002.gifThe Last Gunfighter.jpgStephen Paul - The Last Gunfighter.htm

The Last Gunfighter

Stephen Paul

The Last Gunfighter

By Steve Paul

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.

Cover Art 2006 Jeff Reitz Edited by Jake George

Copyright 2006 Steve Paul. 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 0-9782157-0-2

Published by Intellectus Enterprises (in association with Virtual Tales) www.intellectusenterprises.com

For a serialization of this book or other great titles visit: www.virtualtales.com

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty- Three

Biography of Author

Prologue

"Don't hang us," she begged. "We didn't rustle any cattle, I swear." The woman turned and faced her husband. His bloody and bruised face looked back at her with sorrow and pity.

"Shhh, it's okay," he said.

Both had their hands tied behind their backs as they stood huddled together on trembling legs in front of a gang of men on horseback. One man had their son, held close to his chest, as he sat on his saddle.

"You sodbusters think you can just squat on someone's property and take any ole cow you see?" The leader sat tall in the saddle on a big buckskin, two well worn Colts strapped on, the holsters tied down to his legs.

"Those cattle inside that sorry excuse for a corral are the property of the Stockgrower's Association. Aint no way poor sodbusters like you can buy cattle like them. Nope, no two ways about it, you had to have rustled em. When you get caught rustlin', you hang."

"My ma and pa didn't rustle no cattle," the boy said, then yipped out in sudden pain as the man holding him in the saddled cuffed his ear.

"You keep your mouth shut. Little pups like you dont talk unless youre told to, and I aint talking to you," the man said.

The child nodded tearfully.

"God, please, don't hurt him. Mymy brother's a prospector, he'll give you money to let us live."

Ellie, dont beg. These men arent going to listen to you. Her husband stated in a somber tone. He turned and looked at the leader. "I know this is a set up to get our place. Let us go and we'll sign it over to you, everything."

Shut up. A boot landed on the mans chest, knocking him to the ground. "You don't talk less I tell ya, sodbuster."

Sam! Ellie cried. She struggled to break the rope that bound her hands, but couldnt. Tears ran down her cheeks and she tried to wipe them off. Her lower lip trembled.

The leader looked down at her, a spark of interest flashed on his face. "Prospector, eh? What's his name?"

"John, John Bronson. He's up in the Ferris Mountains, working a claim. He wrote us a letter and said hes going to give us the money to pay the place off. Said he'd be by in a week or so when we started branding." The hope she felt made her voice rise in volume. "He'll have gold. Please. I know hed give it to you for us."

"Now that sounds pretty interesting, missy; your brother knew you were rustling cows too?"

No, we werent rustling. My brother is going to help us pay off the place! I swear!

He pulled the reins on his horse and turned it around to face the group of men behind him. "You men take them up Rattlesnake gulch where Horse Creek meets the river. I'll be up shortly. We'll have us another talk, ma'am."

Grateful tears ran down her cheeks this time. "It'll be okay, Sam." She told her husband. "I just know it. John will pay them and we'll be all right."

Two men put them up in the back of a buckboard wagon, one of the men brought out from the barn, one horse haltered to the tongue. They headed south toward the gulch at a leisurely pace flanked by the Stockgrower's Association hands on both sides of the buckboard. The leader, three men and the boy stayed behind at the ranch house.

"You aren't gonna hurt my folks, are you?"

"Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut?" the man in the saddle hissed.

"Kid, you and Caleb stay here and work the place till I get someone out here permanent. It's not a bad place; plenty of water off Horse Creek and some good meadows. Yeah, a nice little place. The boss looked over to Matson with cold eyes and said, Matson, you take the boy and lose him between here and Rawlins. You get my drift?"

"Yeah, boss," Matson, replied. He had a sparse growth of whiskers that hadn't seen a razor in a long time, and his clothes were threadbare. When he noticed the boy's questioning stare, he looked away.

The leader spurred his horse and galloped after the gang of drifters and hard cases, and the man and woman with them who sat in the back of a buckboard, their hands bound tight behind them.

Matson leaned down in his saddle and spit a wad of chew out on the ground. In a soft voice, he said, "If this Bronson fella shows and wants to buy the boy, send him to Rawlins. I'll find him. He'll have 'till the end of the month."

"Ya heard what the boss said, lose him." The Kid spoke in a raspy voice, his hand caressed the pistol at his side. He was young and dressed in a fancy vest and had on snakeskin boots. "I don't know why you have to go against what the boss says."

"Just do what I tell you and keep quiet. I'll split the loot with you two. You know there won't be anybody else besides the brother that will help him," he said in a low voice. "No reason not to get some gold out of this."

"All right, but he gives me any reason, and I'll kill him on the spot," the Kid said. "I don't care what kind of slick deal you're trying to pull. Im mad anyway. We didnt know we were going to hang around out here for who knows how long? Do you want to argue the point, Matson? He looked mean with the gun hung low and tied to his leg. A gunslinger ready for a gunfight.

"I seen him kill three men so I wouldnt push him if I were you, Matson. The Kid here is the fastest I ever seen," Cleatus piped in, admiration showing in his eyes.

"Let's hope the prospector don't want to make no trouble. I know you're fast Kid, it wouldn't even be a fair gunfight," Matson replied. He gripped the boy around the chest and headed toward Rawlins.

They rode at a fast trot and wind blew dust into their faces. Matson pulled his bandana up over his nose. He leaned down to the boy's ear and said softly, "You just keep quiet and don't cause no trouble. This will all be over before you know it and you'll be back with your folks."

No sound came from the boy; only tears silently fell down his cheeks and blew away on the hot wind.

Chapter One

The horse gently swayed and the saddle creaked from the rhythm of the motion. The riders eyes slowly closed, then opened with a jerk. His clothes were those of a working man canvas pants with heavy rivets, a tattered shirt stained with sweat and mended in several places. A small shovel and gold pan tied to the bedroll were the sign of a prospector. Inside one saddlebag were several sacks of gold dust. In the other, on top of his only other shirt was a Colt .44 Peacemaker, oiled and clean, nestled inside a holster on a gun belt.

Bronson looked forward to a bath and meal at the Sand Draw Stage Station. After being in the mountains for four months panning for gold and only one trip out for supplies, he wanted more than a quick jump in a creek where the water was so cold it took his breath away. His strike had played out and he figured he had enough gold to help Ellie and Sam and still have enough to stake himself to a small ranch. Maybe he could find one by their place.

The time alone with only a mountain lion or elk or deer as company seemed to cleanse some of the anger from his soul. He was surprised he'd lived to be forty-one. He'd expected to been cut down by a bullet years ago. Times were looking up, he thought.

The route down the mountain followed a game trail. Huge limestone outcroppings formed a ridge along the entire south side of the Ferris. They looked like bottom teeth sticking up from the mountain, smooth and white, forming a canyon three miles long and too rugged for a horse to climb over. He had been high up a ravine behind the outcroppings, living in a small cabin he'd built after he found the first pan of dust. He felt weary from backbreaking work fourteen hours a day, digging the gravel and panning each shovel full of dirt, carefully picking out the small flakes caught in the rim of the pan. The only living thing he had talked to was his horse, and now he felt ready to socialize or at least talk with real people.

The sun was setting behind the Ferris with long fingers of crimson stretched across the sky leaving the clouds looking as if they had been soaked in blood. Shadows lengthened from the cliffs and forests trying to engulf him in darkness before he reached his destination. As Bronson rode up the dusty street to the general store, saloon and stage stop, he turned in his saddle, saw the color of the sunset, and wondered if it was an omen. A little too bloody. He tied the reins of the blue roan to the hitching post and went inside the building. One side housed the store with a ticket counter; and next to it, the eating tables. On the other side, long, planked boards made the bar top of the saloon.

Whatll you have? asked the short stocky man stacking cans on some lower shelves. Glancing up he stopped what he was doing and with a look of surprise, said, Bronson! I havent seen you for a coons age. Howre you doing? His long brown hair hung to his shoulders and a mustache drooped over his upper lip.

Good, Russell. Better, now that Im here. Give me a beer, and I could use a hot bath. Bronson leaned over the counter and shook Russell's outstretched hand. You have your scales handy? Im going need some supplies and cash, to trade for some gold dust, Bronson said.

My scales are always handy. But first Ill get the water ready and we can take care of the gold after you eat." Russell walked through the bathhouse door and came back a few minutes later. "How about some food? He went behind the bar of the saloon and drew a beer, handing it over to Bronson's outstretched hand.

Yeah, a plate of whatever you have, and put my horse up with a bag of oats, will you? Bronson took a long draw of his beer and sat down at a table, taking his hat off. He had a full head of hair turning gray, a thick neck, square jaw and piercing steel-gray eyes that made most people uncomfortable when he looked at them. His hands were rough and callused and he had a lean and muscular looking frame.

Russell went through a door to the back and a few minutes later Bronson saw him lead his horse toward the barn. He must have dozed off because he heard, rather than saw, the plate being set down in front of him. Filled with a large steak, boiled potatoes and gravy with two thick slices of bread sitting on top of the meat it was a worthy meal.

