touched the point of the blade to his shrunken balls. Unnoticed, Silverjack entered the saloon and edged toward the commotion. He yelled to be heard over the noise. - 71 -

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“The only thing worse than a greaser with a knife is a little bitty greaser with a knife.” The naked man jerked his head in the direction of the noise causing the spittoon to tumble forward. The muck inside drenched his face and poured down his chest onto his loins. The laughter ceased as the small Mexican turned toward the intruder. “Who is this dog that speaks so badly of me?” The Mexican turned his knife toward Silverjack. “Maybe, he would care to bare his cahones to the blade of Jesus Campo Santos.” “Hell, no, you greasy little dwarf,” said Silverjack. “You can’t never tell where that Sonora Toothpick has been.” “Silverjack, mi amigo, can that be you?” “If it ain’t then you’re seein’ an awful healthy ghost.” “Mi amigo, como esta?” “Bien, Jesus, I’m doin’ good, but my throat’s as dry as grandma’s flowers. Can I buy you a drink?” “No, Senor, you cannot. It will be my honor to buy you a drink. Come, we must celebrate this reunion. It has been much too long since our trails have crossed.” The two old friends started for the bar when Jesus remembered the table dancer. “Hijo de puta, get down from that table and put some clothes on. Your ugly body offends me, and you smell bad, too. I tell you what, hombre. You go out to the horse trough and get in. When my friend and I are finished with our drinks, I will come out and see if you smell a little better.” Bodie Watts grabbed his clothes and hurried for the saloon doors. Reaching them, he turned around. “What’s your name, Mex? I want to know, because when my daddy finds out about this, you’ll be in big trouble.” “Why, boy,” said Silverjack, “this here little keg of Mexican dynamite is Jesus Campo Santos, his ownself. And, I suggest your ol’ daddy best leave him be, otherwise, that big fancy ranch house of his just might be emptied out some night and burned to the ground. You can’t never tell about things like that.” - 72 -

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Watts hesitated like he didn’t know what to do next. Jesus Campo Santos reputation was common knowledge. Known and feared throughout the southwest, Campo Santos was called by some, the Graveyard Kid. Watts stomped onto the plank sidewalk and looked around. He tottered over the horse trough before stepping in. Glancing back inside, he caught sight of Silverjack and Jesus peering over the saloon doors. Jesus still held the knife which he waved through the air with a slashing motion. Watts dropped into the murky water. “Your head, pig,” said Jesus. “Put your stinking head under the water.” Bodie Watts gulped air and ducked his head deep into the trough. Silverjack and Jesus strolled back to the bar. Half Jack sat two frosty mugs of beer and a bottle of tequila in front of them. The slapping of bare feet on the plank sidewalk brought laughter from all three men. “I hope the fool gets splinters,” said Half walking away to wait on another customer. “Jesus, how is your sister?” Silverjack said after chugging half his mug of beer. “She is good. I think she feel better after you talk to her. I thank you, mi amigo. Your friendship is much valued.” They finished their beers and chased them with the fiery tequila. Jesus passed the bottle to Silverjack for a second round. Curiosity framed his features. “Silver hair, you went to this place of evil where the malditos stay?” “Yep, Jesus, I just got back. There’s a lot of rough hombres there. We barely escaped with our scalps. If it hadn’t of been for Wes Hardin, we might be buzzard food right now.” “Senor Hardin is there. I thought he was in prison. Does he ride with the malditos?” “Jesus, you ask too many questions. I am old, weary and still thirsty. I can’t answer too well with my gullet all parched up like it is.” “Silver hair, it has been many years since we rode together. You have not changed. I fear you never will.” Jesus breathed deeply, letting the stale air creep from his nostrils. “I am sorry to ask so many questions, but a fire rages

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in my heart. “I will not rest until the hombres who almost killed my sister are muerto. They must die.” Silverjack grabbed his own throat and made choking sounds. “Madre de Dios, amigo!” Jesus said laughing. He had ridden many trails with Silverjack McDonald. Both saved each other’s lives more than once. The old gunfighter was tough, quick with his fists, as well as his guns. No more loyal compadre lived, but Silverjack was unpredictable. His sense of humor bordered on the bizarre. Sometimes he thought the big man was a little bit loco, other times he was convinced of it. Either way, it mattered not to the Mexican pistolero. He and Silverjack were brothers. “Senor Half, come here pronto with another beer for este Viejo before he dies right here in your cantina. We do not need any more flies.” Silverjack got his beer and Jesus got his answers. Most of the story had been told when the saloon doors burst open and Capt. Clay Thornton stomped in. Wes Hardin Jr. tramped in behind him. Clay surveyed the room, stopping when he recognized Silverjack and Jesus. Lowering his head like an attacking bull he advanced toward them. “Oh, Lord,” whispered Silverjack. The saloon got as quiet as a Saturday night drunk on a Sunday morning. “I have been led to believe,” he paused, “there is a wild-eyed, foul mouthed old drifter and a loco greasy Mexican dwarf raising Old Ned in this saloon.” “I ain’t seen nobody fittin’ that description in here, Captain,” said Half Jack “Wild-eyed!” said Silverjack. “No Captain, it is only your brother and me,” said Jesus, looking like an alter boy at Father Sebastian’s mission back in Sonora. “Well, I’m sure relieved to here that,” said Capt. Thornton. “Now, being that it’s past 6 o’clock, and we rangers are off duty for the night, let’s have a beer and talk about old times. Ranger Harper, er, uh, I mean Ranger Hardin, join us old compadres for a drink.” The four men sat at a table. They talked for a few minutes when Silverjack rose and walked to the bar. He came back followed by Half with a - 74 -

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tray in his hands. Four drinks were set on the table-three mugs of cold beer and one mug of cold buttermilk. Ranger Hardin frowned and began to drink his buttermilk. The men parlayed for a while and then Silverjack retired to his hotel room early. He was out when his head hit the pillow. He woke up early, refreshed and ready to take on the world. Dressed in his town clothes, red wool shirt, denim trousers, soft leather moccasins, Silverjack bounded down the stairs. A voice hailed him as he crossed the lobby. “Mr. McDonald, you have a visitor, sir.” Charles Bryson left Boston looking for thrills and adventure in the west. So far all he had seen was the inside of the Justiceburg Hotel and the mundane day to day goings on of a quiet law abiding Texas town. Flaming red hair that stuck out in all directions and a heavy Boston accent combined to earn Charles a western nickname. The tall spindly easterner fit his sobriquet to a T. “Good morning, Boston Red,” said Silverjack. “Morning, sir.” “Every time I come into the lobby, Red, you’re always here. Don’t you ever sleep?” “Yes, sir I do.” Boston Red scratched his cheek and cocked his head. “There is nothing else to do in this sleepy town. I came west seeking adventure. All I’ve found is boredom. I long to do something daring; have at least one adventure before I return to Boston. So far, the opportunity has yet to present itself.” Silverjack eyed the tall Bostonian. “You mentioned a visitor. What does he look like?” “She is a young lady, sir. I believe either Mexican or Indian.” “A woman.” Silverjack fingered his scar. “What did she look like?” Boston Red pursed his lips. “Let me see. She was young, early twenties I would say, quite attractive actually, in an Indian sort of way.” “Hmm,” said Silverjack, “Indian you say?” “Yes, sir, I believe so. She was of medium stature. A long black braid hung down her back. The most striking thing about the young lady was her dark - 75 -

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copper skin. Quite unique, actually. Is this young lady a proper representation of the local heathen females?” “Red, if the young lady is who I ‘spect she is, you’d best not let her hear you call her a heathen.” Silverjack’s eyes grinned. “I’ve met Hawk Wing once. I’m a blood brother to her daddy, a great Comanche war chief. Her mama was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. I reckon she carries the best of both parents. Is she still in the hotel?” “She is upstairs, sir. May I give her a message when she comes down?” “Tell her I’ll be in the Blue Bell café or the Red Peg Leg.” Silverjack stepped outside and headed toward the Blue Bell. He scratched his scar and chuckled to himself. “That Yankee boy is gonna get his heuvos in a bind if he don’t learn that a lady is a lady no matter what color her skin is.” Silverjack settled into a corner table in the back of the café’s busy dining room. A crisp blue and white calico cloth covered the table. The smells of bacon frying and hot strong coffee masked the fragrance of fresh picked flowers resting in a clear vase in the middle of the table. He ordered pancakes, eggs, ham and fried potatoes. When his feast arrived, Silverjack wolfed down the vittles with lots of heavy black Arbuckles. He always enjoyed somebody else’s cooking more than his own. Silverjack pushed back from the table and held his coffee cup in the air. While the harried waitress scurried for the coffee pot, he went over what he had learned about Dixie City and the captives. He‘d seen One Eared Jenny and heard talk in the saloon about more captives being held in an old ranch house outside of town. As many as 200 bad men milled around Dixie City. Most were two-bit hard cases, but some were real bad hombres. With a strong leader holding them together, an army couldn’t stop them. The old colonel was delusional. Butcher Blake was dangerous, but he didn’t have the smarts. Unless another man who hadn’t surfaced yet was the leader, Capt. Sparks of Virginia looked to be the head honcho. The capture of the women made no sense. Nothing about the situation made sense. “God, what a mess.” Silverjack blurted out loud, too loud.

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Chapter Fourteen The waitress, carrying a cup of steaming coffee and hurrying past a table full of cowhands, jumped when Silverjack let go. The contents of her hands flew in the air. Saucer, cup and blistering coffee landed in the lap of an astonished cowboy. The puncher flew out of his chair, jumping around like he was on fire, which he was. His tablemates exploded with laughter as the scalded cowboy gyrated around. The waitress stood a horrified look on her face. “You, goddamned clumsy bitch!” screamed the dancing cowboy, both hands grabbing his crotch. “You might ‘a crippled me for life. If my privates are bad burned, I’m gonna see that the same thing happens to you.” The cowboys at the table stopped laughing. Dub Felker considered himself the toughest hombre on the K/R ranch. Not too skilled with a short gun, he relied on his skills as a rough and tumble fighter to get his point across. Felker had a reputation for beating up prostitutes. If he tried to hurt the waitress his companions couldn’t stop him. “Whoa there, son,” said Silverjack. “That young lady didn’t spill that coffee on purpose. It was an accident. We can work somethin’ out here, but you’re gonna have to watch your mouth. A man don’t blaspheme in front of a lady.” Silverjack paused a moment. “If you got to blame somebody, blame me.” The scalded cowboy stopped his tirade and faced Silverjack. Fire raged in his eyes. ”What the hell are you talkin’ about, old timer? Stay clear of this or after I get through whippin’ this poor excuse of a waitress, I might just whip your old ass too.” Up until now, Silverjack had been trying to be a peacemaker. The cowhand’s remark changed all that. His scar darkened and he stared back at Dub Felker. “Son,” he said. “You ain’t whippin nobody today.” Just about then, Shorty Plum, a sawed-off runt K/R cowboy, reached over and tugged at Felker’s shirt. The angry cowhand jerked his sleeve out of Shorty’s grasp and bellowed like a castrated bull. - 77 -

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“I’ll whip you first, old man. I’ll bust you up so bad your whore mamma won’t even recognize you. After that, I’ll take my time with Miss Priss. Hell, she might even like what I’m goin’ to do with her.” “Let’s do this outside,” said Silverjack in a calm voice. “Suits me,” answered Felker. Everyone began to pile out in the street. Shorty Plum edged up next to Dub Felker. “Dub, I seen this feller fight up Colorado way. The old son-of-a-gun hits like a mule, and I ain’t never seen faster hands.” “You ain’t seen me fight before, have you little man?” Dub Felker looked down at Shorty. “When I finish this chump, I might pop a knot on your head just for the hell of it. Now, get out of my way, you little pinch of shit.” Outside, onlookers formed a circle for the combatants. Felker strode through the crowd, pushing people aside. “Y’all stay out of this thing,” he hollered. “I wouldn’t want folks thinkin’ Dub Felker needed help whippin’ an old wore out drifter. That would be downright embarrassing.” The big puncher continued to talk as he removed his gun belt and handed it to one of his companions. The whole bunches of them, with the exception of Shorty Plum, were grinning like possums eating persimmons. Silverjack had already removed his gun belt and stood ready for Felker’s first move. Experience had taught him that when an opponent kept talking when it was time to fight, the man was usually trying to catch the other fighter off guard. This great windbag is just dumb enough to do that, Silverjack thought, standing on the balls of his feet, relaxed. Sure enough, the loudmouth was in mid-sentence when he swung a roundhouse right aimed at Silverjack’s temple. The old fighter was ready and ducked under the haymaker. He dug a powerful left hook into the meaty part of Felker’s side, savoring a brief moment of satisfaction as he felt one of the man’s ribs crack from the force of his blow. Felker let out a whoosh of air and took a short step backwards, but he stayed on his feet. He dropped his elbows to his sides. In the background, Shorty Plum sighed under his breath. “I told you I’d seen him fight.” - 78 -

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Silverjack hammered Dub Felker with everything he had, but the man was still on his feet and coming hard. Felker swung another roundhouse right. Again Silverjack ducked under the blow. This time the bully anticipated the move. When Silverjack lowered his head, a trip hammer fist crunched down behind Silverjack’s ear. The old gunman dropped to one knee. Desperately trying to clear his head, Silverjack caught a blur out of the corner of his eye and threw himself backwards. A boot scraped skin from his temple but did no major damage. Felker’s foot slammed into the ground throwing him off balance. Seizing the opportunity, Silverjack sprang upwards from his half-sitting, half-kneeling position driving his head deep into Felker’s lower belly. Hot air erupted from the big cowboy’s gaping mouth, and he doubled over. Silverjack jerked his legs under him and sprang up. The top of his head rammed flush into Felker’s chin. Teeth and blood sprayed from the beaten man’s mouth. His face distorted from a crushed jawbone, Felker’s eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled straight back like a felled tree. Shorty Plum jumped aside to keep from being pinned under the falling man. As the battered loser hit the ground, Shorty leaned over the unconscious man and swore under his breath. “Some fools don’t listen to nobody,” he said and spit a mouthful of tobacco in the ruined face of Dub Felker. The fight was over, and the crowd began to disperse. Dub Felker’s companions picked up the leavings and carried him toward the doctor’s office. Shorty Plum muttered something about a hard headed jackass. Jack dusted himself off and started toward the Red Peg Leg. A lilting voice called out to him. “Sir, sir, wait up, please wait up.” He turned to see the young waitress waving at him, and stopped to let her catch up. “Please, sir, I must thank you.” The petite young lady trotted towards Silverjack. Her long blond hair done up in a bun, she smiled showing even white teeth. “You don’t have to thank me,” said Silverjack. “That ol’ boy just needed a lesson in how to treat a lady. I happened to be the one he picked out to teach him. It was my pleasure.” - 79 -

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“Well, I will thank you, anyway, Mr., oh, gracious me, I don’t even know your name.” “It’s Jack McDonald, ma’m.” “Jack McDonald! Are you Texas Ranger Capt. Thornton’s brother?” “Yes, ma’m.” “Goodness, Mr. McDonald, I’ve heard about you all my life. My father used to ride with you back in the old days when you were both Texas Rangers. My name is Sue Ann Sunday. My father is Chris Sunday.” “Well, how ‘bout that,” said Jack. “Ol’ Chris sure was a good ranger. We were friends, but we weren’t too much alike. I was always pretty wild, while he was a straight by the book lawman. Is Chris in these parts?” “Oh, yes, we have a small ranch about ten miles west of town. Daddy hasn’t worked for the law in over five years. I’ll tell him you’re in town. I’m sure he would like to see you, Mr. McDonald.” “Please, call me Jack. You tell your Daddy I would like to see him, but right now, I’ve got some business to attend to. Tell him when I finish I’ll give him a holler.” “Yes, sir, I sure will tell him, and thank you again for saving me.” As Sue Ann said this, she stood on her tip toes and kissed Silverjack on the cheek. Jack began to blush. He was still red five minutes later when he stepped into the Red Peg Leg. He found his compadres sitting at a back table. Everyone he had recruited was there, except Ike Calcott. “About time you showed up,” said Conn Havens. “Yeah, we thought you were going to sleep all day,” added Al Haybinder. “Wait a minute,” said John Benteen. “How come you’re all dirty and it’s not even eight o’clock? Why is your face all red, amigo?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Jack. The scar on his face began to darken. The men at the table, seeing the scar beginning to turn red, ceased there harassment. Half Jack showed up just in time with a pot of hot coffee and a tray of mugs. He set the coffee and mugs on the table and pulled up a chair. “Boys,” he said, “I know I ain’t the man I used to be, but if you hardcases would allow me to be a part of this shebang, I’d be mighty beholdin’ to you.” - 80 -

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Some of the men grinned. Conn Havens chuckled to himself. They all had been wondering when Half Jack would get around to putting on his poor half a man routine. They knew Half had always been a man to ride the river with. He had probably seen the elephant more times than all of them put together. Silverjack frowned. “Hell, you old hard ass, I never figured it any other way. We’re gonna need some wagons, supplies, and men to drive ‘em. You’re the best man I know to round everything up and ramrod that part of the show.” The men around the table nodded their agreement. A smile split Half Jack’s face from ear to nub. He settled in and started pouring the coffee. “Well, fellers,” said Silverjack, “Here’s the situation. The Scarlet Dragon brothel was burned to the ground. At least six people were killed, including Virgil Harp. Most of you knew Virgil. Some of you rode with him. He was a damn good man, too good to be shot down and mutilated by the filthy scum that done him in. It looks like some of the workin’ ladies were kidnapped. The Dragon Lady is missing, too. We don’t know if any of ‘em are dead or alive.” “There’s a town up in that strip of no man’s land that runs between Texas and Kansas. It used to be part of the Nations. It might be in Oklahoma, or it might be in Texas. The best I can tell is that it was an old Mormon settlement that was abandoned a long time ago. Some feller that calls hisself the Colonel took it over and is buildin’ an army out of outlaws, gunfighters, and such. The Colonel calls the place New Dixie City, and the old fool intends on bringin’ the Confederacy back.” “What?” said Conn Havens. “That’s about the damnedest fool idea I ever heard. It’s been more than twenty-five years since the war’s been over. Most of the scars have healed. That man has got to be stopped.” “I agree with Conn,” said John Benteen, “but what does this Colonel and his confounded dreams have to do with the Scarlet Dragon?” “That’s where the ladies are bein’ held,” said Silverjack. “Our job is to free them and destroy, or, at least, break up the Colonel’s army.” “Jack, how many men are we going to have?” asked John Benteen. “Right now, we’ve got eight men. I’ve tried to get more, but, I ain’t had much luck. I’ve got some irons in the fire, but, so far, nothin’ for sure.” - 81 -

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The men dropped into deep discussion about how best to work out their problems. They were hard at it and failed to notice the copper skinned young lady enter the saloon. She sauntered up to the group. “Hello, Silver hair,” she said, as she stepped up beside Silverjack. Everyone at the table looked up.

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Chapter Fiveteen “Young lady, you can’t come in here,” said Half Jack. “This is a saloon.” “I am aware of that fact, sir, thank you,” she snapped at Half, leaving him with his mouth agape. “My name is Hawk Wing. I am the daughter of Lee John Bearkiller, war chief of the Comanche Nation. I am a friend of Silver hair, and I am here to join with you gentlemen. Your quest is a noble one. My father was once a great warrior, but now he is just a politician, nothing more. The blood of the great Comanche chiefs Peta Nacona and Quanah Parker runs through my veins. Although I am female, I have been trained in the Comanche way. You will find me to be a good warrior.” “Well, damn!” said Silverjack. “Hawk Wing, does your Daddy know you’re here?” “Oh, I think he does, by now,” said Hawk Wing, a wicked smile playing across her lips. “I was so mad at him for not helping you. His work with the government has changed him so much. He thinks too much with his head and not with his heart. He was not always this way. When I was young we rode all over the prairies, and the hills and the streams. He taught me how to hunt, and fish, and survive off the land. I know he always wanted a son, but that was not to be. I will make him proud of me. I will become his warrior offspring.” “Lord, girl, your Daddy’s gonna come after you, and he’s liable to skin my hide.” “Yes, that is part of my plan,” said Hawk Wing, “my Daddy coming here, that is, not him skinning your hide. Silverjack, why is that scar on the side of your face turning purple?” “I could have kept ridin’,” mumbled Silverjack, “but, no, I had to come to Justiceburg for some peace and quiet. Aw, hell, there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now, so, we’ll just go on with this thing and see what happens next.” Silverjack didn’t have to wait as long as he thought he would for something else to happen. He didn’t have to wait at all. The saloon doors burst open and in barged Lee John Bearkiller, half Comanche, half Negro, and all pissed off. “Daddy, I knew you would come,” said Hawk Wing running to hug her father. - 83 -

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“Silver hair, what is the reason my daughter is here?” asked L J Bear. “Daddy I came of my own accord. We just had to help your blood brother, Silver hair. He is family, and besides the cause is a just one. Oh, Daddy, I knew you really wanted to come, but you have been so wrapped up in tribal politics and trying to keep the town running smoothly, plus all of your other duties. You have always told me love and friendship are sacred. ‘Do not take blood or friendship lightly, little one, for they are the reason we live.’ That is what you have always said, Daddy. I believe in those truths.” “Hawk Wing, you are so much like your Mother,” said L. J. Bearkiller, “it sometimes frightens me. When I would stray from the path the great father had chosen for me, it was always she who cleared my head and made me remember my heart. You are truly your Mother’s daughter.” “Yes, I am, but I am equally my Father’s daughter, too.” “I’ll second that,” said Silverjack. The scar on his face had turned back to a chalky white. “Now that you’re here, Bearkiller, you might as well stay for the fun, or at least join our council of war. We could use your battle experience, oh mighty Bearkiller, greatest of all Comanche war chiefs.” “Cut the buffalo crap, Jack,” said L J Bear. “I will sit in on your council, but I will not fight your battle.” “Thank you, compadre, we need all the ideas we can get,” said Silverjack. “I have an idea!” said Hawk Wing. “Lord deliver us,” said Silverjack. L. J. Bearkiller groaned. “Hawk Wing, we appreciate everything you’ve done so far, but it’s up to us men to finish this dance.” Jack said this while smiling what he hoped was a sincere smile. “Don’t waste your breath Silver hair. We will hear her out. The choice is not ours to make.” “Thank you, Daddy,” said Hawk Wing. “Our primary reason for doing this is to rescue those ladies. Am I correct?” The silent men nodded, and she went on. “Tell me if I am wrong about anything, because much of my information is second-hand, however, I believe my sources to be reliable.” “Excuse me, darlin’,” said Silverjack screwing up his face. “I know you and your daddy have been to college back East, but, except for Marshal Benteen, - 84 -

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most of us ain’t understandin’ much of what you’re tryin’ to say. Could you speak Western so us simple ol’ cowboys could figure out what your idea is?” The young Comanche maiden blushed, causing her beautiful copper skin glow. “I’m sorry Silver hair. I didn’t mean anything by speaking that way, that’s just how I talk.” “Indin’ go to white man’s school, learn much. Now got heap big white man’s magic in tiny red brain,” said L J Bear, smiling. Everyone laughed including Hawk Wing. She started over with her idea, this time in Western. “If we want to rescue those ladies, first we have to find out where they are being held. We just can’t ride into town and ask somebody; we need a plan. Someone has to be on the inside and that someone is me.” “Stop now!” said L J Bear. “This will not happen.” All the men protested Hawk Wing’s idea. Silverjack raised his hands for silence. L J Bear started to speak again, but Jack reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I agree with everyone here,” he said, “but we said we would hear her out, so let her talk.” Amidst much grumbling, Hawk Wing continued on. “Silver hair can take me to Dixie City as his captive. He can trade me to the people in charge there in exchange for giving him sanctuary in the town. Daddy, you can trail us, but keep hidden. When they take me to where the girls are, daddy can follow and learn where that place is. He can then get back with Silver hair and the rest of you gentlemen, and you can form a plan to save us. As for destroying the army, that’s up to you. My main interest is to help those poor ladies. Oh, yes, if you don’t agree with me, I will find someone else who will help me. I’m sure there are plenty of men around here who would be willing to help an attractive young lady with her dilemma.” The men sat there in stunned silence. Jack, as usual, was the first to speak. “Damned, if I don’t believe that could work. It’s up to you, Bearkiller. What do you think?” “Silver hair, I have no choice. She is a woman, not a child. I can only advise her; I cannot control her.” “How about you other fellers,” said Jack, “what do you think?” “It’s too dangerous, Jack,” said John Benteen. - 85 -

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“That shore is takin’ a big chance.” Al Haybinder shook his head. “Too rough, Silver, too rough,” Conn Havens added. “I have no sons,” said L J Bear, “only this one daughter. She is my life. She is smart, she is tough, and she can be dangerous if she has to be. As she said, she will do this thing, with or without us. I will go with her.” “I agree with Bearkiller,” said Silverjack. “We’ve got to get off the pot on this one. We could find out how many ladies are there while we’re workin’ on our war plan.” After a short discussion the plan was accepted. Half Jack opened his saloon for the day. The rest of the bunch went their different directions agreeing to meet again after supper. As they were leaving, Jesus Camposantos stopped Hawk Wing on her way to the hotel. “Senorita, I must tell you. What you do is a brave thing. You have my admiration, muchas gracias.” Jesus removed his sombrero and bowed. Hawk Wing smiled at the Mexican pistolero, as she and her father headed for the hotel. Silverjack lingered in the saloon. He declined the offer of a beer, but wanted to talk to Half Jack. “Half,” he said, “I’m gettin’ too old to have much fun anymore. After this fandango is over with, I’m thinkin’ real serious about settlin’ down. I might buy me a little piece of land around here and run a few head of stock. Maybe I could grow some potatoes and tomatoes, and what not. I might even get hitched if I can find the right woman. What do you think compadre?” I don’t think much of it at all,” said Half Jack. “You’re gonna die with your boots on, just like the rest of your breed.” Jack let out a big sigh. “Yeah, I reckon your right, but, right now, it sure seems invitin’.” “Uh, huh, just make sure those dreams don’t turn into nightmares. Besides, you done had and lost the best woman you’ll ever have a chance to get.” “Aw, Half, I know that. I think about her everyday. Now, I don’t even know if she’s dead or alive. You’ve seen her, ain’t you Half? How has she been gettin’ along?” “She’s still the most beautiful woman I ever saw. Jack, when you two split up she went to work for the Dragon Lady, but she never turned no tricks.” - 86 -

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“What!” Jack’s head jerked up like a stepped on copperhead. “But I thought she was a --.” The word stuck in Jack’s craw. “Yeah, most everybody else thought that for a while. She went to work at the Scarlet Dragon cleaning and cooking. In a short time, she worked her way up to doin’ the books for the place. I guess she was real good at that. For the last six months up until the fire, she ran the place. Lately, Mai Ling was always away somewhere on business.” “Every time I came back to town,” said Silverjack, “I went to the Dragon intendin’ to talk to her, but she would never see me. I figured she was too embarrassed because she had become a workin’ woman.” “Well, I’m here to tell you, she didn’t,” said Half Jack. “I believe you, Half. It’s just that, after all these years, I can’t believe I let her go. What a fool I’ve been.” “Some lessons come hard learned, amigo. How about that beer on the house?” “Sure, and give me a shot, too. No, make that a double shot.” Jack drained the mug of draft beer, and slammed down the double shot of rye whiskey. He pounded the bar with the glass in his hand. The shot glass cracked, but didn’t break. “Half, Crystal’s alive, and I’m gonna find her.” The scar on Silverjack’s face began to pulsate. “There are things I need to say to her. Lord, I love that woman. I always have. I’ve got to let her know how I feel.” Silverjack fingered his scar. “I gotta get with Bearkiller right away. We have to leave tomorrow mornin’. Half, I’ll get with you about the wagons and supplies tonight. I’ll be at the Ranger’s office, then the hotel if anybody needs me.” He walked out of the saloon and down towards the Ranger station. The street seemed dustier than usual, and the August sun was in its full glory. It’s too damn early to start sweatin’, thought Jack. In the past he had seldom been bothered by the heat. Now it seemed like he was carrying a blacksmith’s anvil on his shoulders. He was tired. “Am I really too old for these kinds of shenanigans?” he said to himself. He was beginning to doubt his ability to pull this thing off. - 87 -

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Lost in thought, Jack almost walked past his brother’s office. Realizing he was there, he quickly stepped inside. The coolness of the Ranger station felt good. He took off his hat and mopped his brow. Ranger Hardin was sitting behind his desk. “Howdy, Jack,” said Wes Hardin Jr. “The Captain is expecting you. Say, you’re all dirty. What happened?” “I fell down. Don’t ask me any thing else.” “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be rude.” “Aw, it’s okay, kid, I’m just worried about the ladies, and Dixie City, and everthing.” “Sir,” said Wes Hardin Jr., quickly changing the subject. “I would like to go with you to Dixie City, if you will have me?” “Well, sure,” said Silverjack, surprised that the young man would be so eager to return to the outlaw stronghold. “I’d be honored to have you.” “Great!” said the young ranger. “I’ll start packing my gear tonight when I get off shift. Oh, Captain Thornton said you were to go on in when you got here.” Silverjack nodded, and walked over to the Captain’s office. He knocked once and stepped inside. The stench of expensive cigars filled the office, making the drab interior less hospitable than normal. Clay Thornton sat at his desk reading a letter. Jack noticed the solemn look on his brother’s face. “What’s the matter, Stubby?” said Jack. “You look like the first bull in line at nut cuttin’ time.” Clay looked up, his face expressionless. If he heard Jack’s comments, he failed to acknowledge them. “Oh, hello Jackie,” he said. He hadn’t called his brother Jackie since they were kids. Silverjack hated that name as much as Clay hated “Stubby.” They had used those names to irritate each other as children. This time the way Clay said “Jackie” was different. Something was wrong. “I’ve been transferred to Austin,” said Clay. “They think it’s time I took a desk job in the capitol. My replacement is already on the way. He should arrive tomorrow. I have a week to settle my affairs here and move down there.” - 88 -

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Silverjack stood in stunned silence. The Texas Rangers were Clay Thornton’s life. Even though he now spent considerable time at a desk, he still could work the field whenever he wanted to. Going to Austin meant working at a desk all day, everyday. The monotony of the big city would kill Clay. “Jack, I can’t swear y’all into the Rangers. I no longer have the authority.” “What!” said Jack, “Why?” “As of 12 o’clock today, I was no longer a Texas Ranger. I sent my resignation off with the noon mail. I’ve been a ranger for twenty years, now I am just a civilian. “Does that mean we will have no official authority when we go to Dixie City?” “I’m afraid it does. Jack. You can’t do this now. It has to be done legally. The Rangers will get around to it if time permits.” “If time permits! Goddamnit, Clay, we ain’t got no time. If anyone is still alive, Lord knows what is happenin’ to them. We have to do somethin’ right away. I’m leavin’ in the mornin’. To hell with authority.” “Don’t try it Jack. You and everyone with you will become fugitives from justice. The Rangers will hunt you down. You’ll have to leave Texas and never come back.” “Well, old son, then that is exactly what I’ll do,” said Jack. The scar on his face pulsated crimson. “Jack, I can’t let you do this. I have to stop you.” Clay stood up and stepped to the edge of the big oak desk. A .36 Navy colt revolver was wedged in his belt. “Clay, you better stop this bullshit. You ain’t even a ranger anymore. Come on with us. It’ll be just like old times. Screw the rangers.” “Private Hardin,” Clay yelled, “come in here.” Wes Hardin Jr. had been listening to the conversation grow into an argument between the two brothers. He did not want to become involved, but, now he had no choice. Entering the room, he stared wide-eyed at the site before him. Capt. Thornton stood beside his desk, his right hand hovering above the pistol in his belt. His face was ashen. Silverjack was standing six feet away facing the captain. His eyes had the look of a hawk just before it swooped down upon its prey. His bronzed skin shimmered in - 89 -

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contrast to the scarlet gash that writhed on the side of his face. White froth gathered at the corners of his mouth. Ranger Hardin stepped back in alarm. “Stay out of this, kid,” said Jack “This is between me and my brother. He ain’t a Texas Ranger no more, so he ain’t your boss. This is family business.” Wes Hardin Jr. drew his pistol. His eyes darted back and forth between the brothers. “Captain Thornton, what’s he talking about?” said the Ranger. “You’re still a ranger aren’t you, sir?” Clay Thornton’s body sagged like a man defeated. His voice was a low croak. “I sent in my resignation at noon today, son. I am no longer a member of the Texas Rangers.” “Damn it! Why, sir?” said the Ranger Hardin. “I don’t understand. The Ranger’s are your life.” “I have my reasons. They’re my business, not yours.” “Yes, sir, well, since I am the only ranger in this room, I reckon I’m in charge of this situation. I demand that both of you cool down until you can talk to each other in a civilized manner. Jack, you get out of here now and don’t come back into this office unless you need a ranger. Captain, err, uh, Mr. Thornton you stay in this office until you settle down. If you two don’t do what I say, I’ll arrest you both for disturbing the peace and you’ll go to jail. Now, do what I said!” Silverjack shook his head and made a guttural sound deep in his throat. He stared, frowning, at his brother for a moment, and then he started for the door. As he passed Ranger Hardin, who was still clutching his six-gun, Jack stopped and gazed into the young ranger’s eyes. “Next time you pull a gun on me, kid,” said Silverjack. “I’ll kill you.”

