The Chisolm was getting crowded or constricted might be a better word.  It wasn’t that there were more beeves being kicked up the trail to Missouri as there were more people pouring into what had been open range.  With the war over the west beckoned easterners to a new life away from the congestion of the big northern cities.  People were coming out here with more money than brains, Pete Nolan reflected as he hunkered down by his horse and studied the burned out sod shelter.

Herds of 3000 beeves needed water on a regular basis and so did ranchers.   A good year round running creek was a draw for a herd scout as well as a hopeful nester.  This nester, however, hadn’t fared too well.  Not well at all.

An odor on the breeze had been the first clue he’d had of trouble, an acrid scent that tainted the air as he cleared the scrub pines approaching the stream.  There’d been no smoke so it was an old fire, but not yet too old to not tell it’s tale of recent destruction.  A prairie fire was a huge monster, making all life in its path declare common truce.  This wasn’t a prairie fire and he’d faded back quickly into the treeline.

Reading sign as he circled in toward the ruin, the bodies he’d spotted told a tale of cultures clashing.  Unfortunately, that conclusion soon went to hell and gone.  Satisfied finally, that he shared the valley with only four legged varmints and no two legged kind, he’d done a thorough read and now sat uncomfortably on the horns of a dilemma.

This valley he’d marked as a good bed ground for the Gil Favor outfit.  They’d be coming up in a few hours to join him, a fact he was profoundly grateful for.  Some of his scouting jaunts were days out ahead of the herd.  There’d be graves to be dug, some decisions to be made and he was keen on getting someone else’s input on this multiple murder.

Pet stood shoving his hat back and taking out his makings.  There’d been two of them on shod horses, ”Brokenail” and “Blackmane,” he’d labeled them from the tracks and traces he’d picked out.  Not everybody had been at the spread when this had happened.  Wagon tracks had led away in the direction of a settlement marked on the map as San Paulo, about 30 miles up trail.  He had no idea when it would be back but nobody should have to walk in alone to this mess. He’d be having company before the sun set but that poor bastard who’d lived here just might show up.  He struck a match and drew on his cigarette, filling his lungs and letting it out in a long exhaling sigh. The end of somebody’s dreams and the start of what could be an Indian war in these parts.  Yeah, he sure was grateful Gil Favor was coming up in a few hours.  How do you keep two irate people from killing each other when they didn’t have all the facts?  The whites didn’t know anything yet, he hoped.  The reds? They might be missing their hunters by now if the rigor of the corpses was any indication.  They could read sign better than he could.  How long did any of them have?  And where were “Brokenail” and “Blackmane?”

The sod dwelling was to have been a temporary shelter.  Whoever had come here had come with money.  He could tell that by the furnishing that had survived the fire and the obvious efforts that had gone into clearing and laying out a place for a permanent structure.  The flower bed, already showing the blossoms planted by a woman’s hand, was a poignant reproach to what he had found inside the ruin.   Not a lot of people could afford glass windows but there had been some in the sod house, temporarily being used there until they could be relocated to the permanent dwelling.

“Brokenail” and “Blackmane” must have done real well by this venture.  Right now they were probably moving as far away as they could get, as fast as they could get from what was going to explode in their wake.

Gil Favor could be called a dangerous man in the best of times and in the best of moods.  At 6’ 4” he had a presence that demanded attention and an attitude that advertised he wasn’t a man to be trifled with.   When he had the bit in his teeth about anything, you could damn’ near dislocate your shoulders trying to turn him from his purpose.  Of course he’d deny it being as he saw it a reasonable man.  Pete Nolan had certainly, dropped a problem square in his lap that made him a bit testier than average.

“So as I read it, these two jaspers hid out for a while watching the place till the wagon left.  They’d killed the Indians and had ‘em stashed in the pines.  They came on down when they figured it was safe and killed the old man and the woman. Then they just laid everything out like it’d been a raid gone bad with everybody dying ’ but not before they’d fired the place.  Everybody was to think the old man took ‘em out before dying.” Pete concluded his walk thorough of what had happened.