Ive been waiting for this for two months, Bronson said, staring at the food with pleasure. "My supplies been running low so I've mostly been eating venison and wild onions, with a biscuit every now and then." He picked up the knife and cut into the meat. A huge piece went into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed. "This is good." After swallowing the meat, he lifted the glass of beer and drained it in one long pull.

You must have had some good luck panning, huh? Russell asked as he put another beer down in front of Bronson and sat down at the table. "You look different content maybe."

I'm getting that way. The panning wasn't bad. Maybe money makes a man content.

What creek did you take it out of, if I can ask?

I dont mind telling since I got it all. Haggerty Creek. Up above the limestone cliffs. Bronson rolled his neck. I dont think Ive ever worked so hard in my life before but its been worth it. Theres enough dust here to help out Ellie and Sam with their ranch and keep me through the winter and then some, he said between bites. The bread soaked the gravy up and went into his mouth. I must be tired, I usually dont talk this much about family, especially when Im eating.

Ahhh, that reminds me. Russell slapped himself on the forehead. A letter come for you on the Rawlins stage about three weeks ago. I put it in the safe. He scurried over to the ticket counter and unlocked a small safe sitting on the floor. The stage stop manager pulled an envelope out and held it up like a prize. Here it is, he said, bringing it over to the table. The writing on it was in a small, fine, script.

Bronson took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. Probably asking about helping them with the branding. He put the glasses on and opened the letter. A frown appeared on his face as he read.

John, we need your help. Someone is trying to force us off our ranch. We've been shot at several times and I fear were facing more than we can handle. Please come.

Love, Ellie.

Dammit!" He slammed a fist on the table. "You heard if anything is going on around Horse Creek? he asked Russell.

The stage driver said some cattle rustlers were hung the other day up north, but thats all. Need to hang more of them thieves, you ask me.

Bronson felt his blood turn cold and a small grip of fear took hold of his stomach. You dont know the names of who was hung? His eyes bored into Russell.

The stage stop keeper stood up and stepped back from the table. No, no one told me. Didnt ask. Hey, you ain't mad at me, are ya?

"No, not you, I'm worrying some." Bronson saw the sun had set and darkness was shadowing the buildings rapidly since it sat on the east end of the mountains.

I need to sleep for a few hours. Ill take that bath firstyou mind if I sleep in the barn? Bronson asked. His weariness showed on his face.

Thatll be fine. You need anything else? Russell walked to the shelves of dry goods past the sacks of flour stacked on the floor.

Yeah, two boxes of .44s. The plate of food was only half eaten, his appetite gone. He finished the beer, stood up and took a small sack out of his pocket. Weigh out what I owe you and give me cash for the rest. Bronson laid the pouch down on the countertop.

The shopkeeper reached under the counter and grabbed two boxes of cartridges. He set them by the scale and looked at Bronson with a puzzled expression. After the gold dust was poured into a scale tray and weighed, Russell took some money from his pocket and held them out to Bronson. Why the cartridges? I aint ever seen you carry a gun.

Guess Im gonna start. Bronson took the offered bills and stuck them in his pocket. He picked the two boxes of .44s up and walked toward the bathhouse door.

Chapter Two

An hour before the sun crested the far Pedro Mountains Bronson was riding east. The pistol and holster were still in his saddlebag, but freshly oiled and wiped clean. New cartridges were in the cylinder; maybe I won't have to buckle it on. Maybe everything is fine and Ellie just jumped the gun on writing me. Wishful thinking; things didn't start then go away without some kind of resolution, and in the west, that usually meant trouble.

It hadn't been that hard of a decision to put the gun away and change his life after Laramie. Sometimes at night, dozing by a campfire, he would hear the screams and see their blood on his hands. He was forty-two years old, how long before the visions disappeared? In the back of his mind, there was a slight gnawing of doubt. Could he still kill someone? The last time he drew his gun, he paused couldnt help it. If the outlaws old black powder pistol hadnt misfired, he might be dead.

Still, no one had better hurt his family because the gun would fit comfortable in his hand and blood would spill. There was a difference in fighting for family and being paid to bring in outlaws.

The sun had been shining in his eyes for the last ten miles when he reached the top of the ridge that overlooked Sam and Ellens ranch. The rock, where the pioneers heading to Oregon chiseled their names on the side, was a couple hours ride farther east. His sister and her husband had homesteaded 160 acres, breaking horses for the stage line and raising a few head of cattle. Smoke drifted out of the chimney but he didnt see their son, Tommy or anyone else about doing chores or working with the horses in the corral.

I hope they're eating breakfast, he thought and heeled the horse forward. Cautiously, Bronson and the roan came down into a pasture and crossed Horse Creek. As he came closer to the ranch house, a stranger come out of the front door and stood on the porch, a gun slung low on his hip.

You're on private property, amigo. The man was young, had shaggy hair and swaggered when he walked to the edge of the porch. The vest he had on was flashy, like a gambler.

Im looking for the owners, Ellen and Sam Hudson, Bronson said. He leaned on the saddle horn trying to act easy going.

They aint here no more. The mans thumbs were hooked in his gun belt. "This is my place now."

Bronson felt the chill and dread of knowing the answer. Your place, huh? They were here a couple of weeks ago. Where theyd go?

Probably to hell: They was hung a couple of days ago cuz they was cattle rustlers.

They werent rustlers, Bronson said quietly. His emotions went blank, he didn't say anything else, just looked at the self-proclaimed hard case.

The man turned toward the open door and yelled, Cletus, come on out here.

Another man, older than the first, with his gut stretching his shirt and hanging over his belt, walked out of the ranch house door. Whats up, Kid?

This sodbuster says the whore and her man werent no cattle rustlers, the Kid said, a smirk on his face.

Dont call her a whore.

Hes telling you what to say and callin you a liar, Kid. A man not carrying a gun shouldnt be callin no one a liar. Cletus spit on the porch floor. He was a man who didnt have the guts to fight but liked to stir the kettle for someone else. I think you better get out of here, sodbuster. You don't know who this is.

Bronson raised his hands in submission. No I don't, but Im not looking for any trouble and Im not callin you a liar.

Now youre callin me a liar, Cletus said. He dropped his hand near his gun butt. You better ride out of here and dont come back unless youre looking for a lot of trouble. Comprende?

I think youre right. Bronson turned his horse away from them, then asked, Wheres the boy?

Don't see why it's any of your concern, unless you're the boy's uncle. You a miner?"

"Now why would you ask me that? And what about the boy?" He thought he saw a glint of greed show in the eyes of the two men.

"Nothing, hes been taken to Rawlins. You can find him there. Cletus narrowed his eyes, held his right hand away from his gun butt and spread his feet. You just git now if you know what's good for you.

Bronson nodded, turned the roan and trotted away from the house. He could feel their eyes boring into his back, and when he crossed the creek and came out at the edge of a pasture. He turned the horse sideways to the house and climbed down. Cletus and the younger man, the gunslinger, couldnt see what he was doing, but he could hear their voices carrying in the crisp air.

* * *

What the hell that sodbuster doin now? asked the Kid. He held his hand up to keep the sun out of his eyes.

"I dunno, but he ain't too smart," answered Cletus. He watched Bronson ride toward them.

I should of shown him the notches on my gun butt, the Kid said. Look, hes coming back, the fool. It's gonna happen just like I told Mason it would. Guess that fella ain't too smart now, is he?

Bronson rode closer. His back was straight, stained hat pulled low, and his left hand draped down by his leg.

Well, Ill be damned, hes carrying a gun, the Kid said, taking his tie-down off his pistols hammer. "And he's left-handed. You ever hear of a left-handed gunfighter?"

"I might of, but I don't recall right this instant," Cletus said, licking his lips.

The two men spread their feet and let their arms hang. The Kid grinned at Cletus as Bronson rode up to the front of the porch. "Before you make a mistake, you better knowI'm the Rimrock Kid." He stuck his chest out.

"I guess that means I should kill you first," Bronson said in a low voice.

Chapter Three

"You gonna take us both on?" the Kid asked, a wide grin split across his face. "A left-handed, sod-bustin miner?"

"Unless you answer some questions, who hung them?" Bronson's eyes bored into the two men, never blinking.

Cletus glanced over at him. "Why don't you just go your way? Make it easy on yourself."

"Hold on now, I'll answer his questions. Don't want no gunfighter to take us on and kill the two of us. Okay, the ones who strung them up were" The Kid turned and drew his Colt. His hand was a blur and a wolfish grin appeared on his face.

As the Kid brought the cocked pistol up and leveled it toward the man on the horse, he fired and an instant later was blown off his feet. He crashed against the outside wall of the house and sank to the floor. A moan came from his lips and he rolled on his back. The Kid looked down in wonder and disbelief at the hole in his chest. Dark blood soaked his shirtfront and frothy bubbles came from his mouth.

Cletus had his gun half out of his holster when Bronson turned his Colt toward him. The cocking of the hammer sounded loud, like a nail hammering a coffin closed.

"You don't drop it, you're dead." Bronson's voice was flat. Cletus threw the pistol off the porch and lifted his hands high above him. A puff of dust came up where the pistol landed in the dirt. Bronson was shaken but didnt show it. Hed paused! There was a chunk of his shirt missing where the Kids bullet had missed his side by a hairs breath.