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Chapter Sixteen Silverjack stayed up most of the night working on a plan. He had told the rest of the bunch they would not have the support of the Texas Rangers. He gave them the opportunity to leave if they didn’t like the play. Everybody stayed. John Benteen said he might know where to round up some more men. He rode out at dusk. Harlan Gilstrap had ridden in from the territories about midnight. There was still no sign of Ike Calcott. It was decided that Jack and Hawk Wing would go to Dixie City as planned, with L. J. Bearkiller, to find the place where the ladies were kept. Everyone else in town was to sit tight until they got word from Jack. Silverjack, Bear, and Hawk Wing were well into there journey by the time the sun first appeared over the eastern horizon. Soft pail sheets of golden light spread across the desert. Night creatures hurried to their burrows to hide and rest, safe for one more day. Cactus, mesquite, and sage stretched to greet the coming dawn. Before the land was fully awake, L. J. Bearkiller said his goodbyes and rode northwest. He soon disappeared amongst the small hillocks and dry arroyos that covered the countryside. Silverjack looked at the young Comanche woman as she watched her father go. “Hawk Wing,” he said, “you know you forced your old man into this, don’t you?” “He did not need much persuasion,” said Hawk Wing, not taking her eyes off of the spot where her father had been a moment ago. She smiled at Jack. “My father has too long been a politician. Soon the days of true freedom for our people will be past. Times are changing. That is the way of it.” Hawk Wing sat and gazed out at the wide open spaces. The horizon stretched far in all directions. She looked, but she did not see. “My father is not so young any more,” she said. “In years, maybe he is, but not in mind and body. The responsibilities of his position lay heavy upon his spirit. He will enjoy this fight. I will tell his grandchildren of his many brave deeds. The story of this fight will be my favorite. This I know. Today, I go into battle, with my father, as a Comanche warrior. This is a great day.” - 91 -

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“Lord, Lord,” said Silverjack, “ain’t this woman somethin’ else.” They rode due north until the sun was straight up in the sky. Both rode in silence, savoring the land. They stopped briefly for their midday meal, cold fried chicken and biscuits that Jack had picked up the night before from the Blue Bell Cafe. He had seen Sue Ann Sunday there and she had wished him well. After eating they turned northwest. Silverjack was in a hurry to get to Dixie City, but he was apprehensive about their plan. If it didn’t go down right, he and Hawk Wing would be in serious trouble. He might die, but her life could become a nightmare. Tomorrow just outside of Dixie City they would begin play acting. He hoped like hell they could pull this thing off. Jack’s mind drifted to his brother and the events of yesterday. “Christ,” he mumbled, “we were toe to toe. I could have killed Clay.” That thought stood up the hair on the back of his neck, and an icy chill enveloped him. Could he pull iron on his only brother, would he? It had been a long time since Silverjack McDonald had been that angry. “Damn Clay, anyway, resigning from the Rangers. He knew better than that, and threatening to stop this mission. The letter from Austin must have shaken Clay up so bad he didn’t know what he was doing.” Jack hoped Clay would see that he was right and not send the Rangers to stop him. He had plenty to worry about as it was. Jack figured they were about twenty miles out of Dixie City when he decided to stop and make camp. A ring of boulders surrounded a small spring. Grass was plentiful, and there were enough trees to dissipate the smoke from the campfire. They cooked a light supper and turned in early. Silverjack lay in his bedroll, restless. Looking over at Hawk Wing, he marveled at how she took everything in stride. She had fallen asleep within minutes of lying down. She was so much like her mother. Jack had lived, off and on, in Comanche camps since he had been big enough to ride. He first met Little Badger, Hawk Wing’s mother, as a boy. Over the years they had grown close. Little Badger had considered him her brother. Silverjack and Bearkiller became blood brothers on the night Little Badger accepted Bearkiller as her mate. Jack had been there a year later when Hawk Wing was born. Little Badger died giving birth to her only child. Hawk Wing was Little Badger, in spirit and body. - 92 -

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Silverjack rolled and tumbled, going in and out of fitful sleep. The few times sleep did come brought on nightmares. Buildings blazing out of control, people screaming, and the smell of burnt flesh assailed Jack’s senses until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He woke up sweating. Jack lay in his soogan for a moment, rubbing his eyes. Able to sleep no longer, he got up, saddled Bess and rode out into the night. The sun was due up in an hour, and the pre-dawn air was fresh and cool. Silverjack gave Bess her head, and rode in no particular direction trying to clear his mind. He was about three miles from camp when the eastern sky began to lighten. Concerned about what Hawk Wing might think if she awoke and he was not there, Jack started to guide Bess towards the camp. As they turned, Bess began to act up. “Whoa there, girl,” said Silverjack, patting Bess on the neck. “What’s bothering you?” Even before he had asked the question, Jack knew what the problem was. Dawn’s first light had exposed buzzards, a dozen or more, circling in the sky. Death was close by. He headed Bess in the direction of the flying scavengers. The mare was skittish but she obeyed. Silverjack could smell the dead man long before he saw him. It was the smell, not the birds that had spooked Bess. Jack rubbed Bess’s neck, and spoke to her in a soft calming tone. Both had smelled the mind numbing stench of death many times before. No smell on earth could compare to it. Jack rode to within ten yards of the dead man. After tying Bess’s reins to a large creosote bush, he removed his bandana, and rubbed it into the bush. The acrid smell of the creosote would help keep the stench of death from reaching their nostrils. Jack started to walk towards the dead man. The closer he got the more repulsed he became. The man had been stripped naked and laid out on an anthill. His arms and legs were stretched out from his body and tied with rawhide strips to wooden stakes anchored in the hard pack ground. Some of the braver vultures had descended and were tearing chunks of rancid meat from the body. Jack pulled his pistol and fired two shots into the air. The carrion eaters scattered and flew back into the sky, ever circling. Silverjack gave an involuntary shutter as he beheld the carnage before him. Coyotes had eaten away the dead man’s sexual organs and anus. Traces - 93 -

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of some kind of sticky residue covered what little remained of the corpse’s face. As Jack stepped up beside what was left of the man, he choked back nausea and forced himself to look down at the poor devil. The mouth was open in a silent scream. Red Harvester ants were busy running trails in and out of the gaping hole. Round empty eye sockets stared unblinking into morning sun. The skin was a mass of puss filled blisters some of which had burst leaving tiny craters of cooked flesh. Silverjack turned his head and retched. “My God,” he said, wiping his mouth with his buckskin sleeve, “what could a man do to deserve this?” Jack could stand no more of this spectacle, and turned to go. As he was leaving, he noticed that the man’s hands and feet had not been ravaged like the rest of the body. He was looking at the hands when his eyes froze on the left one. The left hand was missing the little finger. Jack pulled a Bowie knife from his right boot and sliced the leather strip binding the right hand. He turned the hand over and scraped away the embedded sand with the Bowie. When he saw the faded tattoo of a black star, Jack’s head dropped to his chest, and he closed his eyes. The dead man was Hank Summers; the man who said he had killed Silverjack in Tombstone. Silverjack took off his hat and ran his hand thru his silver hair. His attitude had turned from pity for this stranger into silent rage against the filth that did this to a man he once considered a friend. Silverjack stumbled back to Bess and opened his saddle bags. He rummaged around until he found a pint bottle of rye whiskey. He carried the bottle back to Hank Summer’s body. Uncorking the bottle, Jack took a long draw on its contents. He looked down at the remains of his old saddle mate. “Hank,” he said, “boy you could always get yourself into the damndest messes of anybody I ever knew. You were pretty much an asshole, but I guess you couldn’t help that. Anyway, I sort of feel responsible for what happened to you. Old son, I swear on my sainted Mother’s grave that the bastards who did this to you will pay dearly.” Silverjack drained the whiskey until there was a small amount left in the bottle. He poured the rest of the whiskey into Hank Summer’s mouth. Red ants boiled out of the hole like they were on fire. Jack piled as many rocks as - 94 -

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he could on top of the body. When he finished he laid the empty whiskey bottle at the head of the grave and walked back to Bess. He untied her and stepped into the saddle. Turning Bess in the direction of camp, he gave one final look to the grave and tipped his hat. The smell of coffee boiling and bacon frying greeted Silverjack as he rode into camp. Hawk Wing stood up from her cooking and watched him dismount. “Where have you been?” she said. Jack told her where he went and what he saw. Hawk Wing sat stoic as she listened to his story. They drank the coffee in silence. The bacon went uneaten. After the coffee was gone, Jack scattered the remains of their fire, and they packed up the camp. Within ten minutes he and Hawk Wing were again riding towards Dixie City. Three hours later the outlaw stronghold came into sight. The sun was high, and Silverjack was sweating a river. He wondered how much was caused by the heat, and how much was caused by the situation. Whatever the case, he had to hold it together until this was finished. He glanced over at Hawk Wing. She looked uneasy. “Well, Comanche warrior,” he said, “are you ready to do this thing?” “It was my idea,” she said, “but, now, I’m not so sure it will work. I’m afraid Silverhair. I’ve been scared before in my life, but not like this. Do I look frightened?” “You look on edge, but, I reckon that would be normal if you was really my captive. You’ll do okay. We’ll get through this here like it weren’t nothin’, then we’ll free them ladies and have us the biggest shebang you ever did see.” Hawk Wing tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t cooperate. Silverjack reached over and tied her hands behind her back. He rigged his lariat into a loose fitting loop and placed it around her neck, curling the rest of the rope around his saddle horn. Clutching the reins of Hawk Wing’s horse in his right hand, he nudged Bess, and they rode down a gentle incline into Dixie City.

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Chapter Seventeen Just like his previous visit, Silverjack rode into the outlaw stronghold like he owned the place. Only this time he drew a lot more attention because of the beautiful girl riding alongside him. As they approached the saloon, a tall, rangy, broad shouldered man stepped into the street blocking Hawk Wing’s horse from advancing. He wore a black patch over his left eye. A broad red sash encircled his waist. A .36 cal. Navy pocket revolver fit snugly in the sash. In loose fitting black wool pants and large button less shirt, the man looked like he would be more at home on a pirate ship than in town. “Bon jour, mon amis,” said the olive skinned man to Jack. “I do not know you, but I must thank you for bringing this beautiful young mademoiselle to our humble little town. It has been too long since my eyes have been blessed by such breathtaking beauty, Ses magnifique.” The stranger continued to smile at Silverjack, who sat expressionless in his saddle. Defiance masked Hawk Wing’s face. Her fear was gone, replaced with contempt. “If the mademoiselle will permit, I will show her around Dixie City,” said the pirate. Out of nowhere, a long slim stiletto appeared in the man’s right hand, and he reached up to cut the rope around Hawk Wing’s neck. “You touch her Frenchy, and I’ll put out your other eye,” said Jack. The man’s knife hand froze in mid air. The smile on his face looked strained. He looked up at Silverjack, his smile turning into a sneer. “Mon amis, perhaps you do not know who I am,” he said. “Let me introduce myself. I am Claude Bouchet’ of New Orleans. I only offer the young lady the pleasure of my company for a little while. Then you can have her back.” The small crowd of gun slicks that had gathered were laughing and looking around at each other like something real funny was happening, all but one, who moved up beside the Louisianan. Silverjack recognized the man. It was Flatnose, one of the men guarding the saloon door when Jack first came to town. “Fellers, there’s no need to get all fired up now over a woman. We’ve got to stay together,” said Flatnose. “We’re all on the same side here. The

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Captain said he would make us all rich men, and that ain’t going to happen if we fight amongst ourselves.” Bouchet’ scowled, but most of the rest of the crowd sided with Flatnose. “I know what side I am on, monsieur,” said Claude Bouchet’, “but this man, he is not known to me. Is he one of us? What is he called?” “Shucks, is that all,” said Flatnose. “Let me introduce you two hombres. Claude Bouchet’ meet Silverjack McDonald.” Bouchet’s voice almost betrayed his surprise but not quite. “Silverjack McDonald, Monsieur, your reputation precedes you. I have been told you are a dangerous man. Is that the truth or, perhaps, just the blowing of the wind?” “Bouchet,” said Jack, “I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t give a damn. This woman is my property and I will shoot anybody who touches her.” Claude Bouchet stood for a moment, then he stepped back from the horses. Removing his hat, he smiled at Hawk Wing and bowed at the waist. “Mr. McDonald,” said Flatnose, “Can I help you find something?” “Yeah, you can. I need to see the Colonel. I’ve got a business deal for him.” Silverjack glanced over at Hawk Wing, who was glaring at him with the same fire in her eyes that greeted Bouchet’. “Damn,” he said to himself, “Hawk Wing was about ready to feed that Bouchet’ feller his ears. I sure hope she holds that temper of hers.” Flatnose mounted his horse and the three riders proceeded down Main Street. The horse’s hooves stirred up little dust clouds, most of which settled on the horses sticky sweat drenched legs. Claude Bouchet’ spoke to no one in particular. “I will have that young coquette, and I will kill that Texas ruffian.” He looked around at the half dozen gunmen still milling around. “Mes amis, my friends, today I have met an Angel. Let us retire to the saloon. Drinks are on Claude Bouchet’.” Erupting in good natured laughter, the men started in the direction of the saloon. Two of the crowd held back, a stocky dark skinned man, and his compadre, a tall red headed beanpole. “Freckles, I don’t like this set up,” said the stocky one. - 97 -

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“Yeah, Chunk, I know,” said the beanpole. “They’s too much bad blood here. Some of these hombres are always on the prod. That Bouchet’ is a real mean man.” “Uh, huh,” said Chunk,” but I seen that Silverjack feller in action. If he ain’t the best I ever saw with a short gun, I shore would hate to live off of the difference. One time down in El Paso the Baca brothers went gunnin’ for Honest John Benteen. Silverjack was with Benteen when the Baca’s called him out, so he just sorter went along for the fun.” “For the fun!” said Freckles, eyes wide. “There were six of them Baca boys, as I recollect. That don’t sound like any fandango to me. That sounds like suicide.” “That’s what it turned out to be. Only it was suicide for the Baca brothers. All them boys went toe to toe slinging lead, and it was a glorious sight to see. Damn, son, the Baca’s never had a chance. Only one escaped with his life and he’s a cripple now.” “Enrique Baca!” said Freckles, “why, he’s here in Dixie City right now.” “Freckles, me and you, we done some bad things in our lives, and I ain’t no coward, but I believe it’s time we forked our broncs and rode west.” “I think you’re right, podnuh, but what about those free drinks from Bouchet’?” “Hell, I never did like that Creole son of a bitch anyway. Besides, I don’t drink with no dead man. He may not know it yet, but shore as you’re covered with little red spots, Silverjack McDonald is gonna have to kill him, and soon, I’m thinkin’.” The two partners ambled to their horses, mounted, and rode at a trot out of Dixie City. They didn’t look back. Flatnose led Silverjack and his captive past the town’s only saloon. “The Colonel don’t hold court in the saloon, anymore?” asked Jack. “No, sir, he’s got an office and everything now,” said Flatnose. “Say, “said Jack, “what ever happened to Fat, the man who was guarding the saloon with you the first time I came to town? I sorta took a liking to him.” “Uh, huh,” said Flatnose, “one day he went out to take his place on guard duty and never came back. I checked where he stayed; his war bag was gone. I - 98 -

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reckon he went back to Tennessee and his mama’s farm. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of foolishness, anyhow.” Silverjack pulled back on Bess’s reins and she stopped. He stared at Flatnose for a moment without speaking. Flatnose stared back. “Son,” said Jack, “you seem to have more smarts than the usual gunhand. What makes you think you’re cut out for this?” “Don’t know anything else,” said the young man. “Both my folks died in the war. Yankee carpetbaggers burned down our house. They shot my mama and my little brother, hit me in the face with a musket butt, thought I was dead, too. That’s how I come to be so handsome.” He glanced over at Hawk Wing to see if she caught his meaning. Her face was stone. “Grape shot killed my Pa at Vicksburg. The hell of it was, even though we lived in Georgia, my Daddy believed in the United States staying together. He was a blue coat. He rode scout for Gen. McClellan. My uncles on my Mama’s side took me in and raised me like their own. They both rode with Maj. Mosby’s Raiders until the surrender.” “What’s your name, son?” said Jack. “It’s Jimmy Boone, sir.” “Flatnose Jim Boone,” said Jack. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid that’s what they call me.” “Hell, Jimmy, I know both of your uncles, Aaron and Clint Bodine. That is I used to know ‘em. Fact is, I was with Aaron up in Creede, Colorado when he cashed in. He got back shot by Little Robert Ford, just like Ford back shot Jesse James. We hung that little bastard right there. I ain’t heard nothin’ about Clint in a coon’s age. “Uncle Clint’s dead, too,” said Jimmy Boone. Sadness crept into his voice. “I ain’t got no kinfolks alive that I know of. I just drift and find work where I can.” “Do you like it here?” said Hawk Wing. Jimmy Boone’s head jerked in Hawk Wing’s direction. Then he looked back and forth between the two. “I don’t know what you two are doing here, but you’re not what you appear to be. Back yonder you said this woman was your property. But, it - 99 -

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looks to me, she ain’t anybody’s property. As for you, Silverjack, I know your reputation, and you’re not a slaver. What in blazes is going on here?” “Well, Jimmy Boone, maybe you need to answer the young lady’s question. Do you like it here?” For a long moment, Boone sat still in his saddle looking straight ahead. He sighed and ran his right hand down his face. “No, sir,” he said. “I hate it here. I know that Col. Pickering is no longer in charge. Capt. Sparks and Butcher Blake have got something going on. They’re keeping a bunch of women at an old ranch a few miles west of town. Most of the men here have been using the ladies as washer women and whores. I haven’t been out there, but I’ve seen some of them in town. They act real strange, like their addled or hopped up on opium or something. I’ve heard rumors about gold being stashed somewhere around here, too. There ain’t going to be any glorious New South, either. This place is going to explode.” “How many women do you think they have at this ranch?” asked Jack. “From watching the freight that gets hauled out there, I expect they have thirty, maybe more. They haul two big wagon loads of goods every week.” “Thirty!” said Jack. “That means they must have more than just the girls from the Scarlet Dragon. This thing keeps gettin’ stranger and stranger. I can’t figure what these nitwits have got in mind. Hawk Wing, what do you think?” “I think you have talked too much in this street, and we had better get on with what we came here to do,” said Hawk Wing. “Yeah, you’re right,” said Silverjack. “Jimmy, if you meant what you said a while ago, there’s a little town some miles south of here called Ghost Creek. Some good men are gonna be comin’ there real soon. When you leave here ride down there and wait a couple of days. I’ll meet you there.” “I’ll do ‘er,” said Boone. “I’ll leave tonight. I’ll see you in a few days. Oh, the Colonel’s office is in that big brown building up yonder on the left.” Jimmy Boone raised his right hand, pulled his horse around and was gone. “Smart young man,” said Silverjack. “Pretty, too,” said Hawk Wing. - 100 -

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Chapter Eighteen Silverjack and his prisoner rode until they came to the large brown building. It was a two story structure with a false front. A dilapidated covered porch ran the length of the building. Silverjack dismounted. He jerked Hawk Wing off her horse and they climbed three steps to the top of the porch. A massive red faced man in an ill fitting Confederate uniform met them at the door. Jack thought of a roast pig on a spit. “Halt!” said Pig Face. “Who are you and what is your business?” “My name is Silverjack McDonald, and I have a gift for Col. Pickering.” “The Colonel is ill. Capt. Sparks is in charge.” “Then I will see him,” said Jack. “Yes, sir, just a moment please.” The guard disappeared inside the building, reappearing right away with another uniformed man. This one sported a balding head and a thin, scraggly black moustache. He too carried his share of lard around his waist. “Sure looks like these boys eat regular around here.” Silverjack whispered to Hawk Wing. “I’m Lt. Cady,” said the man, frowning. “What do you want? Be quick about it, man, you are wasting my time.” “I would like to see Capt. Sparks,” said Jack, one more time. “I have something to give him.” “The Captain ain’t got time for the likes of you, old timer. You give whatever this thing is to me. I personally inspect anything given to the Captain. Hand it over.” “Why is it,” said Silverjack, “ever time I try to see one of the hot shots here, there’s always some big ol’ goofy bastard trying to stop me?” The guard jumped between Jack and Lt. Cady. He rammed his rifle up against Silverjack’s chest. Jack jerked his right knee to the guard’s groin. As Pig Face crumpled, Jack wrenched the rifle from his slack fingers and slammed it into the man’s right temple knocking Pig Face down and to the side. Taking a quick step forward with his left foot, Jack thrust the rifle barrel deep into Lt. Cady’s belly. A whoosh of air escaped from Cady’s lungs, and he doubled over in agony. - 101 -

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Silverjack led Hawk Wing inside. They had to step around Lt. Cady, who was kneeling over the threshold, retching out the front door. As she stepped over the fallen man, Hawk Wing kicked him in the rear. Lt. Cady collapsed into his own vomit. Jack and Hawk Wing entered a small office. A rickety looking desk sat in the middle of the room with a chair behind it. A closed door centered the back wall of the room. Jack took two strides to reach the door. He drew his right leg back and crashed his boot into it, doorknob high. Hinges screamed, and the door whipped open smashing into pieces as it slammed against the wall. Jack stepped over the remnants of his destruction into the back office. At the back of the room, perched up behind an enormous burled oak desk, sat Capt. Alfordus Sparks of Virginia. On the wall behind Capt. Sparks hung the faded remnants of a Confederate battle flag. Seeing the flag, Jack removed his hat and brushed back his long hair. He advanced towards Capt. Sparks, who was staring a hole through him. “What is the meaning of this, sir?” said the Captain. “Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, sir,” said Jack, “but, I needed to see you, and everyone in this town seemed hell bent on stoppin’ me.” Capt. Sparks leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his desk, fingertips touching. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, now, Mr. McDonald, it seems I am all yours. Is there something I can do for you?” “Captain, I’m on the run. I killed a Comanche buck and took his bride to be. I think she’s the whelp of some big shot chief. She’s doggone good lookin’ for a Indian. She’s smart, too. She can read and write. Hell, she can even cipher. She’s strong and she’s got that Indian sass about her. But, here’s the best part, Cap’n , I took her to have me a little fun, if you know what I mean.” Silverjack bellowed like a jackass. Captain Sparks looked like he’d been eating prunes. Hawk Wing stood expressionless. “Anyways, where was I?” said Jack. “Oh, Yeah, the part about the fun. Well that’s the sad part, because there weren’t no fun. Them Comanches never give me time to slow down, much less stop. So, what I’m tellin’ you is that this here Indian ain’t never been touched by a man before. Yes, sir, Cap’n, she’s as pure as the first snow in the wintertime.” - 102 -

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“I’m sure she’s all that Mr. McDonald, but how can this possibly concern me. Outside of being passably pleasant to look at, I’m afraid there is no place for her here.” “Well, sir,” said Jack, “I heard through the grapevine that you was collectin’ women. So I brought you one to exchange for somethin’ I need.” The Captain kept his composure, but there was a slight change in his voice, along with a glint in his eyes. “Collecting women! Where on earth did you here that?” “Somewhere on the trail, I reckon. I ain’t rightly sure, but if I’m wrong, I’m sure sorry for what I done to your men and your door there. Me and Hawk Wing will hightail it out of your hair.” Jack tightened up on Hawk Wing’s noose, and turned to go. He was about to step out of the office when Capt. Sparks cleared his throat. “Mr. McDonald, hold up a minute. After thinking about your predicament, I believe I have come up with a solution that will satisfy all of us, even the young lady. Would you please hear me out?” “Yes, sir, Cap’n, I knew you’d help me out. I’m listenin’.” Captain Alfordus Sparks was a handsome man, fair skinned and sharp featured with close cropped straw colored hair. Back in Virginia, he was well known as a man of the ladies. He smiled at Hawk Wing. She scowled back; her body trembling. “Mr. McDonald, I will take charge of this unfortunate young lady, and see that she is well taken care of until I can return her to her people. You may have the sanctuary of Dixie City for as long as you want providing you stay out of trouble.” “That sounds more than fair to me Cap’n. I sure do appreciate it.” “Consider it done,” said Capt. Sparks. “Oh, Mr. McDonald, you should join our army. You are a man of considerable skills. I am going to need more men like yourself. I have a plan that could make a few smart men rich beyond their wildest dreams. Think about it Mr. McDonald. A few more days have to pass before my plan will be put into action. If you are interested, see Lt. Blake.” “Yes, sir, thank you sir,” said Jack, “I will sure let him know. Uh, sir, just so I know a little more about what you’ve got in mind, could you tell me somethin’ about how we are gonna get rich?” - 103 -

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“No,” said the Captain. Silverjack’s audience with Capt, Alfordus Sparks of Virginia was over. He loosened the rope around Hawk Wing’s neck and lifted it over her head. He smiled at her. Hawk Wing spat a nasty yellow glob that landed on Jacks cheek. He backed away from her as he wiped the spittle off of his face. “Indian sass,” he said, “ain’t nothin’ like it.” Silverjack walked out of the Captain’s office. At the front door he used the toe of his boot to turn over the unconscious Lt. Cady. Jack was concerned that the man had drowned in his own vomit. Hearing the lieutenant’s ragged breathing, Jack was satisfied he would live. Pig Face the guard was sitting on the porch leaning up against the wall. Blood trickled down the side of his face. When he saw Silverjack coming out of the office he tried to roll up into a ball to keep from being kicked again. Silverjack looked at the guard, and Lt Cady covered in vomit. “Hell of an army,” he said. Hawk Wing looked around the Captain’s office. Except for the Confederate flag, the dark dingy walls were bare. Her gaze continued until her eyes stopped on Capt. Sparks. She smiled. “Why are you smiling?” He said. “I am thinking of the day when I slit open your belly and feed your insides to the dogs.” Capt. Sparks laughed. “Oh, my goodness,” he said. “You have some quite nasty intentions young lady. I believe you will do with close observation.” The Captain pushed his chair back and stood up. He was tall, with legs that were long for his body. His back was ramrod straight, and his step was deliberate as he approached Hawk Wing. He towered over the young woman by almost a foot. He pulled a short bladed knife from his boot and cut the ropes that bound Hawk Wing’s hands. After placing the knife back in his boot, he reached out to touch her shoulder. She stepped back and raised both hands in front of her. “You misunderstand me, my dear,” he said. “I won’t harm you. It’s just that I am overwhelmed by your beauty.” Smiling, Capt. Sparks dropped his hand and stepped back. Hawk Wing lowered her hands and began to rub her sore wrists. Capt. Spark’s right arm slashed out, the back of his hand smashing against Hawk Wing’s temple - 104 -

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with crushing force. Her head snapped back, and she dropped to the floor unconscious. “We will break some of that spirit of yours soon enough my young heathen wench, but not too much. My clients in San Francisco appreciate a woman with a little fire. You will bring top dollar in the market there.” The Captain reached down and squeezed Hawk Wing’s breast. “Oh, my goodness yes,” he said, “top dollar.” Jack was still laughing about the Colonel’s army when he stepped into the saddle. Bess gave a nervous snort. Patting her neck to calm her, Jack sat there thinking about Hawk Wing. “Well, darlin’, we’re in this thing up to our necks, now.” He said. Silverjack closed his eyes to do something he seldom did. He prayed. When he’d said his amen, he turned Bess in the direction of the saloon. He rode up to the place, dismounted, and stepped up on the plank sidewalk. He was about to look the inside over when a commotion across the street grabbed his attention. Three men had another man surrounded, and heated words were being exchanged. Jack recognized the man in the middle. It was Ratfoot Charlie Harp. Silverjack bolted across the dusty street. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he hollered, “If it ain’t my old podnuh, Ratfoot Charlie.” All four men looked up to see who was yelling. What they saw was a big wild looking, scarred up man in buckskins striding towards them like he owned the street. When the specter reached the group, he slapped Charlie on the back. “Hello, Charlie,” said Silverjack, “What’s goin’ on here.” All the while, he was eyeing the three men who were arguing with Charlie. He sensed apprehension where a moment ago there had been supreme confidence. “Say you boys know ol’ Ratfoot Charlie here, don’t you?” Jack was about to tell a big windy, and there was no telling what was going to come out of his mouth. “I know he’s a worthless crippled nigger,” said the man in the middle. He was a short bowlegged cuss with red blotches on his face. The men on both sides of him looked like tall skinny bookends. If they weren’t brothers, they ought to have been. - 105 -

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Charlie stood tensed for a fight. Jack winked at him, and he eased up a bit. “You this boy’s friend, old timer?” said Blotch Face. “Yes, sir, I’m proud to be just that,” said Silverjack. He was grinning like a jack o’ lantern on all hallows eve. “Then, I reckon that makes you a nigger lover?” “Sure I love Charlie. He’s the brother I never had. Let me tell you fellers a story about Charlie. Now, ol’ Ratfoot ain’t always been the poor wretched soul you see today.” Charlie gave Jack a “What the hell!” look. Silverjack kept going, his Big Windy blowing at gale force.