Favor had scanned the ground and tried to read the signs Pete kept pointing out to him but with limited success.  He was a trail boss not a trail scout, that’s what Pete drew his pay for.  He rubbed the back of his neck with irritation. The problem of moving a herd thousands of miles was bad enough without any added trouble, especially Indian trouble, and he hated the chore he was going to have to deal with shortly, saying words over the graves his crew had been preparing.   He loathed that part of his responsibility but he did it. It was bad enough when it was one of his men but this…  His crew had begun working on the graves when they had arrived late that afternoon.  They had made camp some distance from the sad ruins, no one being keen on sleeping too close to that disaster.  Wishbone had paid a bit more attention to the evening feed being of the opinion everything looked better on a full stomach but like the rest of the crew he didn’t have much appetite either.  Favor looked up as Rowdy Yates, his young ramrod, came over, his features set and pale under his tan.  He was no stranger to Indians and what they could do, his own life having been touched by a similar tragedy…. had it been the truth, Favor mentally amended.

“Boss, we’re ready to move ‘em.” He didn’t seem to want to look at anybody at the moment but stood studying the ground Pete had been discussing. What they had first assumed upon their arrival had hit him hard, considering how his sister had died.

“Right,” Favor turned and started toward the house with Rowdy and Pete falling in behind him albeit Rowdy with obvious reluctance.  Favor paused and turned back to the lean ramrod.

“You can go check the herd.  We can do this without you.” Favors voice was almost gentle.

Rowdy looked up and swallowing hard managed to meet his boss’s gaze.

“No....No.” his jaw clenched. “ I want to …I should” His pain was almost palpable “…I wasn’t with my sister…” his voice trailed off.

Favor studied him for a moment. “ You go on over to the grave.  We’ll bring her.”

Rowdy was Favors second and it was his place to back him, thick or thin.  He thought about giving his boss an argument but then nodded gratefully as Favor turned back to the house.

She hadn’t weighed much, blackened now and twisted as the fire had left her in the remnants of the bed.  She had been a small woman to begin with and he marveled again at how the All Mighty could put so much strength and toughness in such delicate frames.  He thought about his late wife and his girls, back home with his sister in law and the thought that any man could do this to a woman.  He could only put aside his anger and reverently do what he could now for this woman.   They had wrapped her in the blanket Wishbone had brought from the supply wagon and laid her deep in the ground beside the old man and the Indians.  Whatever problems they might have had in life, they were joined in death, all having met their end by a common evil.  They had laid the dirt in gently and Mushy, Wishbones cook’s louse, had brought flowers from the yard of what would have been her home.  Makeshift crosses stood on two of the mounds and Pete had marked the others with stones.

Favor cleared his throat as his men stood with their hats off in silence.

“Lord,” he began “look with mercy on the souls of these departed.  Grant them peace in your presence…” he began to flounder “deal kindly with what ever we might have held against them in light of your understanding…” he trailed off.  Pete caught his eye and nodded encouragement.  “Lord, there’s evil in this world and it’s up to good people to fight it.  Comfort the families that will mourn these dead.”  He drew a deep breath “ and help us fix it so there won’t be any more people having to mourn.”  His  “Amen” was a baritone growl of a “hear that lord?” character which was seconded by every man present. If the good Lord didn’t get the hint of “we’d appreciate a little help down here” He would have to be deaf. “Rowdy, double the night guard” Favor jammed his hat back on his head and headed off with long stride to the campsite.

Hey Soos, their horse wrangler made a hasty sigh of the cross and headed for the horse line to ready the night mounts as the crew solemnly dispersed.
 
 

“Can you back track to where those Indians were killed?”  The Favor council of war was underway.  Favor sat with Pete, Rowdy and Wishbone by the campfire, nursing a cup of coffee.

Pete rubbed his chin, “Well it’s not been too windy and it ain’t been that long, I reckon I could.”

“We need to let the Reds know what happened here.  I don’t want an Indian war starting because of this.  So, first thing is, we got to talk to the Indians.   Second, we got to let the whites know about the two bastards that did this and get the law on ‘em, and third we get this herd moving.”