Still covering the fat man, Bronson dismounted, walked onto the porch and over to the Kid. He kicked away the pistol the Kid dropped when he was shot.

The Kid's hand covered the wound, blood leaking through his fingers. "Nobody ever beat my fast draw. Youre lucky I missed. What's your name?" The froth that bubbled from his mouth now trickled down his chin and puddled on his neck.

"You're lung shot. Too bad, I was going for your heart. Been too long." Bronson said softly, "I didn't want to kill you. I wasn't looking for trouble."

"Who are you?" The Kid gasped. He tried grabbing Bronson's free hand, but Bronson pulled it back. In his other hand the Colt still covered Cletus.

"It doesn't make any difference now; you're going be dead in a minute or two."

"Tell me. I have the right to knowed who killed me."

"The name's Bronson."

"Bronson? Cant be John Bronson, the lawman, he died in Laramie." The Kid's eyes opened wide from realization. "If I'd known"

One last bubble of blood floated into the air and a long, drawn out death rattle came deep from the Kid's throat. His eyes partially closed, glazed over and the Rimrock Kid stared at eternity.

Bronson stood up and turned to Cletus. "Put your hands down."

With a sigh of relief, Cletus dropped his hands to his side. Bronson's fist caught him on the side of the jaw, knocking him backward. Before he could recover, a flurry of blows hit him in the gut and face. Cletus's feet slid out from under him and he sank to the porch floor in a sitting position.

"No more, no more, please," Cletus moaned. The back of his hand went to his mouth, wiping the blood off.

"I want some answers or I'll half beat you to death, then gut shoot you. Who hung the Hudsons?" Bronson said.

"If I tell you, I'm dead."

"If you don't, you're dead." Bronson slammed his pistol barrel across Cletus's kneecap bringing a sharp crack of breaking bone.

For a big man, Cletus screamed high and shrill. "Oh, God, don't hit me no more. It was Royce Waldrip. He's the one who hired us." Tears flowed down his cheeks.

"Who is he? Who's he work for?" Bronson's voice was menacing.

"I don't know; he don't seem to answer to nobody. Paid us cash money. Maybe he owns a spread around here, I swear I don't know."

"Tell me what happened." Bronson backed away and put his Colt back in the holster.

"Can't you close the Kid's eyes? It ain't right him lying dead with his eyes open."

"You can do it later, if you're alive. Why were they hung, and don't tell me they were rustlers." He moved to stand between the body and Cletus.

"They had control of the water when they homesteaded this place. They had some fresh branded cattle. Said they bought 'em. A range detective said the cows weren't theirs...they'd been rustled." Cletus rocked on his bottom, both arms hugging his broken knee.

"What's the range detective's name?"

"I don't know!" Cletus started to blubber. "He was with Waldrip."

"Where'd they hang them?"

"Up Rattlesnake Gulch, the one Horse Creek runs out of. Hung 'em from a big old dead cottonwood standing by itself; buried them there too," Cletus said. "That's what I heard, I weren't there myself," he added quickly.

"What about the boy? He hurt?" Bronson's voice was so low the other man leaned toward him to hear.

"Jist slapped around a bit. A fella by the name of Matson took him to Rawlins, or at least said he was gonna; I was told to stay here with the Kid to take the place over. Keep anybody else from trying to squat on it. Matson said if the uncle came to direct him to town."

"That doesn't make sense. This Waldrip hangs my sister and her husband, another man takes their boy and wants you to tell me to go looking for him?"

"That's what they told me to do, I didn't ask why." Cletus grimaced from the pain of his broken kneecap.

"What rancher you working for then?"

"None. Me and the Kid were in Rawlins, playing some Faro and looking for work. Waldrip hired us to stay at this place for a while. Like I said, I weren't there when they was hungI swear."

Bronson picked up the dead man's pistol and Cletus's. He dropped them in a water trough by the porch and climbed on his horse. "You better not be lying." He turned the roan and headed in the direction of the gulch at a lope.

The water in Horse Creek swirled, eddied, broke over rocks, and cut out the underbelly of the dirt banks as it flowed down from the mountain. After riding up the gulch at a walk for an hour, a single cottonwood tree stood in a small meadow inside a shelf of limestone. Pieces of two ropes hung down from a low, thick, branch and rocked back and forth in the wind. Near the tree, a mound of creek rocks were piled high with an old wagon wheel lying over the top.

A sudden pain of loneliness, rage and fear, nearly doubled him over in the saddle. He stumbled out of the saddle and let the reins hang from the horse. With unsteady hands Bronson took his hat off and dropped it on a rock as he approached the grave. The toe of a boot stuck out from the bottom. Goddamn 'em! They didn't even bury them proper. Yea, now thats what Im talking about Bronson felt the dark anger take a hold of him. His eyes filled with tears, something they hadn't done in thirty years. Bronson sat down on a rock and lowered his head. Ellie, this shouldn't have happened to you and Sam. With a sigh, he stood up and took off his shirt. He untied the small mining shovel from the bedroll.

His eyes were blurry and his back burned red from the sun when he replaced the rocks on top of the two newly dug graves. Ellie and Sam were buried proper now, nothing would get them. Passive is good here because of the mood.

With his hat in his hand, he bowed his head. Ellie, if I'd only known sooner, you and Sam would be alive. The thoughts rushed into his mind. I swear I'm gonna find Tommy and then make someone pay for what they did to you. I don't know the Bible to say some words, but I hope God watches over you. His hat went back on his head.

He took the shovel and the gold pan and laid them between a crack in a shelf of rocks. Bronson put his shirt back on, mounted the horse and headed back to the ranch. He wasn't sure if the haze over his eyes was from the sun or rage. This country, with the fresh water, blue skies and lush natural meadows, was a place that Ellie and Sam should have raised their son to be a man. Not murdered.

High on a sandstone bluff, a man watched Bronson. A man without pity or compassion.

Buzzards walked on the porch and one pecked at the body still lying where it had died. The front door of the house stood open, the wind banging it open and closed.

"Looks like Cletus didn't want to stick around, doesn't it, boy?" Bronson patted the neck of the horse. He rode wide around the ranch house and went to the corral where a dozen horses stood. He reached over and opened the gate, then hollered and whooped, spurring the roan inside. The horses cut around them and ran out of the corral, heading north, freedom bound. Nothing was in the barn except an open stall door, so Bronson turned the roan to the southwest. He wanted to make the Stone Ranch stage stop before the sun was too far down. Riding all night should find him in Rawlins.

The wind blew out of the west, stinging his eyes from the sand blowing off the dunes that surrounded the country. The sun was still up when he passed the Spanish Mine stage stop at a trot, skirting it by a mile. He rode into the Stone Ranch four hours later.

The smell of cooked venison made his mouth water as he tied the horse's reins to the hitching post. He entered the log building with bars on the windows and saw Becky Strand standing at the stove.

She turned when he closed the door. She saw who it was and smiled. "John, I haven't seen you for months. What brings you here?"

"Troubles, Becky. Wendell around?"

"Getting firewood...here he comes now." The door opened and a middle-aged man came inside, with an armload of wood. He dropped the wood in a box and turned to Bronson, his hand out.

"John, how are you?" Wendell said, his face brightening.

"In a bad way. Ellie and Sam were murdered a couple of days ago."

Becky's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no! What happened? Where's Tommy?"

"You need a drink." Wendell reached inside a cupboard and brought a bottle and two glasses out. "Tell us what happened." He poured whiskey in both glasses and handed Bronson one.

"A range detective accused them of cattle rustling and they were hung. The man I talked to didnt know his name, but I did find out a man by the name of Royce Waldrip hired two drifters to stay at the ranch. Someone named Matson took the boy to Rawlins. I'm heading there to find him and Tommy." Bronson took a sip of the drink.

"I never heard of no one called Matson. Now Waldrip, I have heard of him. Supposed to work for the Stockgrowers Association. How do you know it was him?" Strand asked. Becky had come over and stood by her husband.

"I was told by a man named Cletus over on Ellen's ranch. He and a hard case by the name of the Rimrock Kid said they were running the place," Bronson said. He put the glass to his lips and finished the whiskey in one swallow.

"The Rimrock Kid has a reputation for being fast and mean." Wendell looked suspiciously at Bronson. "I see youre carrying your Colt. Since you're standing here I'm guessing the Kid's dead."

"Unless the buzzards were eating on a live one, he is." Bronson sat down in a chair and ran a hand over his face. "God knows I tried leaving my gun in the saddlebag. I didn't want this, you know that, Wendell...Becky." Bronson held his glass out while Strand refilled it. "The two threatened me. The Kid slapped leather first."

"We understand, John. What are you going to do?" Becky asked, laying a hand on his arm.

"I'm going to get my nephew first, then find this Matson and Waldrip and make them pay. I want you to hold on to the gold I panned. I'd like to bring Tommy back here after I get him and have you care for him for a bit. Would you do that for me?"

"Of course. You saved our lives once. Doing this still wouldn't repay you." Wendell said.