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Chapter Nineteen “When Charlie was a little bitty baby, him and his mama was real poor. They didn’t even have no beds. His mama slept on the floor and baby Charlie slept in a apple crate. One night when they was sleepin’, a huge black rat crept into Charlie’s apple crate and commenced to gnawing on little Charlie’s big toe. When his mama heard him yellin’ his little baby lungs out, she come a runnin’, but she was too late. That danged critter had done chewed off the big toe on poor Charlie’s left foot.” The three gunmen stared at Silverjack, but he wasn’t finished yet. “Well, sir, havin’ only one big toe made Charlie’s life miserable. He walked with a terrible limp. He always looked like he was turnin’ left. Folks made awful fun of him. When he was twelve years old, he couldn’t stand it no more. One night he sneaked out his father’s pistol and blowed off his other big toe. He figured he’d probably still walk funny, but, at least he wouldn’t be turnin’ left all the time.” Ratfoot Charlie rolled his eyes. Silverjack stared at the three men. He was still smiling. “Bullshit,” said Blotch Face, “that story ain’t true a ‘tall. A man ain’t going to shoot off his own big toe. Old timer, you ain’t nothing but a nigger loving liar.” “I swear it happened,” said Silverjack. “It was kinda like this.” Jack’s right hand flinched and a .45 cal. Colt Army revolver filled his palm. He shot a hole thru Blotch Face’s right boot where he thought the man’s big toe ought to be. He scored flesh and bone. Blotch Face fell over. He grabbed his boot and pulled it up to where he could see the damage. He saw daylight through the hole in the top of his boot. “Goddamn!” he yelled. “You done shot a hole clear thru my foot.” He looked at the hole again, which was beginning to seep blood, and he passed out. Silverjack had both guns out, one pointing at each bookend. “You got somethin’ to say to these fools Charlie?” said Jack. “Yeah, I do,” said Charlie. “Boys, this is your lucky day. Massa Jack done saved your lives. This poor old crippled Negro was about to blow your - 107 -

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worthless ass’s to doll rags. Now, you boys shuck your gun belts and strip crybaby’s guns off, too. The bookends did as they were told. “Pick up that sack of shit, get on your horses, and ride out of Dixie City. Don’t look back.” The bookends lifted up there unconscious friend and stared blankly at Jack and Charlie. “Can’t we get his foot fixed up before we go?” said the bookend on the left. “Sure,” said Jack, “hoist him up steady there.” The bookends held Blotch Face up the best they could. Silverjack shot a hole thru the man’s left boot. It was pretty close to even with the hole in the man’s right boot. Blotch Face’s body jumped but he didn’t wake up. “You have two minutes to get out of town, or we will take your horses and you can walk,” said Charlie. The bookends dragged their companion to their horses. They tied him on as best they could, mounted, and rode away at a trot. They didn’t look back. Charlie Harp looked at Silverjack. “Don’t feel like a hot shot just because you settled that argument with out anybody getting killed. I was about to end things permanently for those Redleg bastards when you showed up.” “Shoot, Charlie,” said Jack, “them fellers wasn’t worth spittin’ on, much less killin’. I reckon they’ll think real hard before they aggravate a man like you again.” Charlie shook his head, and Jack offered to buy him a drink, so they headed across the street to the saloon. It wasn’t a real saloon. Somebody had laid a long flat plank down on top of four whiskey barrels. Half a dozen tables with chairs that didn’t match were scattered about the place. You could get cold beer, and something that resembled whiskey, so it was close enough. Jack and Charlie ordered beers at the bar. They found an empty table and sat down. “What’s gone on since I was here last?” said Silverjack, using his sleeve to wipe foam from his mustache. “It’s getting real strange,” said Charlie. “More men are riding in every day. There’s been some real lowlifes showing up. The Cavanaugh brothers are - 108 -

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here. Frank Dusek, Dixon Croel, and that backstabbing bastard Claude Bouchet’ rode in together three days ago.” “I met Bouchet’ a little while ago,” said Silverjack. “I made him crawfish.” “Watch him Silver, he’s an evil one. He won’t go face to face unless he’s sure he has the upper hand. He’ll throw a knife in your back, that’s more his style.” “Thanks, Charlie, I’ll remember that. Anybody else I need to look out for?” “Enrique Baca’s here.” “Damn!” said Silverjack. “I didn’t think he could even walk.” “He doesn’t walk too well. He’s got an iron brace on his bad leg, but they say his gun hand is faster than ever. He sure does hate you, Jack.” “Yeah, well I reckon he’s got a right to. I did help kill his brothers. Like as not, that would piss me off too.” “Jack, you know who else are here, Morgan McMasters and his gang. They rode in last night. Capt. Sparks had been expecting him.” “McMasters, huh,” said Jack, “I know that old mossyhorn pretty well. His gang is the biggest bunch of holdup artists in Arizona and New Mexico. I rode with him for six months once, but the life didn’t suit me. I’ll tell you one thing about him though. He knows every trail between West Texas and California. If he’s here, they’s a whole lot more to this thing than some fool notion about rebuildin’ the South.” Jack and Charlie sat silent for a while enjoying the coolness of their beers. Men began to trickle into the saloon. Some nodded recognition to their table. Most ignored them. “Charlie,” said Silverjack, “what about the ladies?” “You know about as much as I do,” said Charlie. “I’m still a lieutenant, but my duties are different that when you were first here. My job is to keep the town in order, and keep track of the new arrivals. All of the hard cases have to sign in here at the saloon. I find out who they are and why they’re here. I have to take the information to a big tub of guts named Cady. He relays it to Capt. Sparks. I don’t hardly see him anymore. Him and Butcher Blake have become real close lately. I’d have already killed that butchering bastard if I hadn’t have given you my word to wait.” - 109 -

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“I appreciate you holdin’ back Charlie. I know it ain’t easy havin’ to work with the man who killed your father.” Charlie Harp had never been close to his father. His mother had been a washer woman for the Ninth cavalry at Ft. Stanton, New Mexico. She died giving birth to Charlie. Virgil Harp gave the baby to a childless couple at the fort to raise. Over the years Virgil saw his son when he could, but he was a man always looking over the next hill. “Charlie,” said Jack, “I heard they was over thirty women held at some old ranch, a few miles outside of town. Do you think they’s any truth in that?” Charlie confirmed Silverjack’s suspicions. He had also heard the rumor about the gold. Charlie motioned to the bartender to draw two more beers. Jack told Ratfoot Charlie of his plans with Hawk Wing and Bearkiller. Charlie said he didn’t think too much of the idea, but admitted he didn’t have a better plan. ”Damn, Charlie,” said Silverjack, “just plain old damn.” Jack and Charlie had finished their second beers and were about to get up and leave the saloon when Claude Bouchet’ walked in. The big Frenchman stepped inside the entrance, his eyes taking in who was there and what they were doing. He was a careful man. He had been a successful smuggler and illegal trader for five years. The deal he had made with Ace Perdue, or, as he was now called, Blake, would set him up for life. He only had to stay alive. Bouchet’ caught site of Jack and Charlie and smiled. He started to walk in their direction, when a poker game drew his attention. He ambled over to the game. There was an empty chair, and without asking he sat down and put himself into the game. No one objected except a sandy haired young ranny who was sore because he was losing. The kid protested but stayed in the game. The deal had passed around the table three times until it became Claude Bouchet’s turn again. He shuffled the cards and dealt the first hand. A bet was made and called by all but one player who folded his cards. When it came time for the Bouchet’ to get cards he took three. The hot headed kid was still losing and complaining. All at once he jumped up and kicked his chair away. - 110 -

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“Hold it right there,” said the kid to Bouchet’. “I say you dealt that last card off the bottom of the deck, Frenchie, and I ain’t gonna stand for it.” “Mom ami’, you are mistaken. I do not deny that I have cheated at cards in my lifetime, but I have no need to cheat against a man who plays as badly as you.” “Fill your hand, you piece of Cajun swamp rot.” The boy’s trembling hand hovered over his pistol. “I’m gonna burst your black heart.” He said. Charlie Harp had edged up to the table when he heard the ruckus begin. He grabbed the kid’s gun hand and twisted his arm behind him. “This ends now! “ He said. “This bastard is cheating me,” said the young gunslick, whose name was Billy Sloane. He was an Arkansas farm boy who’d been on the owlhoot trail for less than a year. “I don’t give a damn whether he’s cheating or not,” said Charlie. “This game is over. Leave the money on the table and walk away now.” “Mon ami’,” said Bouchet’, smiling, “we cannot leave with all of our money on the table. Please allow us to take our winnings.” He looked over at Billy Sloane. “I am sorry if I offended you. Any money I won from you I will give back. Monsieur, please, can we shake hands on this and forget this unfortunate incident?” Bouchet’ extended his hand. Sloane was confused. He looked around the room hoping for some empathy. There was none. Cold eyes stared at him waiting to see what he would do. “What the hell.” He said. “Never let it be said that Billy Sloane ain’t a man to forgive and forget. Turn me loose sheriff. I’m okay now.” Against his better judgment, Charlie let the kid’s arm go. Billy Sloane rubbed his twisted arm till the blood returned, then stuck out his hand. Bouchet’ gripped the kid’s hand hard causing Sloane to squeeze even harder. Bouchet’ leaned back and Billy Sloane lost his balance. Suddenly Billy Sloane stiffened. He looked down and saw his intestines pouring out onto the card table. He looked up at Claude Bouchet’. Bouchet’ was still smiling, but now he had a bloody knife in his hand. Billy Sloane opened his mouth in a silent scream. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body slammed down onto the table. His intestines squished and burst from the weight of his body. A horrible stench rose from underneath the corpse. - 111 -

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“Gawd Almighty! That stinks,” said one man. “It smells like shit,” said another.” “Hell, it is shit,” said somebody else. As the crowd made a quick exit from the saloon to get away from the revolting odor, Claude Bouchet’ wiped his bloody knife on the back of Billy Sloane’s shirt. Charlie Harp’s pistol was out and trained on the killer.

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Chapter Twenty “We’ve got rules here, Bouchet’,” said Charlie, “and, you just broke a big one. Turn loose of your knives and your short gun.” Pure evil stared back at Charlie Harp. “Mon ami’, I could throw this knife and kill you before you could pull the trigger.” “Try me,” said Charlie. “Okay, mon ami’, for the sake of the cause, I will go with you,” Bouchet hesitated, “this time.” Up until now Silverjack had stood in the background and kept his mouth shut. All of that changed. “Claude Bouchet’,” said Jack, “You ain’t nothin’ but a big pile of alligator shit. You can kill a boy, but you ain’t got the balls to face a full growed man.” Charlie shot Silverjack a wicked glance. “Monsieur McDonald are you challenging me to a duel?” “If that means I’m tryin’ to pick a fight, yeah, I am.” “In that case, I accept. It is customary that the challenged one choose the weapons, Monsieur. Permit me the honor.” “Pick anything you want. Guns, knives, rocks, fists, it don’t matter to me, I’ve fought with ‘em all.” “Very well, then, I choose rapiers. I have a fine set in my room across the street. Lt. Charlie, if you will permit me, I will retrieve them at once.” “This whole thing ain’t right,” said Charlie, “but if you boys want to kill each other, I’m not going to stop you.” Charlie sent three men to go with Bouchet’ to pick up the rapiers. When the men had gotten out of earshot, he turned on Silverjack, eyes blazing. “What in the hell did you do that for?” He said. “Charlie,” said Jack, “I’m on the top of his list. This seemed like a good time to scratch my name off, one way or another. Say, amigo, what is a raypee-your, anyhow?” “It’s a long thin sword that they use in Europe to fight duels with,” said Charlie. “Word is Bouchet’ is an expert, you damned old mutton head. He’s going to make a fool out of you Jack, and then he’ll kill you.”

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“A sword, huh,” said Silverjack, scratching his head. “I ain’t ever fought nobody with a sword before. I always like to learn somethin’ new. This ought to be interestin’.” “God damn it, Jack, if you get killed those ladies are done for. After all these years, your temper still gets the best of you.” “Charlie, seein’ him gut that dumb kid like a fish just tore me up. I ain’t never enjoyed killin’ a man, but Bouchet’ is like a hydrophoby dog; he’s got to die.” Just then Claude Bouchet’ called out from the street. “Come, Monsieur, it is time we dance.” A large crowd had gathered outside the saloon. Most of them didn’t care who won or lost just so they got to see a good show. A squat little man in a checkered suit and derby hat was taking bets as to the outcome of the duel. Silverjack smiled as he observed Lt. Cady placing a hundred dollars on Bouchet’. Silverjack whispered to Charlie. “A whole lot of these lowlifes ain’t gonna live out the week. I sure hope they enjoy the show.” Silverjack removed his gun belt and bowie knife. Bouchet’ passed a rapier to Charlie, who inspected it and handed it to Jack. Jack looked the long thin sword over with concern. “They sure ain’t much to this pig sticker,” he said. “Bouchet’ sticks it through your brisket, you’ll find out how much there is to it,” said Charlie. “I reckon I can’t let him do that,” said Silverjack. Bouchet’ drew a large circle in the dirt with his rapier. He stepped into the middle of the circle and motioned for Silverjack to do the same, facing him. Silverjack stepped inside holding his weapon up in front of his face. Bouchet’ went to the “engarde” stance and thrust his rapier straight at Jack’s heart. Silverjack quick stepped to his right, barely avoiding the blade. Like a cat, Bouchet’ recovered and again snapped into the “engarde” stance. The Frenchman fainted as if to thrust again. Silverjack jumped back, almost losing his balance. Bouchet’ danced toward his inept foe waving his rapier in a flat figure eight motion. Silverjack tried to lunge forward at Bouchet’, but the Frenchman parried the blow and nicked Jack’s left ear with his blade. Silverjack almost fell trying to get away from Bouchet’s advance. He did not - 114 -

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have to feel his ear to know it was bleeding. Another flick of Bouchet’s rapier, and Jack’s other ear was bloodied. The Frenchman stepped back to admire his work. “Damn you, Jack McDonald,” a voice screamed in Silverjack’s head, “This man knows his stuff. Get it together. Find his weakness. There has to be one. There always is. Look, man, look!” Bouchet sashayed forward again and with swift strokes turned the front of Silverjack’s buckskin shirt into doll rags. Jack felt blood begin to trickle down his chest in a dozen places. The cocksure Frenchman stepped back several paces and smiled. The crowd was yelling for blood, and he raised his head in acknowledgement. “It, seems, mes amis, that the infamous Silverjack McDonald is mortal after all. Perhaps I will take my time and let you bleed to death, Monsieur.” Got you, you sorry bastard, thought Silverjack. I see your weakness, son. Get ready to meet Old Saul. “Monsieur, I really do not want to waste anymore of my time on you. I will kill you, however, if you kneel before me and beg my forgiveness, I promise to make your death quick and painless.” Silverjack began to act like a madman. He started jumping around like he was searching for a way out through the crowd. Claude Bouchet’ looked amused by this frightened rabbit. He threw back his head and laughed. The moment Silverjack was waiting for. He ripped his hat off and flung it above Bouchet’s head. Bouchet’ spied the hat out of the corner of his eye, and speared it with his rapier. Silverjack sprang forward and rammed his blade deep into Bouchet’s throat. The glazed steel tore through flesh, bone and sinew, exiting the back of Claude Bouchet’s neck just below his skull. Silverjack grabbed the rapier with both hands, twisted and snapped the blade off at the hilt. Steel spears protruded from Bouchet’s’ neck, front and back. The Frenchman held his rapier aloft but had dropped to his knees. Claude Bouchet’s body jerked once and fell forward into the dirt. Claude Bouchet’ lay face down in the street, beaten at his own game. The little man in the green derby hat was grinning like a leprechaun with his pot of gold. Most of the gamblers had put their money on Bouchet’. The Derby man had backed Silverjack, taking all bets. - 115 -

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Charlie Harp put together a detail to bury the two dead men. No caskets, no special words, just a six foot hole and dirt in your face. Nobody mourned these passings. Some men were already headed for where the dead men had stayed. They were saying Claude Bouchet had some real good stuff. Silverjack slipped his hat off Bouchet’s rapier, and inspected his cuts. None were deep, and most had stopped bleeding. He walked over to Bess, pulled a clean shirt from his saddle bags, and found the nearest horse trough. He stripped off the remains of his shirt and began to wash the blood off of his chest. Charlie Harp picked up Jack’s weapons and met him at the trough. The Derby man danced over to them. “Well, me Bucko,” said the Derby man in a thick shanty Irish brogue, “it’s been a pleasure watching you fight again.” “Again?” said Silverjack, staring down at this odd little man. “Ah, yes, Mr. Silverjack McDonald, I saw you fight that dumb ox of an Irishman, Clancy Finnegan, up in Colorado some years back. You looked different then, but I knew who you were. You whipped that big Mick good. I won almost as much money that fine day as I did today. I would be honored to buy you and the lieutenant a drink.” “Who in the hell are you?” said Silverjack. “I just killed a man. Two lives gone today for nothin’, and you want to celebrate your winnings. Get away from me.” “Now, don’t get me wrong, me Bucko. Just as soon as the saloon is cleaned of the terrible smell, I will be glad to drink to the souls of our poor unfortunate comrades. I will even buy a round for any man who cares to join me. My name is Rory O’Flanigan. My friends call me O’.” Jack and Charlie ignored Rory O’Flanigan and started to walk away. O’Flanigan reached up and touched Silverjack’s arm. Jack turned on him with fire in his eyes. “Don’t do that, little man.” “I meant no offense, Mr. Jack. The truth is I have some information you might like to be knowing.” Jack and Charlie stopped and turned toward O’Flanigan. The little man ducked his head and glanced all around. He stepped between Jack and Charlie and motioned for them to bend down. He whispered, “I know where the ladies are.” - 116 -

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Cold hard eyes glared down, and O’ Flanigan shuddered. “What ladies?” said Silverjack, through clenched teeth. O’Flanigan gulped air. He was trembling, now, and unsure of what to say next. “Well I might be talkin’ about the ladies from the Scarlet Dragon. Oh, twas a pity what happened to that place. Not only that, I know where the other ladies come from as well.” Jack looked at Charley who was looking around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. No one was. “O’Flanigan, let’s take us a little ride,” said Silverjack. “Oh, no,” said the wee Irishman, “I’ll be stayin’ here where it’s safer.” Silverjack’s hand shot to the baggy crotch of O’Flanigan’s trousers. He jerked upward and squeezed. The little man’s eyes bugged out like a squashed toad frog’s. He stood on his tiptoes and began to dance a jig. “Go with us or I’ll geld you right here,” said Silverjack. Crocodile tears rolled down Rory O’Flanigan’s purple face. His head bobbed up and down. Silverjack checked to see that the street was still empty. “Where’s your horse, Charlie?’ “In the livery.” “Can you pick up one for our friend here?” “Sure, I’ll get him a nice spirited one.” “Good, Mr. Know-it-all and I will ride out to that brushy stand of cottonwoods, a mile south of town. We’ll wait for you there.” Charlie took off for the stable. Silverjack released his grip on O’Flanigan’s balls. The leprechaun almost fell over when the soles of his feet hit the ground. He began to stagger around in a small circle. Silverjack grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him to Bess. He stepped into the saddle and jerked the Irishman up behind him. Bess snorted at the extra weight. “Sorry, old girl.” said Silverjack, “but this won’t last long.” He pointed her south and nudged her ribs. Bess took off at a brisk trot. Charlie Harp hurried to the livery stable. He saddled his horse, and searched around for a fitting mount for Mr. O’Flanigan. He almost selected a big black stallion that he knew was a booger to ride, but decided they had - 117 -

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enough problems already. Finally he decided upon a small spotted mustang. The pony had belonged to Billy Sloan so, likely as not, it wouldn’t be missed. Charlie looked until he found an old cavalry saddle. He decided it would be perfect for the tiny Irishman. He saddled the paint, climbed aboard his mount and with the paint’s reins in hand, rode out of the livery and started through town.

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Chapter Twenty-One Col. Pickering had recently taken ill. He was coherent most of the time, his mind occasionally slipping back to his glory days at Bull Run. He had been moved to a small cabin just north of town. An orderly was in constant attendance. Capt. Sparks rode his magnificent chestnut gelding, Charger, to where the Colonel was being kept. He dismounted, handing Charger’s reins to one of the two guards out front. Stepping upon the small porch, he hesitated, collecting his thoughts before entering. “This play acting has gone on long enough.” He said to himself. “It’s time to end the charade and get down to the business at hand.” He removed his hat and stepped through the doorway. The inside of the cabin was stifling hot. The orderly was at a corner fireplace stoking a small fire. His back was to Capt. Sparks. The captain cleared his throat, and the orderly jumped around and came to rigid attention. “At ease sergeant,” said Capt. Sparks in a conversational tone. “How is Col. Pickering, today?” “Sir, he is having a pretty good day. His spirits are up and I think the worst may be over.” “Splendid news sergeant, but tell me why do you have it so hot in here?” “The Colonel felt a slight chill, sir, so I built a small fire.” “Very well, sergeant today is promising to be an historical day for our cause. In fact, I would say it calls for a celebration.” Capt, Sparks fumbled thru his pockets coming up with a shiny twenty dollar gold piece, which he pitched to the sergeant. “Sergeant, take this to the saloon and purchase a bottle of brandy. The Colonel and I will toast our good fortune. Quick, man, hurry! Take my horse.” The sergeant snapped a salute and was out the door. Capt. Sparks walked to the bedroom door and knocked. “Who is it?” Came a strained reply from inside the room. “Capt Sparks, sir.” “Come in Captain, come in.”

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Once in the room, Capt. Sparks closed the door behind him. Advancing to the Colonel’s bed, he saluted. Col. Pickering raised his right hand to his forehead and let it drop to his side. “I am sorry captain, but I am still too weak to raise and properly salute you.” “I understand sir,” said Capt. Sparks nodding. “I have brought good news, sir. We are almost ready to begin our journey.” “Bravo, captain, bravo, I do believe I am getting better everyday. Soon I will be able to lead our glorious army. Our nation of New Dixie will someday rival the old south in power and prestige.” Coughing spasms stopped him. Capt. Sparks looked down at the feeble old man and sighed. “Col. Pickering, I am afraid there has been an alteration of our plan. You are a delusional old man whose day is long past. It is my time. I am in command now.” “What!” The Colonel managed to say through his coughs. “That can’t be. The men are loyal to me. I am their commander.” “Not anymore colonel. You did a commendable job organizing this motley army of yours. It was the perfect cover for what we plan to do. Now, my partners and I can carry out our mission.” “This can’t be true.” The colonel’s voice had been reduced to a whisper. “My wonderful New South, my New Dixie.” “It’s alright colonel, I understand.” Capt. Sparks smiled. He had a goose down pillow in his hands. “Let me make you more comfortable, sir.” Captain Sparks placed the pillow over Col. Pickering’s nose and mouth. He took great satisfaction watching his victim’s eyes bulge out in fear and desperation. The old man struggled as best he could, but the captain found it easy to hold the pillow in place. Two minutes and it was over. Captain Sparks fluffed the pillow and returned it to its original place beside the late Col. Pickering. He stood up, took a deep breath, and let it slide from his lungs. He took another deep breath and screamed. ****

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Charlie Harp was riding through town when he noticed a soldier carrying a tray of food toward a small storage building out back of the captain’s office. He hailed the private. “Got yourself a prisoner there soldier?” “Yes, sir, lieutenant.” “What did he do?” “Uh, it’s not a he sir; it’s a woman, an Indian woman.” “That right? Well, I’ll be damned, an Indian woman. Mind if I take a look private?” “You’re the lieutenant, sir.” Charlie dismounted and tied the two sets of reins to a hitching rail. Private Armstrong handed Charlie the metal tray of food and unlocked the shed. He stepped inside followed by Charlie. The room was dark and stank of bear grease and kerosene. Scant sunlight filtering through the open door gave Charlie a good look at the captive. She was dark skinned, dressed in buckskins like a man, with long black hair tied in braids. Her hands and feet were bound behind her back. Her mouth was gagged. The young woman’s eyes were open, squinting into the sunlight. As she opened them wider, Charlie Harp read the hate that shone there. He remembered how that same hate had glistened in his daddy’s eyes when he would talk about the old days of slavery. “Lieutenant, I’m gonna loosen that rag in her mouth, then you can give me that tray of food,” said Private Armstrong. “That’s okay, boy,” said Charley, “I’ll go on and give it to you now.” Charlie slammed the heavy steel tray down on top of Private Armstrong’s head. Armstrong’s knees buckled but he didn’t go down. He wobbled around, and Charlie smacked him in the face with the tray. Private Armstrong staggered and dropped to all fours. He struggled to rise, and Charlie crunched the tray down on the man’s head, bending it double. This time the big private dropped flat. His body gave a great shudder, and lay still. “Damn!” said Charlie, “if you ain’t a hard headed cracker.” He dropped the tray, and knelt in front of Hawk Wing. She struggled to move away from him. Fear replaced the hate in her eyes. Charlie held both hands out in front of himself and spoke to Hawk Wing. - 121 -

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“I’m not going to hurt you.” He said. “You’re L. J. Bearkiller’s child aren’t you?” Hawk Wing quit resisting and nodded her head. “My name is Charlie Harp. I’m working with Silverjack McDonald. He and I are friends. Did he tell you about the man who was killed when the Scarlet Dragon was torched? That man was Virgil Harp, my father.” Recognition crept into Hawk Wing’s eyes, and her expression softened. “Will you not scream if I remove your gag?” Hawk Wing nodded her head. Charlie untied the greasy cloth that had been stuffed into her mouth. When it came out, Hawk Wing cleared her throat and spat on Private Armstrong. “Oh, God,” she said, “I thought I was finished. Thank you Mr. Harp.” “I’m Charlie,” he said. “Some folks call me Ratfoot, but just plain Charlie will do.” Hawk Wing had a puzzled look on her face. “Get that old windbag, Silverjack, to tell you the story behind my name. He does a much better job than I ever could.” “Please untie me now,” said Hawk Wing, rolling on her side. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that just yet. I have two horses outside. If I untie you, and we ride out together, someone might get suspicious, but, if I leave you bound, no one will likely give us a second look. They're all used to seeing women prisoners.” Hawk Wing’s body sagged. “I understand,” she said. Charlie picked up the Comanche maiden and carried her to the little paint horse. He laid her over the saddle on her stomach, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. After he tied her down, he went over and locked the storage building door. Mounting his horse, he led the paint towards the south end of town at an easy walk. As they rode past the saloon, two hard cases were playing mumble peg in the street. They spied Hawk Wing, and one turned and spoke in a low voice to his companion. Laughter erupted from both of the men. Charlie looked at them and waved.

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One of the men made an obscene gesture and waved back. Both continued to laugh. Still smiling, Charlie thought how he would like to do that very thing to them, except he would use a rifle. They rode out of Dixie City without further incident. They had ridden a mile or so out of town, well past the perimeter guards, when Charlie pulled up behind a large group of boulders. He removed Hawk Wing from her painful perch and laid her on the ground. Hawk Wing’s arms and legs were numb. Her shoulders felt separated, but she lay still as Charlie untied her. He rubbed her arms, her shoulders, and her legs. She thought about protesting, but it felt so good. “You’ll be alright in a few minutes,” Charlie said smiling. “Your arms and legs might tingle some as the circulation comes back, but that’s normal.” Hawk Wing tingled alright, but it wasn’t only in her limbs. She turned her head away so Charlie could not see her blush. Her copper skin turned a deep bronze as improper thoughts crowded her mind. Charlie finished rubbing her legs, and was standing up when the cold steel of a rifle barrel poked a hole in the back of his neck. He froze. “Twitch one muscle black man and you go to meet your ancestors.” “Daddy, don’t shoot,” yelled Hawk Wing, “He is one of us.” Bearkiller eased the pressure on Charlie’s neck, but he left the rifle in place. “Explain!” He said. “Father, this man is Charlie Harp. He saved my life. His father was murdered when they burned the bordello down. Please remove your rifle from his neck.” Charlie remained motionless. He had no intention of moving as long as a rifle barrel was anywhere near his head. He hoped like hell he didn’t get a cramp. Bearkiller lowered his rifle. “Stand up and turn around.” He said to Charlie. Fierce ebony eyes accosted Charlie as he turned to face the big Comanche warrior. The man was dressed in Buckskin pants, moccasins, and little more. Corded muscle bulged from his thick shoulders and arms. Charlie looked down at the biggest hand he had ever seen. The giant paw was extended in - 123 -

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his direction. Charlie reached out and gripped the hand. The big Comanche shook his hand one time, hard, and turned it loose. “Thank you Charlie Harp,” said Bearkiller, “I am forever in your debt.” “I just did what had to be done,” said Charlie, “that’s all.” Bearkiller’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at Charlie. Seeing this expression, Charlie felt he might ought to embellish a bit on his answer. “Sir, your daughter seems like a wonderful young lady. It was my good fortune to have the opportunity to rescue her.” A smile cracked Bearkiller’s stern countenance. “Mr. Harp,” he said, “you have much to learn about my daughter.” **** “Help, come quick, the colonel has been murdered.” At the cries of Capt. Sparks, the guards rushed into the cabin. Bursting into the bedroom, they found Capt. Sparks kneeling at the colonel’s bedside with his head in his hands. The captain looked up with tears in his eyes. “I came in to find the colonel this way. He has suffocated. As you can tell, it is unbearably hot in here. The colonel’s orderly is responsible for this. I don’t know why he killed Col. Pickering. Maybe he is a spy. Find him and arrest him at once.” “Sir,” said the corporal of the guards, “he told me you had ordered him to go to the saloon and fetch a bottle of brandy for you and the colonel. We all admired the twenty dollar gold piece you gave him.” Capt. Sparks was quite a good actor. He raged at the corporal’s story. “I never gave the man a twenty dollar gold piece. He must have stolen it from the colonel before he killed him. I said find the scoundrel. Go, now!” “Uh, sir,” said the corporal, “the sergeant said you gave him permission to use your horse.” “My horse! My goodness, the man’s a horse thief and a liar, as well as, a murderer. You men will suffer my wrath if that man is not caught within the hour.” The guards scrambled out of the cabin and ran toward the saloon. A satisfied Capt. Sparks watched them until they were out of sight. He went - 124 -

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back inside the colonel’s bedroom, retrieved his hat from the bed and put it on. He then walked outside and looked around smiling. “My goodness,’ he said, “What a gorgeous day this is.” He ran his palms around the edge of his hat brim, adjusting the front with his thumb and forefinger. Capt. Alfordus Sparks skipped down the porch steps and strode briskly toward his office. He was whistling “Dixie.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two Silverjack and O’Flanigan took a round about way to reach the place of rendezvous. Jack kept backtracking to make sure they hadn’t been followed. Satisfied that no one was after them, he led the little man well back into the dense grove of ancient Cottonwoods. Even with the huge trees supplying adequate shade, the heat was oppressive. Further complicating matters, was the lack of a breeze. Sweat flies had appeared out of nowhere as soon as the two men settled down to wait. The situation went from uncomfortable to miserable. “Ouch!” said O’Flanigan whining. He swatted at a fly that was feasting on his neck. “Shut up!” said Silverjack. He was worried about Charlie. He should have arrived long ago. Jack had a gut feeling that something big was coming down soon, and if they didn’t act fast their opportunity would be lost. His instinct was usually right on. “I think something has happened to Lt. Charlie,” said O’Flanigan, who was now busy swinging with both hands at his tiny tormentors. “We must be away from this place, Mr. Jack. I think it is too dangerous to wait any longer. Please sir, I do not enjoy being a fly’s dinner.” “If you speak again, you little bastard,” said Silverjack, “I’ll tie you up and stick a rag in your mouth. The flies ought to love that. Now, shut the hell up.” O’Flanigan gave a loud gulp, but said no more. Just then the sound of horses approaching reached Jack’s ears. He held his hand up to the Irishman, motioning him to be still. Both men squatted in the thick underbrush. Jack unsheathed his six-shooter. He breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized Charlie Harp. When he realized Charlie was not alone, Jack cocked the .45. There were two more riders with Charlie. At this distance, Silverjack couldn’t make out either one, so he sat tight. Charlie showed no signs of anxiety, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The riders stopped a few yards from the trees. They rode in to the edge of the Cottonwood grove one at a time. Charlie was first. He came in, dismounted, and began adjusting his saddle. The second of the three jumped to the ground behind the paint. Jack’s vision was obscured by the horse, and - 126 -

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he couldn’t tell who that was. When the third rider rode up Jack’s heart skipped a beat. It was Bearkiller. The second rider walked around the paint and began to stretch and rub her arms. “Hawk Wing!” said Silverjack. Startled by Silverjack’s outburst, Rory O’Flanigan jumped back and fell over a rotting log. He lay on his back, both feet sticking straight up. He began kicking for all he was worth, but he never uttered a word. Jack had made a believer out of him. A bird whistle came from deep in the thicket. A similar whistle escaped Bearkiller’s lips. The Comanche motioned for Charlie to enter the trees. Charlie led his horse into the Cottonwoods with Hawk Wing following right behind him. Bearkiller hesitated until his two companions were almost out of sight before he entered the woods. Charlie had worked his way about ten yards into the tangle of underbrush when Silverjack popped up right in front of him. “Howdy,” said Jack. “Oh, Jesus!” said Charlie, jerking away from this apparition. “Damn you, Jack McDonald, what did you do that for?” “Get your blood goin’, did I?” said Silverjack. “Great place to hide except for the danged sweat flies. Them little boogers’ll eat a body alive. How come Hawk Wing’s with you, and how’d you hook up with Bear?” “Can we get on back to where we can set a spell and talk? I’ll tell you everything then.” Silverjack led the three of them back ten more yards into the middle of the thicket. In minutes they reached the place where Rory O’Flanigan was located. The little Irishman’s face blanched when he saw the two Comanche’s. He shrank his tiny body down even smaller. He swore that if he lived through this, he would go back to County Cork and become the priest that his dear sainted mother had wanted him to be. That was unless he made a lot of money on this adventure. He was, after all, a practical man. Silverjack made a small smokeless fire and put on a pot of coffee. A cooling breeze had gusted in from the north blowing the sweat flies away. Jack was grimfaced as he surveyed the four people with him. Charlie and Hawk Wing explained to him what had happened and brought him up to - 127 -