“Boss.” Wishbone looked exasperated. “You sure are prone to thinking like an honest man.”  Favor quirked an eyebrow and raised his coffee cup in a mute invite to continue.  “Alright, where would you go if you’d just set up a play act of Indian raiders and the old man killed ‘em before he died.  Wouldn’t you head for the nearest town, if you’d come up on this innocent and all, to report it?   You could say you didn’t hang around to bury anybody ‘cause there might have been more Reds around.   You’d be wanting everybody to be sure and all it was Indians.  And Pete,” Wishbone continued. “How much Kiowa you know?  Not much! Boss, you’d be sending out the only first hand witness we got to how things was when we arrived before he started trampling all over everything.” Here he sniffed. “He’s a fair enough scout.  And it’d be a might hard to find a replacement out here.” Wishbone amended.

Pete straightened up in mock indignation. “Wishbone, if we didn’t need you to cook, well I’d…”

“That’s enough, your points taken.” Favors expression was grim. “Four things.  Stop the Reds from killing whites, stop the whites from killing reds, catch the bastards and move the herd. Am I leaving anything out?”

“Alright” Rowdy edged forward into the silence. “What do we know? The place was raided.  It had to be worthwhile to ‘em.  They had to have gotten away with some valuable stuff ‘cause they sure went to a lot of trouble.  Who would know what they took?  If everybody died, everything that wasn’t burned should still be here right?  No Kiowa party would leave their dead.  Anybody round here would know that.  So who’d be able to say what was gone?  That’d put the lie to their story wouldn’t it?”

Favor let out a long sigh. “Five things.  Find that nester before the killers do.  Thanks a lot, Rowdy.” He commented dryly. “Which way was that wagon headed?”  Favor turned to Pete.  “Let me see that map.”

“Figure they plan to bushwhack him?” Pete looked alarmed and reached for his saddlebags.

“Be a simple thing, coming or going.  He was jumped before they got here.  Do enough damage and who could say how long he’d been dead? What are the odds of anybody coming out this way.  They got time or they think they do.” Favor threw the remnants of his coffee into the fire.

“If that’s what their plan is.” Rowdy’s gaze traveled to the graves he knew lay beyond the fire’s light. “That’s a lot of death to deal out.  Just how much do you think they got?”

“We’ll ask ‘em when the law gets ‘em.” Favor’s tone pulled the younger man’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Pete,” Favor turned to his scout. “You know sign, the Indians know sign.  We’ve got to speak to the Kiowa.  I don’t see any way around it.  You got any suggestions?”

“Those bodies were brought in over their ponies.  If I could get those horses and take ‘em back, it might buy me time to talk to ‘em, if it’s done right.”  Favor’s frown wasn’t getting any lighter. “Boss, those people have a right to know what happened to their men.  They must have had families.” Pete voice had gotten softer.

“Folks ought to know what happened, why their men died. They got a right.” He ended stubbornly.

“Well don’t you go getting killed telling ‘em.” Favor did not feel any better that was obvious.

“Sure boss. I’ll be careful.”  Pete looked in Wishbone’s direction. “ Or you might have to do the scouting chores.” His expression was all-innocence  “…at your age.”

“Yeah, and Mushy will be the cook and we’ll all starve.” Wishbone jibbed right back but he too looked worried.

“Alright.” Favor unrolled the map Pete had brought out. “Pete takes the Indians, who gets the whites, the law and the nester? Where are we and where’s that town?”

Pete flattened out the map and moved some rocks to hold it down at the edges. “Mushy, bring a lantern over here, will you?”  Mushy brought the light and then sat down by Wishbone as Pete detailed the respective positions of bedground, settlement and the terrain in between.

“Herds can’t go where wagons can,” Favor mused. “Wagons can’t go where horses can, the nesters in a wagon, so we can make better time than he can but so can the killers.” He turned to Pete. “ You sure ‘bout when all this happened?”

“Yeah, I figure the Indians died at least a day before this place was hit.  It’s only been a day or so. Nobody was expected to come here for awhile I figure.  I think they must of known when the nester was leaving and probably when he’d be coming back.” Pete look now was speculative. “You think they’ve been to San Paulo before?”

“What do you think?  They may even be from there.” Favor’s voice was dry. “So if they’re going to kill him too, they’re tied to any route a wagon could follow.  If they haven’t hit him going in.”

“But we’re not.” Rowdy interjected. “We could go cross country to San Paulo and get all three birds with one rock.  Stop a panic about Indians raiding, get the law after the bastards and save the nester if they were going to do it on the way back.”