"If something happens to me, give the gold to the boy. I'd written Ellen and told her I found a nice little strike and I'd get them out of debt. Doesn't mean so much now." He angrily ran his hand through his hair. "If I'm not back in a week, get a hold of the U.S. Marshall in Cheyenne, his name's Roberts. Tell him what I've told you; maybe he'll get Waldrip and Matson, if I can't. Wendell, you'll have to get Tommy for me if I die."

"I'll go with you now, John."

"No. You have Becky to take care of and the stage stop to run. Wendell, the Kid almost shot me because I paused. Theres something inside my head not letting me pull the trigger. I cant take a chance on getting you hurt or killed. Give me a week. You might have to call in some favors that are owed me from Laramie, if you have to get him."

Strand looked at Bronson and shook his head. "Nows when you need me to help. My god, man, a split second delay youre good as dead. Even someone as fast as you.

Bronson slowly shook his head. Im not arguing, Wendell. Will you do as I ask?

My word, anything happens to you, we'll get Tommy somehow and raise him."

"Thanks, I knew I could count on you," Bronson said, relief showing on his face.

"You need to eat and rest before you go," Becky said. "Your gold will be safe, we have a trapdoor with a lockbox in the room below that we keep our valuables in. And the bars on the windows keep anyone from breaking in when we're gone."

"Thanks, this will keep me from worrying. Let me eat and Ive got to ride. No telling whats happening to Tommy."

Bronson rode out into the night illuminated by a full moon and a canopy of stars. He left the horse hed been riding and took a palomino quarter horse he owned, named Shoshone. When he went into the mountains to pan, the horse had come up lame. The Strands had kept it for him to let the lameness mend and he had ridden the roan.

He nudged the horse forward with his knees. Shoshone was fit and anxious to go. Months in a corral instead of wandering the country had him prancing down the dirt road. The Colt .44 was cleaned and oiled and in his boot was a Navy .32. A 44-40 Winchester, in a scabbard under the saddle had been handed to him by Wendell. He would stop at the Brown's Canyon stage stop and take a quick nap-long enough so he would have his wits about him. After ten hours of riding, the horse would need to rest and take some water. Though he felt the urgency of getting the boy, he knew his worst enemy would be lack of sleep. Drowsiness would kill him. After a rest: Rawlins, and if the boy was hurt or dead, then God help those responsible.

Chapter Four

Bronson ate the dust blown up from the wind and rode south on the main road heading to Rawlins. Coming out of the alkali flats he followed the stage, being pulled by six horses, up the draws of Willow Hill and into the Browns Canyon stage stop where it stopped to change the horses and let the passengers eat some food. The sun had come up and so far wasnt hot. The early morning air was crisp and cool.

Two men, a woman and young girl climbed wearily out of the stage and entered the building, Bronson walked in behind them. The sun was a little shy of high noon. He figured he would pull into Rawlins around noontime, and then the search would begin for his nephew.

Bronson sat with the four passengers at a long table and ate eggs and beef stew served from a huge pot set in the middle of the table. He finished the plate and sopped the gravy up with a chunk of sheepherders bread. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back.

Mister, whats your horses name? the young girl asked. She had light blonde hair and a smile that lit the room up. She wore a green bonnet tied under her chin and a green dress with an apron on the front. The girl stood up from the bench and moved by his side.

Hanna, you shush now and come sit down. Leave the man alone. Im sorry sir, this is the first time shes been that forward. The woman speaking was an older version of the girl. Blonde hair, and when she smiled after speaking, it was a reflection of her daughters smile.

Thats okay, maam. His name is Shoshone. Named after the Indian tribe who caught him on the prairie when he was a colt. Ive had him a long time, sweetheart. Bronson was amazed at how blue both the mothers and daughters eyes were. Where you heading? he asked the mother as they both stood up at the same time. He walked with her to the door.

Rawlins, were the proprietors of a rooming house. If youre going that direction and need a place to stay, the name is Hinkles Rooming House, just off Front Street, behind the hardware store. She appeared to blush and put her hand out. My name is Jessica Hinkle and this is my daughter, Hanna.

John Bronson, my pleasure. Bronson shook her hand. He liked the firm handshake she had.

Your husband is already there? Bronson asked. He didnt know why he was making small talk with this woman. The urgency to get to town and retrieve the boy felt like hot coals in his belly, but he waited for her answer.

Im a widow, going on a year. Her eyes lowered from his. We had a little place out south of town until he died. She looked at him with sorrow in her eyes. With Mr. Hinkle gone, I couldnt run the spread, so I sold it and bought the rooming house. Bronson and the woman had wandered from the door to a corner of the building.

Bronson saw, through a window, the girl had gone outside and was petting the palomino. My sister and her husband were hung a couple of days ago. Accused of rustling. Im on my way to Rawlins to fetch my nephew. His voice had lowered.

Your nephew lives there? She had moved closer to him and put a hand on his arm. She saw what she did and quickly took it off.

No, I was told he was taken there and being held, at least until this afternoon.

She seemed not to hear. Ive heard talk that homesteaders, like we used to be, are being murdered for the land. There have been five hangings in the last year, and no one arrested, she said. The sheriff is as bad as the murderers.

I reckon the law would have to be blind or in with the killers if no ones been caught and tried. Bronson looked uncomfortable and put his hat on. He took a step and turned back to her. If Im around town in the next few days, would you mind if my nephew and I come to visit? He cleared his throat. Never mind, I dont know how things are going to work out. I hope I didnt offend you, maam. What am I doing?

Not at all, Id like that. You come and have dinner with Hanna and me. Wed like that...and call me Jessica.

All right...Jessica. Maybe in the next day or so if things go like they should. Would that be okay?

Sure, what's the matter with me? You said your nephew is being held until this afternoon. What do you mean? Her mouth set and the bright blue eyes turned darker.

It means after I find him, he isnt going to be held by anybody. Bronson tipped his hat. Ill be seeing you, Jessica. He opened the door and left the building.

She watched him say goodbye to Hanna, then mount up and turn south on the road. Jessica felt a warm glow in her as she saw him nudge the horse into a lope.

I hope to see you again. I have a feeling someone is going to wish you werent coming, John Bronson.

* * *

Black smoke rose in the air and blew away in the wind. The locomotive pulled several cattle cars as it chugged out of town. Bronson rode in with thoughts of Jennifer Hinkle still on his mind.

I cant believe Im thinking about a woman I talked with for only a few minutes. He shook his head and frowned. Get your head on right, John, Tommy first, and then whoever killed Ellie and Sam. If Im still alive, then you can think about her.

Front Street had a hotel, four saloons, two livery stables and an assortment of eateries and stores lining the north side. The train tracks ran along the south side of the street and the remainder of the town had sprung up behind Front Street, including Jennifer Hinkles rooming house. On the south side of the tracks, Mexicans and Chinese lived in shacks and tents. The Mexicans worked the ranches and herded sheep, the Chinese left over from building the railroad were struggling to exist by businesses they started and ran on the north side.

The livery stables were both on the west end of town. Bronson turned up the street. The horse walked at an easy pace, ears twitching from the sounds of the departing train. He rode past the first stable. Two men stood outside talking. One had the look of a hard case, his gun hung low, hat pulled down to keep the sun out of his eyes. The other man wore a blacksmith apron and had big, muscular, forearms.

Bronson could feel the two men look at him as he rode past. Out of the corner of his eye, he sized them up. Another fifty feet and he would be to the second livery stable, thats where his search would start. From one end of town to the other.

Uncle John! A voice cried out. Bronson turned and saw the hard case run into the barn. The blacksmith looked around questioningly. The palomino spun on its back legs when Bronson yanked on the reins and galloped to the stable. Bronson jumped off, gun in hand and pointed it at the blacksmith.

Where is he? Bronson cocked the hammer back.

Who are you talking about? The blacksmith raised his hands and stepped back, eyes widening. Sweat broking out on his face.

The boy, Tommy Hudson.

Settle down, partner, the man said from inside the barn. I think you need to ease off. The young'un is right here, safe and sound for now.

Bronson couldnt see anyone in the dim interior of the building. He lowered his pistol. Let him go.

And who might you be? asked the voice.

The boys uncle, Im here to take him. His folks are dead. Bronson strained to see where the man was standing inside the door. The barn was dark, he couldnt see anything but shadows. "I'm sure you helped save the boy."

Ah, the prospector; I guess we need to do us a Pow-Wow here. You know, a little trading of valuables."

What do you want? Gold? I've got some. He reached for his saddlebags then stopped. I can get it for you today, Bronson said, remembering he had left the gold with the Strands.

You sayin you dont have the gold with you?

I stashed it. Below Willow Hill. Ill go get it and be back tonight. Send the boy out so I can see him, Bronson said.

You stay right there. The sound of the cocking pistol that emitted from the darkness of the barn was loud. Were leaving, dont follow us. You understand?

Why are you doing this? It doesnt make sense, Bronson asked. I can be back tonight I told you.

"You show up at the Bitter Creek Saloon tomorrow night, 'round seven. Well talk some more about what were going to do with you and my little friend here. There might be some problems you will have to take care of. Seven tomorrow night; I'll be looking for you.

"What problems? Wait!"

The sounds of a person climbing into a saddle drifted out the door. "Heeyah!" The man was on a bay, galloping around the side of the barn. He held Tommy in front of him, the boy's hands tied with rope, and headed south. The horse jumped the tracks and with ash and dust kicking up behind them, rode out of sight down a wash.