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date as much as they could. Bearkiller had been watching Dixie City from the rocks above when he had seen Charlie ride out of town with Hawk Wing trussed up. He had nothing new to add. Silverjack turned to Rory O’Flanigan, his lips were parted in a smile, but death was in his eyes. “Well, my little Irish turd, it’s time you showed us your pot of gold. You had better be straight with me, O’Flanigan, or you’ll be dinner for the sweat fly maggots.” Rory O’Flanigan’s bladder gave way. He shuddered as the urine ran down his leg. He began to shake and couldn’t stop. All of his braggadocio was gone. He was a terrified little man whose future depended upon his truthfulness. In the past it had always been the other way around. He tried to speak but the words sounded distant like someone else was talking. “The truth is, I, I do know where.” “Speak up, you little shit,” said Jack O’Flanigan asked for a drink of water. Hawk Wing gave him some from Charlie’s canteen. He cleared his throat and tried to talk the best he could. “I do know where the whor.., ur, uh, the ladies are being kept. There is an old ranch about five miles west of town. There is a burned out cabin and a rickety old barn. The ladies are kept in the barn, and the guards sleep in the cabin.” “How many hostages are there?” said Bear. “There might be forty of them. I don’t know for sure.” “How many guards?” This was Jack talking. “That I truly do not know sir, but I’d be willing to wager there are a lot.” “What are they going to do with those women?” Charlie asked. “That I also do not know, but I did hear a rumor that the ladies were to be transported to California. I cannot attest to the truth of that statement, however, if you would be lettin’ me go back to Dixie City, I surely could be findin’ out for you.” “You ain’t goin’ nowhere that one of us don’t go,” said Silverjack. “No,” said the leprechaun,” no, I did not think so.” He sighed and hung his head in resignation. Jack removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair. He was silent for a few moments trying to sort things out. “All right,” he finally said, “this is what we’re gonna do.” - 128 -

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He instructed Bearkiller to take Rory O’Flanigan and locate the captives. Hawk Wing was to ride to Haley’s Crossing Stage Stop, the closest place with a telegraph, and send a telegram to Al Haybinder telling whoever was in Justiceburg to come a runnin’. Silverjack and Charlie would ride to Ghost Creek and work up a plan of attack. Everyone was to meet in Ghost Creek in three days. They emerged from the thicket in five minute intervals. Rory O’Flanigan looked like a child sitting behind Bearkiller, who left first. Hawk Wing went out next and headed south at a fast canter. Charlie and Silverjack brought up the rear. A strong wind roaring in from a black cloud to the north promised rain. “Damn, I hope it rains bucketfuls,” said Jack. “As long as it’s stormin’, them Reb’s ain’t gonna be able to do nothin’ with the ladies. Two good days of rain should do it.” Silverjack got his wish. By the time he and Charlie reached Ghost Creek, lightning and thunder filled the western sky. Ghost Creek had no hotel, but it did have a small boarding house. The two men made arrangements at the livery for their horses, then went to the boarding house and paid for two rooms for three nights. Their next stop was the saloon. They made it just before the bottom fell out of the sky. The saloon was little more than a shack. It was big enough for the six rough hewn tables that occupied the place and not much more. The inside walls were bare wood. There wasn’t even a mirror behind the cigarette burned plank bar, just a couple of ragged pictures of naked women in provocative poses. Six hard cases stood at the bar, harassing the bartender, a mousy looking little man with a flat hairless head. The left side of his face flared purple from at least one blow. A steady trickle of crimson ran down the corner of his mouth, and dripped onto his threadbare shirt, mixing with other stains. The barkeep was shaking so hard, it’s doubtful he even noticed the blood. As Silverjack and Charlie stepped into the saloon, one of the hard cases pointed at Charlie and all six roared with laughter. Charlie recognized the man’s face from Dixie City, but the name wouldn’t come. The funny man was short and stocky. He wore two pistols low, and he seemed confident in his abilities, at least when the odds were six to two. - 129 -

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“Looky here, Charlie,” said Silverjack, “looks like there’s some real happy ol’ boys in here tonight. I sure do enjoy a good time, don’t you?” Charlie Harp’s face was expressionless, his eyes fixed on the joke teller. He didn’t answer Jack’s question. “What’s so funny boys?” said Silverjack. “Why don’t you share your joke with my brother and me?” The men at the bar stopped laughing. Joke Teller hitched up his gun belt. He looked back and forth between the two men who had interrupted his story. “I know who you are.” He pointed a finger at Charlie. “I don’t know who you are, old timer,” he said pointing the same dirty finger at Silverjack, “but you sure ain’t that boy’s brother.” Well, son,” said Silverjack, “if I ain’t Charlie’s brother, then I must be your Daddy.” “You’re a smart mouth old son of a bitch,” said the gunman. He turned his body until his right hand gun was out of Jack and Charlie’s sight. “Fellers,” he said” that colored boy is Ratfoot Charlie. He’s a lieutenant in the army I been telling y’all about.” “Well, hell,” said the last man on the left, “I don’t reckon I’ll be takin’ orders from no darky.” Charlie tensed up, but Silverjack kept on talking. “Dad gum it! All we wanted was to come in out of the rain and have a few friendly drinks. Now, we’re gonna have to shoot you boys to get our wish. Damn, I hate that.” Joke Teller brayed like a donkey. He was having a real good time. “You two saddle bums look like you couldn’t kill time. You ain’t got a chance at six guns to two. Why don’t y’all go on back out in the rain where your kind belongs, and I’ll forget you braced us. That way you won’t have to kill us.” The man hee hawed again. Six guns to two were tough odds, but Jack and Charlie had no intention of walking away from this fight. Silverjack was getting ready to start the ball when two jokers appeared out of the shadows, “Crazy Ike” Calcott, and “Flatnose “Jimmy Boone. Ike was holding his hat in his left hand. His right hand was inside the hat. His face was wrinkled up in a frown. “You boys are being too loud over here.” He said. “Me and my friend can’t even have a friendly game of cards for all the caterwauling.” - 130 -

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“Sorry stranger,” said Joke Teller, “we’ll take these two fellers outside and shoot them. Then we’ll come back in and buy y’all a drink.” “Well, that sounds fine enough to me,” said Ike. “What’s your name friend?” “My name?” answered Joke Teller. “My name’s Odie Shuckert. Maybe you heard of me.” “Yeah, I heard of you,” said Ike Calcott. His eyes narrowing into slits, like a rattlesnake locking in on its prey. “What’s your handle, friend?” said Shuckert. “Two hundred dollars,” said “Crazy” Ike, his voice almost inaudible. “What did you say?” Shuckert asked Ike. This time there was no doubt what Ike said. “I said two hundred dollars, Shuckert. That’s how much you’re worth to me, dead or alive. I don’t like you alive, so, I reckon, it’s gonna have to be dead.”

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Chapter Twenty-Three Odie Shuckert started turning green. “Oh God,” he said, and went for both guns. Ike Calcott flipped his hat to one side revealing the pistol in his right hand. He fired two bullets into Odie. Shuckert looked down at the two holes sucking wind in his chest, and fell to his knees. At the sound of gunfire everybody slapped leather. Ratfoot Charlie’s first shot blew the jaw off of the loudmouth who wouldn’t take orders from a black man. The man wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. Charlie swung his pistol looking for another target. There were none. Smoke rose from both of Silverjack’s six guns, likewise Jimmy Boone’s pistol. The stink of burned gun powder filled the cramped saloon. Ike Calcott had already begun the grisly task of checking the dead men for identification. He was in this for one reason, money. So far, today looked like one helluva’ start. “Are they all dead?” asked Jimmy Boone. “Hell, yes, they’re all dead,” said “Crazy” Ike. “Anybody hit?” It was “Flatnose” again. There was no answer. “Damn!” He said. “It looks like I’m the only live one left that’s bleeding.” He laughed, swayed around, and dropped to the floor. Jimmy Boone opened his eyes, and, squinting, peered at his surroundings. As his eyes began to focus, he realized he was in his room at the boarding house. He tried to rise but searing pain careened through his chest and shoulders. He let out a holler and fell back down, almost losing consciousness. Silverjack stepped into the room just as Jimmy fell back into his pillow. He pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down. “How you doin’ there Jim,” said Jack. “Not too damn good. My chest is on fire and my left arm feels like it’s already burned up.” Jimmy Boone’s voice was low, but there was timber in it. A good sign. “You ought to be on fire. We took three slugs out of your shoulder and chest.” “Three bullets, huh,” said Jimmy. - 132 -

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“Yes sir and you were real lucky. One of them slugs got any closer to your heart, I’d be talkin’ to a pile of dirt right now, instead of you. Jim, you’re gonna be out of commission for quite a while, but I think you’ll live to get shot again.” Jimmy Boone moaned and tried to shut out the pain. Silverjack sat until Jimmy drifted off into a fitful sleep. He checked the wounded man for fever. Finding none, he left the room and headed down stairs to the parlor. Ike Calcott and Charlie Harp were seated at a small table in the middle of the room. An immense overstuffed chair occupied one corner of the area. It was filled with a fat man in a fancy striped suit who was snoring like a cotton gin. There was a worn settee in front of a bay window. White lace curtains covered the window. “The kid’s hurtin’, but he’ll pull through.” Silverjack told Ike and Charlie. Charlie nodded his head in approval. Ike did not respond. Jack looked over at the sleeping drummer and looked back at Charlie and Ike. Ike stood up and walked over to the snorer. He put his nose up next to the drummer’s nose and yelled “Wake up!” The fat whiskey peddler jumped like he had been stung by a yellow jacket wasp. His big round eyes shot open only to find himself eye to eye with “Crazy” Ike Calcott. “What’s the matter?” said the peddler in a low pitched whiny voice. “Are we being attacked by Indians?” “Not hardly,” said Ike, “we just need you to get your fat ass out of this room so we can have us a private palaver.” “See here, sir, I have as much right to be in this room as you and your friends do,” said the drummer, puffing out his chest. “Crazy” Ike pulled his six-gun, placed the end of the barrel square in the middle of the fat man’s eyes, and cocked the hammer back. “Leave now, lard ass, or I’ll blow your nose through the back of your head.” The whiskey drummer was gone before you could say “jackrabbit squat.” “Christ, Ike,” said Silverjack, “what do you think; he had a price on his head too?” “Jack, you can’t never tell about something like that,” said Ike, holstering his pistol. “He might be in one of them disguises.” “Yeah, Ike, and you might be disguised as a human being,” said Silverjack. - 133 -

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For a long moment, Ike Calcott stood frozen staring at Silverjack. Jack didn’t blink. All of a sudden, Ike Calcott began to laugh. It was a low evil sounding laugh. “Silverjack McDonald, you salty old son of a bitch,” he said. “I’ll just be damned if you ain’t probably right.” Silverjack smiled. Charlie Harp let out a long slow breath. Jack and Ike looked at Charlie, and all three burst out laughing. **** Halley’s Crossing was exactly what the name implied; a group of building’s situated at the crossroads of an East-West stage line and a NorthSouth cattle trail. The original rough hewn building had been built in 1866 by Nathan Halley. Over the years Halley and his clan had fought Indians, outlaws, and anybody else who tried to take or destroy the place. Halley and his wife had raised six sons to be hard working law abiding citizens. Two of the boys had left home to find their ways in the world. The other four stayed, raised families of their own, and helped Nat Halley build the business. At present, Halley’s Crossing consisted of five houses, a barn and corrals, and the largest General Store within a two hundred mile radius. “Old Nat”, as Halley was called these days was still oak strong and tough as whit leather. Every day he could still be found on the floor of his business glad handing and taking care of customers. It was straight up noon when Hawk Wing rode into Halley’s Crossing. She had ridden the day before until she ran out of daylight, making a cold camp. Passing on breakfast she had struck out at sun up for Halley’s Crossing. Hawk Wing tied the paint out front of the huge general store and hurried inside. Right away she eyed the telegraph operator, a woman, and hastened across the floor to send her message to Al Haybinder in Justiceburg. She almost paced a hole in the floor waiting for a reply. The answer was not long in coming. Three words were on the reply, “On our way.” After Hawk Wing read the answering telegram, her body seemed to shrink like a popped balloon. “Honey,” said the telegraph operator, “are you okay?” - 134 -

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Hawk Wing stared at the woman hollow eyed, not answering. “Jason,” said the operator, almost yelling, “come over here quick.” A tall blonde man who looked to be in his early twenties rushed to the call. He ran up until he was standing beside Hawk Wing. “What’s the matter, Mary?” He finished his question just in time to catch the young Comanche maiden who fainted into his arms. Hawk Wing forced her leaden eyelids open. She couldn’t see well, but savory aromas assailed her nostrils. “Wherever I am,” she said, “I think I’m going to like it.” “Darlin’, I see you’re awake.” The voice was gruff but gentle. “I’ll get someone to fix you something to eat. We’re serving chicken and dumplings today. They ought to be about ready. Sure smell good, don’t they?” The voice walked away. Hawk Wing rubbed her eyes and tried again to focus on her surroundings. She was in a large square room with a high peaked ceiling. Each white washed wall was decorated with pictures, homemade quilts and numerous other wondrous things. The bed she lay in was situated next to a window. Looking out, Hawk Wing realized she was on the second floor. Her head pounded like a medicine rattle full of pebbles and dried pumpkin seeds. She laid back onto the softest pillow she had ever felt and tried to relax. Her memory began to return, and she realized she needed to arise and take the message back to Silverjack, but she was too weak. Gravity was enough to keep her down. She was about to give it one more try when the voice returned. This time he brought along someone else, a woman who looked familiar to Hawk Wing, but she couldn’t quite place her. The woman was pretty in a frontier sort of way. The voice’s owner was a tall lean man of undeterminable age, with long white hair and close cropped beard. “This is Mary,” he said. “She’s going to nurse you back to health. Oh, and I am Nathan Halley. You are in my store.” Mary, the telegrapher from the previous day, fed spoonfuls of chicken and dumplings to Hawk Wing, who tried to talk, but every time she opened her mouth another load of chicken filled it up. Mary scooped the last of the dumplings into Hawk Wing’s mouth, patted her on the shoulder, and trotted back down the wooden stairs. Nat Halley sat down beside Hawk Wing. - 135 -

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“Before you try to talk, I have some things to say that might pacify your mind. You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours. You must have been near exhaustion because you collapsed into my son’s arms. Part of the time you were asleep, you talked. Most of it was gibberish, but we got enough to figure out Silverjack McDonald was in trouble and needed to know what that return telegram said. Soon as we knew what it was, my son Jason lit a shuck for Ghost Springs with the message. He ought to be there soon.” “I have to go back now.” Hawk Wing said. She tried to rise but again her strength failed her. Making no progress, she settled back into the bed. A look of resignation masked her features. She hoped Nat Halley bought her act. She would find a way out of this place and get back to Dixie City. “That’s much better young lady. A few days here, and you will be fine. Mary will be checking in on you from time to time. You rest now.” Nat Halley squeezed Hawk Wing’s hand and ambled back downstairs. Hawk Wing closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, but her mind was alert and working on a plan of escape. Silverjack was worried. It had been two days since he and Charlie had ridden into Ghost Springs. Hawk Wing should have been back. If something happened to that girl, Jack would never forgive himself. He and Charlie sat in the saloon sipping beer and discussing their plan of attack. Mrs. Windom, the owner of the boarding house, had taken over the nursing chores for Jimmy Boone, and he was healing quickly. Jack felt good about that. He wasn’t a good nurse maid, at all. As usual, Ike Calcott was parts unknown. “Okay,” said Silverjack, “let’s go over this again. We have ten men. They have two hundred. That sounds about even to me.” Charlie Harp rolled his eyes. “Jack, we can’t do this thing. It’s just not possible.” “Why, son, back in my Texas Ranger days, it weren’t nothin’ for ten Rangers to take on an army.” “Come on, Jack, back then you boys carried enough fire power to blow up Kingdom Come. You usually had a bunch of Rangers for back up, too. All we got is our own guns and limited ammunition. We’ve got a real predicament here.” “I’m gonna rescue those ladies if I have to do it by myself,” said Silverjack. - 136 -

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“Calm down Jack. You know we’ll all be there with you. I just wish we had some more firepower.” “Maybe we will,” said Silverjack with a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe we will.” Before Charlie could ask Jack about the firepower, the sound of hoof beats on the hardscrabble street made them get up and investigate. Hoping it was Hawk Wing, they dashed outside. A tall rangy blond haired man vaulted from his horse and addressed Jack and Charlie. “Can either of you gentlemen tell me where I might find Silverjack McDonald?” “You found him, son,” said Silverjack. “I have a telegram from Justiceburg for you.” “What about Hawk Wing?” asked Charlie. “The young Comanche girl is okay. She was exhausted when she got to our store. My Dad and family are taking care of her. We thought the message was urgent so Papa sent me with it right away.” “You must be one of old Nat’s boys,” said Silverjack. “Yes sir, I’m Jason Halley.” “Jason, we appreciate you taking care of business. Nat and I have seen the elephant together a time or two. Now, how about that telegram.” Jason dug the crumpled up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Silverjack. Jack unfolded the telegram and read it. A smile of relief crossed his face as he handed the message to Charlie. “Jason,” said Jack, “that message sure does relieve my mind. Come on inside the saloon, and I’ll buy you all the beer you can drink.” “Sir, I would like to take care of my horse first. I rode him hard.” “I am getting restless waiting here,” said Charlie. “I was on my way to the stable to get my horse and take a ride around the countryside. I’ll take care of your mount, wipe him down and see that he gets plenty of oats and alfalfa.” Jason nodded his thanks, and he and Silverjack moseyed back into the saloon. While Jason drank his beer, Jack filled him in on what was happening. As he listened, Jason’s face registered disbelief. “That’s about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said when Silverjack had finished. “Yeah, ain’t it?” - 137 -

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“What are you going to do, Mr. McDonald?” “I ain’t rightly sure. I’ve got some irons in the fire, but they need to heat up pretty dang soon. Ten against two hundred is sorry odds. We’re gonna need a miracle. Anyway, that ain’t your problem. You can stay here as long as you like. If your horse ain’t rested enough to get back home when you’re ready, we’ll fix you up with a good one.” “Mr. McDonald, I’ve thought this thing over, and I have decided to stay. I’m not much with a short gun, but I usually hit what I aim at with a rifle.” “You sure about that, son?” said Silverjack. “Yes sir, I am.” Jack shook Jason’s hand and ordered two more beers. “I feel a lot better now.” He said. “Eleven down and only a hundred and eighty-nine to go. At this rate we ought to be ready in about ten years. That damn peddler had better come through and soon.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four “Mary, Mary,” Hawk Wing called to her new friend and nurse. Mary Halley skipped up the stairs to her patient’s bedside. “Good morning, Hawk Wing. You are awake early today. What would you like for breakfast?” “I’m starving,” said Hawk Wing. “Now that my strength is coming back, I want to eat everything in sight. Can I have eggs and ham with fried potatoes? Oh, and some pancakes, too, please. Your cook makes wonderful pancakes.” “Well, my goodness, I guess we can fix you up. At this rate you will be able to travel in no time.” “I don’t know about that. I really like it here. Everyone has been so kind. You are wonderful Mary to take care of me and still run the telegraph and do your other chores. And Mr. Nat, he is such a good man. When the time comes, I may find it hard to leave Halley’s Crossing.” “We’ve grown fond of you, too, Hawk Wing. We will all miss you when you are gone. Papa Nat already thinks of you as a daughter. He will miss you a lot. I have to go now. We are having a family meeting at our house. All of the Halley’s meet once a month and discuss the future of Halley’s Crossing.” “I think I feel good enough to eat downstairs today, Mary. May I?” “Let’s don’t rush things, young lady. Maybe in a day or two we will give it a try. I have to go now. I will be back to check on you just as soon as our meeting is finished. It may take a little while for your breakfast, so be patient. I’ll tell the cook to bring it up herself. You can let her know then, how much you like her cooking.” “Okay, Mary, you’re the boss,” said Hawk Wing, giving it her best angelic smile. Mary smiled back and scooted downstairs to her meeting. As soon as she was gone, Hawk Wing jumped up and began to get dressed. This was what she had been waiting for. The night before, after the business was closed and everyone was asleep, she had crept downstairs and picked up the longest rope she could find. She now uncoiled the rope and tied it tight to her bed frame. Opening the window, Hawk Wing looked down and around in all directions. The drop was twenty feet and no one was in sight. She lowered - 139 -

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the lariat. It was plenty long. This is going to work. She thought. After pulling on a pair of leather gloves that she had also taken the previous night, Hawk Wing threw a leg out over the window sill. Her other leg followed and, with a tight grip, she began to shimmy down the rope. **** Silverjack sent Jason Halley to Mrs. Windom’s boarding house to get cleaned up and rested. Jack strolled out of the saloon and perched himself on a heavy wooden bench out front. His mind was charging around like a turpentined cat, going in every direction. Before he could get too deep into his predicament, he saw a dust cloud boiling in from the south; riders coming in fast. He loosened both pistols, and tried to look like a cowboy snoozing in the shade. His eyes became narrow slits. He watched and waited. Right away he made out two horses just a foggin’ it. Silverjack relaxed a little when he recognized the first rider as Charlie Harp. The other rider was a small man. “Hot damn!” Jack yelled, jumping to his feet. “Jesus Camposantos.” Both riders were hollering like catamounts. They yanked their horses to a halt directly in front of Silverjack causing him to cough from the whirling dust. He started stomping around like he had stepped in a bed of red ants. His arms flew all over the place trying to keep the airborne dust out of his face. He choked and spit until his lungs and throat were clear. “Dadgum you knuckleheads,” said Silverjack, still coughing. “Y’all trying to choke me to death?” Silver, amigo, it is I, your hermano mexicano,” said Jesus. “I have ridden far just to let you buy me a drink. You are not pleased to see me?” “Jack,” said Charley Harp, “you got your wish. They are bringing an army, a whole danged army. Jesus can fill you in. I’ve got to go to the livery and set things up for all the horses. I will be back when everything is ready.” He took off at a gallop for the stable. “Jesus, an army?” said Silverjack. “No, Silver, not a real army, but a good bunch of hombres. I will tell you everything, but my throat is too dry to talk. I need to have a drink before I can speak another word.” - 140 -

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“You little bandit, where have I heard that before?” said Silverjack, pushing open the batwing doors and motioning Jesus to go inside first. They sat by the door, and Jack ordered one beer and a bottle of Tequila. He was through drinking for the day. The libations arrived and Jesus chugged the beer, following it with a Tequila chaser. “Okay, podnuh,” said Silverjack, “tell me about this, so called, army.” “Silver it is magnifico! After you left, Senor Benteen, he disappeared for a while. When he returned, he brought twelve old Buffalo Soldiers with him.” “What!” “Si senor, John went to a town that had been settled by Buffalo soldiers when they had finished their time in the army.” “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Silverjack. “They’s a few of them towns in some parts of Texas, but I sure never thought about recruiting men from any of them. Danged if Honest John ain’t one smart hombre.” “All of the Buffalo soldiers either rode with Sgt. Harp or knew who he was. They are led by a man named Champion.” “Hell, I rode with ol’ Champ. I scouted for the tenth cavalry way back yonder. Him and Virgil Harp was both sergeants in our company. He must be seventy years old by now, maybe older.” Maybe so, Silver, but he still has the look of a warrior. All of the Buffalo soldiers flash fire from their eyes. “Good bunch of men to have on our side, amigo,” said Silverjack. “Yes, and there is more. We have brought three wagons. One is driven by Senor Half Jack. One more is driven by the man from China, Chan Wang.” “Chan Wang, I always knew he was sweet on the Dragon Lady. Who’d they get to drive the third wagon?” “I do not know this one’s name. He is tall and skinny, he has red hair, and his English is not so good. I think he is not from around here, maybe.” “He’s from Boston, Massachusetts, Jesus. It’s way up north.” Jesus Campo Santos nodded his head. “There are others, Silver, who were not in Justiceburg when you left. A man named Chris Sunday is coming with some of his men. He owns a ranch south of Justiceburg. There are also dos hermanos, two brothers that say they are your friends. There name is Tucker.” - 141 -

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“The Tucker brothers,” said Silverjack smiling, “Dang it, I knew them boys wouldn’t let me down.” Charlie Harp returned from the stable just as Silverjack and Jesus were exiting the saloon. A short time later the caravan began to arrive. Counting the wagon drivers, twenty-five men made up the party. Hawk Wing made the climb down the rope with ease. She reached the bottom and again looked around for anyone who might have seen her. Luck was still with her, there was no one in sight. She crept to the edge of the building and peered around the corner. The livery barn was three buildings down on the right side of the store. Hawk Wing knew this because she had seen a map layout of Halley’s Crossing. Keeping a low profile, Hawk Wing dashed from building to building. She smelled the barn long before she got there. The livery building was enormous. Hawk Wing had never seen one even half as big. She feared she would not find her paint horse before someone discovered she was missing. Taking another horse never crossed her mind. The barn had a back door. Hawk Wing tried it but the door was locked from the inside. No windows were on the back of the barn, but down the building’s sides, windows had been placed every ten feet. Time was running out for Hawk Wing. She pressed her slender body up against the barn and worked her way down from window to window. The first window was locked, the second window, too. Hawk Wing held her breath as she checked the third window. At first, it seemed locked too, but the window jiggled a little when she pulled on it. Whatever was used to secure the window seemed worn and loose? Hawk Wing began to move the wooden square back and forth. Each time she felt the window loosen a little bit more. “This is going to take forever,” Hawk Wing whispered. “I can’t take any more time. I must get inside now.” She had no choice. Risking someone hearing her, Hawk Wing grabbed the wooden window and gave a fierce jerk. The weakened dowels screamed as the window was ripped out of the frame. Hawk Wing turned the window closure loose and was climbing into the barn by the time the piece of wood hit the ground. She flipped over and landed on her backside in an empty stall. The sudden stop jarred Hawk Wing’s insides and made her head rattle. - 142 -

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In spite of her pain, the young Comanche maiden made no sound. She sat in one spot, unmoving until her head cleared and she could focus again. Listening for the slightest indication of someone else being in the barn, Hawk Wing heard none. Only the gentle rustle of horses eating and moving about reached her ears. She slipped out into the walking area and began to go down the row of stalls looking for the paint. Getting into the barn had taken much longer than she had planned, but her luck still held. The paint was in the fourth stall she looked into. The small horse whinnied when he saw her. Although the two had spent little time together, a bond had formed between them. Numerous saddles and blankets rested on both sides of the paint’s stall. Wasting little motion, Hawk Wing picked out a rig and saddled and bridled her horse. The little gelding cooperated as she led him out onto the walkway. Now she faced her biggest dilemma. She had gotten into the barn with relative ease, getting out was another story. She was working on a plan when the front door of the livery flew open and a man with a rifle stood spread legged in the doorway. “Turn loose that horse and step away.” He said. Hawk Wing flung herself onto the paint’s back, and kicked him hard in the ribs. He took off like a shot straight toward the man and his upraised rifle. Hawk Wing let go with a Comanche war cry just as they reached the startled man. He tried to fire his rifle and scramble to safety at the same time. He wasn’t near fast enough. The paint was a small horse, but by the time he reached the exit of the long barn he was running at full gallop. His right shoulder grazed the rifleman who went flying backwards losing his rifle in the process. Charging out of the barn and tearing away from Halley’s Crossing, Hawk Wing pointed the paint west towards Ghost Springs.

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Chapter Twenty-Five Silverjack, Charlie Harp, and Jesus Campo Santos greeted the men as they rode into Ghost Springs. Charlie and Jack knew most of the old Buffalo Soldiers. There was much whooping and hollering. Right away Silverjack eyed his old compadre Ben Champion. “Howdy there, Champ,” yelled Jack. “How in the hell are you?” Doin’ good Silver and you?” Former U.S. Cavalry First Sgt. Benjamin T. Champion had long since seen his seventieth birthday, but thanks to clean living and good genes, he looked and felt like a man twenty years younger than his true age. He was six feet tall, panther lean and leather tough. He was black as midnight, and proud of it. Riding with him were eleven men just like him. As they rode by Silverjack, the ones that knew him exchanged yells and curses with the old gunfighter. “Dog gone it,” said Jack, “I thought most of them old hellions was dead.” “I knew they were alive,” said Charlie. “I go see them a lot. Sometimes I even stay there a spell. Most of those old men have got families, but retirement has been hard on them. I suspect this is the best they have felt since they left the cavalry.” “Muchissimo hombres,” said Jesus. “For sure,” said Jack. “Them is some rough old soldiers. When the Sioux started callin’ em’ Buffalo Soldiers, they was right on the money.” “I’ll go show them where to settle in,” said Charlie, who was still mounted. He took off to catch up with the front of the column. John Benteen and the three wagons were next. Half Jack was driving the first wagon. Harlan Gilstrap was riding with him. Both men waved to Jack and Jesus as they rode by. “Howdy Harlan,” hollered Jack, “glad you could make it, old son.” Harlan Gilstrap, a short stock ruddy faced man yelled back at Silverjack. “Me too, Jack.” Then under his breath he said, “I hope.” John Benteen rode over to Jack and Jesus. He dismounted and shook both men’s hands. “Boys, I’m sure glad that ride is over with.” He said. “Wagons make for some mighty slow going.” - 144 -

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Conn Havens rode up and said his “howdy dos.” He then grabbed the reins of John Benteen’s horse and headed for the livery. The second wagon came rumbling by. Boston Red was perched high up on the driver’s seat. Al Haybinder sat beside him. Concentrating hard on his driving, Red never looked up. “That boy volunteered to drive one of the wagons,” said John Benteen. “Turned out, he had never driven one before. Hell, he had never even been on one. Haystacks had to administer on the job training as we came. The kid did okay. I think that Yankee boy is going to do just fine.” The third wagon began passing by. Chan Wang was at the reins. “Good day, gentlemen.” He said. “I trust your day has been so far pleasant.” “Hey, Wang,” said Jack, “I didn’t know you was a teamster?” “Oh, yes, Silverjack, many wagons I drove while a long time ago working on the railroad.” “Well, alright then,” said Jack smiling. “I’m glad you came along. I have a bunch of dirty laundry for you to wash.” Chan Wang was smiling as he shook his fist at Silverjack. He nodded his head and proceeded toward the livery stable. The last bunch to straggle in was led by Chris Sunday. A handful of his hands rode with him, along with the Tucker Brothers. Will Tucker was grinning like a possum eating persimmons. Obie Tucker had his head down and wouldn’t look at Jack as they rode by. Chris Sunday reined in his big Chestnut gelding and dismounted as the others rode on. “I’ll be dad gummed,” hollered Silverjack, as he grabbed the hand of his old friend. Jack started working it like it was a pump handle. “Hold on there, Jack,” said Sunday laughing, “That’s my gun hand you’re about to rip off.” Jack stopped shaking the man’s hand but he still gripped it tight. “Chris,” he said, “It sure looks like time has treated you well. And that daughter of yours is a real looker. Hoss, if I was twenty years younger, lordy, lordy, I would come a courtin’ at your place, and that’s a fact.” “Jack, I would shoot you on sight, and that’s a fact.” They all bellowed with laughter, Jack shaking his head in mock disagreement. “Sue Ann, looks just like her mother,” said Chris Sunday. “Who, by the way, raised Old Ned with me for coming up here. I told her, once a Ranger, - 145 -

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always a Ranger. That’s just the way it is. She understood, sort of. She said to tell you, Jack, that if anything happened to me while I am up here, she will make sure you never have children. Oh, and she said to tell you ‘hello’.” “She really said that?” said Jack. He had the strangest look on his face. He knew Mary Sunday to be a God fearing church going lady. He also knew she did not make idle threats. A tiny shiver coursed thru his loins. He looked up at Chris Sunday who was nodding his head. “Damn,” said Jack, “she really said that.” Chris Sunday winked at the others standing there. “I’m going on down and see to my horse’s needs, Jack. When I get back, you can buy us all a cold beer and let us know what is going on.” He forked his gelding and took off at a quick trot towards the livery. Silverjack removed his hat and ran a hand through his silver mane. “Damn, do I look newly prosperous?” He said. “Everbody wants me to buy ‘em a beer.” John Benteen put an arm around Silverjack’s shoulders, and motioned for Jesus to open the saloon doors. “Let’s all go inside and talk about this, old pardner,” said the lawman, pausing for a moment, “over a cold beer.” **** Capt. Alfordus Sparks was delighted with himself. Sitting in his office, his feet propped up on the old wooden desk, he ran his plan through his mind. So far everything was falling into place like tumbling dominos. Col. Pickering was dead; his death blamed on some poor fool who believed in the nonsense the Colonel was peddling. Capt. Sparks laughed to himself at the cleverness of his scheme. Ever since the Dragon Lady had approached him over a year ago with her idea, he had known this was going to work. A large consortium representing wealthy Chinese warlords was interested in purchasing young American women to be taken to China for the purpose of procreation. They hoped to create a super race of men with Chinese intelligence and ingenuity and American size and strength. It was the beginning of a multi-generational plan to someday rule the world. Capt. Sparks and his cohorts would be paid well in Chinese gold for delivery of up to 50 healthy strong women who - 146 -

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were in their child bearing years. The task had taken nearly a full year to complete. Sheer luck had caused Al Sparks to become involved with Col. William A. Pickering. Sparks heard thru the outlaw grapevine about some old coot trying to restart the Civil War. Intrigued, he arranged a meeting with this enigmatic man only to come away with the rudimentary beginnings of a plan. Convincing the Colonel he was a die hard separatist, Al Sparks signed on with the honorary title of Captain. It had taken a lot of hard work to assemble the men he needed to pull off his big plan, but the time had been well spent. It had been easy for Capt. Sparks to guide the disillusioned old military leader to do things his way. As the so called army grew they plundered and robbed place after place building up supplies and munitions. As far as a place to billet the army, Capt Sparks had been aware of an old Mormon town in the Oklahoma panhandle. The place had a few residents left, but they were no trouble running off. The ones that had protested had gotten their wishes granted. They were allowed to live out their days in their town; unfortunately, their last days came somewhat sooner than they had expected. Word was put out along the owlhoot trail about the chance to make some easy money. Gunmen, outlaws, and lowlifes of every ilk showed up in the old town, newly christened Dixie City. Capt. Sparks expected the law enforcement agencies to check up on the town when they found out about the outlaw exodus to Dixie City. What he had not anticipated was the problem with jurisdiction in the territories. While law enforcement officials argued about who was liable for the problem in Dixie City, the army grew too big, too fast. If Capt. Sparks did not move on his plan quickly, there was danger that it might not work. He was confident there was still time, but they must proceed now. Within a few weeks he would be a rich man, and then he would be off to England to live the life he deserved. Maybe he would purchase a title. England was going through a money crunch, and many Lords and Dukes were selling their titles so they could hold on to part of their property. He could pick up a title for a few thousand dollars and still have plenty left to purchase a fine estate. Alfordus Sparks, lord of Stately Manner. The name had a ring to it. He would live like royalty. He would be royalty. - 147 -

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Capt. Sparks’s reverie was interrupted by a knocking on his door. It was Lt. Cady fresh from his bath and in a reasonably clean uniform. “Sir,” said the Lieutenant, “we have the man who killed Col. Pickering. He is fit to be tied. He is claiming that the Colonel was alive when he left, and you gave him permission to use your horse.” “What!” said the captain, “I will not have my good name or the memory of a great man scandalized by a common thief and murderer. Lt. Cady take a detail and hang this liar at once.” “Yes, sir.” “Oh, and Lt. Cady what did the brigand do with my horse?” “Your charger is out front, sir. Shall I have him taken to the livery and cared for sir? “No, Lieutenant that will not be necessary. After this ordeal of a day, I believe I will take a ride. It will help me to clear my head and collect my thoughts.” The Lt. executed a sloppy salute and left to do his dirty business. Capt. Sparks worked a few more minutes in his office getting necessary paperwork together. When he had finished he strode outside. Stepping into the saddle, he looked around and smiled. Soon I will be away from this abomination and rid of these human parasites. He thought to himself. This scum of humanity will be shocked to find there is no great leader, no Army of the New Confederacy, and most of all there will be no gold, at least not for them. Capt. Alfordus Sparks laughed out loud at the irony of it all. He turned his horse in the direction of the ranch where the women were kept, and took off at a gallop. On his way out of town he rode past the tree where the unfortunate orderly was hanging. The man’s feet were still twitching. Capt. Sparks failed to notice. He had more important things on his mind.