“If he ain’t dead on the road already.” Favor added darkly. “They just have to let enough time go by to make it look convincing when they come riding in with their story…”

“But we’ll already be there with the truth.” Rowdy stated. “ And the law could haul ‘em in.”

“And when’s Pete suppose to light back an where?” Wishbone muttered. “Those Indians may not have done this but that don’t mean they won’t be doing this some where’s else.”

“Nobody’s come running in here yet yelling Indians.” Favor growled irritably. “If the nesters not dead, he’s probably holed up in San Paulo.  We got water and graze for three days here.  That town’s five days up trail as the herd goes.” Favor’s eyes tracked the map.  “And in between us and it are maybe two murdering bastards, maybe some riled up Kiowa and a dead nester.”  He smothered a groan. “They say the good Lord don’t send you more than you can handle.  All right, we hold the herd here three days.  Pete you come back here.  Wishbone you’re in charge till he does. We double the guard.  Rowdy, you and me, Quince and Joe Scarlet are going to San Paulo, first light.  If we’re not back in three days, head up the trail and tell ‘em in town what happened here.”

“Where will you be, Boss?” Wishbone ventured cautiously.

“Nobody says we can’t be bushwhacked or jumped by Indians.”  Favor began rolling up the map, “but I’m not counting on it.  Get some sleep.  It’s going to be an early morning.”

Hey Soos knew horses and could read their minds according to some.  Horses didn’t care who rode them being strictly nonpartisan and apolitical, but they were social animals and he wasn’t surprised to find his remuda somewhat larger that morning than it had been the previous night.  “Senor Boss, the Indian ponies, they are here.” He exclaimed as he led the new additions into camp from the horse line.

“Well that’s half my job done” Pete commented with satisfaction as he packed up his bedroll. “Won’t have to go hunting ‘em down.”

Favor looked up from his own preparations.  “Hey Soos, we’ll need two remounts a piece, twelve total.  We’re going to be traveling fast.  If the Reds are all riled up, we got a better chance to out run ‘em if we can switch off on mounts.  I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Si, Senor, I will get you the best!”  He threw over his shoulder as he headed back to his charges.

Wishbone came over with packed provisions for both expeditions.  “You all watch your hair.  I’m not anxious to be poisoned by Mushy.” He glared in Gil Favor’s direction. “And I didn’t volunteer to boss this drive.”

“Mushy will make out all right.  You taught him everything you know, didn’t you/?”  Pete commented from where he was tying the pony string to a wagon wheel.

Favor smothered a smile and studiously avoided taking a hand in the ensuing donnybrook of words.  It was one way of dealing with tension and he had a good idea both Pete and Wish’ knew it.  If it distracted the crew from their situation, well all to the good.  There was no guarantee the Kiowa weren’t a days jump on everybody and were on the warpath. Just two dozen drovers with 3000 beeves would be a tempting target.  So far the recent presence of the army in the west, more visible since the war ended, had kept bloodshed to a minimum in these parts.  It hadn’t been that way when the men had been gone fighting for the lost cause.  It hadn’t been that way in past years coming up the trail either, he remembered sadly.  The Indians were being pushed and who could blame them for pushing back?   Whites wanted land for farms and spreads, and there were just more whites than reds.  Their world was changing and they would have to change with it.  Their nomadic lifestyle wasn’t sustainable in this new west. All of which, he reflected would not make you feel one bit better just because you felt sorry for the poor bastards while they were lifting your hair.

Hey Soos had brought up the mounts, a good string, Favor noted with satisfaction.  They might not have won any awards for looks, but they were the fastest horses out of the bunch.  The crew was gathered round, those not on watch as Favor and company prepared to head out.

“You watch your topknots, you hear?” Wishbone fretted.

“We will.” Favor tried to be reassuring.

Farewells were brief as the two expeditions set out on their respective missions, Pete with the ponies in tow and the mini army San Paulo bound with Favor at the fore.

“Via Con Dios.” Hey Soos called softly, waving at the departing figures. “Go with God.”

“You can say that again.” Wishbone murmured under his breath shaking his head. “You listening, Lord?”