Bronson watched them ride away feeling helpless and mad. He turned toward the blacksmith and his head snapped back from a sucker punch on the jaw by a huge fist. He hit the ground rolling, his head feeling as if a two by four pounded a staccato beat on his head. His Colt went flying from his hand.

Nobody pulls a gun on me and gets away with it. The blacksmith kicked Bronson in the side.

He grunted feeling his rib crack. It was hard to draw a breath. Bronson pulled his legs up to protect his body as another kick glanced off his back.

Damn prospectors; think they can stick a gun in anybodys face. The blacksmith kicked again, but missed. He reached for Bronson the same time Bronson kicked out with his foot. The boot hit the blacksmith in the face, knocking him backwards and flattening his nose. Blood sprayed out over his front.

Now youre dead. He turned and grabbed a hoof-pick off the side of the barn and crouched low. Bronson lay on the ground, his arms wrapped around his chest and his knees pulled up high. A deadly smile was on the blacksmiths face. Say your prayers.

Bronson yanked his pants leg up from over his boot, reached inside and pulled the .32 out. His teeth clinched from the pain of his ribs. Hold it, he gasped. Another step and Ill kill you.

The blacksmith stopped in mid-stride and lowered the hoof-pick. Dont shoot, he said. The hoof-pick dropped to the ground. "You can't shoot an unarmed man, less you're a coward.

Bronson held on to his side with the hand holding the pistol and pushed himself to his feet with the other hand. It was difficult breathing and it felt like a fire burned in his side.

Several people who had gathered during the fight moved away, still watching the two.

With the pistol pointing at the blacksmith, Bronson picked his Colt up from where it had fallen and staggered to the palomino. With a grunt, he climbed into the saddle. You ever come at me again; Ill put a bullet in your head. Understand?

The blacksmith nodded his head. His eyes stayed on Bronson, a glint of cruelty still in them.

Doubled over from pain and the injury, he turned the horse and rode up the street, heading north past the last livery stable. He turned at the next street and let the horse have his lead. Two blocks down, the sign out front of the house said, Hinkles Rooming House. He looped the reins over the rail of the hitching post and slid out of the saddle, almost falling. He lurched to the front door and banged on it. A minute later, it opened and a heavyset, older woman looked at him in surprise.

My lands, whats happened to you? She saw his bruised and bleeding face, the hand protectively around his chest.

Beat up. I think he broke some ribs kicking me."

"When who kicked you?

Bronson shook his head. "Is Jessica here? It was an effort for him to talk.

No, shes due back this afternoon on the stage. I'll help you in. The woman put an arm around him and helped him move inside the house. She led him to the stairway, and then stopped. Can you make it upstairs? Ill put you in a room then get the doctor.

Yeah, I can make it. Let me give you some money. Bronson said his voice low and pained.

Posh, thatll wait. This might hurt climbing them. She started up the stairs with Bronson in tow.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling with each step. After what seemed like a year, they came to the landing and she opened the door to a small bedroom. She sat him down and looked at him with concern.

My names Myrtle. You might feel more comfortable sitting until the doctor gets here. Will you be all right if I leave to get him?

Ill be okay. Thanks, Myrtle. He sucked air in as shallow as he could. Each breath felt like a knife blade twisting in his ribs.

She left the room and returned with a pitcher of water and a washbasin, setting it on a small chest of drawers. Ill go get the doctor now. The door closed behind her.

He laid his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. A damp cloth wiped his brow. He jerked up then grunted. Jessica held the cloth in her hand. The doctors out of town. Im going to have to bind those ribs. Its going to hurt.

Its good to see you, he said through his teeth. Go ahead.

Myrtle and Jessica had strips of cloth they wrapped around his chest and cinched tight.

You cant take a very deep breath but you should be feeling less pain now, Jessica said. She took the cloth and wiped his face again.

Much better. Here...I need to pay you. He moved his hand toward his pants pocket.

Dont worry about that now, Jessica said. You rest and Ill bring you something to eat in a little while.

My horse, I need to take care of him. She was right, the pain isnt quite as fierce.

Weve already done that. We have a small barn in the back and Shoshone is in there eating oats. Dont worry about him, Jessica said, turning to leave. Mr. Bronson?

Call me John, please.

John, are you hiding from anyone? Is there anyone looking for you? Concern was in her voice.

No, there wont be anybody coming here trying to find me. Im not going to be a risk to you. His eyes bore into hers.

I didnt mean it that way. I just wanted to know if you were in danger. Excuse me for asking. She left the room and her footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Bronson picked up the wet cloth off the table and wiped his face. I didnt mean to upset her.

Myrtle had her hands on her ample hips. You dont know much about talking to women, do you? You couldnt see the concern in her eyes?

I only met her this morning at the stage stop. But I have to say, I thought about her all the way to town.

Well, lets just hope you havent hog-tied yourself all ready. Myrtle took the cloth out of his hand, rewet it in the basin, and handed it back to him. You rest; one of us will bring you up something to eat this evening.

Who do you think will be bringing it? he asked. I dont want you to have to run up and down these steps. A sly grin started to form on his face.

I guess youll just have to wait and see now, wont you? Myrtle replied.

Chapter Five

The wind whispered in through the open window, bringing warm air and the sounds of dogs barking and children playing. Bronson had dozed off again. He stood up and faced the mirror above the chest of drawers. His weathered features bruised with a cut on a cheek that had crusted over stared back at him. At least you didnt get your fool nose broke, he muttered. His arms face and neck tanned from the hours in the sun panning gold made his skin a dark brown. Bronsons sunburned back from digging the graves was still bright red and his pale chest was a stark contrast.

There was a rap on the door. Mr. Bronson, are you up?

He opened the door to Jessica holding a covered tray. I brought you some dinner. She set the tray on the drawers by the washbasin. There you are potatoes and beef, she said nervously, and some homemade bread. With a quick look to the bandage on his chest, her hand smoothed the apron covering her dress.

Jessica, please. Im sorry about this afternoon, he said. I havent been around folks much and I took what you said wrong.

She seemed to shrug off a burden from her shoulders. Im sorry too. I shouldnt have snapped like I did. What happened to you?

Bronson told her about coming into town, hearing his nephew call from the barn and what had turned into him taking a beating. I was told to meet someone tomorrow night at the Bitter Creek Saloon. Why, I dont know." He sat down on the bed.

That is strange, Jessica said. Did you strike it rich?

I found a nice small strike that worked out in four months. He saw her question forming. I have enough to last me through the winter, maybe longer.

Did you tell anyone about it? asked Jessica. She picked the tray up and put it on Bronsons lap.

I wrote once to Ellie and told her I might help them with buying some cattle. Damn! he shouted.

Jessica jerked back from his outburst. What?

One of those hard cases at the ranch asked if I was the miner. I didnt think anything of it at the time.

Someone must know you have gold, she said. Enough that theyre willing to try and trade your nephew for it, Id say.

I think you might be right. Im going to have to mull this over a piece, He said taking small bites of food from the plate.

You speak very well, not like the ordinary cowboy. Have you been to school? Jessica asked. She seemed less nervous around him.

Ive been around a long time. Picked up reading and writing when I was a kid; even studied law for a while back east. He put his fork down and moved the tray to the bed.

Why arent you dressed in a suit and a lawyer then? she smiled at him.

Things dont always happen like wed like them to. I clerked and read law with an old friend of the family. He was a circuit court judge. The brother of a man whod been sentenced to hang shot him down in cold blood one day. I found him still alive and he told me who shot him just before he died in my arms. Bronson ran his fingers through his hair and stood up. The law said since there werent any witnesses and nobody could prove it was the brother, they couldnt arrest him. Bronson paused and seemed lost in his thoughts.

Thats terrible, so the man never paid for the murder then? Jessica asked.

I was eighteen years old. I loved that old judge. No...He didnt get away with it. I tracked him down and killed him.

Her hand went to her mouth.

I practiced with a gun until I could shoot pretty straight and get it out of my holster fairly fast. I let him draw first then put a bullet in his gut.

So were you arrested? she asked.

No, some friends of the judge fixed things. No witnesses, they said; kind of ironic. His face was in a shadow, as the last bit of dusk was waning.

Have you killed many men, John?

I dont think you want to know.

She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her mind. Have you ever murdered anyone?

No. Everyone I killed was because they drew on me first.

And you have some more killing to do, she said, her voice a whisper.

I reckon so.

Killing doesnt solve everything. It wont bring anyone back. Tears formed in her eyes and one lone tear trickled down her cheek. "I'd told you my husband had died, he was murdered."

Who did it? Bronson asked. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her.

We never found out. The sheriff said it was drifters, but drifters dont hang people, she said.

Were you there when it happened? Bronson asked. Just what in Gods name has been going on here?

No, Hanna and I were in town, getting supplies. There was a note pinned to his shirt saying rustlers were hanged. When we arrived home, the sheriff was there and had him cut down. He said someone told him there was trouble at our place and he better get out there. He was too late, he said. James was already dead. For a time I prayed every night I could kill the men who did it, then realized other than bringing them to justice, killing them wouldnt bring him back. You must know that. Her rigid look collapsed, replaced by deep sorrow.