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Chapter Twenty-Six Silverjack’s rag tag army set up camp at the edge of town. After supper, the men set about cleaning their weapons, and readying their gear in anticipation of the next day’s battle. The leaders met at the saloon to discuss the battle plan. Just as they were about to start, Ike Calcott strolled into the saloon. He sidled up to the bar, ordered a beer, and turned to face the table where the palaver was about to begin. Placing his elbows on the bar top he leaned back and began sipping his beer. “Gents,” said Silverjack, “I’ve thought this thing over in my head ‘til I can’t think no more. I have a plan I want to run by you, and see what you think.” “Bearkiller done some scoutin’ around and he says there’s six guards at different places up in the hills surrounding Dixie City. Them boys are gonna have to be taken out before we can go in. We need six knife men to do this job. Bear will be in charge.” “Where is L.J. Bear anyway?” asked John Benteen. “Don’t worry,” said Jack. “He’s out there. He’ll show up at the right time.” “I will go,” said Jesus. “I was countin’ on you, amigo,” said Jack. “Champ do you have anybody still agile enough to do this?” “Yassuh, Jack, I got a couple of men that ain’t too stove up with the rumatiz’ that can go.” Some of the men laughed at Sgt. Champion’s comment. They knew those old Buffalo soldiers could fight with guns, knives, or fists as well as most men half their age. Jack snorted and lowered his head. “Goshamighty, Champ, you know I didn’t mean that like it sounded.” “Sure you didn’t,” said Ben Champion. He was enjoying having Silverjack on the defensive. “You know one of my men, Willie Rogers. He could sneak up on a ghost. The other one will be my son, Virgil. Sgt. Harp was his Godfather. He’ll do to get it done.” “I’ve got a rider named Shorty Plum,” said Chris Sunday. “He’s the best man I ever saw with a short blade. He was in Justiceburg when you took up - 149 -

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for my daughter in the café. He quit that outfit and has been riding for my brand ever since. He’s a good man.” “That’s five counting L.J. Bear,” said John Benteen. “We need one more man.” “That would be me,” said Conn Havens. “Uh, uh, Conn,” said Silverjack, “I appreciate you volunteerin’, but I’m gonna need you with me.” “Hell, I’ll do it.” It was Ike Calcott. He walked over to the table. “I can use a blade as well as anybody, and, besides, I might have posters on some of them boys.” “Ok, Ike, suits me,” said Silverjack. “The rest of us will meet at a grove of chinaberry trees a couple of miles this side of Dixie City. We need to be there an hour before sun up. The knife work needs to be done by then. Bearkiller will be waitin’ behind the stable at midnight for the blade men.” Ike Calcott, calm and relaxed most of the time, was edgy. “Jack,” he said, “there’s something big fixing to happen down in that town. And it’s going to happen soon.” “How do you know that?” said Chris Sunday. “I been down there. Fact is, when I come in here a little while ago, I had just got back from the place. That crazy Reb Colonel is dead.” “What!” “Yeah, they say his orderly killed him, but something stinks about that. Capt. Sparks has taken command, and him and Butcher Blake are getting a bunch of men ready to travel. From the looks of it, they’re going to be riding hard. Word is they’re taking the women with them. That’s all I know, except we’d better get this thing done, pronto.” “Okay,” said Jack, frowning. “That just makes everything that much more crucial. We got to save them women.” “The guards are taken care of,” said John Benteen. “What’s next?” Before Silverjack could answer, the Saloon doors swung wide and in pranced Hawk Wing. “Howdy boys,” she hollered. “Did you miss me?” Silverjack ran to her and grabbed the young Indian maiden in an enormous bear hug. He swung her around until she protested for him to stop. “Girl am I glad to see you,” he said. “We heard about your problem - 150 -

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from Nathan’s boy, and we sure didn’t expect you back for this shindig. Are you feelin’ okay?” “Yes, Silver, I am feeling fine, and I have a surprise for you.” “I don’t know if I can stand any more surprises,” said Jack looking perplexed. “Oh, I think you are going to like this one, Silver. Come on in Mister.” The saloon doors parted to reveal a stocky man of medium height wearing horn rimmed glasses and covered in dirt. He more resembled a small hummock than a man. He addressed Silverjack in a meek, apologetic tone. “Hello, Jack, I made it,” he said. Silverjack’s jaw dropped. The men at the table looked at the dirty stranger, looked at each other, then looked back at the walking dirt pile. “Who or what is that?” said Chris Sunday. “That pile of walking shit is Dude Harry Farnsworth,” said John Benteen. “The biggest con man west of the Mississippi river,” said Conn Havens. “Do you have the goods, Harry?” said Silverjack. “Jack I have everything that you ordered,” answered Dude Harry, trying to smile. “What the hell happened? You were supposed to be here two days ago. I thought you’d run out on me.” “Now, Jack, you know I would never run out on an old friend.” “No, you wouldn’t, Harry, unless somebody else offered you more money for the goods.” “I found him lost and wandering around the desert about ten miles from here, Silver,” said Hawk Wing. “He tried to offer me the guns for my tribe; said they would make heap big medicine, and bring back the buffalo. I haven’t even seen a buffalo in my entire life.” Hawk Wing looked at Dude Harry and laughed. Silverjack didn’t laugh. He looked at Dude Harry like a lobo wolf looks at a new born lamb. The dirt pile began to shake. Jack walked up to him until there noses touched. Dude Harry Farnsworth, the best con man west of the Mississippi, shit all over himself. “Harry, you made a mistake,” said Silverjack. - 151 -

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That’s all he said. He turned and went back to his table, and sat down. “I sent that son of a bitch a telegram when I was sending out the others. He sent one back saying he could deliver the goods I wanted. I thought he had double crossed me.” “That was the telegram marked ‘It’s a done deal’,” said Al Haybinder. “That’s the one,” said Silverjack. “The goods he brought are what’s gonna make this thing work. Gentlemen we now have fifty brand new model 1894 Winchester rifles and five thousand rounds of ammunition.” “Hot damn!” said Half Jack. “This party just got interestin’.” “Champ,” said Silverjack, “I want you to take your men and space them in the hills surroundin’ Dixie City. Chris, I want you to do the same thing with your cowboys. Make sure each man has two rifles and plenty of ammunition. When this ball starts I want a big ol’ hail storm to hit that town, but instead of little chunks of ice, it’s gonna be fiery pieces of lead rainin’ down.” “We are gonna do this just as the sun is coming up. Some of them ner’ do wells will be awake, but most of ‘em will still be sawin’ logs. I want hot lead poured into every building in Dixie City. Shoot ‘til your rifle gets so hot you can’t hold it no more, pick up the other one and do the same thing with it. The hardcases that are still alive will be shittin’ and gettin’.” “Shoot for five minutes and stop. While y’all are shootin’, some of us are goin’ to work our way down the hills in groups of twos. When you stop shootin’ we’re goin’ in and clean out any stragglers. We will stay at street level. Anybody y’all see on a roof send ‘em to hell.” “What about those of us in town, Jack?” asked Conn Havens. “Are we going to be fair game, too?” “Huh!” said Jack, “Damned if I didn’t think about that.” “We could tie white rags around our arms, so the shooters could tell us from the bad guys,” said John Benteen. “We’ll do just that,” said Silverjack. “Now, this will be the two man teams: John, you stay with Charley, Jesus with Ike, Harlan with Will, and Conn, you’re with me. Men, we have to work together. No freewheelin’ Ike. Do you understand?” Ike Calcott nodded his head. He had come for the bounty money, and when the time was right, he would do what was best for Ike Calcott. He - 152 -

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didn’t give a damn for a bunch of worthless whores. “There’s a lot of big money waiting down in that town. I aim to get as much of it as I can. I saw Wes Hardin there. He ought to be worth a bundle.” “You saw Hardin?” said Silverjack. “That’s what I said, and he was talking to that Capt. Sparks, too.” “There ain’t no paper on Wes Hardin, far as I know,” said John Benteen. “Best I remember, he’s been in prison for about fifteen years.” “He’s been out a while,” said Silverjack. “He helped me and a Ranger out of a tight spot in Dixie City a few days ago. I can’t believe he’s in cahoots with that bunch.” “You saying I didn’t see him, Jack,” said ‘Crazy Ike’. His stare was hard and cold. “Shut your damn temper down, Ike, or I’ll take you out of this little whoop de doo.” Silverjack was in no mood for back talk. He had come too far to let anything stop him now, including a greedy bounty hunter. He would kill Ike Calcott if he had to, but the mission was going to take place. Calcott read the anger in Silverjack’s eyes and backed down. “I saw Ace Perdue, or Blake, as he calls himself now, too,” said Calcott. “He was talking to that Captain before Hardin showed up. I know those two are up to something more than meets the eye.” “Perdue!” John Benteen shot up, flipping his chair over backwards. “How do you know it was Ace Perdue?” “Hell, Honest John, I got enough posters on that bastard to paper a good sized wall. He’s calling himself Anson Blake, but it’s Perdue, alright. He’s worth five thousand dollars dead or alive, and I aim to take back his head in a sack.” John Benteen righted his chair and sat back down. Uncertainty shown in his eyes as he looked up at Silverjack. “Did you know about this, Jack?” He said. “Not for sure, John, but I suspected it. Now we both know he’s there, but this changes nothin’. I’ll tell you what I told Ike. I don’t want nobody gettin’ killed because some fool is lookin’ to make a bunch of bounty money or tryin’ to settle an old score. I got some personal business I would like to conduct with some of these worthless pieces of dog shit, myself, but the - 153 -

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ladies’ safety comes first. Anybody that don’t agree with that can fork a bronc and hightail it out of here right now.” Nerves were raw and tempers were tight, but no one made a move towards the door. Ike Calcott gritted his teeth. John Benteen lowered his gaze and stared at the floor. Every man in the room knew tomorrow might bring his last breath. It was the life they lived, the chances they took. Jack looked at every one of them. They were all good men. He knew they would come through in the morning. At least he hoped like hell they would. A whole lot of frightened women needed them. Backing out time was ancient history. It was time for the nut cutting. Who was going to be the cowboy and who was going to be the steer? Dawn tomorrow would tell the tale.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven Everyone had left the saloon but Silverjack, Al Haybinder, Hawk Wing, and Half Jack Perkins. They stayed behind to discuss how to handle the rescue of the captives. “So that’s about it,” said Silverjack. “Be at the rendezvous an hour before dawn with the rest of us. You’ll meet Bearkiller there and he’ll lead the wagons to where the ladies are kept. You all know what to do after that. Hawk Wing, are you sure you want to do it this way?” “I think it is the only way for us to get close enough to have a chance to free the ladies,” said Hawk Wing. “Yeah, I feel the same way,” said Haybinder. “Alright, everbody needs to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow all Hell breaks loose. I’ll be at the stable if anybody needs me.” Silverjack walked out into the street. The moon glowed silver in its first quarter and the stars were shining with all their power; blinking red and green and yellow and white from distances beyond imagination. A soft northerly breeze helped cool down the air. It was a glorious night in the Texas panhandle. Jack wondered how many people would not see this same sky tomorrow night. He did not enjoy killing. Even the hard cases that were going to die cared for someone and someone cared for them. Some were just crazy killers but most were ex-cowhands or farmers who, somewhere along the way, crossed the line. Many would die because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jack worried about the men who came to fight because of there loyalty to him. How many of them would not see another sunset. Maybe he wouldn’t. He had lived the life he chose and had few regrets. Losing Crystal was his biggest mistake. If she was still alive he would talk to her, tell her how wrong he was, and that he loved her. If she would have him, he swore he’d do the right thing this time. She had to be alive. He couldn’t think of her any other way. Jack continued to gaze at the stars as he ambled up the street toward the livery. **** - 155 -

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Capt. Alfordus Sparks and Anson ‘Butcher’ Blake sat, locked in bitter disagreement, in the back of the Dixie City saloon. “Mr. Blake, I will not tell you again to lower your voice. It is of the utmost importance that this conversation remains a secret. I did not take you into my confidence these many months ago for your outrageous temper to ruin everything now that my plan is approaching fruition. Do we understand each other?” Anson Perdue aka ‘Ace’ Perdue aka Anson Blake was an evil man with a savage temper. In his way he was a simple man who only needed the base necessities of life to be content. He wanted food, shelter, whiskey and women. It took money to obtain these things, so that’s what he did. He took money wherever he could find it; most often in a violent manner. He had not killed this martinet for one reason, money. That was what had kept him from murdering this pompous fool long ago. This scheme would make Anson Perdue a rich man. He would ride it out until the end. Then with money safe in hand, he would take enormous pleasure in slitting Capt. Alfordus Sparks’ throat. “Alright Sparks, I’ll keep it down, but I’m getting damn anxious to get going on the trail to California. Are you sure we can trust that McMasters?” “Morgan McMasters knows every trail and passage way between here and the California coast better than any man alive, sir. I will stake my reputation upon his integrity.” “You had better be right Sparks, because you ain’t just putting your reputation on the line, you are putting your life and mine out there too. We won’t have too much trouble getting through New Mexico. Those damn greasers don’t give a rat’s ass about nothing but their little farms and those stinking goats and sheep they raise. Same way in Arizona. It ain’t nothing but mutton eating Navajos out there who live in their little round huts and don’t bother nobody. California, now there’s a different story all together. They got state militia crawling around all over the place. McMasters had better know what he’s doing are them Chinamen won’t get there whores and we wont be rich.” Capt. Sparks was growing weary of Blake’s constant ranting. The man was a blithering idiot. He would be glad when this ordeal was over and he would be rid of the man, for good. He had already made arrangements with - 156 -

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McMasters to dispose of Mr. Blake and his men just as soon as they were no longer needed. That promised to be a memorable day in Capt. Sparks’ life. “Enough of this, Mr. Blake, you have your orders. I expect the women to be ready to travel by noon tomorrow, no later.” “They’ll be ready. Just you make sure the gold is in the wagon when it leaves town in the morning.” “I have my most trusted man, Lt. Cady, and a six man guard squad selected by myself to accompany the wagon. Now, Mr. Blake we have much to do before the morning arrives so I suggest we each pursue our tasks, post haste.” “Okay,” said Anson Blake, “I’ll round up my men and get this thing in motion.” “Good night, sir,” said Capt. Sparks. “I will see you on the morrow.” Anson Blake said nothing, and walked away in silence. **** Silverjack recognized Sgt. Champion at the livery and walked up to him. “How’s everthing lookin’ Champ?” “We’ll be ready, Silver. Don’t worry about it. We have been through hell together, my friend. How much worse could this be?” “I know Champ. It’s just that this time thirty or forty women’s lives are at stake. And, besides that, there are a whole lot of good men here that wouldn’t be if I hadn’t of got a wild hair about rescuing these ladies and getting some sort of revenge against the men who burned down the best whorehouse I ever had the pleasure of bein’ in. I just ain’t sure this is the right decision, Champ.” The old sergeant put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Silver, answer me one question? If nobody came with you to rescue these ladies, would you have tried to do this alone?” Without hesitating, Silverjack said, “Yes.” “Good,” said Champ. “There isn’t a man here that doesn’t feel the same way you do. These ladies are human beings; it doesn’t matter how they make their living. Why some of these old Buffalo soldiers that rode here with me, they married ladies of the evening and are proud of it. You make yourself a - 157 -

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life however you can. That’s just the way it is. We’re all here of our own accord. You are only responsible for one man here, and that’s you. We’re all free men, Silver. We go where we please, and tomorrow we will be pleased to be a part of ridding this country of a whole passel of worthless vermin. Now, my friend, I am going to try and get some sleep. I suggest you do the same, Silver, good night.” “Goodnight, Champ, and, thanks, you straightened out my head. I know now that this is the right decision.” Sgt. Benjamin Champion smiled and waved back at Silverjack. He pulled out an ancient looking briar pipe, tamped and lit it. He disappeared into the darkness, the slight glow of the pipe the only hint that someone was there. Silverjack figured that it was around ten p.m.. He found a spot in the livery barn where hay was scattered thick on the ground. Looking around he spied an old blanket in the corner. He kicked the straw up until it was in a round flat pile about two feet high. Placing the blanket on the straw he lay down and covered his face with his hat. He hoped he could get at least a couple hours of sleep before Bearkiller met with the knife squad. He closed his eyes thinking this was probably a waste of time, but he had to try. Minutes later, anyone who walked past the livery would have sworn that someone was sawing logs inside at a ferocious pace. Silverjack slept hard for almost four hours. In the middle of an intense nightmare, he came awake with a start. He had been dreaming about burning buildings, and people screaming. Right in the center of the fracas, Crystal was pleading for Jack to save her and, hard as he tried, he couldn’t get to her. Silverjack shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “Damn,” he said, “that was too real.” He looked around to see where he was. Realizing he had slept longer than he had intended to, he jumped up and shook his limbs. He checked his weapons, and finding everything satisfactory, headed out of the barn. He had missed the midnight meeting with Bearkiller, but he wasn’t too concerned about it. Bear knew what to do and besides he needed that sleep. Jack noticed lights on in the saloon and walked down that way. The bartender was asleep in a chair in the corner. John Benteen sat at a table; a full whiskey bottle and an empty glass set before him. He was awake - 158 -

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and staring at the wall. Silverjack walked over and sat down. John Benteen looked at Jack but said nothing. “What’s wrong, Honest John?” John didn’t say anything for a long time. Silverjack was about to speak again, when John answered his question. “Jack, I never thought the day would come when I had the chance to even things up with Ace Perdue.” John Benteen licked his lips. “Hell, Jack, I couldn’t even things up in a million years for what that bastard did, but I will make damn sure he’s started his last fire, so help me God.” “Honest John” looked up and made a feeble attempt to smile. Jack picked up the bottle of whiskey and gulped down a big swig. Wiping his mouth with a fringed Buckskin sleeve, he held out the bottle to John. Benteen hesitated then he took the bottle from Silverjack, and tilting it way back, took a long hard draw. When he finished his drink he looked at Silverjack. Their eyes locked together in confirmation of a long ago pledge to always back each other’s play, no matter what the odds. John Benteen held the half full bottle of whiskey high in the air and flung it at the nearest wall. The bottle smashed into the hardwood log wall and disintegrated; its contents spreading a greasy brown stain all down the bare wood. The sleeping bartender jumped up and fell off his chair. He saw the two men and said in an exasperated tone, “What’ll you have gents.” Silverjack and John Benteen looked at the startled bartender, and erupted in laughter. They stomped out of the saloon, still laughing. The bartender looked at them as they left and scratched his head.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight Dawn was two hours away as the column of men and wagons creaked and rattled north toward Dixie City. The few men who had been able to sleep stretched in their saddles trying to become fully awake. No one talked. Each of them lost in whatever thoughts a man might have as he approached the impending possibility of his own death. Silverjack led the procession. The time for action was at hand and he had exorcized the demons from his troubled mind. He was alert and ready for whatever the day would bring. He knew one thing; he had made a decision, and, right or wrong, he would stand by it. They reached the chinaberry grove, where they were to meet Bearkiller and his squad of knife men, a half hour after leaving Ghost Springs. The riders dismounted and checked their gear for the umpteenth time. Sgt. Champion deployed guards in a perimeter thirty yards from the column. The wagon crews shook wheels and checked harnesses once more. Silverjack, Conn Havens and John Benteen squatted beneath a wide branched Chinaberry and palavered. “Bearkiller ought to be here any time now,” said Silverjack. There was a hint of apprehension in his voice. “You sound nervous, Jack,” said John Benteen. “You ain’t!” “Hell, old son, I’m scared to death.” “You boys don’t have a thing on me,” said Conn Havens. “I haven’t been in action in years. The only time, lately, I fired my short gun is when I was practicing these last few days. When this hoedown starts, I might just fork my horse and ride all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.” “Well,” said Silverjack, with a twinkle in his eye, “that sure makes me feel good that I picked you as my partner to go to town with.” Sgt. Champion came up with two men behind him, one holding a rifle on the other, whose hands were over his head. Silverjack couldn’t make out the two. “Silver, we caught this man trying to ride into camp. He says he knows you,” said the old Buffalo soldier. He struck a match and cupped his hand over it to hold the light in. - 160 -

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“Bring him into the light Roscoe.” The two men stepped forward, and Sgt. Champion held the tiny glow up to the interloper’s face. “Wes Hardin!” said Silverjack. “Howdy, Silver,” said Hardin. “Looks like you’ve got yourself some good men here. I never saw Roscoe there until I was right on him and he stuck the business end of that Winchester into my face. He said ‘come with me’, and I said ‘yes, sir’. Can I lower my hands now?” “Christ, yes, Hardin, lower your hands.” Silverjack tried hard to suppress the smile that fought to take over his face. He looked around to congratulate Roscoe, but he had faded back into the night. Sgt. Champion was gone too. Jack was glad these old warriors were on his side. “What are you doing here, Wes?” asked Silverjack. “I came to help you boys, if you’ll have me.” “Hell, yes, we’ll take you. We won’t turn down another gun, especially one like yours. Here, meet up with two of the best in the business. You might have heard of this ol’ boy. This is Conn Havens.” Conn Havens stuck out his hand. Hardin took it for a split second, and turned it loose. Havens was struck with the iciness of Hardin’s hand. “I’ve seen Mr. Havens before. It was a long time ago in Tascosa when you took out Caleb Hart, and again in Ft. Worth just before I went to prison. I heard you were dead.” Conn Havens face split into something that looked vaguely like a smile. He said nothing. “This other yahoo is John Benteen,” said Silverjack. Benteen made no move to shake Hardin’s hand. Hardin did likewise. “United States Marshal ‘Honest’ John Benteen,” said Wes Hardin. “I don’t know you, but I sure as hell know of you. You’ve put more than one of my friends behind bars marshal. It’s sort of ironic that we end up on the same side isn’t it, ‘Honest John’.” John Benteen’s eyes narrowed as he sized up Wes Hardin. “We won’t ever be on the same side Hardin,” he said thru clenched teeth. “I’m here because Jack asked me to be, and those ladies need all the help they can get. There won’t be any trouble between you and me while this thing is going on, but afterwards, you better stay away from me. I might forget I’m a law - 161 -

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officer. I haven’t been a U.S. Marshal for ten years, but I still carry a badge, and I don’t care if some judge down in Austin says you paid for your crimes. I know different.” “Truce, ‘Honest John’,” said Wes Hardin, “until this is over.” John Benteen snorted and stomped away toward the wagons. The air crackled with static electricity like a lightning storm was coming, but the sky was clear as glass. Silverjack rolled his eyes, and Conn Havens stared at the ground. Nothing was said for a few moments until Jack broke the ice. He cleared his throat and spoke. “Wes,” he said, “this is the plan.” Lynn Cartwright felt a chill. He didn’t know why. He figured it was an hour or so before dawn and the heat was rising. He was sweating, but he was shivering too. He had only been in Dixie City for a week, and he already regretted leaving his Poppa’s farm. He missed his Momma; heck, he even missed his Poppa. Boy was his Poppa gonna wail the tar out of him when he got back home. He probably wouldn’t have been so mad but Lynn taking the only riding horse on the place, now that would tear it. He was leaving this dreadful place just as soon as he got off guard, right after daybreak. What was that? He thought he heard a noise. Probably another one of those danged jackrabbits that overrun this country. It would be just fine if he never saw another one of those big eared critters. Bearkiller wiped the blood from his knife, what little there was, on the dead boy’s shirt. Bear was an artist with a blade. When he slit a man’s throat, it was quick and neat. The victim was dead before he ever felt the pain. Bear seldom looked into the face of a man he had killed, but for some reason he peered down at this one. It was a boy, a damned boy. Bearkiller estimated his age at sixteen or maybe less. The boy’s eyes were open and a peaceful expression was his death mask. “Stupid boy,” said Bearkiller, “you should have been home milking the cow, or feeding the chickens.” He squatted for a moment to get his bearings then was off moving through the night like a ghost. Silverjack was still talking to Wes Hardin when Bearkiller and his squad showed up. Bear was in a foul mood. Jack sensed it right away. “Mornin’ Bear,” he said. “Everthing taken care of?” - 162 -

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“All the sentries are dead, Silver, but one man did not return.” “Who didn’t make it back?” said Silverjack, his face wrinkling into a frown. “Ike Calcott.” What happened, Bear?” “I don’t know for sure, but when he didn’t show up at the rendezvous point, I sent Jesus to find out what the problem was.” “When I got there,” said Jesus, “I found the guard dead. There was an X cut into his forehead. Senor Calcott had marked his kill, but he was not there.” That son of a bitch has already gone into town,” said Silverjack, almost spitting the words out. “I should have killed him the other night.” There is nothing we can do about that now, amigo,” said Jesus. Silverjack was fit to burst, but he had to control his feelings. He was in charge. “Never again,” he said, under his breath. He turned to Bearkiller. “Good job takin’ out the guards,” he said. “It looks like the table has been set a little different than we figured on. But that don’t make no difference. We’ll still do everthing like we planned.” Bear you get with Haybinder and round up the bunch that is goin’ after the ladies. Jesus, you find the men that are goin’ into town with me. Shorty you find Chris and his Men. Willie get Champ and the soldiers. We all meet right here in ten minutes. It’s time to start the ball.” Ike Calcott hunkered down behind a rickety old out building fifteen feet from a weathered two story boarding house where he knew a lot of the gunmen slept. He was going to sit right there until the shooting started. When the commotion got under way, he was planning to slide over to the corner of the boarding house and pick off the bad men, one at a time, as they came running out of the building. Chances were, in all the panic, no one would notice him there in the shadows. What a sweet deal for him. This would be the big one. He might just retire after this was over. Maybe go to San Francisco and live out his life as a retired cattleman. He knew enough about cows to get by with that charade. First, though, he had to live through the whole shooting match. His work was cut out for him this day, but the rewards were worth the risk. - 163 -

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After this thing was done he knew he would have to face Silverjack. That was an encounter he didn’t like to think about. Silverjack was more dangerous than a bucket full of Copperhead snakes. Maybe he would get lucky and the old bastard wouldn’t make it through the fight. Otherwise, it might have to be a bullet in the back. “Crazy” Ike Calcott figured it would be another half hour before the fireworks got started, so he pulled his hat down over his face and lay back for a short snooze.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine “Silver, I have a question,” said Sgt. Champion. “What’s your pleasure, Champ?” “Right now, I have a man guarding Harry Farnsworth and the Irishman. We will need every gun we can get. Do I have your permission to tie those two morons together?” “Hell, yes, Champ, that’s a dang good idea,” said Silverjack. “Get ‘er done quick, though, daylight ain’t goin’ to wait.” Sgt. Champion was not long in performing his chore. He promptly returned with the guard in tow. Everyone was together awaiting Silverjack’s last instructions. “Gentlemen,” said Silverjack, “I know I talk a lot, but I ain’t no speechmaker. So I’m gonna say this one time. We’re all here because we believe in freedom, and we’ll do whatever it takes to preserve that ideal. I’m proud to call each of you friend.” “Now, this is what I want. Champ, you take your riflemen and set ‘em up at intervals south and west above Dixie City. Chris, you put your men up on the north and east sides of town. The eight of us, in teams, will be down behind the buildings by the time your riflemen are set up. When we’re set, I’ll fire one shot. When you hear it, all hell had better break loose. Any questions about the shooters’ jobs?” No questions. “Good. Haybinder, is your group ready to go? “We are ready and raring to go, Jack. Everyone knows what to do.” “Y’all better start out now. When this thing gets goin’ there won’t be much time to get the ladies and skedaddle away from where they are being held. I figure we have less than half an hour to be ready.” Al Haybinder, Half Jack and their crew scrambled aboard the four wagons and set out towards the prison ranch. The two groups of riflemen moved out to their positions. Silverjack gathered the seven remaining men together. Wes Hardin was among this group. “Silver,” said Jesus, “Since Senor’ Calcott is not here with us, I have no partner. Senor’ Hardin and I have talked, and he will go with me.” - 165 -

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Silverjack McDonald drew in a deep breath. He sucked the warm clean air into his lungs until he felt they would burst if he breathed in anymore. He held this sustenance of life as long as he could, and then he let it go with a swoosh. It was good to be alive. It was good to be free. “I plan on seein’ you all when this is over,” he said. “Buenos suerte’, good luck men, it’s time we take down an army.” Silverjack and his comrades split up and, keeping low, headed down the hillsides into Dixie City. The town was quiet--no barking dogs, no restless chickens, not even a rooster tuning up to greet the dawn. Just two hundred or more men, who lay sleeping, unaware of what the coming day would bring. The small caravan circled the town at a safe distance. The wagons rolled at a steady pace, the drivers keeping as quiet as possible. Bearkiller figured it would take less than half an hour to reach the ranch buildings. When the shooting started they would go barreling hell for leather into the ranch where the ladies were kept and attempt the rescue. It would be chancy but if everything fell into place like it should, the mission would be a success. Hawk Wing rode beside Half Jack in the box of the first wagon. “Young lady,” said Half Jack, “if you were my young ‘un, you’d be back home in the tipi cooking or rendering lard or something like that, something fit for a female. You got no business out here.” Every now and then a man sticks his foot in his mouth. It’s the nature of the animal. This time Half Jack Perkins crammed his foot in all the way down to his privates. Hawk Wing jerked her head around towards Half and lit into him with both barrels blazing. One would have thought that the devil himself had just insulted her mother. “What do you know about me or Comanche women, you old half ass?” she said, her eyes flashing lightning bolts. Half Jack later swore that her whole head looked like it was on fire. He didn’t know whether to jump and run or spit. He did neither one. He sat there and took his medicine. “I have the blood of Quanah Parker in my veins,” said Hawk Wing. “My father is a war chief of the Comanche nation. I am a warrior of the Panther Clan. We are fearless and we are powerful. Would you like to test me, old - 166 -