Pete had given good terrain markers and they’d be in San Paulo by mid afternoon at the rate they were going.  The remounts might have been over kill Favor reflected, but the Kiowas had a head start on their mad on over everybody else so better safe than sorry.  Here sorry could mean dead.

Rowdy pulled up even as they gave the horses a breather.” Do you think Pete’s going to have any trouble finding the Indians?  Where they were killed I mean.”

Favor looked amused.  “You have any problems reading those books of yours?  Pete can read ground the same way.  Ask him to give you some lessons some time.”  Favor scanned the sky.  Buzzards might be the first hint they had of the wagon and its occupant.  Their route had followed fairly close to the only terrain passable for a wagon thus far.  No news was good news.  He really hoped that nester was holed up in a room somewhere in San Paulo, not that meeting him was going to be any joy.  Telling a man his wife was dead, well he’d been on the receiving end of that stick himself when the girls mother had died and it was a hard blow to take.

“I don’t know.”  Rowdy shook his head.  “Hear we are armed to the teeth like an army heading for a white town and He’s riding off with just those ponies in tow like he’s visiting some neighbors.”  Here he grimaced. “Makes you think, don’t it?”

“People are people.”  Favor shrugged. “Some good, some bad.  Indians are people.  I expect they’ll listen. Pete thinks so and he knows more about them than we do.  The horses are rested, let’s ride.”  Favor gathered up the reins and lifted his horse into a canter.  He could only hope what he’d told Rowdy was the truth.

Following the trail had been a simple matter till he came up on some stony ground and lost the sign.  He wasn’t too worried, having a pretty good idea of where he’d be picking it up again.  Those men hadn’t been brought from so far away that he couldn’t draw some conclusions.  Pete began getting an itchy spot in between his shoulder blades, a sort of “shoot here” feeling as he moved along the rocky shale.

All right, the back end of his brain had put two and two together and he wasn’t alone.  Now if he could only figure out how it did that.  It was late afternoon and the green tops of trees were poking up from a small side valley that he could see emerging as he rode closer.  A green meadow opened out in his view as he moved down from the rocky ground.   It was a likely spot to make camp, so likely in fact he had a pretty good idea of what he’d find when he got there.   The little side valley was rich with game, an idyllic setting in this spring weather, a good place to hunt and sad place to die.  He unbuckled his gun belt slowly and wrapping the belt around the holster, he held it aloft in plain sight, riding slowly to the cluster of cottonwoods by the little rill.  There was still nothing he could put his finger on to say he wasn’t having a fit of nerves, but he doubted it.  There had been unshod horses in the meadow he was now riding through and they had been here recently.

Nothing had happened by the time he pulled up to the bank where the stream made a lazy loop around the base of the trees.   He carefully hung the gun belt over a tree branch and stepped off his horse.  He’d told them he knew they were there and he had no hostile intentions, the next move was up to them.  He let the horses drink and loosened the girth of his saddle.  Still nothing.  Pete pulled his bedroll and the provision sack off the saddle and taking his canteen filled it from the stream.  He could see tracks, both shod and unshod.  “Brokenail” had been here at some point.  This was the right spot.  Taking his gear to a convenient spot, he parked himself under a sizable tree where he could have a decent line of sight, and settled down to await development.   How long had they been watching him?  How many of them were there?    Was this the only party on the move?  He had a fair idea nobody had gotten past him on the route he’d rode in on.  He could only hope.  He wished he had a cup of Wishbones coffee right now.  It was looking to be a cold camp.  He was hopeful some palavering was going on, leastways, he hadn’t been killed yet and he always took that as a good sign.

Things might break loose by sunset, he reflected, but then again maybe not.  He shifted to a flatter spot against the trunk and settled back to out wait an Indian, which was never a speedy proposition.

San Paulo hadn’t been much to look at on paper and it wasn’t much to look at for real.  A natural spring, a mission church, a livery, general store and two saloons with a number of clapboard houses, one of which boasted “rooms for rent”, all lined dirt streets with some adobe dwelling scattered here and there. It nestled up against a low butte now bathed in the late afternoon sun.  The boneyard’s population probably outnumbered the walking one, but the occupants by the little church had been there longer.  The Spanish had a long history in these parts.  The water of life, real or figuratively was always a good drawing card.