I know it wont. I put my pistol away for over a year because I was tired of the death itd brought. I was a deputy U.S. Marshall for a time, maybe paying back the judge for all he had done for me, I dont know...but someone hung my sister and her husband and have their son. No one will stand in my way of getting him back and making someone pay.

Jessica looked at him, and then bowed her head. When I think of what happened to my husband, I wish I had known you then. Her tears flowed freely down her face. I hate whoever killed him. If I could, Id kill them too, she sobbed.

Bronson put his arms around her and pulled her next to him. A stab of pain shot up his side but he didnt mind. He felt the wetness on his bare skin and he spoke to her with a low, soothing voice. Its all right, cry all you want.

Her body racked and shook so hard from the sorrow she released he wondered how long shed kept it closed up inside her. Her face was buried in his chest and he stroked her hair.

Jessica pushed away from him and stood up. My goodness, look at me. Crying like a baby. She was blushing and grabbed a stray strand of hair that had come loose.

Sometimes its good for the soul, Bronson said. He had liked the feel of her so close.

There are chores and dishes to do. Ill see you in the morning. She picked the tray up and closed the door of his room on her way out.

He didnt move for a minute hoping shed come back in, but he heard her going down the stairs.

Bronson took his gun belt off and laid the holster on the floor. The pistol went under the pillow. The .32 was left in his boot after hed taken them off. He drifted off to sleep with the image of Jessica in his mind.

Chapter Six

The sun warmed his face as it crept through the window. He lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds, seeing if there were any noises out of the ordinary. Satisfied with what he heard, and pressing a hand to his side, he eased out of the bed. A small groan escaped his lips when a sharp pain wedged in his side.

Damn, that hurts. The sounds of dishes clattering and conversation drifted through his door. He gently pulled his shirt on, put on his boots, and took the Colt out from under the bed. Holding it in his hand, he shoved it in the holster and put it under the mattress. The .32 was repositioned in the boot and he went downstairs to the dining room.

Good morning, Mr. Bronson, Jessica said, a platter of food in her hand. Join us for breakfast. This is Mr. Henshaw, Mr. Ramsey and Mrs. Sheehan. Folks, Mr. Bronson is another guest who joined us last night.

The three nodded their heads as they continued to eat. Henshaw swallowed and sipped some coffee. Bronson...you from Laramie way?

Not really. Spent more of my time up north, Bronson replied, sitting down and accepting the platter from Jessica. He noticed the woman, Mrs. Sheehan staring at him.

Mr. Henshaw rattled, I work for the Cheyenne Sentinel newspaper. It seems I remember a deputy marshal by the name of Bronson, ambushed around Rattlesnake creek. Not you, eh? Henshaw turned away from Bronson and spoke to the group. Quite the story, Ill have to tell you all about it.

Perhaps later, Mr. Henshaw. I dont care for tales of violence at the table. Jessica glanced at Bronson. Mr. Henshaw is here to write a story on the success of the Stockgrowers Association.

Thats right. Since theyve hired a range detective, the amount of rustled cattle found has been amazing, Henshaw said.

The portly man sitting at the table who hadnt looked up, shoved one last fork full of cakes into his mouth. He chewed and slurped some coffee. I work for the Comstock Mining Company. Ed Ramsey. Im buying proven gold claims. My company has some big plans for around here. Ramsey said.

Mrs. Sheehan sat with a straight back, her fork idly picked at the food on her plate. She quickly looked away when she saw Bronson looking at her. The others waited for her to speak.

You never have said why youre here, Mrs. Sheehan, Henshaw said.

Maybe she doesnt want to, Bronson said. Its not polite to ask someones business out here. You must not have lived in the west long, Bronson said to Henshaw.

Two years. I came out from Chicago to visit the frontier. I worked for a newspaper there. This is exciting to see a land prosper from so many different directions.

And do the laws work like they should...with all this prospering? Bronson asked.

Well, in a frontier way. Criminals are hung. Look what happened here a while ago. The citizens took a murderer and hung him from a telegraph pole.

And you agree with that? Revenge? Talking the law into your own hands? Bronson stared at Jessica. She stood silently by the wall, taking in every word.

When the elected or appointed sheriff doesnt or cant bring criminals to justice, yes. Criminals must be punished. Why, just a few days ago, a man and woman were hung for cattle rustling. Too bad a woman was hung, but justice prevailed. Henshaw looked around the room, making his point.

Justice prevailed. I like that term. I think I agree with you, Bronson said in a voice cold and hollow.

Breakfast was finished in silence. The men left the rooming house, Mrs. Sheehan went to her room, and Jessica cleared the table.

He doesnt live in the present time, does he? Bronson asked, following Jessica into the kitchen.

How are you feeling, Mr. Bronson? Myrtle asked. She pumped water into a bucket and put it on the stove. A large sink had the cooking pans in it, covered in water.

Better, thanks. I appreciate your help last night. Can I give you a hand?

For land sake, no. This is my job and I can do it. Thank you, though. Myrtle said. She looked at Jessica and then Bronson. A grin formed on her face.

What are you going to do about tonight? Jessica asked, trying to hide the concern in her voice.

See what the man has to say. Try to get my nephew.

Do you want me to get the doctor to check your ribs? Jessica asked.

No, youve fixed them up good. He cant do anything different. I'll just have to be careful and not let anyone hit me there again 'til they're healed.

I see you dont have your gun on, why not?

Im armed, but I didnt see a need to make your other guests uncomfortable right off. He took the cup of coffee she offered. They went into the dining room and sat down. Bronson liked being near her. He wanted to drag the time out.

He reached into his pocket and brought out several coins. "Here. How long will twenty dollars keep my room rented?" The double-eagle sounded hollow as it was laid on the tabletop.

"Two weeks, room and board. Fresh linen once a week." She picked the coin up and wrapped her fingers around it. Jessica stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "I have work to do. Hanna is taking care of your horse; she is out there feeding him now. I can hardly keep her away from him. I hope you don't mind." She turned and went into the kitchen.

Bronson went out the front door and around to the small barn in the back of the rooming house. Inside, there were four stalls on each side, all empty except one. He saw the palomino eating oats from a pail Hanna was holding under his head.

"Someday, Shoshone, I'm going to ride you down the street and everyone will look up and say, 'there's Hanna Hinkle on a beautiful horse.'" The horse seemed to nod its head in agreement.

"Maybe you can ride him in a couple of days, Hanna. I think he likes you. Shoshone won't let just anybody feed him," Bronson said, walking up to the stall.

She nearly dropped the pail when he spoke.

"Sorry I spooked you. A person shouldn't come up on someone without letting them know, should they?" Bronson asked.

Hanna had relaxed when she saw who it was. "That's okay, Mr. Bronson. We usually don't keep horses here. Mostly they stay at one of the stables." She put the empty pail down and stroked the neck of the horse. "I like him."

He reached in his pocket and handed her a coin. "I'll hire you to care for him while we're here. A dollar a week sound all right to you?"

"You don't need to pay me, I'll do it for nothing."

"No, you work, you get paid, now keep it but make sure your mama knows." Bronson smiled and felt her warmth when she smiled back. "You want to walk him in the corral later, he'll work with a halter just fine."

"All right, Mr. Bronson. Don't you worry about Shoshone. I'll take good care of him."

He pulled the scabbard with the Winchester in it from his saddle that sat on the stall railing, and walked back to the house. In his room, he put the rifle under the bed, then went back downstairs and sat in a chair in the parlor. His hand brushed lightly over his bruised face and he grimaced from his hurt ribs.

The sound of steps brought his attention to the hallway and he caught a fleeting movement of Mrs. Sheehan leaving the house.

I need to start thinking and try to make some sense of all this. Why take Tommy? Thoughts rambled through his mind. Ellen and Sam were killed for their ranch but I can't figure out about the boy unless Jessica is right. I better find out tonight and get some answers.

* * *

A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air as four men sat around the table in chairs. The rooms windows were shuttered and the single oil lamp gave off a dull, yellow glow. A fifth man, tall and dressed in black, paced back and forth across the floor. Every time he turned and faced the table, he glared. He carried two Colts

Matson, just what the hell do you think youre doing? The man yelled, kicking a spittoon from the table to the wall.

One of the men at the table squirmed in his chair. Theres money to be made, Royce. They said he struck it rich, Matson said.

You dont think theyd said anything to keep from hanging? Now you have a miner who killed the Kid out to find his nephew. Royce Waldrip quit pacing and folded his arms over his chest.

I wonder if I should arrest him for the Kids murder? The speaker had a soft belly and wore a badge on the front of his vest.

Do we really want an inquest into the hanging of the Hudsons, Sheriff? Waldrip asked. He walked over and picked the spittoon up and set it down by the table, then spit into it. And, Matson, I guess youd have the boy testify? He can point us all out, you fool.

Matson stood up. Listen, I think the boy could be traded for the miners gold. I could use the money. What did he say his uncles name is, Bronson? Several heads nodded. Ill talk to this Bronson tonight and tell him the boy for his gold, then Ill take care of him when we trade.