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man. I tell you now, you would come away even less of a man than you are at this moment, if that is possible, which I doubt.” Hawk Wing spat on the wagon seat next to Half Jack. “Yes, mam,” said Half Jack, clinking the horses rains. “You’ve convinced me. I am proud to have you with us on these doings.” He rolled his eyes, suppressing a smile. The hillside above Dixie City was thick with underbrush. Silverjack and his men crawled, stumbled, and slid their way down the hill, being careful not to trip and fall over the multitude of trees and bushes. It took several minutes to reach the bottom. When all the men had made it down, Silverjack motioned them into a tight circle. “Boys we got about five minutes before them shooters start throwin’ lead. Any of you feel like prayin’, get to it.” Jesus removed his sombrero, lowered his head and crossed himself. Most of the other men bowed their heads in silent prayer. Silverjack took off his hat and looked up at the sky. The horizon had turned from black to blue, on its way to yellow and gold. “The Comanche’s have a sayin’,” Jack spoke to the group in low tones. “Today is a good day to die. This might be that day for some of us. If it is, so be it. I got me some regrets, but I done alright by myself. I reckon I can meet the maker standin’ up on my hind legs. Far as I’m concerned, the rest of you no accounts can do the same. Good Luck, and spread out at least two buildin’s between you. Put your arm bands on and for cryin’ out loud try not to shoot each other. Now, let’s go. They’ll be shootin’ any time now. See y’all on the other side.” The men faded away in the darkness. Silverjack and Conn Havens squatted where they were. The last remnants of the night faded into oblivion as dawn draped first light upon Dixie City. It would be the dawn of the apocalypse for the old Mormon settlement. Silverjack pulled his .44. He looked over at Conn Havens, who was grinning like a preacher with a church full of converts. Jack grinned back at Conn, raised his pistol and fired one shot into the morning sky. *** - 167 -

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Capt. Sparks’ sleeping quarters were in a small room off of his office. He liked sleeping in town. It made it easier for him to keep control of the situation. He hadn’t slept well; his mind surging like a runaway locomotive throughout the night. He was closer than he had ever been to achieving his lifelong dream of wealth. If all went well this day, by noon, he would be on his way to California. He had risen before dawn and dressed in the dark. He was comfortable in the darkness. The still hours just before dawn were his favorite time of day. It reminded him of the farm he grew up on in Virginia; the farm that the Yankees burned down with his mother and two sisters still inside. His mother had hidden him under a false floor in the well house and told him not to come out no matter what. He had always obeyed his mother; there was no reason to disobey her then. The shouting of the soldiers and the gunfire scared him and he remained under the well house as long as he could. When he could stand it no more, he crawled out only to find smoldering bits of charred wood where his home had been. There was no sign of his mother or sisters. He was eight years old when that happened. He had been on his own ever since. Capt. Sparks was immersed in his memories when the first bullets hit his office. Thunder and lightning burst into Bob Ray Woolens’ dreams. He jumped up, wide eyed, smack dab into a real nightmare. Bullets were whizzing through the back of the old boarding house where he had been sleeping. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “What in the hell is happening.” A tall drink of water that slept on the bunk next to Bob had hit the floor at the same time Bob Ray did. He started to say something to Bob when his lower jaw disappeared. The gunman stood there for a moment still trying to talk, not even realizing his jaw was gone. Bob Ray dropped to the floor a second ahead of the dead man’s body. He wiggled under his bunk and lay still. It was like somebody had stirred up a hornet’s nest and thrown it inside the building, only these hornets carried a deadly sting. Men were yelling and running in every direction. Some were firing their pistols at anything that moved. The ones that kept their heads, were on the floor like Bob Ray. Some escaped the deathtrap only to be shot down as soon as they hit the street. - 168 -

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“Goddamn!” said Ike Calcott, “This ain’t half bad. Come on out boys and make ol’ ‘Crazy Ike’ rich.” He cackled with raucous laughter, firing at any man fool enough to come out into the street. There were a lot of fools in Dixie City that day. Silverjack and Conn Havens had eased there way up to the back of a building that looked vacant. When the shooting started they slammed to the ground and flattened out. Bullets were flying in every direction. The noise of twenty Winchester repeating rifles going off over and over again sounded like two hundred. Jack and Conn crawled to the back door of the building. Still lying on the ground, Jack jerked the door open. Weak hinges screamed in protest as the old door banged into the back wall of the building. Nothing happened. Conn Havens peered over the threshold. Though dark inside, the building appeared empty. He doubled his legs under him and with a great leap he sprang inside. Staying low he belly crawled through the building. Silverjack crawled in right behind him. Both men continued to lay low riding out the fusillade of bullets. The hail of bullets brought Capt. Sparks out of his reverie with a start. Without thinking he fell to the floor and remained quiet. “Attack!” He yelled. “My God, we are under attack.” He couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t happening, not now, not today. “Damn!” he said in a muffled tone, then louder, “Goddamn!” He had to get out of Dixie City right away, but first he had to get the gold that was stashed under the bar in the saloon. Lt. Cady and his most trusted men stayed in the building directly behind his office. Somehow he had to get to them. He would need their help with the gold.

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Chapter Thirty Bearkiller raised his hand for the caravan to halt. “We are here,” he said to Al Haybinder, who rode beside him. “The ranch is over the next hill and down into a valley. We will wait here until the gunfire begins. Prepare the wagons.” Haybinder nodded and turned his horse back towards the caravan. The ranch in the valley had once been a prosperous cattle operation. It was built in a time when the land belonged to the strongest. Too many years of warring Indians, drought and marauding outlaws had taken their toll. Bearkiller dismounted and trotted to the crest of the hill. He found a split boulder and climbed into the rough opening. From his vantage point, he could observe the entire ranch grounds. The way down the hill was a gentle slope that led to the front of the old ranch house. Fifty feet beyond the house was the barn. It was a large structure with a loft and two wide doors. An adjoining corral held a number of horses. In the darkness, Bearkiller could not make out how many. His past observances led him to believe there would be no more than eight. Only a small cadre of men was used to guard the ladies. Bearkiller scrambled down off of the rock and ran back to the wagons. Al Haybinder was waiting for him. “What did you see?” asked the yellow haired giant. “All is quiet,” said Bearkiller. “I believe they are ill prepared for an attack. There is a house. Five men should be asleep there. Some distance beyond is a barn where the women are kept. One man sleeps at each end of the locked building. There will be a guard in the loft of the barn. He could be awake. He will be our main problem. Daughter, are you ready for your deception?” “I am ready, father,” said Hawk Wing. She was dressed in a fancy red dress that had long ago been left by an errant boarder at the boarding house in Ghost Springs. “Very well, daughter, at the crest of the hill you will find a split boulder. The barn can be seen from there. You know what you must do. Go now, there is little time.” Hawk Wing disappeared into the darkness. Bearkiller said a silent prayer to the maker of all things for the safe return of his only child. She was a woman with the heart of a great warrior beating in her chest. - 170 -

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In took only moments for Hawk Wing to reach the boulder. She looked around, and after getting the lay of the land, she rolled over the boulder and began tramping down the hill. Large bushes and a few scattered trees concealed her descent. It was still dark enough that where there were no hiding places deep shadows hid her movement. Within minutes she reached her destination directly under the barn’s loft. She looked around until she found a hand full of pebbles. Having everything she needed for her task, she squatted down to wait. Her wait was short. Through the fading night she heard the echo of distant gunfire. The time was at hand. In a few moments, Al Haybinder would be coming over the hill leading the wagons on a dead run. She drew back her arm that contained the pebbles and heaved them at the loft. They struck dead center, slamming hard into the small door. The door creaked open a few inches and a rifle barrel jutted out. “Who the hell is it?” came a gravelly voice from inside. Hi, I’m Mary,” said Hawk Wing, her voice quivering. “I’m one of the girls. I tried to run away, but I got lost. Please let me back inside. I am afraid out here. I’ll do anything if you will let me back in and not tell anyone I tried to escape. Help me, cowboy, and I’ll show you the best time you ever had.” The guard opened the door a little more. There was just enough daylight to see Hawk Wing standing below in her shiny red dress. The gunman licked his lips. He hadn’t had a woman since he got to Dixie City. This one looked young and pretty. He would use her then he would shoot her and tell everyone she had tried to escape and he had to stop her. He’d tell them killing her was an accident. There was just enough time to do it before everybody woke up. He looked around and, seeing no one, he hitched up his gun belt, put his rifle under his arm and grabbed the rope that hung outside the loft. Hooking his foot around the rope, he leaned out and took it with both hands. He worked his way hand over hand down to the ground. When he got to the bottom, Hawk Wing greeted him with what she hoped was a seductive smile. She had little practice being sexy. He smiled back revealing jagged tobacco stained teeth. Hawk Wing suppressed a shudder as the gunfighter walked to her and put his arm around her.

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“Little lady,” said the guard, “I reckon you’re about to get the best bedding of your life. Once women see what I’m packin’, well, it damn near ruins them for any other man. You’re going to like this a bunch.” The fetid breath and sheer filth of the man forced Hawk Wing to turn her head away as he spoke to her. “I always like a big man,” she said, trying to giggle. Getting a pat on the rear from the gunman told Hawk Wing that he was buying her act in spades. “Let’s go up into these bushes,” she said. “We can have some privacy there.” The outlaw took her hand and jerked her down into the closest clump of bushes he could find. It had been a long time and this whore was going to suffer before he killed her. Yanking at his belt buckle he threw himself on top of Hawk Wing. Just as he was getting his pants open a loud ruckus began up on the hillside. He glanced up to see wagons and riders pouring over the hill, racing down towards the ranch like a heard of crazed longhorns. He started to rise when the whore reached up and embraced him to her. She held on tight, too tight. He couldn’t breath. The air was stifling. He needed room to draw more air into his lungs. He tried to rise, but his strength had left him. Something was wrong with his eyes. He knew it was getting lighter but all he could see was darkness; darkness along with a slight pain in his abdomen, then he wanted to sleep. Why was he was so sleepy. Hawk Wing had to shove hard to push the dead man off her body. Accomplishing that, she jumped up and looked around. Blood poured from a long gash in the dead gunman’s stomach. Hawk Wing stared at the first man she had ever killed. She glared at the knife in her hand like she couldn’t figure out how it got there. Shaking her head, she let the knife fall from her hand as she dropped to her knees and retched on the ground before her. **** Lead was flying in every direction like enraged bees as Capt. Sparks crawled through the front door and began to scoot his way across the porch in the direction of the building that held Lt. Cady and his men. A twenty foot open space lay between the buildings. Crossing that chasm alive would take more luck than skill. Capt. Sparks had no choice but to chance it. He - 172 -

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crawled a good ways back down the wooden slats he had just crossed, and bracing himself, he jumped to all fours and shot off at a dead run for the edge of the porch. At the last minute he sprang upwards and out, away from the office towards the next building. His leap carried him three quarters of the way. He hit the ground running and in one great bound dove for the front of the building. This building had no porch, only a small threshold. When Capt. Sparks landed, it was on hard pack dirt. He caught himself with his hands as he hit, and the strength in his arms kept his body from crashing into the solid ground. As soon as he landed, Capt. Sparks yelled out to Lt. Cady. “Lt. Cady are you alive?” “Yes sir, I am. What in the Blue Blazes is going on, sir?” yelled the fear stricken soldier.” “We are under attack by rifle fire from some unknown assailants, lieutenant. How many men are alive inside there with you?” “All six of us are still breathing, sir, but we won’t be for long if we stay in this death trap” “Affirmative, lieutenant, we must get to the saloon and retrieve our gold. How, we do that, I don’t yet know. Lt. Blake and the women he brought in last night are billeted in the back of that building. It has thick walls all around; it was the Mormon’s church building. They should be safe if they stay put.” At that moment the firing abruptly ceased. The place went from sounding like a dozen railroad engines were roaring through Dixie City to almost total silence. Reacting to the halt in gunfire, Capt. Sparks jerked to his feet, and, yelling for his men to follow, charged toward the saloon. He got there and bounded inside, followed by his men. Whatever was afoot, he could not believe his great luck. He and his men had, so far, survived a horrendous attack, and, furthermore, they were about to grab the gold. A bit more luck and he would still see his dreams realized. Capt. Sparks gazed out onto the carnage that lay strewn over Dixie City’s main street. He guessed over fifty men, either dead or dieing, lay about all over the place. Was this the United States Army? No those fool soldier boys would have ridden in and tried to arrest the whole lot. It could be the Texas Rangers, but he knew they were spread out all over the state. There was no - 173 -

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way they could muster enough firepower to blast the whole town like that. He was stumped at who could be so blood thirsty and cruel to attack Dixie City in the manner it was done. He mentally saluted the man for his ingenuity and cunning. “The leader of this assault must be a great soldier, indeed,” Capt. Sparks said to Lt. Cady. The firing had stopped, and Silverjack and Conn surveyed the damage in the street. “Hot damn, them fellers did a hell of a job shootin’ this town to doll rags,” said Silverjack. “Yep,” said Conn, “looks like here’s where we start earnin’ our pay, compadre.” “What pay is that?” said Jack, startled. “I was meanin’ to talk to you about that, Silver.” “What pay?” said Silverjack again. “Why, Silver, you know I don’t work for free,” Said Conn Havens, through a crooked grin.” “Now you tell me,” said Silverjack.

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Chapter Thirty-One Dixie City had been shot to pieces, to the point that most of the buildings would be uninhabitable. Dozens of men were dead or wounded, most lying where they had fallen. Fearing for their own safety, men that had been pals moments before ignored their injured comrades. It was every man for himself. The earth scorching gunfire from above had ceased, only to be followed by well aimed shots at specific targets. Some men remained in the buildings, afraid to venture out, while others made mad dashes towards the two large horse corrals that lay just beyond the livery stable at the west end of town. John Benteen and Charlie Harp had found good cover in a vacant lot across from the livery. There were numerous hay bales, as well as old wagon parts, rolls of fencing and rusted farm implements, remnants of the town’s former occupants. The two shooters climbed up amongst the hay bales and waited for the expected exodus toward the horses. Jesus Campo Santos and Wes Hardin slipped their way between two buildings toward the east end of Main Street. The building on their right had once been a café. It looked vacant. The building on their left had been sleeping quarters for more than a dozen men. Over half the men had been killed in the barrage, but the rest that had survived were still in the building. “Senor Hardin, I hear men talking in this building,” said Jesus. Hardin nodded in agreement, as he rotated the cylinder in his .44. He holstered it and pulled a Navy .36 from his belt. After checking that all the chambers in this pistol were loaded, he pulled the .44, and, with both pistols held high, he again nodded to Jesus. The Mexican gunman drew his pistols. Hardin let fly with a ferocious kick that busted the already splintered door into kindling. Jesus rolled inside and came up with both guns blazing. Hardin stepped over the threshold and backed up Jesus’ play, shooting anything that moved. Three or four wild shots were fired in retaliation, none hitting its mark. In seconds the gun battle was over. The air stank of burned powder and smoke. Jesus crouched on one knee while Wes Hardin checked all the bodies. There were no survivors left in this building. Both men reloaded and stepped back into the alley. - 175 -

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“There is one more building on the east side of this old café,” said Hardin. “The café looks empty, but we had better check it out.” “Si, Senor’,” said Jesus, “we then go through that last building and go across the street. This is mucho easier than I thought it would be.” A bullet zinged and Jesus Campo Santos jerked and fell hard against the building. The dry thirsty wood soaked up the blood trail he left as he slid to the ground. Hardin turned in the direction of the gunfire. Another bullet zipped by clipping a piece of Hardin’s coat. Wes sighted on the muzzle blast and fired. A man across the street jumped up, did a two step jig, and fell face down into the dirt. Hardin knelt beside Jesus. “Where did he get you?” he said. “Somewhere where it hurts like hell. El hijo de puta!” “They all hurt like hell, friend. It looks like he shot you right above your collarbone where it meets your neck. A little bit higher and you would be dancing with some senorita in heaven.” Hardin’s face broke into one of its rare smiles. “There is a lot of blood that we have to stop so you don’t bleed to death, but you will live.” Jesus sat in silence as Wes Hardin did an expert job at wrapping the wound. Over the years he had had a lot of experience at such things. When he was finished Hardin got up to go. “Jesus, I am going to check out the café and the other building, and then I will be back to get you. I won’t be long.” “Is no problem, Senor’, kill some more of the dogs for me. I still can shoot with one hand. When the dizziness is gone, I will get up and watch for you. Be careful, compadre, I think I saw ‘Crazy Ike’ going toward the last building. He is muy loco.” Wes Hardin nodded and started for the café. Silverjack and Conn Havens stayed in the old store, shooting at moving targets. The element of surprise had worked well. Horrendous damage had been inflicted upon the town and its occupants. Most of the outlaws still living had holed up in some of the buildings on the opposite side of the street from Silverjack and his men. The old store was beginning to take a lot of fire as more of the bad men realized shots were being fired from it.

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“It’s sure getting hot in here Silver,” said Conn Havens. “About time we moved on to a better hidey hole, ain’t it?” “Yes sir,” said Silverjack, squeezing off a shot and grinning when he heard the man he was shooting at holler. “Let’s see if we can sneak out of here without gettin’ turned into a couple of meat strainers. We best crawl out the back door and see what’s in the building next to us.” They stayed low and made it out the back, running over behind the next building. It had a back door, but it was locked. “Dadgum it, Conn, what is that awful smell,” said Silverjack, making a face. “Hell, Silver, that’s ink, printer’s ink. This place must have been a print shop at one time. It might even have been a newspaper.” “They sure would have ‘em a riproarin’ story to print today, old son. Say, how come you know so much about printin’, anyway?” “I thought you knew, Silver. My daddy was a newspaperman for thirty years. I grew up in a print shop. When he got shot in the back for printing the truth is when I started wearing a gun.” “Well, Mr. Printer man, let’s us see what other surprises are inside this building.” They stood up. Silverjack took aim and blew the lock off the door. Conn Havens grabbed the knob and jerked the door open. Both men dived for the floor. When the men above the town stopped shooting, Harlan Gilstrap and Will Tucker beelined it between two buildings toward the street. Two old rain barrels with some wooden boxes piled between them afforded the two temporary cover. They scrambled up behind the barricade and began to search for targets. The print shop was to their left. “Damn me, if I ever seen anything like this before,” said Will Tucker. “Yeah,” said Harlan Gilstrap, “leave it to Silverjack to get us mixed up in this here shootin’ gallery. Only problem is, I ain’t never been in a shootin’ gallery that shot back.” “Say, Harlan, do you hear a commotion in this building to our left?” “Yes sir, I believe I do hear somethin’. Do you think it could be mice?”

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“Naw, I think it’s rats, great big ones. Let’s see if we can exterminate some of them carrion eating bastards. I’ll check the side door and see if it is locked.” Will crawled to the door and jiggled the handle. The door eased open. He motioned to Harlan, who slid over next to him. Will opened the door just far enough for them to creep inside. There was a wainscot four feet high that hid them from whoever was in the back of the building. “Well, we’re here Harlan. What do we do next? “Ever time I’ve been rat huntin’ I always used some sort of bait. Got any cheese, Will?” “Hell, yeah, Harlan, I got me a pocket full. Do you want cheddar or Swiss?” Harlan Gilstrap couldn’t help himself. He broke out in a coughing fit of laughter. Will tried to stop him, but it only made Harlan cough harder. Hearing someone enter from the side of the print shop, Jack and Conn ducked down low behind an old cobweb covered printing press. They could hear men whispering but they couldn’t make out the words. All of a sudden, a laughing, coughing fit by one of the newcomers took them by surprise. “Hell,” said Silverjack, “I’d know that cough anywhere. That’s Harlan Gilstrap. That son of a buck dang near got both of us killed down in Abilene some years back. He sucks too many of them roll-your-owns. Harlan, is that you?” Harlan tried to answer, but he was still coughing. “Jack, this is Will and Harlan up here,” said Will Tucker. “We thought you were rats, the two legged variety.” “Stay put, we’re comin’ up there, Will.” Silverjack and Conn Havens worked their way up to the front of the old print shop. By the time they got there, Harlan Gilstrap had stopped coughing. His face looked like an over ripe apple that had been too long on the ground. “Harlan,” said Silverjack, “one way or another, them cigarettes are gonna get you killed someday, and I sure as hell don’t want to be around when that happens. You get my meaning, son?” Harlan just looked up at Silverjack and pulled the makings out of his shirt pocket. He commenced to roll a cigarette. He had smoked since he was - 178 -

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ten years old and it hadn’t killed him yet. He reckoned he had a few years left. Silverjack observed the ritual in disgust. “Conn and I are heading across the street. Will, you and Harlan throw some heavy lead out the front windows while we dash across.” Will and Harlan nodded and began to lay down a blistering barrage towards the opposite side of the street. Jack and Conn took off like their tails were on fire and their heads were catching. “‘Honest’ John Benteen and ‘Ratfoot’ Charlie Harp had been firing and reloading as fast as they could. They had shot down more than a dozen men who were trying to get to the horses. Their pistol barrels were red hot and smoking. All at once, the outlaws quit trying to make a mad dash for freedom. “Charley,” said John, “they stopped coming. I think they are sneaking around the back way to get to their horses. One of us has got to get to the corrals and turn those Cayuses loose. I reckon I’ll go” “Who picked you?” said Charley. “Well, you being stove up and all. I expect I am the faster runner.” “I may walk a little funny but that don’t mean I can’t run. Hell, John, I ain’t never seen a white man that could outrun me yet.” John Benteen started to protest, when Charley Harp sprang up and charged toward the first of two large corrals. Setting side by side, next to the livery, these corrals held most of the outlaw’s horses. Charley made it to the west corner of the livery and hunkered down. The first corral gate was ten feet away from him. He bundled his legs up under himself and sprang out towards the gate at a ferocious sprint. At the gate, he paused for a second to look around. He could hear intermittent gunfire coming from the other end of the street, but, where he was, the only sounds came from the frightened horses. He glanced across the street at ‘Honest’ John who was on top of the ramparts looking in every direction for movement. He waved to John and took off at a trot for the second corral’s gate, thirty feet away. Pressed up against the peeling white paint of the building, Wes Hardin’s nostrils verified his previous suspicions. The smell of rancid grease emanating from inside told him this was, indeed, a café. He squatted down and peeked around the corner. Everything looked clear. Hardin stepped up - 179 -

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on the sidewalk. He took two cautious steps forward when his eye caught the quicksilver flash of sunlight careening off of a rifle barrel across the street. He dove to his right, through a window, onto the floor of the greasy spoon’s dining room. The window’s glass had long been shot out, and Hardin found himself lying on a carpet of glass shards. With catlike quickness Hardin scrambled up beside the window opening. He snapped off a shot in the general direction of the shooter. He peered around the edge of the opening and again caught the flash of sunlight on steel. He jumped back as a rifle bullet screamed into the wood where his face had been a moment before. Right away he heard a volley of shots coming from the alley he had just vacated. A howl of anguish flew from across the street, and Hardin looked out just in time to see a man fall from the roof of a tall building. The body hit the street and splattered like a squashed watermelon. “Jesus, I owe you one,” Wes Hardin hollered out into the alley. “Si, senor, that is true,” answered Jesus, laughing.

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Chapter Thirty-Two “Kiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi!” The valley resonated with the sound of a Comanche war cry as Bearkiller breached the top of the hill. He buried his heels into his horse who took off like a scalded hog straight down toward the ranch buildings. Aloysius Haybinder was right behind him yelling and whipping his team of horses like a mad man. As his wagon topped the hill, the rear wheels hit an exposed tree root, and the back of the wagon shot up into the air. It slammed back down and jarred the whole wagon, but the wheels and axle held. Haybinder never looked back. He just kept on hollering and flailing his whip. The rest of the bunch came roaring right behind Haybinder, doing the same thing he was. In a matter of seconds, all three wagons were charging down toward the unsuspecting men below. Obie Tucker was on horseback at the crest of the hill. It was his job to find Hawk Wing and keep her safe. Through the whirling dust, he spied her coming out of the trees close to the barn. Realizing something was wrong, he spurred his mount into a gallop straight toward the Comanche maiden. Morgan McMasters was dreaming about gold when the thunderous racket outside woke him up. He sprang from his cot, pistol in hand, and ran to the window. The sight that greeted his eyes made him blink in disbelief. The yard was filled with wagons and riders whooping and hollering. At first he thought they were under attack, but he realized the bunch in the yard was not firing any guns. “What the hell is all that noise, boss?” said Bill Bonham, one of his men who had been sleeping in the house. Four others, who slept there as well, were up, their hands filled with pistols and rifles. A closer look outside by McMasters revealed no weapons in sight. He motioned his men to stay low, as he eased open the door and stepped out onto the front porch. The wagons had stopped in front of the ranch house, and about the biggest man he had ever seen was waving to him from the closest wagon. “Hey there,” said Al Haybinder, “all hell’s breaking loose back at Dixie City, and we come to get the women out of here before the posse shows up.” “I thought Sparks was coming after them around noon,” said McMasters. This didn’t sound right to him. “What posse?” - 181 -

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“Damn it, man, we ain’t got time for no palaver. We had best get these ladies loaded and on the road.” Haybinder was playing it to the hilt. “What posse, I said? We ain’t goin’ nowhere until I get some straight answers. Bonham, cover this big pile of shit until he starts making sense. If I move my left hand shoot him. Now, I’ll ask you one more time, what posse?” Al Haybinder looked to the sky and shrugged his massive shoulders. “There’s Texas Rangers, and Oklahoma Marshals, and Federal cavalry all swooping down on Dixie City at the same time. It’s a dadgum massacre over there, and if we don’t get on with it, they’ll catch up with us too. Podnuh, we have got to be gettin’.” McMasters pondered the situation. He was skeptical, but he was also a careful man. This whole idea of rounding up a bunch of whores and selling them to a mysterious Chinese business cartel had always seemed off kilter to him. He did not trust either Sparks or Blake. The more he thought about the situation, the stronger his resolve became. In every deal there comes a time when you either do the nutcuttin’ or get the hell out of Dodge. McMasters decided to get out of Dodge. “Alright, big man, you can have the whores. I’m tired of nurse-maidening those women anyway. I’ll send one of my men to tell the guard to let you into the barn.” Haybinder waved back at McMasters, and motioned for the other two wagons to head toward the barn. McMasters backed into the house, and his men crowded around him. “What’s up, boss.” It was Bill Bonham. “Boys, I think it’s time we pulled up stakes and drifted west. This whole mess stinks like an outhouse in July. Bill, you go tell the three men in the barn to let the wagons take the whores. Everybody else pack up and let’s get the hell out of here.” No one questioned the decision, and they all commenced to gather up what little belongings they had. Bill Bonham sprinted out to get the men in the barn. “Ernie,” Bill yelled, “boss says to open up the door and let these fellers out here have the whores. We’re headin’ west, right now.” A clanking noise came from inside the barn as the guard worked to remove the chain and lock. In a few moments the door cracked open. - 182 -

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Bonham grabbed hold and help the man inside slide the heavy wooden door open. Stepping into the sunlight, the guard, Ernie, shielded his eyes. “Where’d all these wagons come from?” He said. “There is somethin’ going on in town and we’re not waitin’ to find out what it is,” said Bonham. “Tommy, come on and leave the other door locked, or we’ll have whores strung out from here to Kansas. Switch, come on down from that loft. We’re leavin’ now.” Without another word, Bonham, followed by Ernie and Tommy, made for the house to pick up their gear. Switch, the loft guard, had already gone to the place where all men like him, eventually, end up. Obie Tucker burned leather getting down the hill to where Hawk Wing stood. He got to her in moments and jumped off his horse, running before the animal came to a halt. Just as he reached Hawk Wing, she fainted into his arms. Obie laid her down and grabbed his canteen. He opened her mouth a bit and let a rivulet of water pass through her parted lips. She stirred as the water entered her mouth. Her eyelids made rapid movements, and she opened them. It was then that Obie notice she was covered with blood. A quick inspection assured him that none of the blood was Hawk Wing’s. Out of nowhere, Bearkiller appeared and knelt beside his daughter. “She’s not hurt, sir,” said Obie. “All that blood belongs to somebody else. I think his body is over behind that clump of brush yonder. I can see two boots sticking out from underneath.” Bearkiller didn’t look up; he was too intent upon overseeing Hawk Wing’s welfare. Obie mounted his horse and took off to help load the ladies. Because they had been captives for so long, the women were putting up little resistance, and the loading was going well. The three wagons had been backed up to the barn, and Al Haybinder was supervising the operation. “I count thirty-five captives,” he said to Half Jack, who sat upon the box of the first wagon. “I thought there was supposed to be more.” “That’s what we were told,” answered Half Jack. “Half Jack Perkins!” hollered a woman who was almost as big as Al Haybinder. With much help from some of the other ladies, she had just climbed aboard the wagon. The other occupants squealed and cursed as she clamored - 183 -

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over them on her way to the front of the wagon. When she got to Half Jack, she picked him up and squeezed him until he begged her to let go. “Alice, Alice, I love you too, but your crushing the doggone life out of me. Woman, turn me loose!” The enormous woman let Half go, then bowed her head and began to sob into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and did his best to comfort her. Most of the women were crying as word traveled through them that these men had come to their rescue. Fat Alice looked up at Half Jack, wiping her eyes with a torn remnant of lace from her filthy dress; her grimy face made worse by the tears she had shed. “Oh, Half, we prayed for help to come, but we didn’t have much hope. We didn’t think anybody much cared what happened a bunch of whores.” Half squeezed her tighter and smiled. He bent down and kissed Fat Alice’s dirty cheek. “Hell, woman, you’d be doggone surprised who all cared for you ladies. A lot of us wanted to do something, but we were clueless as how to do it. I guess we needed a leader, and I’ll be damned if one didn’t sashay his old ass into Justiceburg and take the bull by the horns.” Alice looked up at her savior with inquisitive eyes. “Silverjack McDonald, his own self, put this thing together, and here we are.” “Silverjack came back?” Fat Alice said, her eyes becoming as big as hen eggs. “I can’t believe it. Wait until Crystal hears about this.” Her eyes got even bigger. “Oh my God!” she said. “That bastard, Butcher Blake took her, and Mai Ling, and a bunch of other girls into town last night. As far as I know they are still there.” “Haybinder,” Half Jack yelled out. “Come over here, quick.”Al Haybinder bounded up to the front of the wagon. “Al, Alice says Blake took a bunch of the women into town last night. Crystal and the Dragon Lady were with them.” “Shoot,” said Haybinder. “I got to find Bearkiller right away.” Obie Tucker had been listening to the conversation and pointed Haybinder in the direction he had last seen the Comanche chief. Haybinder took off at a run. It was a short distance, but he was puffing like a steam engine when he got to Bearkiller and Hawk Wing. She was standing, and the - 184 -

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two were talking. Haybinder wasted no time telling Bearkiller the current problem. “Jack needs to know this,” said Bearkiller. “I must ride to town and tell him. Daughter, you are sure you’re okay?” “I am fine, Father. Go now. I will help here and we will meet you at the Cottonwood grove.” Bearkiller bent down and kissed his daughter on the cheek. Then, throwing a leg up on his horse, he gouged him deep in the ribs, and the animal took off like a shot, in the direction of Dixie City. Morgan McMasters and his men sat horseback on a grassy knoll a quarter mile from the ranch buildings. From their vantage point they could see all that transpired below. “Boss, there’s something ain’t right about this setup,” said Bill Bonham. “Those fellers showing up when they did and all. I don’t think they are a part of Capt. Sparks outfit. I think we’ve been hoodwinked.” McMasters looked at the young man and smiled. “Ben, I believe there’s hope for you yet. Come on boys, I got a hankering for some of those Taos senoritas and their tequila. Let’s ride.” There were hoops and hollers as the McMasters gang rode down off the grassy knoll and straight in the direction of Taos, New Mexico.