“We take it in pairs.  Rowdy, you’re with me.  Quince, Scarlet, you check out the stable.  We’ll check the boarding house.  You come back here, got it?” Favor stepped down from his horse in front of the building advertising rooms.  Their arrival was proving to be a matter of general interest and several townsmen were standing out in the street looking in their direction.

“Sure, Boss.”  Jim Quince reached for Favor’s reins.  “We’ll find out what we can. Luck.”

Rowdy handed over Fox’s reins to Scarlet and he stepped up on the plank walk to follow his boss into the building.

“Rooms are two bits a night, four if you want hot water.”  The speaker was a portly little man, his hair salt and pepper going thin on the top. “You cattlemen?  You must have come off the Chisolm.  We don’t get many of you fellows up here, too far off the trail.  ‘cept when you need supplies….then its usually the cooks coming in with the wagons.  You’ve been making good time to get here so early. This is a surprise.  We usually get some warning…” He had a quick breathy way of speaking and seemed to enjoy hearing himself do just that.

“No.  We’re looking for someone.” Favor shoved his words hard in edgewise. “ I’m trying to find a man.  He’s got a place south of here,  ‘bout 30 miles.”

“This must be your lucky day.”  The proprietor practically beamed. “Why he’s staying right here.  Imagine that. He a friend of yours?”  He began moving toward the stairs. “ I didn’t know he knew anybody out her, least ways ‘cept us, being from back east you know.”  He paused on the steps.  “I’m Mr. Gutherie. He always stays here, you know.  Says I’ve got the best accommodations in town.”  He drew the word out lovingly. “ You going to do some business with him? Oh, he’s an ambitious one.”  He addressed them over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs. Both Favor and Rowdy‘s eyes were a bit glazed over under this verbal onslaught as they followed their bright eyed and talkative host.

“Course I expect he’ll be looking to hire on a crew what with spring here…” they reached the head of the stairs and Gutherie knocked on the first door. “Mr. Hatcher?  You have some gentlemen here to see you.  Mr. Hatcher?” The door opened after a pause and in the dim light its occupant could be seen.

“Mr. Gutherie, I wasn’t expecting anyone.”  He looked over the head of the smaller man at the two men flanking the proprietor.        Hatcher wasn’t anything like what Favor had expected.  He was a smallish man, thin and drawn in on himself with a nervous air about him that was at odds with the occupation he had apparently embraced.

“Mr. Hatcher?” Gil Favor cleared his throat as he took his hat off.  “I’m Gil Favor.  I’m trail boss of a herd on the Chisolm.  This is my ramrod, Rowdy Yates.  I really need to talk to you if I may,” and here he looked significantly Gutherie’s way “ in private?”

Hatcher took in the eager expression on Gutherie's features and the somber seriousness of the two men in the hallway.

“Um. Yes.  Please come in, come in.” He stepped aside to allow admittance.  “Thank you Mr. Gutherie, I appreciate your showing them up.” And as tactfully as possible closed the door on the disappointed Gutherie.   Hatcher turned back to his visitors.  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.  “I’ve never met you two before have I?”

“Mr. Hatcher,” Favor had been relieved to find this man alive but now…” Perhaps you’d better sit down.”  Hatcher’s gaze now flickered between the two cowmen.  Rowdy, hat in hand, was looking like he was facing his own execution and Favor’s features were grim.

“You said you were on the Chisolm. That goes near my place.  You’ve been there?  Sally?  Has something happened to my wife? Hatcher wasn’t a stupid man.

“What’s happened at my place?”

Logan Gutherie wasn’t a mean or malicious gossip.  He just wanted attention and knowing all the happenings was a good way of insuring visitors…and the stair rail did need polishing he reasoned.  The muffled cry that had come from Hatcher’s room drew him back to the door but the low tones that followed he could not break down into words.  Whatever it was, it was bad, real bad.  Gutherie headed down the stairs and paused not surprised to find a number of his neighbors in the foyer.

“Hey, Logan, who are those men?”  Evans, the general store owner, was staring up the stairway.

“Did you see ‘em when they rode in?” Dent ran a laundry /eatery  out of his home.  “ They sure came in loaded for bear.”