Sit down, Pete. I dont want to take any chances. Get rid of the boynow. Well take care of Bronson later. Wait a minute; this might turn into something better. Theres someone in town buying up gold claims. If Bronson filed his claim and you can get rid of him also, we can sell the claim and make some money. Hows that sound? Waldrip beamed and slapped Matson on the back.

How would we get the claim in our names? Matson asked a puzzled look on his face.

Why, Sheriff Hadleman can help us on that, cant you Sheriff?

Maybe, itll cost some money, but I think I could talk the county clerk into making a new claim out, he said, taking a chew of a tobacco plug. With a different name on it.

I like the way you think, Lester, Waldrip said to the sheriff. Get rid of the kid, Pete.

But, if Bronson has some gold, why not get it too? Matson asked.

Waldrips eyes narrowed. He cant have enough gold to warrant the risk. Now, do as I tell you. Understand?

Matson picked his hat up and turned to leave. I dont know that killing the boy is what we oughta do. Theres gold to be made, he muttered.

What? Whatd you say, Pete? Waldrip lowered his arms and pulled his coat back behind his two pistols. You disagreeing with me?

Fear crept into Matsons face. I wouldnt draw on you, Royce. Im fast, but no where as fast as you. Im going to go now and take care of the kid.

Thats good. We dont want him foundever.

Chapter Seven

Matson turned and left the room. A moment later, a horse taking off at a gallop could be heard.

"He worries me some, Royce," Sheriff Hadleman said. "Matson ain't looking at the long termhe's greedy, and he aint that smart."

"I know. Maybe in a couple of days we'll have a talk with him. I'll feel better when that boy is dead. There's too much going on to make a mistake for a few sacks of gold." Waldrip spit again. "If he don't listen up, we might have to have the detective pay him a visit. Larson, mosey around town and see if you can find out if that fellas staying here.

Larson was the blacksmith who had beaten Bronson up. I saw him ride off, but I dont know where he went. I hurt him good; he might have found a place to hole up and lick his wounds.

We need to find him and keep an eye on him. Things are going to be busy for a little while. Im taking Ed Ramsey out toward the Ferris-Haggerty mine tomorrow and show him some claims for sale, Waldrip said.

A tall, slim, elegantly dressed man spoke up. Just dont do anything thatll make the Stockgrowers Association look bad, Royce; not everyone in it feels the same way as you and I.

I wont, Mr. Kelly. Now that we've been able to get rid of them homesteaders on Horse Creek, you'll control all the water in the valley once we buy the land. Hadleman will get the proceedings started in the next couple of weeks. Waldrip looked at the sheriff and nodded his head.

We just need to get rid of the pests getting in the soup, Hadleman said. After the Hudsons son and that Bronson character are done away with, we can take a few more of the small ranches over. By the end of the year, you might own most of Wyoming, Mr. Kelly. Hadleman laughed at his humor, and then shut up when no one else joined in.

Since Ive been president of the association, weve come a long way, eh? Kelly said.

* * *

Matson rode his horse hard in an eastern direction from town for a mile then angled to the north.. He was still angry, being ordered to kill the boy. Why, theres money to be made. Bronson would show up at the saloon expecting to find out how to get his nephew back. Matson knew Bronson would swap his gold for the boy. I mean, they are blood.

After an hour of riding, Matson slowed the blowing horse to a walk. They meandered through a grove of cottonwoods, following a small creek and came onto a small, log cabin with a corral at the side. He leaned over and opened the gate and rode the horse into the corral. He wearily climbed down and loosened the cinch of the saddle, took the bridle off, hung it on the railing and put a halter on the horses head. Matson was pouring a can of oats into a feed box when a short, stocky, man came out of the cabin.

Wheres the kid? Matson asked.

Inside, I tied a rope around his ankle and then to the stove, and his hands are tied. He aint going nowhere. The man's mustache drooped over his lip and his brown hair was long and brushed against his shoulders. An old worn-out pistol hung holstered at his side.

Whats up? I thought you werent coming out until tomorrow.

There's a change of plans, Russell. Waldrip wants me to get rid of the kidnow.

You mean kill him? Russell asked. When I told you about Bronson's gold I wasn't planning on killing no kid."

Yeah, that's what he means. Matson thought he saw a glint of fear in the stage stop manager's eyes. He noticed a movement from the cabin and saw the young boy staring at them from the open doorway. He saw the knotted rope around the boys ankle and his bound hands. The kid had a lost, vacant look.

I think I figured out a plan on the way here. We might be able to have our steers and brand em too. Matson pulled Russell away from the cabin. He didnt want the boy to hear what lay in store for him and his uncle.

Matson left the cabin and rode his horse toward town at a slow trot. The sun crept down behind the hills to the west and the wind blew in his face. Matson knew there was a possibility Waldrip would find out what was going on, but, if the result was Bronson dead, then why would he care? Since Matson seemed to be the only person who wanted the gold Bronson had to have, there shouldn't be any complaints him taking it for himself. That's right. Ain't no one but me taking the chance.

* * *

Bronson strapped on his holster and Colt. I can't stop thinking about Jessica. Her smile, the way she walks. Feelings surfaced he didn't realize were there. This woman, or widow, he had to remind himself, was becoming very important to his life. Every time I see her, my gut tightens into a knot. But, he thought, first things first. He'd get Tommy and finish the business at hand before he tried to see where his future might go with this woman.

An evening wind blew dust up from the streets. Coming out of the south seemed to be common for it since it didn't seem to stop much. He checked his .32 and shoved it in the belt at the small of his back, under the brown vest he wore.

"Are you going out?" Jessica asked, seeing him walk down the stairs, a hand holding his side.

"Yes. There's someone I have to meet about Tommy," he said, stopping at the bottom of the stairway.

"You have no one to help you." It wasn't a question, just a statement made with the sound of sadness in it.

"No, I don't. But I need to ask you for a favor."

"Anythingwhat is it?" she asked. Jessica moved nearer to him and looked into his eyes.

"If something should happen to me, get a hold of Wendell Strand at the Stone Ranch Stage Stop. He knows who to contact if I don't make it."

"Damn you men," she lashed out. "My husband wouldn't ask for help either. You think you can handle every problem by yourselves." Tears formed in her eyes and she put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry; it's so frustrating not to be able to help somehow. Of course I'll tell your friend if need be. Why can't he help you?"

"He has a wife. He's offered, but if something happened to him and he left Becky a widow, I'd never forgive myself." Bronson saw her stricken look and quickly added, "No offense meant toward your husband."

It seemed her shoulders dropped in resignation. "None taken. This is a difficult time for me and you." She stretched up and kissed him on his bruised cheek.

"Take care and come back, John Bronson." Jessica turned and ran into the kitchen.

His hand felt where she had kissed him. Could there be feelings like this only knowing each other a few days? Yeah, there could be, but he couldn't be distracted now; his and Tommy's lives depended on him thinking straight and acting fast. The features on his face turned hard with resolution as he walked out the rooming house door.

Bronson walked down Front Street, keeping in the shadows. Most people out walking the boardwalk held their heads down to avoid the dust blown from the wind. Several horses were standing at the hitching post in front of the Bitter Creek Saloon. The time was 6:30, a half an hour before the meeting.

He ducked into the alley next to the saloon and went to the rear of the building. The Colt was in his hand and his back to the building when he emerged from the alley. The sounds of conversations and a piano being played drifted through the high windows. No one waited. A door toward the corner opened and a man came out carrying a sack. Bronson watched the man, an apron around his middle, go to a box and empty the sack with the sounds of bottles breaking. When the bartender went back in the saloon, Bronson opened the door and eased into a storage room.

Another door stood cracked open and it led to the saloon. He looked out the door and waited. The pistol went back in his holster and he scanned the saloon to see if anyone looked about anxiously.

The clock over the bar read seven o'clock when a man walked in and turned his head side to side. He was the hard case from the stable. He went to the bar and asked the bartender a question. No one had followed him inside. The man again looked around. Bronson walked through the door and stood where the bar turned to the wall. He wanted a clear shot if there was gunplay. He hadn't been seen.

"You looking for me?" Bronson's voice carried over the din.

The cowboy slowly turned and faced Bronson. Both men's hands were near their gun butts.

"Appears so, if you want that kid back," the cowboy said.

"You Matson? Wheres my nephew?" Bronson shook his head no when the bartender brought a glass and bottle of whiskey over.

"Fill my glass up, Luke, then give us some room," Matson said to the bartender, who poured the shot glass to the brim. "Leave the bottle." He threw some coins down on the bar. Luke picked the coins up and ambled down to the other end of the bar. The two men were by themselves for the moment.

The shot went down in one quick swallow, and he filled it again. "You sure you don't want one?" Matson asked.

"No, lets get down to business; I want the boynow."

Matson looked at him with a sly glint in his eye. "You good with that thing?" he nodded toward the Colt in the holster.

"I'm still alive." Bronson felt something was coming down other than what he wanted.

"How much gold you take out of mountains? And don't lie, I already been told enough to know its a good piece." Matson's eyes showed pure, naked greed.

"I haven't had it all assayed," Bronson said. "But I'd say close to fivesix thousand dollars worth."

"I knew it! Where is it?" Matson licked his lips, his excitement made him look like he had a fever.