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Chapter Thirty-Three Wes Hardin stood with his back to the wall and cursed himself for his carelessness. A tiny stream of blood trickled down the inside of his left hand. He grimaced as he pulled a slender tendril of glass from his palm. His pants had been ripped, and both of his knees felt bruised from landing on them when he dived in through the window. Hardin surveyed his surroundings. The dining room was heavy with shadows, but even in the low light, he made out nine or ten tables; each surrounded by up to four chairs, none of which matched. The place was disgusting. The smell of rancid grease intermingled with the odor of human filth. Hardin snorted as he dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling toward the back of the building, being careful to avoid anymore broken glass. He was almost into the kitchen when his peripheral vision caught a slight movement way back in the shadows against the east wall. Hardin jerked up his revolver and cocked it in one blinding motion. He fired in the direction of the movement then rolled to one side coming up ready to snap off another shot. Before he could fire, a pleading voice stopped him. “Please don’t shoot me mister. I ain’t got no gun.” Hardin could detect enough movement to see that the man was shaking so bad he could barely talk. “Who the hell are you?” He said. “My name is Rooster, sir, but please don’t shoot me. I ain’t got no gun.” “Rooster, by God, I thought that sounded like you. Crawl over here and let me get a look at you.” The big simpleton did as he was told. As Rooster got closer to him, the gunman noticed a horrid smell emanating from the man. “God damn Rooster, you stink.” “I do?” “Hell, yes, you do. When is the last time you had a bath?” “I don’t reckon I know, sir. Me and my big brother, Hank, we come up here to this town to join a army. They put Hank to work guardin’ prisoners. They put me to work in this place washin’ dishes. That’s all I ever do is wash dishes and sleep. I sleep in the back room. It ain’t too bad. I get to eat a lot, - 186 -

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for sure. Anything these fellers here leaves on their plates I can eat iff’n I want to. So it’s okay mister, but I don’t have no gun. Please don’t shoot me.” “I’m not going to shoot you Rooster. Don’t you remember me, Wes Hardin?” “I don’t recollect that I do, mister.” “Rooster, a while back, I gave you a silver dollar for crowing. Do you remember that?” A faint light shown in Rooster’s little pig eyes, and, all of a sudden he began to weep uncontrollable tears. “Oh, Jesus, Rooster,” said Hardin,” what’s that for?” “I do ‘member who you are sir, and I’m real happy you ain’t gonna shoot me.” Wes Hardin rolled his eyes and shook his head. Looking out at the street, he had an uneasy feeling he had been too long in this building. “Come on Rooster, we‘ve got to get out of this place.” “Okay, sir.” “Follow me, Rooster; we’ll go out the back door. Be real quiet.” “Quiet like a little mouse, sir?” “Yeah, like a mouse, Rooster.” Charlie Harp reached the second corral with no problem. He slipped the wire off the top of the gate and jerked the bottom of the gate out of the ground catch. He pushed the gate inside and fastened it to a wooden latch. Running to get behind the horses, he pulled his pistol and began firing into the air. The animals, already spooked by all the gunfire, made a frantic rush for the open gate and freedom. Charlie jumped on the fence to keep from being trampled. He covered his face with his hat to keep the dust out of his nostrils. The corral emptied in moments with horses running in every direction. Charlie used the dust cloud as cover to hide his dash to the first corral. He repeated the procedure here with identical results. As the dust began to settle, Charlie could see the rampart where “Honest” John had stood moments before. The Marshal was nowhere in site. “‘Honest’ John!” yelled Charlie Harp. No answer came back. “‘Honest’ John!” Nothing. “Oh, shit,” said Charlie, as he took off at a run to where he had last seen John Benteen. - 187 -

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Silverjack and Conn Havens sprint across the street had been successful, and both men lay face down in a narrow walkway between two buildings. They laid there in silence as they struggled to get their breath back. “Damn, Silver,” said Conn Havens, “I can’t run like that again. These polecats can shoot me where I stand, but, at least, I won’t die gasping for breath.” Silverjack was too winded to answer, but he felt the same way. He rolled on his back and checked out their surroundings. West of them was an old barber shop. Jack noticed the red, white and blue barber pole when they were running for cover. To the east was a nondescript structure, as deep as it was wide. There were no windows, at least on the west side. Gunfire had once come from this building, but now all was quite. “Conn, we gotta check out this place on our east side,” Silverjack said through ragged breathing. “You going to be okay, Silver?” said Conn. “You sound like hell. I think you better lie here and take a breather while I inspect the building. I’ll go around back. You wait here.” Before Silverjack could answer, Conn was lizard crawling toward the buildings rear. He started to get up and follow his friend when a bunch of hollering from the opposite side of the street grabbed his attention. Will Tucker and Harlan Gilstrap were getting ready to cross over and they needed Jack’s cover fire. He waved at them to come on and started firing in the air. Both men hot footed it across and slid in beside Silverjack. Neither man seemed any the worse for wear after the quick run. “Damn me for bein’ an old man,” said Silverjack. “Where’s Conn?” said Harlan. Silverjack told him, and both men took off, running low, for the back of the building. “Well, to hell with it,” said Jack. “I guess I’ll just lay here and take me a little siesta while them young hellions tame this den of snakes.” The words had barely escaped Silverjack’s mouth when a great explosion rocked the air. It came from behind the building that Conn and the others were inspecting. Jack clamored to his feet and ran back there. He stopped at the corner and peeked around. Conn and Will were down behind a watering trough. Harlan Gilstrap lay on his back. There was a hole in his middle as big - 188 -

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as a number ten washtub. Right away, Silverjack could tell Harlan had taken both barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun to the belly. From the mess it made, the shooter must have hit him point blank. Jack swore under his breath. Harlan Gilstrap had seen the elephant too many times to go out like this; gut shot by some lowlife bastard. The scar on Silverjack’s face shot to crimson. Blood boiled thru his veins. His eyes glistened with hate and damnation. He jerked both pistols, wailed like a panther, and sprang through the open door, guns blazing. Conn and Will looked at each other, jumped up, and charged after Silverjack. Ike Calcott was having the time of his life. He had come on this mission for one reason. If he could make enough bounty money he could retire and live the good life. Ike always carried two short guns and had stuck two more in his belt for this shindig. He had started out wearing two .44 cal. cartridge filled bandoliers crossed over his shoulders. The extra pistols had been discarded when they got too hot to handle. As the bandoliers emptied they too were left behind. Ike had made his way across the street on the eastern edge of town. He leaned back against a building and assessed his situation. Shot in three or four places, none of the wounds were serious. He was, however, losing blood and weakening fast. He had to find a safe place to rest and stop the bleeding. The structure he was leaning against had somehow missed most of the gunfire that came from above. There were plate glass windows in front that had come through the barrage unscathed. “Crazy” Ike Calcott bellied down the front of the building and edged inside. The inside was murky with the only light filtering in through the grimy windows. Ike scrounged around through the debris filled room until he found a wooden crate. After testing it for sturdiness, he dragged the box into a corner where he could sit and have limited vision out of the front windows without exposing himself to passersby. He sat down and looked over his wounds. “Hell,” he said, “I‘ve done bled more than this shaving with a dull blade.” He rubbed his face and shook his head. He was bushed. He closed his eyes to rest them for a moment before he tended his wounds. “Lt. Blake, are you here?” It was the Captain calling. He and his six men had crossed the street and into the saloon during the temporary ceasefire. - 189 -

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“Yeah, we’re in the back.” “Are the ladies safe?” “They’re alive,” said “Butcher” Blake, “but I ain’t sure how safe they are.” The big outlaw growled a mirthless laugh. “Lt. Blake, bring them forward at once.” In a few moments five bedraggled women stumbled out of the back room. Their clothes, what little they had on, were filthy and torn. All but one shared the same hopeless look on their faces The one woman had a full figure with strong features. Long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She wasn’t as young as the others, and she wasn’t beautiful in the usual sense, but her carriage and demeanor said she was different from the rest. A flame burning in her eyes screamed out defiance. Whatever she was, she wasn’t a prostitute. “Where is the Dragon Lady?” asked Capt. Sparks. “She’s resting in the back, sir,” said one of the two guards who accompanied the ladies from the back room. “Get her at once.” The guard snapped too, and disappeared into the back of the saloon. In a moment he returned with Mai Ling. Looking much less the worse for wear than the other women, she scurried over to Capt. Sparks and bowed before him. He returned the bow, and both of them moved to a spot behind the bar, out of earshot from the building’s other occupants. “Butcher” Blake accompanied them. The eyes of the blond woman sparked with contempt as she stared at the meeting in the corner. Five minutes went by and the conversation broke up. The Dragon Lady went back into the rear part of the saloon. Capt. Sparks and Blake walked up to where the rest of the people were. There were six women counting Mai Ling, and fifteen men in the saloon. The last four men had shown up at different times while Capt. Sparks had his meeting. One of these men was Enrique Baca. The last to arrive was Bob Ray Woolens. The men had come from all over town with the same story. Most of the horses were gone. The other men in town were either buzzard bait or running out of town in all directions. No one had any idea who the attackers were, or how many men were attacking. - 190 -

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“Lt. Blake, we will hold our position until we can figure out a way to gain safe passage out of Dixie City. First we must wait and see who our adversaries are, and then we will better know how to deal with them. This building is as strong as a fort. We will be safe in here.” “Sparks, the building next door to us has a supply of water,” said Blake. The informal use of his name did not go unnoticed by Capt. Sparks, but he said nothing. “Lieutenant, before we chance sending men over there perhaps it would be prudent for you to do a survey as to how much water might be there.” “Hell, send one of the men. I ain’t no errand boy.” “I understand, lieutenant, but I doubt any of these men could give a report as complete as you. It is essential to our survival that we secure as much water as we can. You are the best man for the job.” Butcher Blake stared hard at the Captain, mumbled something unintelligible, and went to the front of the building. The structure he was going into was ten feet to the east of the saloon. It had large plate glass windows and was full of junk. The water had been stored in the back. The barrels blocked entry from the rear so Blake’s only choice of getting in was through the front door. After peering in all directions, he slipped out into the street. Three long strides carried him to the front of the building. He marveled at the fact that the plate glass windows were still in tact. “How ‘bout that,” he said, as he whipped open the door and stepped inside.

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Chapter Thirty-Four Ike Calcott’s head snapped forward. He jerked it back up, eyes wide. He had slept, but how long, he didn’t know. Disoriented, he shook his head, looked left, right, and straight ahead. Less than six feet away stood “Butcher” Blake. He held a Colt .45 pointed at Ike’s chest. “Well, Calcott,” said Blake, “I was beginning to think I was gonna have to shoot you in your sleep. Sure would’ve taken all the fun out of it, though. I want you to know who your killer is. You been chasing me for nearly five years now. Ain’t that about right, bounty hunter?” Ike Calcott’s guns were still in his holsters. He tried to move around so he could get to them easier. “Whoa, there, Ike, you just be still. I don’t want to plug you just yet. I’m havin’ way too much fun. I want to make this moment last, so I can tell my grand kids.” “Butcher” Blake’s laugh was obscene. Ike Calcott was weak from the loss of blood and from his previous exertions. He was having trouble focusing on what Blake was saying. His wounds were worse than he had realized. “Let me see now, where was I, oh, yeah. My recollection is that you started huntin’ me right after I robbed that bank in Waco. That’s right, ain’t it? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” He bellowed again. “Was there something about that bank that was special? Let me think back.” Blake stopped talking for a moment. He was trying to jog his memory. Damn my sorry ass, thought Ike. I’ve got to figure out how to get his attention away from me for just a second. Maybe I can roll and pull iron at the same time. It’s my only chance. “How could I forget that day?” said Blake with a broad smile on his face. “There was a pretty young thing working as a teller in that bank. She was a feisty one, that girl. I said ‘Give me the money’, and she said ‘No’. Can you believe that? Five guns pointing right at her head and she said ‘No’. I sure hated to give her that little rap on the noggin’, but she just refused to cooperate. What was she, Ike, your girlfriend?” “Sister,” whispered Ike Calcott. - 192 -

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“Speak up, bounty hunter, or I’ll shoot you now and put an end to this pleasant little palaver.” “She was my sister,” Ike said through gritted teeth. “Well, how about that. Little girly was your sis. She stayed knocked out until we had gotten away from the posse. As I recall, when she woke up, little girly wanted to fight.” “Her name was Eva,” Ike’s tone was harsh, then softer, “Eva Marie Calcott. She was twenty years old.” “And a virgin to boot. I know that for a fact,” said Blake grinning. “Um, that was a tasty morsel. All five of us had a real good time with her. She sure did holler, though. Got to where I couldn’t stand her yellin’ anymore, so I had to put a bullet in her brain. I didn’t have no choice. I’m sure you understand.” “I chased down the other four and killed them all,” said Ike Calcott, “and, by God, you bastard, I’m gonna kill you.” “That’s big talk for a dead man,” said Blake. “Say, Ike, you sure are bleedin’ a lot. How many times you been shot, three, four? I tell you what I’m gonna do. If you can stand up, I’ll holster my pistol and give you a fair chance to plug me. How’s that?” Ike Calcott struggled to rise. “Go on get up pig shit, so I can tell everybody I took ‘Crazy’ Ike Calcott in a face to face gunfight. Stand up. I’ll wait for you to get set.” Ike Calcott was halfway to his feet when Blake spoke again. The “Butcher” said three words. “I lied, sucker.” He fired, and the bullet hit Ike Calcott high in the chest. As he fell backwards, pure reflex caused Ike to draw and fire. A slug hit Butcher Blake two inches above the belly button. He dropped to his knees, his pistol rolling from his loosened fingers. Clutching his burning belly with both hands, Blake managed to stagger to his feet, and stumbled, doubled over, out into the street. Ike Calcott lay back against the wall. His eyes were closed and he didn’t know he had wounded Blake. In his death, there was one last fragment of consciousness. “Damn it all,” he said, “I sure lost money on this deal.” Charlie Harp rushed across the street, drawing fire from more than one position. He reached the barricade and dove over the top. Landing on his - 193 -

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shoulder, he rolled to his feet. John Benteen lay crumpled in a corner behind a water barrel. Blood trickled down the side of his face, and he was unconscious. Charlie knelt and inspected the wound. John Benteen had been grazed just above the right ear, but it did not look serious. Charlie removed John’s bandanna and tied it around the scrape. He straightened the Marshal’s legs out to make him more comfortable and picked up John’s hat and placed it on his head. He did not want to leave the man alone, but there was more work to be done. “You are a lucky man, ‘Honest’ John, but I bet you won’t feel that way when you wake up. You’re going to have one nasty headache for a while. I hate to leave you here like this pard, but I have to go.” Charlie Harp reloaded his pistols and, after a quick looksee, took off on the fly for the barn. One bullet stirred dust at his feet, and then he was inside, safe for the moment. He did a quick check of the stalls to find over a dozen horses boarded there. “I reckon you animals belong to some of the big shots here,” said Charlie. “I believe I’ll wait around and see if any of them show up.” He found two bales of hay stacked by the open back door, and settled behind them to wait. The last thing the shotgun man and his friends expected was for some crazy fool to come roaring in through the back door right after they had ventilated one of the attackers. They were wrong, dead wrong. When Silverjack bounded through the opening, every one of the building’s occupants hesitated a brief moment. Jack cut all four down in less than a heartbeat. To make sure they were done, he walked up to each one and put a bullet through their brain. By the time, Conn Havens and Will Tucker made it inside the building. Jack was already beginning to replace the spent cartridges in his pistols. “Lord God,” said Conn, looking down at the carnage. “Lord God had nothing to do with it,” said Silverjack. “We got to keep movin’, but we got to be more careful. Harlan Gilstrap was a good man. I don’t want any more of us goin’ down at the hands of this trash.” Jack took a deep breath and let it slide from his lungs. “Will, go back outside and look over the building next door and be careful, boy. You understand me?” “Yes sir!” “Conn, we’ll scope the rest of this one out.” - 194 -

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They found signs that a lot of men had used this building as sleeping quarters. It reeked of unwashed bodies. There had been a stampede for the door when the daylight firing barrage had hit. The bodies of half a dozen unfortunates who were a might slow lay about in grotesque positions all over the place. Jack and Conn had to be careful not to slip on the greasy bloodied floor. They reached the front of the building and glanced up and down the street. At the moment all was quiet. Silverjack observed the slaughter before him on the street and felt sick to his stomach. “Conn, me and you rode with a lot of these boys lying dead out here.” “Yeah, I know. That feller with the shotgun, hell, I knew him when he farmed forty acres of cotton down on the Nueces. Carpet baggers burned him out, and he had no choice, but to hit the outlaw trail. It ain’t no life.” “We been there, Conn, and shit like this just proves what I’ve always said.” “What’s that Silver?” “The outlaw life, there ain’t much permanence to it.” “There sure wasn’t for these poor souls.” “Harlan, out there, he never could leave it behind. There’s still posters on him hanging in law offices all over Texas. He always knew he would die hard, but he was still a good man, Conn. God damn it all! We have got to find the leaders and end this thing before anymore innocent people die. We don’t even know who’s still alive from the Scarlet Dragon. Bear ought to be takin’ care of the rescue about now. Damn I hope it goes off smooth. I want this over with.” Silverjack took off his hat and ran a weary hand through his long gray hair. He had lived by the gun too long. He was tired of killing and weary of the trail. If Crystal was still alive and would have him, he would settle down and try to raise some beeves, or, maybe horses. God, he thought, let her be alive. Wes Hardin stepped out of the café with Rooster right on his footsteps. Rooster stumbled over the last step and fell into Hardin, almost knocking the gunman down. “God damn it, Rooster,” said Hardin, as he regained his balance. “Walk on your feet, not mine. You have to be more careful, boy.” “I think it’s a little too late for that, gunfighter.” - 195 -

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Wes Hardin looked up to see two short guns and a Winchester pointing straight at his belly. The speaker was Hank Strayhan, Rooster’s brother. He had a wicked look in his bloodshot eyes. “Lay that pistol on the ground in front of you, Hardin,” said the elder Strayhan. Wes Hardin cursed his own negligence, and complied with the outlaw’s order. Rooster stood by with a confused expression on his face. “See there, Blackie,” said Hank, “I told you that looked like Wes Hardin jumpin’ through the café window. Maybe now you’ll believe me.” “You really John Wesley Hardin?” said Blackie. There was a mixture of admiration and fear in his voice. Wes Hardin stared at the three men but said nothing. “Howdy, Hank,” said Rooster. “This here’s the guy that gimme that whole dollar a while ago. He’s my friend.” There was surprise in Hardin’s eyes as he looked up at the simple man. “Naw, Rooster, he’s a bad man,” said Hank, “a real bad man. You come on over here, so’s we can shoot him.” “You can’t shoot him, Hank. Ain’t I done told you, he’s my friend?” Rooster became hysterical with fear for Hardin’s life. “Get that idiot away from Hardin, Strayhan. I’m just about to get famous.” Blackie levered a round into his Winchester and aimed it at Wes Hardin’s head. “We’ll blow him to hell just like we did that old nigger at the whorehouse.” “Don’t shoot my friend,” Rooster screamed, lunging in front of Wes Hardin. Blackie pumped three bullets into Rooster’s chest. “Don’t shoot my friend,” whispered Rooster, as his body pitched forward into the dirt. “Oh, God!” yelled Hank. He swiveled and fired six slugs into Blackie, driving the man’s body into the third outlaw. This gunman was a small man. He fell backwards and was pinned by the much larger body of Blackie. The man lay there with his mouth agape, for a moment, and then began to struggle to free himself from under Blackie’s body. Hardin, seeing his chance, dropped to one knee, scooped up his six-gun, and shot the prostrate man three times. Hank Strayhan turned toward - 196 -

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Hardin with a blank look on his face. He was still cocking his revolver and pulling the trigger; the pistols hammer falling on empty chambers. Hardin shot him twice in the chest. Hank took three steps forward, and dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled the remaining distance to where his dead brother lay, collapsing onto Rooster’s chest. Wes Hardin stood for a moment letting his heart slow down to a near normal rhythm. He reloaded his pistol, and, looking around him at the butchery that had been committed, he noticed a slight movement from Hank Strayhan’s head. “Damn,” he said, “that sorry bastard ain’t dead yet.” Then he realized Hank’s head was not moving on its own. Rooster was breathing! The big fella was alive. Hardin stuck his boot against Hank’s head and pushed it off of Rooster’s chest. He fell to his knees and cradled Rooster’s head in his arms. For the first time he got a good look at the retarded giant. The man’s face was layered thick with grease and dirt. The tear’s he’d cried had only added to the mess. Rooster’s long brown hair was matted up like a pile of old nasty rags. Scarlet trickled out of both nostrils and his mouth. “Rooster, can you hear me?” Hardin spoke in a whisper. “It’s me, Wes Hardin. The big man’s eyes fluttered open. They rolled around, unseeing at first, then focusing on the face of his friend, the dollar man. “Did they shoot you mister?” “No, Rooster. I’m okay.” “That’s good; I didn’t want them to shoot my friend.” “I’m fine Rooster.” “How ‘bout Hank, did they shoot him?” There was pleading in the gentile giant’s weak voice. Wes Hardin swallowed hard. “Naw, Rooster,” he cleared his throat. “They didn’t shoot him, either.” “That’s good.” Rooster was smiling. “He’s my brother, and he takes care of me.” Hardin’s teeth were clenched, and his breathing was coming in rapid bursts. Rooster stopped talking and closed his eyes. Wes removed his hat and bowed his head. His eyes misted over, as he knelt in silence. - 197 -

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All of a sudden, Rooster’s body shuddered. He tried to scream, but the words came out weak and flat. “Don’t hit me again, Hank. I ain’t gonna do it no more. Please don’t hit me again?” His body went limp and Hardin thought he had died. But Rooster opened his eyes. They were clear and focused on Wes Hardin. “Sir,” said Rooster in a strong voice, “I still got my whole dollar.” Then he let fly with a magnificent rooster crow. “That’s good, Rooster,” said Hardin, “real good.” Rooster Strayhan didn’t hear him. He had found his peace. Hardin laid the man’s head on the ground. He rummaged around thru Rooster’s pockets until he came up with the silver dollar he had given him. As he rose, Wes slipped the coin into his inside vest pocket. He reloaded his pistol and began to climb the hill towards where the Buffalo soldiers were staked out.

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Chapter Thirty-Five Bearkiller whipped his horse hard riding to Dixie City. Silverjack needed to know about the ladies Blake had taken there the night before. Bearkiller reined in his slathered mount among the boulders on the hill to the north of town. His eyes searched for sign of Silverjack or one of his white banded comrades. Threading his way down through the rocks and trees, he could see the street below. He had been in many battles, but never had he seen bloodshed like this. It was a mass execution. Bearkiller did not question their reason for coming on this undertaking, but he thought hard about the consequences. As he reached the edge of the trees some fifty feet above the backside of Dixie City, Bearkiller spied a man wearing a white arm band slink around the corner of a structure and disappear into the building next to it. He dismounted and began to pick his way down to the alley. His peripheral vision caught a movement two buildings down to his left, and he dropped to his belly. Two women and a man with a rifle slipped out of a building he knew to be the saloon. The women fidgeted around until one squatted and did her business. The other followed suit, then all three went back inside. Bearkiller resumed his descent, this time keeping as low as possible. He was ten feet from the first building he had observed when the man with the white armband returned and slipped back inside. Bearkiller decided to stay put until he was sure all was safe. After five minutes, the man remerged from the building accompanied by Silverjack and Conn Havens. Bearkiller whistled a low trill. Silverjack’s head shot up, and he began to scan the area. Again Bear trilled, this time louder. Jack answered with a similar whistle, and Bearkiller rose and joined the three men. “Bear,” Silverjack said, as he hugged his old friend. “How did it go?” “The ladies are on their way to our camp now. We managed to accomplish the mission with no casualties.” “Good, good, well done Bear. Is Hawk Wing safe?” “My daughter is safe. She proved herself a brave warrior, today, Silver.” The closest thing to a smile one would see from Bearkiller graced his copper face. “I have news too, Silver.” - 199 -

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“Yesterday, ‘Butcher’ Blake brought a wagon load of women into town. I believe they are in the saloon, two buildings away from here. The Dragon Lady is with them and another called Crystal.” “Crystal!” Silverjack blurted out. “She’s alive?” “That is what a large woman called Alice said to Half Jack.” “Fat Alice, she’s alive, too, and the Dragon Lady. The other ones, Bear, how many?” “Forty, maybe fifty, they are from many different places, not just the Scarlet Dragon, and not all are prostitutes. These people had something planned that was much bigger than just burning down a house of prostitution. I believe they used the Confederate Army scheme as a cover for their real plan.” “Sounds like you got something there, Bearkiller,” said Conn Havens. Silverjack’s hand traversed his face. “This changes everything. We’ve pretty much cleaned out all the structures in Dixie City but the saloon and the building just past it. We know at least two of the ladies are in the saloon and they’re under guard. It’s likely that all of them ladies are in there. Anybody seen Jesus or Wes Hardin?” Everyone shook their heads. “What about ‘Honest’ John and Charlie Harp? Nobody’s seen them either, huh. Damn! We ain’t got time to look for ‘em, so we got to go on without ‘em. There are four of us, and we ain’t got no idea how many are hold up in that saloon. Looks like those hombres may have us by the shorthairs, boys.” “Silver, shouldn’t we, maybe, give that last building a look see for stragglers.” It was Conn Havens. “Can you sneak up and around the saloon and down to that building, Conn?” “I reckon so, Silver. I’ll be back in two shakes of a coon’s tail.” “While he’s doin’ that, we might as well go on ahead and see if we can find the missin’ members of our bunch. Will, you check this side of the street back to the barn. Bear, you do the same thing on the other side, and both of you be damn careful. I done lost one friend too many, today.” Both men were gone before Silverjack finished talking. He stepped inside the building to contemplate just how in the hell he was going to talk those - 200 -

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hombres into turnin’ loose Crystal and the others. Jack feared the bloodshed on this day was far from over. The pain was almost too much for ‘Butcher’ Blake. He stumbled and staggered his way toward the livery stable. His black stallion was there, saddled up and ready to go. Last night he had loaded his saddlebags with as much gold as he dared take. He had made a decision to leave Dixie City today while Sparks was occupied with the Dragon Lady. Getting gut shot had not been a part of his plan. Still, if he could get out of town he figured to ride to Ghost Creek. Maybe there would be a doctor there. It was his only chance. It seemed an eternity, but he finally reached the door of the livery. Relieved that it was open, he turned and disappeared inside. He lurched along the stalls until he found his black stallion. The horse smelled blood and shied away from Blake. “Here, now, boy,” said Blake in a gentle tone, “it’s me, old boy. It’s okay, calm down. That’s a good fella, yeah, good boy.” The horse calmed at Blake’s touch. Blake found a bucket and stepped up on it. He threw his body over the horses back, and, with great effort he straddled the saddle and stuck both feet in the stirrups. He nudged the great stallion with his boot heels and the big black horse started at a canter for the back door of the livery. Charlie Harp had decided no one was going to come to the barn so he had gone out the back way and started up the alley. After a few paces he heard movement in the barn. He ran back and peeked around the corner, in time to see ‘Butcher’ Blake riding his way. He could see the man was hurt. Charlie stepped into the middle of the exit and pulled his pistol. “Take her easy there pard,” he said. “You look like you’re hurt bad. Stop and I’ll help you out.” Blake whispered something in the animal’s ear, and the horse took off at a dead run right at Charlie. The big stallion hit Charlie Harp dead square in the chest. Charlie’s head snapped back and his body was thrown up into the air like a rag doll. Ten feet away he landed in a crumpled heap. He did not move. The stallion, with Blake hanging on for dear life, took off up the hill. John Benteen was groggy from the bullet crease on his head, but his equilibrium had returned enough so that he could now walk without too much nausea. He wobbled a little as he trotted across to the livery barn; - 201 -

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getting there just in time to see the black stallion run down Charley Harp. He picked up his pace and was soon at Charlie’s side. The man was unconscious, but he was breathing. “Honest John” did a quick check and surmised that Charlie had no broken bones. He was about to go back into the barn and saddle a mount when he heard a horse whinny from above. “Honest John” began to run up the hill towards the sound. A trail of blood led him to a spot about fifty yards above the livery. The black stallion was grazing on short grass. Ten feet away, propped back against a tree, sat “Ace” Perdue aka “Butcher” Blake. He was hatless, and his head was bowed. Ragged gulps of air forced their way in and out his lungs. His lower body was blanketed with blood, and his arms were folded across his stomach. “Honest” John walked over to the horse, being careful not to spook the animal. The stallion was content to eat and let the stranger approach him. John reached up and began searching through Blake’s saddlebags. It just took a moment to find what he was looking for. He removed the bottle of whiskey and walked over to where Blake sat. Hearing someone approaching, Blake called out in a weak voice. “Help me, please help me, I’ve been shot.” “You’ve been gut shot, Blake. You are dying.” John Benteen’s voice was flat and emotionless. “Help me. Give me some whiskey to ease the pain, please, friend.” “I reckon I can do that,” said “Honest” John. He walked over to Blake and placed the bottle of whiskey up to the killer’s lips. He poured a jigger down the man’s throat. Blake squirmed like a hooked worm when the alcohol hit bottom. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he hollered, “that stuff is settin’ me on fire.” John Benteen stood looking down at the dying man. There was no remorse in his eyes, no pity. Even the hate that drove him so hard over the years was gone. “Please, friend, one more taste of whiskey. I ain’t got much longer.” “Why should I waste good whiskey on you, “Ace” Perdue? Tell me why?” Blake tried to look up to see who was calling him by his old name, but his eyes refused to focus. “No, friend, I ain’t that Perdue feller. My name is Blake. Anson Blake. I was just ridin’ through this town when all that - 202 -

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shootin’ started. I’m an innocent man. I swear to God.” The words were coming slower, now. Blake’s voice had become a raspy whine. “Please help me find a doctor. I’m hurtin’ somethin’ God awful.” “You’re a liar, Perdue, but I’m feeling benevolent today. I believe I will give you this bottle of whiskey to warm up on.” “Bless you, sir, for your kindness. May I have your name?” “My name is John Benteen.” John Benteen, a name out of the past. But there had been so many names, so many places since Perdue had left Kansas to ride with Quantrill’s Raiders at the end of the war. John Benteen, the name did not ring a bell. Perdue/Blake felt rain beginning to fall on his head. It felt so good, but wait a minute, that wasn’t rain. It burned. It burned like hell! What was happening? Then it struck him like a bolt of lightning. He remembered. Benteen, John Benteen! He began to scream as the Marshal doused his body with whiskey. Benteen finished the whiskey bath and pitched the bottle far away into a clump of creosote. He began to strike matches and throw them, one by one, at the hysterical outlaw. The first two went out; the third one caught. John Benteen watched in silence as what was left of Ace Perdue flopped around in flames on the sandy soil. In a few moments the burning body lay still. Benteen walked over to a small bush that had caught fire and stomped it out. Then he strode back to the black stallion and stepped into the saddle. John Benteen looked down at the charred remains of the man who had burned his family to death and wept. Wes Hardin reached the place where the horses were kept. All of the mounts had been saddled in case they were needed. He found a pack horse that was hobbled. He removed the restraints and threw a halter over the horses head. Next he rummaged around through the supplies until he found a lariat. He then led the pack animal over to his horse. He stepped aboard his black stallion and rode back through the Buffalo soldiers and down the hill to Dixie City. Unconcerned that he might be an easy target, Wes Hardin rode straight to Rooster’s body. It wasn’t easy liftin’ the giant and placing him over the back of the pack horse, but, somehow, Hardin managed. He secured Rooster’s body with the lariat, double checking to see that all was tight. - 203 -

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When he finished his task, he stepped into the saddle and, leading the pack animal, rode east out of Dixie City. He did not look back.