Stashed away in the mountains for safe keeping.

You telling me you aint keeping it here? Matson said. He poured another drink and downed it in one swallow.

Bronson slowly shook his head no, never taking his eyes off Matson. You tell me where to meet you and the boy and Ill give you the gold for him. No one else, just you and Tommy.

How soon can you get it?

Itll take me a day and a half to get it and be back here. He heard a loud curse and glasses rattle. The blacksmith had come into the saloon and sat at a table facing Bronson.

He was drinking shots of whiskey as fast as he could pour them. He looked angry and mean and stared at Bronson with a challenging, belligerent look. He also had a gun belt on and a pistol in the holster.

You setting me up, Matson?

He turned and looked behind him. No, but it appears he dont like you none.

What about the deal? Bronson asked. The gold for the boy.

Lets see, you said a day and a half. Theres a burnt out homestead about five miles north of town, on the stage road. You see that when you came in?

Yeah.

Meet me there with the gold, an hour after sunset, in two nights. You understand. You dont want the boy hurt, dont try anything tricky. Prospectors ain't too smart, that's why I'm telling again-don't do nothing stupid.

Dont worry, you just be there with Tommy. Now, Im expecting a little trouble with the smithy, so Im not having my back to you. Leave and dont come back while Im in here.

You might be biting off more than you can chew, Bronson. Hes not bad with a gun and tougher than most men around here. And I see youre favoring them ribs. Matson grinned and held his hands up.

Yeah, Ill go, dont get yourself killed now, cuz we made us a deal. He turned and walked out, giving a salute to the blacksmith on his way.

The smithy stood up and yelled at Bronson. I dont go for nobody sticking a gun in my face. You done it twice.

Immediate silence came over the saloon. Men playing billiards across from Bronson laid their sticks on the table and moved away from the line of fire.

Bronson sidestepped from the bar and faced the blacksmith.

Why dont you go home? You dont want to draw on me.

The blacksmiths hand dropped to his pistol and had it halfway out of the holster when his eyes widened. His pistol barrel had almost cleared the holster.

The Colt .44 was cocked and pointing at his chest. He never saw Bronson draw.

Drop it on the floor. Bronson said his voice low and cold, like a winter wind. The blacksmith opened his hand and the pistol clattered to the floor.

The only way youre keeping me from beating you to death is that gun. Why dont you put it away and well see what kind of a man you are.

Bronson hunched over a little and moved to the side of the billiard table. Come here. He motioned with the Colt. The blacksmith cautiously moved toward Bronson, a puzzled look on his face.

You made a good point, Bronson said, holstering his Colt. He picked a cue stick up from the table and slammed it over the blacksmith's head. The smithy reeled back, blood flying from his scalp. The stick had broken in two pieces, the bottom, heavier half, still in Bronson's hand. He came in low and swung up with the stick, catching the smithy under the jaw and dropping him to the floor. Bronson stepped up and kicked the man in the side. Oncetwice. Each time he kicked, the man grunted and tried covering up his gut.

With every hard swing, Bronson felt the pain, but it almost felt good. He dropped to one knee on the smithy's back and grabbed the back of his shirt collar, lifting his head.

"I could kill you now and I don't think anyone would care," he whispered into the man's ear. "See, no one has tried to help you. A truce? Or do you want me to finish this the only way I know how?"

"Truce," the smithy gasped. Blood ran down his face and he held his side. "I think you broke my ribs."

"We're even then. Now listen to me. You brace me again and I'll kill you. No warning, just a bullet. Understand?" The smithy nodded through clinched teeth.

Bronson stood up, panting and holding his side. He looked around and met the eyes of some men looking at him. They turned away and went back to playing cards and sipping their drinks. Watching in the mirror, he walked out the back door.

Chapter Eight

Jessica was in the parlor knitting when he came in to the rooming house. She saw him take his hat off and a hand went to her mouth.

"Are you hurt?" she asked going to his side.

"No, the blood is someone else's. I met the man that took Tommy."

"Why don't you have him?"

"You were right; he wants my gold in trade for the boy." Bronson crossed the room and sat heavily into a chair. He paused.

"I have to ride out tomorrow and retrieve the gold. He gave me a day and a half to get it back here."

"Are you going to be able to ride with your ribs like they are?" she asked, trying to keep the concern out of her voice.

"The ribs are getting better; they might not be broke like I thought." He rubbed his side. "Maybe I can get you to bind them with a leather strap tomorrow, before I leave."

Jessica turned away from him and put her knitting in a bag. "I can go for you, I know how to ride."

"I couldn't have you do that, but I appreciate the offer. You're a fine woman, Jessica." He stood up and went over to where she was standing and took one of her hands.. "When this is over, I'd like to talk to you some moreI'm thinking about you all the time, ever since I first saw you," he said.

She pulled her hand away, put her arms around his neck and hugged him, burying her face in his chest. "You've been in my thoughts too, John."

They stayed together until the sound of the front door opening sounded. Jessica dropped her arms and they took a step apart as Mrs. Sheehan closed the door behind her.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted you," she said, taking in the scene with a quick glance. A smile crossed her face when the Jessica and Bronson stepped farther back from each other. She wore a round hat with a veil.

"You didn't interrupt anything, Mrs. Sheehan. Mr. Bronson and I were just visiting," Jessica said, a slow blush running up her face.

"My name doesn't ring a bell with you, Mr. Bronson?" She lifted the veil and took her hat off.

"I'm sorry, you look familiar but I don't remember you," Bronson said with a puzzled expression. "And no, I don't know your name."

"I worked at the Pronghorn Saloon in Laramie. One of the men you killed there was my husband."

Bronson abruptly moved Jessica behind him. "What're your intentions, Mrs. Sheehan? I know you aren't here looking for me, but it seems too much of a coincidence."

Her face paled, and then she took a step back, her hand to her breast. "You don't thinkoh my goodness. You freed me, Mr. Bronson." Relief showed on her face and she doubled her fists in front of her. "He was about the meanest polecat that ever slunk around on two legs. Seemed like he took pleasure in beating me almost every day. The only reason I worked in the saloon was he made me. No, I'm in Rawlins because I've met a good, strong man and he's going to ask me to marry him one of these days."

"I'm sorry I acted like I did, Mrs. Sheehan. The way things are going on right now, a man has to be careful when he runs into folks from his past."

Jessica came back around Bronson and held onto his right arm.

"I understand. I'm working as a seamstress down at the Chinese tailor's place. Long hours and hard work, but it's worth it to earn my money honestly." She looked from Bronson to Jessica. "You'll let me continue to stay here, won't you?" she asked.

"Certainly, there's no reason not to. I'm happy for you, Mrs. Sheehan," Jessica said. She walked over to the woman and patted her hand.

"Please, call me Trudi, both of you." She put her hand out toward Bronson's.

"I'm John. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you to not mention me to anyone until I get some things cleared up." He shook her hand, taking care not to squeeze it too hard.

"Of course I won't. When I saw you yesterday morning, beaten up, I thought you had troubles."

"Thank you, Trudi," he said.

The mood and atmosphere were broken. Bronson picked his hat up and headed to the stairway. "I'll be leaving at first light. Goodnight, ladies, the pleasure has been mine."

As his footsteps echoed up the stairs, Jessica whispered, "He's an interesting man."

Trudi leaned in closer. "Where did you met him, here?"

"He ate lunch with us at the stage stop at Brown's Canyon when we were on our way back from Casper. Hannah asked him something about his horse. He looked so hard and uncaring, yet he talked with her, gave her his full attention and I saw something inside him that I liked." Jessica averted Trudi's eyes and smiled. "I enjoy his company."

"I've never talked to him before, but I'll tell you about what I know of him," Trudi's eyes seemed to glow.

"NoI want to hear him tell me about his past. It's only right. I don't mean any offense to you, Trudi."

"None taken. I'm off to bed now. R. T. is going to take me for a carriage ride Sunday, so I won't be around for dinner," Trudi said, heading toward the stairs. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, I'm glad we had a chance to talk," Jessica replied.

Chapter Nine

Fingers of dawn streaked the sky and a south wind blew, rattling the shutters. Bronson took the linen binding off and wrapped a leather strap he taken from his bedroll once around his chest. After cinching it as tight as he could, he put his shirt on and buckled the gun belt around his waist.

He walked into the kitchen and saw Jessica with a pot of coffee on the stove and a flour sack on the table.

"Here's some food for you," she said, pointing at the sack. She poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him. "You said you needed help with your leather binding last night."

The coffee was hot and tasted good. Bronson lightly tapped his side. "I did it this morning, thanks."

"Let me check, if you don't get it tight enough, it won't help, particularly if you're going to be riding today." She motioned with her hands for him to unbutton the shirt.

When the shirt was hanging open, he raised his hands up to shoulder height. Jessica reached inside the shirt and put her fingers between the strap and his side. "Not nearly tight enough, Take your shirt off and I'll do it proper."

He grunted twice when she took the slack out of the strap. "There, that should hold you. When will you back?"

"If I can ride hard, I'll be back tonight. That'll give me some time to scout out the meeting place," Bronson replied.

"Are you going to kill him?" she asked an edge of wariness to her voice.