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Chapter Thirty-Six In spite of the tight situation they were in, Capt. Alfordus Sparks kept his composure. He had no choice; he was in charge. “Lt. Cady, come here,” said the captain in an even tone. “Lt. Blake has been too long at his task. I fear something has happened to him.” “Yes, sir,” said the rotund lieutenant, “shall I send a man to look for him?” “No, lieutenant, we cannot afford to lose another soldier. Lt. Blake was a good man. We will miss his gun.” Inside, Capt. Sparks was elated at this turn of events. He was the eternal optimist. With Blake no longer in the picture, the captain could sleep easier. He would worry no longer that Lt. Blake would get him before he got the ‘Butcher’. Now, his only worry was getting by whomever it was outside. He hoped to hear from the attackers soon. He had a timetable to keep up with. And, after all, time was money. Long minutes had passed when Silverjack spied Will Tucker creeping through the trees. The young man made no noise as he moved down to where Jack stood. “The saloon is full of people, Jack,” Will said. “Both men and women, but I can’t tell for sure how many. That place is built like a fort. There is a single back door. The front has swinging doors, but they are blockaded up. The window glass is gone but they have boards across both of them. There’s no other way to get in except maybe from the roof. Up on the hill, it looked like there might be some sort of little room with a window on top of the building. I couldn’t tell for certain but I think it might’ve been some kind of lookout post.” “I scoped out that last building on the other side of the saloon. It’s full of all kinds of junk in the front. In the back are a bunch of barrels that look like they have water in them.” “Good work Will. Anything else?” “Yes, sir, Jack, there was a body in there. It was Ike Calcott. Lord, he was shot to pieces. Both of his pistols were in his hands. Looks like he went down fighting.” Silverjack took a deep breath and held it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he emptied his lungs with a whoosh and let his head drop - 205 -

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to his chest. Twenty-four hours ago he was ready to kill this man, if need be. Now, he would morn him. He did not agree with the reason Ike Calcott had come on this mission, but he knew the man was not a coward, and whether he realized it or not he had died a hero. Elation hit Silverjack, as he looked up from his thoughts and saw Conn Havens approaching. John Benteen was with him. He led a beautiful black stallion with a dazed looking Charlie Harp aboard. Before Jack could say hello, Bearkiller appeared out of the shadows carrying Jesus Campo Santos. “Hell,” said Silverjack, “this is like old home week.” After helping the shaken rider off the horse, John Benteen tied the mount, out of sight, in the alley. All of the men went inside the building, with Will Tucker keeping an eye out for desperados. They sat in a circle, some on boxes, others on the floor. The injured men were made as comfortable as possible. Bearkiller went to work on Jesus’ wound. Charlie Harp was coming around fast. It looked like he would be sore as the Dickens tomorrow, but, otherwise, no worse for wear. “Fellers, I don’t know what to say.” Silverjack sat in awe of these men. “You boys have done the impossible. We’ve cleaned out a viper’s nest and freed a whole bunch of innocent ladies from God knows what fate. We got one more chore to do, and I’m figurin’ this one will be the toughest. There’s a group of the ladies bein’ held in the saloon next door. There may be a dozen men or more in there with ‘em. We’ve got to get ‘em out safe. I’m open for ideas, and don’t everybody speak at once.” His face broke out with a grim smile. Silence filled the room. They all were thinking, but no ideas came forth. “We can’t just throw a bunch of lead into the building until we get them all or they surrender.” This was “Honest” John speaking. “Too dangerous for the ladies.” “If we rush them, some of us wouldn’t make it, and we still might not free all the women,” said Conn Havens. There were nods of agreement all around, but no one came up with any other ideas. “Rider comin’,” said Will Tucker. “He’s got both hands in the air and he’s ridin’ in slow.” Silverjack looked out at the newcomer. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, waving to the rider. “That, boys, is a Texas Ranger, Wes Hardin Jr. by - 206 -

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name.” Jack shook his head in amazement. He looked up again. “I will just be damned,” he said. The young ranger tied his horse next to the big black and proceeded inside the building. His grin was from ear to ear as he approached Silverjack with his hand thrust out. Jack took the hand but turned loose after a token shake. “Ain’t you happy to see me, Jack?” said JR. “I don’t see no badge, son. Did you quit the Rangers?” “No, sir, I am still a Ranger, and you are too.” The room erupted with noise as everybody began to talk at once. Half the men got to their feet. “Goddamnit, shut up!” said Jack. The men calmed down, but most were still muttering to each other. Jack turned to the young Ranger. “What in the blue blazes are you talking about JR?” “Well, sir, after you and the Captain got through arguing, me and him had a talk. I respect him more than any man I have ever known, and I told him that. I also said he was the reason I had decided to stay in the Rangers. He’s a good man, but he’s as hard headed as a buffalo, and so are you Jack. Both of you were right and wrong in your argument, but I ain’t going to get into that here and now. The point is, after thinking hard on his decision to quit the Rangers, Capt. Thornton decided to ask that he be reinstated. Those boys in Austin ain’t fools. Of course, they gave him his job back and even told him he could stay on in Justiceburg if that is what he wanted.” “He also decided that he didn’t want his big brother on the owlhoot trail again so he wrote up orders to the effect that--- here let me read them.” He took a folded piece of paper from his hip pocket and read from it. “Let’s see here, bla, bla, bla, oh yeah, from this day forward and until further written notice, Jack O’Roarke McDonald is hereby granted the temporary rank of Sergeant in the Texas Rangers. Also, Acting Sergeant McDonald is assigned command of the Liberation Battalion, which is also temporary. Furthermore, Acting Sergeant McDonald may have the right to enlist whomsoever he sees fit into said battalion for as long as the battalion remains in existence. Signed Capt. Clay Thornton, Texas Rangers.” “I don’t know what to say,” said Silverjack. - 207 -

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“I’ve never seen Jack McDonald speechless,” said Conn Havens. “This whole deal gets wilder and wilder by the minute.” “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” said John Benteen, smiling. There were nods and grunts of agreement. “Right, now, boys, all this means is that we got one more man to help us save those ladies. Get back to thinkin’.” Admiration filled Silverjack’s eyes as he turned to JR and explained the problem to the young Ranger. “So, that brings you up to right now,” Silverjack said to JR. He scratched behind his ear and ran his hand over his beard and down his throat. “How in the world did you find us, son?” “I knew you were coming to Dixie City, and I knew, pretty much, which way you would come. I found the wagon tracks and followed them to a place where I found two men sitting in a wagon tied up and gagged. I undid their gags and, man, did they have a tale to tell. One of them was gibbering in a language I couldn’t understand, but the other one said he was a trader taking supplies to Justiceburg when he was accosted by a bloody gang of cutthroats who stole everything he owned but the wagon. Both of them fellas did agree on one thing, though. They said the leader was a fierce looking old man wearing buckskins and with a nasty scar running down the side of his face. I gave them some water and gagged them back up. From there, I again followed the wagon tracks until I came upon Sgt. Champion and his men. They told me you were down amongst these buildings somewhere. The rest is just luck, me finding you.” Ranger Hardin grinned. “Huh,” said Jack, “if you ain’t the tracker, now. JR, your Daddy was with us when we stormed this place. I don’t know where he is now, but he done a commendable job.” Wes Hardin Jr. took this all in silence. He made no comment after Silverjack finished. He looked around the room at the men who were discussing possible plans. He was just about to speak again when John Benteen spoke up. “Jack, Will says there is a little room up top of the saloon with windows in it. That just might be our Ace in the hole.” “How?” said Silverjack.

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“If we could get two men on the roof and there was a way down to the saloon, we could distract whoever’s inside long enough to get the drop on them.” “We would have to have men inside,” said Silverjack. “Maybe we could talk our way in for a palaver. We could talk trade with the owlhoots inside, the women for their freedom. That might work.” Charlie Harp gave Silverjack a hard look. “You mean, after all that has happened, we’re going to let those bastards go?” “Hell, no, Charlie. We’re gonna make them think that’s the deal. Let’s see now, we could send Will and JR up to that little roof room. You boys try and find a way in. If that ain’t possible, you can make a lot of noise and distract them fellers in there. Bear, you and Jesus cover the back door and make sure nobody leaves. I mean nobody. We’ll set up a palaver, and the rest of us will go in the place like we owned it. If you boys can get in from the roof, give us five minutes inside then come on down hollerin’ and shootin for all you’re worth. If not, then start a ruckus up there after five minutes. I’m sorry I can’t give you more time, but it’s too dangerous. All of us that go inside need to pick out the target closest to them and when the ball starts kill that person first. After that it’s every man for himself. I hope the ladies got enough sense to get down. That’s what we’re gonna do. Anybody got anything to say?” “I think it might work,” said Conn Havens. “I believe this is what we should do,” said Jesus, feeling better after his wound was cleaned and bandaged. They all agreed and began to go to their predestinated places. Half of them went out the back door while the other half exited the front. “Lord, help us,” said John Benteen. “Amen,” said Silverjack.

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Chapter Thirty-Seven Silverjack and the other three men slipped out the front door and pressed up single file against the front of the building. “Hello, the saloon,” he hollered out. “We need to palaver.” In the meantime, Bearkiller and his bunch sidled up to the rear of the saloon. They had to figure a way to get Will and JR onto the roof without making too much noise. Bearkiller decided to boost them up on his shoulders. The roof slanted in the back and there was just enough hanging down for the two young men to grab on to and shinny up. They made the climb and crawled along the splintery wood to the roof top structure. The room was eight feet by eight feet with a small window on each side. A door with a rusted lock faced north. Will took out his pocket knife and plunged it into the lock. He worked the blade for a few seconds and the lock clicked. The door was stuck but with a little effort, Will eased the portal open. JR Hardin gave Will a curious look. “Uh,” said Will, with a shit eatin’ grin on his face, “Ranger, this is something I learned a long time ago. You never know when you might lock yourself out of a building.” “Certainly a talent to be proud of, Mr. Tucker. How was it you came to learn this?” “S’cuse me, Ranger?” “Who taught you?” “Oh, why didn’t you say so? It was Jack McDonald who learned me this. Shuckins, I expect Silverjack taught me most everything I know about staying alive.” “Good, did he teach you that we better be ready in five minutes or everything will go to hell?” Will Tucker turned red around the ears and stepped inside the tiny room. JR Hardin had to cover his broad grin with his hand as he followed the young cowboy through the rotting threshold. Inside the saloon, Capt. Sparks was standing by the blockaded swinging doors. “I recognize that voice,” he said. “That man has been here in Dixie City before.” The captain had set the places where everyone would be when the talking started. He motioned for them to assume their positions. - 210 -

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The saloon had eight tables strewed about the floor. Two ladies were placed behind a front table with Bob Ray Woolens sitting between them. A few feet to the right and even with them was a second table with two more women. Enrique Baca sat at that table. Ten feet behind Woolen’s table, Lt. Cady sat next to Crystal. Directly opposite them, the Dragon Lady sat at a table alone. Two men were in the back store room guarding the back door. Two more stood in front of the wall that separated the store room from the front room. Two men were stationed on either side of the boarded up windows, and one man stood by the front doors. Capt. Sparks positioned himself next to this man. “Hello, the saloon,” Silverjack yelled out again. “We need to talk.” “This is Capt. Alfordus Sparks speaking,” came the reply. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” “I’m Jack McDonald of the Texas Rangers. We want you to let the ladies go. Do that and we’ll see that all of you get a fair trial.” “Mr. McDonald, I knew I recognized that voice. Now I have a face to place with it. So you are a Texas Ranger. I must say that is a great surprise to me. However it is of little importance now. Mr. McDonald, or should I say Ranger McDonald, what charges do you intend to arrest us on?” “Kidnappin’, murder, slavery, burnin’ down the Scarlet Dragon, and whatever else we can find, captain.” There was silence from inside the saloon. Capt. Sparks had to come up with a plan, quick. They were trapped and would die before they would surrender. He decided to attempt to work a trade for their freedom. “Ranger McDonald, we are in Indian territory, which is out of your jurisdiction. I propose a trade. We have six ladies in here who would dearly love to go home. Allow my men and myself safe conduct to the New Mexico border. We will release the ladies to you at that point.” “No, sir, captain, I ain’t gonna do that,” said Silverjack. “I will consider lettin’ you and your rabble go if you turn loose the ladies right now. I’ll give you two minutes to think about it.” Bearkiller pulled four empty barrels around behind the saloon to give him and Jesus some little cover just in case anybody busted out of the back door. Both men sat back on their haunches and waited. - 211 -

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Up in the little structure on the saloon’s top, the two young rangers were working on loosening a trap door that opened on the room below. It came loose with a muted pop. Both men stopped breathing. Nothing happened, so Will Tucker lifted the door two inches and peered down at the scene below. What little he saw caused him to swallow hard. There were at least eight men, armed to the teeth, inside. He couldn’t see all of the room, and surmised there must be more outlaws down there than were in his range of sight. “They’re a bunch of fellers loaded for bear down there,” he whispered to JR. “How long do we wait before we start shooting?” “We have to give Silverjack and the others five minutes after they get inside before we commence to do anything,” answered JR. Will nodded and wiped his sweating forehead. “Ranger McDonald, we will release the ladies to you, if you come inside the saloon and escort them out. Once you have the ladies, we will be given free passage to New Mexico. Is that agreeable sir?” Capt. Sparks almost choked on the sir part. “Damn, Silver, you can’t do that,” said Conn Havens. “They’ll shoot you to doll rags.” “He’s right,” said ‘Honest’ John. “Our only chance is for all of us to go inside and try to bluff them down.” “Capt. Sparks, I have three men with me and many more guardin’ all the ways out of town. If you try anything hostile, you will be shot dead. I will come inside and we can finish our palaver, but my men will come with me.?” Sparks turned to his men. “Gentlemen, they are coming in. There will be no gunplay unless I start it.” He gazed around the room looking into the eyes of every man. “Lord, give me strength,” he whispered. “Take down the barricade,” he said to the man guarding the door. “Come in Ranger McDonald, but step with care. My men are tired and jumpy. We wouldn’t want a shootout to start up accidentally.” “Naw,” said Silverjack, as he stepped onto the hard pack street headed for the front of the saloon, “We sure wouldn’t want no shootin’ to start up,” he paused, “accidentally.” Silverjack and his men crossed to the plank porch of the saloon. The rest stood back as Jack walked to the entrance and peered inside. Dim light from - 212 -

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the smudged flickering kerosene lamps gave the room an eerie glow. He stepped inside, his men right behind him. He strode three paces and stopped. Conn Havens came in next, moving six feet to Jack’s left. John Benteen followed Conn and moved to Silverjack’s right, with Charlie Harp coming in and standing six feet to ‘Honest’ John’s right. Spread far apart, each man mentally selected his first target. The two young Rangers on the roof could see the last two occupied tables. Capt. Sparks had sat down beside the Dragon Lady, while Lt. Cady sat with Crystal. Will picked out the Captain as his first shot. JR sighted on Lt. Cady. The two looked at each other when Silverjack entered the saloon, and nodded. The five minute clock had started. Capt. Sparks beamed as he addressed Silverjack. “I appreciate your offer of a discourse Ranger McDonald, but, now, under the circumstances, I’m sure you can see that you are outnumbered and outgunned. It would please me, if you and your men would remove your weapons at once. Just take off your gun belts and lay them at your feet.” Silverjack looked perplexed. “I thought we was comin’ in here to bargain for the release of the ladies and your free passage out of Dixie City? There’s a whole passel of Rangers crawling all over the place. You won’t get away.” “Yes, I will, sir. It is meant to be. The ladies, along with you and your men, will escort our little army as far as I see fit. Now, Ranger McDonald, you must comply with my order, or I will have Mr. Woolens put a bullet through the head of one of your whores.” Silverjack looked in the direction the captain was pointing. Bob Ray Woolens was standing next to a lady Jack did not recognize. The young gunman’s pistol was pressed against her temple. The woman had begun to cry. Jack recognized Woolens. “Well, I’ll be damned if it ain’t ol’ piss face.” Silverjack smiled. “Why you’re the old man who cold cocked me when I wasn’t lookin’, and ruined my birthday party.” Woolens face muscles scrunched up into a frown. “I’ve been lookin’ for you, old timer. We got us a score to settle.” “Mr. Woolens, shut your mouth.” The Captain was indignant. “Your personal problems do not concern the present situation. I will only tell you once, sir, to be quiet.” - 213 -

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“What are they jawing about down there,” said Will Tucker, easing farther across the trap door to get a better look. Moving his right hand, looking for a better vantage point, Will placed it smack dab on top of an exposed rusty nail. He let out a war whoop of pain and tried to jump back. The old brittle trap door gave way, plummeting both men straight down on top of Lt. Cady; all three went crashing through the table. Lt.Cady, who had been leaning forward listening to the argument, splayed out like a squashed toad frog when the two men hit him. His head banged off the floor at an odd angle, his neck broken. Will Tucker was knocked unconscious. JR was dazed but awake. Crystal heard the noise from above and dove out of the way just in time. Everyone but Silverjack jerked their heads toward the commotion. Jack pulled iron and sent a bullet screaming toward Bob Ray Woolens, hitting him in the side of the neck as he turned to look back. His jugular vein exploded and he was dead. By now, all in the room were back concentrating on the problem at hand, self preservation. Conn Havens whirled with both hands full of sixguns and drilled the two window guards on his side of the room. The man in the middle of the room held a twelve gauge Greener shotgun. He half turned toward Conn and jerked a trigger. Lead pellets hit Havens between the shoulder blades and he went down. The shotgun man was turning back around when Silverjack shot him twice through the chest. John Benteen dropped to one knee and, pulling his hand gun, rolled onto his right shoulder firing at the man behind him at the window. The first bullet hit the startled outlaw in the shoulder. The second bullet took him out of the fight. As Charlie Harp dove behind the bar, a slug from the other window man’s .44 caught him in the upper thigh. “Damn it!” said Charlie as he rolled under the bar. “I got the nigger!” yelled the gunman who had shot Charlie. It was his last words, as “Honest” John plugged him in the brisket. Charlie began to wriggle his way down the back of the bar to where Crystal was hiding. All four of the girls at the front two tables had hit the floor when the gunfire began. They were either scrunched up against a wall or next to the bar cowering in fear. - 214 -

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Enrique Baca had only one person in mind to kill, Silverjack McDonald. When the shooting started, in his haste to get up, Baca’s bad leg gave out, and he crumpled to the floor. Struggling to his knees, he ripped his pistol from its holster and fired at Silverjack. Jack felt the bullet buzz past his head. He turned his six-guns in the direction of the shooter, as another chunk of hot lead screamed his way. This one found its mark, burying itself deep into the fleshy part of Jack’s left arm. The limb went numb and he dropped the pistol from his left hand. Baca sneered as he fired again, this time taking off part of Jack’s ear. Silverjack took careful aim with his right hand pistol and put a bullet between Enrique Baca’s eyes. The back of Baca’s head blew out and Enrique toppled backwards into the bloody mess. The two men in the back of the saloon’s front room had taken cover behind a table in the corner. They began to fire at anything that moved. Silverjack fell behind the table previously occupied by Enrique Baca. John Benteen rolled over, putting the bar between him and the hail of bullets coming his way. Conn Havens was not moving. Jack looked over at him, but he couldn’t tell if Conn was breathing or not. He took off his neckerchief and stuffed it into his gunshot wound as best he could. He was becoming light headed from loss of blood, and he was fighting hard to maintain consciousness. Charlie Harp had transversed the bar and lay next to Crystal at the far end. She tore off a strip of ragged petticoat and tied a tourniquet around Charlie’s bleeding leg. “Crystal,” said Charlie, “when I say the word, you yell and scream to high heaven. Maybe that will get the attention of those two boys behind the table. Then I’ll jump up and run at them hoping they’ll be too shook up to hit me. It’s our only chance.” Crystal looked down at Charley’s bleeding leg. “How are you going to run on one leg?” She said. “I have a better idea. Give me your pistol.” “No, mam, I won’t do that.” “Okay,” she said, reaching down and giving the tourniquet a quick squeeze. “Oh, God,” said Charlie, nearly passing out. Crystal took advantage of his pain and tore the gun from his hand. With the pistol hidden in the folds of her torn dress, she jumped up and ran screaming towards the two barricaded outlaws. - 215 -

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“Help, me! Save me! Aaahhhh!” she screamed, as she ran. The two men looked at each other, and, by the time she was upon them, it was too late. She emptied the contents of the six-gun into the two men. Both slumped to the floor, dead. Another shot resounded inside the building; Crystal clutched her breast and fell. The bullet had come from behind the table formerly occupied by Capt. Sparks and the Dragon Lady. At the beginning of the ruckus, the captain had flipped the table on its side and hidden behind it, pulling the protesting Dragon Lady on top of him. Both had escaped injury in the battle. “You son of a bitch,” said Silverjack, not believing he had come so close to having Crystal back, only to see her shot down. He let loose a primal cry and prepared to charge the killer of his only love. He started to rise, when nausea overcame him, and he sagged back down. The loss of blood was too much; he could not even avenge his lost love. Seeing the carnage in the saloon, the two outlaws in the back room chose to run out the back door, hoping to live to fight again. Upon fleeing into the sunlight they were greeted by Jesus and Bearkiller. “Buenos tardes, senores,” said the diminutive Mexican, “We have been waiting for you. We drew straws and I won.” He looked over at the frowning Bearkiller and grinned. Standing up, he placed his pistol in its holster. “Senores,” he said, “at your leisure.” Both gunmen grabbed iron at the same time, and while one was a fraction of a second faster than the other, it made little difference. Jesus heart shot both of them before their guns had cleared leather. He looked back at Bearkiller, the grin still on his face. Bearkiller shook his head and stepped inside the building. “What do you want, Sparks?” said John Benteen. Silverjack was too weak to talk. “You don’t really intend to make it out of here alive, do you?” “Oh, I most certainly do. I still have your precious Dragon Lady, and I intend to use her as my ticket out. Do you agree?” “Jack, can you hear me?” said “Honest” John. “I hear you, John.” The reply was weak. “We can’t let this bastard go.” “Jack, he has Mai Ling, we have to.” “That’s right, Ranger McDonald.” This time Capt. Sparks used the term ‘Ranger’ in a mocking fashion. “You have to let me go.” In his excitement - 216 -

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about going free, the Captain had become a bit careless, something that would have called for execution among his men. He failed to notice a presence creeping up behind him. “One of you go and get me a horse and be damned quick about it.” He said. “You won’t need a horse,” said L. J. Bearkiller, his right hand reaching around the captain’s neck and whipping the big hunting knife across the man’s exposed throat. Capt. Alfordus Sparks’s eyes turned into saucers, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Bear used his left arm and pushed the dead man aside. The body crumbled to the floor, spasmed once and lay still. It was over. The survivors who could got to their feet, the women converging on the middle of the room. JR roused and helped Will Tucker stand up. Both men stumbled over to check on Charlie Harp, who had pulled himself up and was leaning against the bar. John Benteen hurried over to Conn Haven’s side. Conn was shot full of buckshot. He would never see his hidden valley again. Silverjack trudged over to where Crystal lay and dropped to his knees. Tears filled the old gunfighter’s eyes. “Lord,” he said, “it ain’t right to take this woman, not now, just when we had a chance of startin’ a new life together. It’s wrong.” He breathed in deep. “Lord, I know I don’t deserve her, but I would have given up my wild ways and settled down for this good woman.” “Is that a promise, Jack?” asked a weak voice. “Oh, Lord, she’s alive, she’s alive! Bear fetch, ol’ Champ. He’s good at doctorin’.” “Jack, hold me, please hold me,” whispered Crystal. “I’m here darlin', I’m here.” Silverjack reached out with his good arm and clutched Crystal to his chest. She motioned his head down and whispered in his ear. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he looked up at the ladies in the middle of the room. All were crying and laughing at their good fortune, even the Dragon Lady. “I’ll be damned,” Silverjack said under his breath, “I’ll just be damned.”

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Chapter Thirty-Eight Ten minutes too late, Al Haybinder and the rescue team fogged it into town, guns at the ready. They found Bearkiller and the surviving ladies treating the wounded while John Benteen and anyone who could walk dragged the bodies of the slain outlaws out into the street. A short time later Sgt. Champion and the Buffalo soldiers rode into the valley. Chris Sunday and his men followed close behind. Hawk Wing was the first to enter the saloon. Seeing her father she rushed over to him. They hugged and he gave her instructions on how to help him comfort the wounded. Sgt. Champion and his son, Virgil, a former medic in the Ninth Cavalry, came in bearing clean bandages and antiseptic. J.R. and Will, sporting a great big goose egg on top of his head, helped any way they could. “Be still, Silver,” said Bearkiller to the fidgeting temporary Ranger. “I’ve got other people to attend to. If you don’t be still, I will let you bleed.” “Aw, hell, Bear,” said Silverjack, “All I’ve got is a couple of little flesh wounds.” “Sure, that is why you nearly passed out from loss of blood,” Bearkiller said. “You are pitiful old man.” “Quit it, you two,” said Crystal. “Bearkiller, see to your other patients. I will take care of this old wind bag.” “Wind bag!” Silverjack looked hurt. “Very well,” said Bearkiller handing a long narrow strip of bandage to Crystal. “But, be careful not to start your shoulder bleeding again. To exchange one’s blood for another’s is not much of a trade.” The big Comanche moved away. Silverjack’s wounds weren’t severe, but they had caused serious blood loss. Fortunately for Crystal the slug that hit her had torn through the meaty part of her shoulder exiting out her back just missing her collarbone. She would be fine. The bullet that hit Charley Harp in the thigh had been a ricochet. Although not deep, the slug still needed to be removed as soon as possible to prevent infection and blood poisoning. Four Buffalo soldiers carefully laid - 218 -

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Charley on the top of the bar. Sgt. Champion slit Charley’s pants leg well past the thigh. “I can’t believe I got shot in the leg,” complained Charley. “Why not in my arm or my side? I walk funny enough as it is.” “Be quiet and swallow a big slug of this whiskey,” said Sgt. Champion. Charley obeyed orders. He downed a great gulp of the amber firewater. Smacking his lips he took a second drink. He was going for a third when Virgil grabbed the bottle away from him. Hey,” said Charley, “I might need some more of that stuff.” “I need it now,” said Virgil.” “Come on, Virgil,” begged Charley. “I need that tonsil varnish more than you.” “You’re about to get some more of it, my friend. Hold him down boys.” Charley smiled and reached out to grab the bottle. Virgil poured some whiskey straight into the open thigh wound. Charley screamed and passed out. “Now I can probe for the bullet,” said the former medic. Knife in hand, he bent over his unconscious friend. John Benteen, who received nary a scratch in the shootout, took charge in the clean-up of the old Mormon town. He delegated six cowboys to gather up any stray horses. The rest of the men he assigned the grisly task of rounding up the bodies of the dead outlaws. Within two hours every body had been placed in a pile in the middle of the street. Bloody trails where the bodies had been dragged ran in every direction. Thirty-eight horses had been rounded up and were herded to the edge of town. John Benteen stepped into the saloon. Eyeing Silverjack, he walked over to him. “We’ve done about everything we can do, Jack. Are the wounded ready to go?” “I ain’t never been more ready to get away from a place in my life,” answered Silverjack. “Bear, can we get shed of this hell hole, now?” “We can leave. Get some men to help the wounded into a wagon.” Honest John stuck his head out the door and called for volunteers. As Silverjack was helped outside, he called J.R. over to his side. “Find Chan Wang and bring him to me,” he said. “What for?” asked Ranger Hardin. - 219 -

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“Damn it boy, I’m in charge here,” Silverjack scowled at J.R. “Do what I told you to do.” “Humph,” said J.R., “you are Captain Thornton’s brother after all.” “Git!” said Silverjack grinning in spite of himself. In a moment the young ranger returned with the Chinese man. The Celestial bowed and shook Silverjack’s hand. “You are injured, old friend,” he said. “It ain’t nothin’, Listen I need to talk to you. J.R. don’t run off.” Chan Wang bowed again and gestured for Silverjack to begin. After listening for a few minutes he bowed a third time and nodded his head. Silverjack sent J.R. to search for the Dragon Lady. The wagons were being reloaded to make room for the wounded and it took J.R. a little while to find Mai Ling. By the time he did find her, Sgt. Champion had a place on the wounded wagon ready for Silverjack. “Just hang on a minute, Champ,” Silverjack said. “I got somethin’ to do; then you can throw me in that meat wagon. Look, here comes J.R. with the Dragon Lady. This’ll only take a minute.” He looked around and spied Chan Wang waiting a short distance away and waved him over. The Chinese meandered over and bowed. When Mai Ling stepped up, he bowed low to her and began to speak in Mandarin. The Dragon Lady listened expressionless, speaking occasionally but never showing emotion. The conversation lasted for barely five minutes when Chan Wang bowed again and turned to Silverjack. With a miserable expression on his normally inscrutable features, he nodded and walked away. “Ranger Hardin,” said Silverjack, “arrest Mai Ling for murder, assault and kidnapping. And throw in slavery too.” “What?” J. R. made no move towards the diminutive Chinese lady. “He is correct, Ranger,” said Mai Ling. “You must arrest me. I have done horrible things of which I am extremely sorry. I am disgraced.” Her head dropped to her chest. “I did not intend for anyone to die or for The Scarlet Dragon to be burned down.” Tears began to dribble down her face. “That animal, ‘Butcher’ Blake, burned my business and took my ladies—the ones who did not die in the fire.” Mai Ling began to weep openly. “He murdered poor Mr. Harp for no reason. He was supposed to take only me and leave everyone else alone. To my eternal regret, this he did not do.” - 220 -

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Crystal had walked up to stand beside Silverjack and listened to Mai Ling’s story. She squeezed Jack’s arm and held on throughout the confession. By the end, tears stained her dirty face, too. “Mai Ling,” she said, “I’m the one who told them you were involved.” She did not ask for forgiveness. The Dragon Lady bowed and Silverjack motioned for J.R. to take her to another wagon. “What some folks’ll do for the almighty dollar,” he said. “I couldn’t believe my ears when I overheard Mai Ling talking to Capt. Sparks about their plan: Delivering American brides to rich Chinese warlords in exchange for wealth and power. She had a business, an easy life; why did she do it, Jack?” “Respect, darlin’,” he answered. "I reckon she figured that supplyin' them Chinese big shots with women would put her in good graces with 'em. She could go back to China with her gold and live in hog heaven with the respect she didn't get here." Crystal hugged Silverjack and buried her face against his chest. "Let's go home," she whispered. "Yes, m'am," said Silverjack returning her hug.

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Epilogue News of the daring rescue spread across Texas like wildfire. The men involved were treated like heroes. All were given an open invitation to join the Texas Rangers. John Benteen, Virgil Champion, and Shorty Plum took them up on their offer. After recovering from his wounds, Jimmy Boone did the same. JR Hardin got his wish and became a regular in Company B of the Ranger’s Frontier Battalion. Boston Red, the hotel clerk, took over JR’s desk at Ranger headquarters. With a little help from the head of the Rangers, the Tucker brothers were absolved of any wrongdoings in Will’s dalliance with the banker’s daughter and subsequent jail break in Good Luck, Texas. Conn Havens, Harlan Gilstrap and Ike Calcott were buried with honors in the Justiceburg Cemetery. Chan Wang went back to his laundry. Within weeks he closed his place and disappeared. The gold recovered in Dixie City was split up amongst the captured ladies. The prostitutes went their separate ways. Capt. Thornton wired the towns where the other ladies had been kidnapped and their relatives came and got them. The outlaws’ horses and gear were split up between Chris Sunday’s men and the Buffalo Soldiers. Jesus Camposantos stayed with his brother for a few days, until he got word of trouble brewing in Sonora. Crystal begged Silverjack to marry her and he almost gave in, but old rascals are hard to change. When Jesus rode out for Mexico, Silverjack rode with him. * *** John Wesley Hardin hauled Rooster’s body back to the man’s shanty and buried him. Having studied law in prison, he headed to El Paso with the hope of opening a law office and going straight. Things didn’t work out. On August 19, 1895 John Selman back shot Wes Hardin while he played dice in the Acme saloon. The notorious gunman died before he hit the floor.

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Biography of Author Lee Pierce, born and raised in north central Texas, Lee grew up with a deep appreciation of the land. Living on small farms and one-horse ranches as a youth taught him the value of hard work. His father was a butcher in tiny Covington, Texas when he decided to move the family twenty miles up the road to Cleburne. Soon the big city of Ft Worth beckoned and the Pierces moved again. Lee finished high school in Ft. Worth, joined the U. S. Army nine months later and never looked back. He graduated from The University of Texas at Arlington after attending part and full time for nine years on the G.I. Bill. Over the years, Lee worked as a city park laborer, dishwasher, pizza delivery driver, pizza maker, printing press operator, forklift driver, lumber salesman, hardware salesman, bartender, cook, waiter, wine steward, and more. He has written and performed songs and cowboy poetry for many years. His first western novel, Armstrong’s War, was published in November 2005 by Robert Hale Publishing. “Rough Justice” is Lee’s second novel. Lee owns and operates La Fiesta Grande Mexican Restaurant in Farmington, New Mexico. He lives with his wife, Cathy, three cats, two dogs, and three horses in Dos Caballos, New Mexico.

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