Drew and Clay had been over at the store and had followed Evans to the boarding house.  Both had small farms they were trying to make a go of.  “They’re cowmen,” Drew sniffed.  “Couldn’t you smell ‘em?”

“Yes,” Gutherie puffed up with self importance,   “They’re off the Chisolm.  They just come up from Hatcher’s place.  It’s bad, real bad.”  He pronounced dolefully.  Every eye in the room was fixed on him and he loved it.  “They rode here first thing.  Mr. Hatcher is all tore up.  It’s just terrible.”

“They rode in with twelve horses for four men. They were moving fast and hard.” Baxter was a thickset man who ran the livery stable.  “I just left two of ‘em at my place.  It looked like they’d been expecting a fight.”

Men were putting two and two together in a hell of hurry.

“Indians.” Clay breathed. “ Oh God, at the Hatcher place!  Collins farm would be next!”  Drew started for the door.  “My wife and kids.  My place isn’t that far…”

The room emptied as frontier wise men drew the obvious conclusion leaving Gutherie in their wake.

“Indians!  Poor Mr. Hatcher.” He murmured.
 

Jim Quince and Joe Scarlet were working on bedding down their string when they heard the noise from the street.   Men were fast approaching and every other word sure sounded like “Indians!”

Quince shot a horrified look at Scarlet.

“Oh Lord.  Go get the boss.”  And he headed for the doorway of the livery.

“What’s goiang on here?” Quince demanded as he grabbed the first man to reach the door while Joe made a discrete exit up the street.

“Indians are raiding!  They hit the Hatcher place!” The nester pushed to get past Jim then paused now recognizing who had accosted him.  “You! You came in to warn us!”

“I did no such thing!” Quince growled.  “You men!  You, listen up!”  His raised voice drew the locals to a halt.  “I just rode in here from the Hatcher place!” Quince sure hoped he’d got that name right.  “There’s been a killing but it wasn’t Indians!  The Indians aren’t raiding!  My boss’ll tell you!  He’s up at the boarding house.  It wasn’t Indians!  The Indians aren’t raiding!”  Pete Nolan don’t you go making a liar out of me, Quince thought with a mental grimace.
 

“Where’s the drovers that came in here?”

Gutherie looked up into the weather-beaten face of the panting cowhand who’d just burst in through the door.

“They’re up stairs. You came in to tell us about the Indians?”  he addressed the back of the figure who was heading up the stairs two at a time.

“Mr. Favor!  Mr. Favor!”

Gil Favor opened the door to grab Joe Scarlet at the top of the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” He demanded.

“Everybody’s ready to light out about the Indians!” Scarlet panted.  “Quince is trying to talk to ‘em at the livery…”

“The Indians!”  Favor glanced back at Rowdy.  “How’d they hear about the Indians?”

“I don’t know, Boss,” Scarlet had gotten his breath back.  “But you’d better get down there quick and stop ‘em.”  Scarlet could now see a third man in the room with Rowdy.  The fellow looked so tore up and pained, Scarlet figured he had to be that nester. “Mister, I’m sorry about all this…” he began.

“Rowdy, come on!”  Favor had grabbed his hat and was heading down the stairs.

“Excuse me.” Yates mumbled to Hatcher then followed fast on Favor’s heels.

Joe Scarlet could only throw a sorrowful look the nesters way before joining the exodus.

Quince was practically barricading the stable door, arguing vehemently and keeping the growing crowd from access to their mounts as Favor and company came up behind the townsmen.

“All right! What’s going on here!” Favors deep voice boomed out in the street and drew every man’s attention.  All discussion came to a screeching halt and he became the new focus of the disgruntled crowd.  “Who said anything about Indians?”  Favor stood feet spread, thumbs loosely hooked over his gunbelt.  His demeanor was at such odds to the import of what they’d assumed he was in town for, the towns people were taken aback.

“Well?”  Favor growled to any and all with an impatient edge to his query.

Evans exchanged glances with Baxter and Drew and Clay moved closer to each other, both too looking Baxter’s way.  As the apparent spokesman, newly appointed, Baxter turned from Quince and the crowd parted to give Favor and the liveryman an open forum.

“We heard you’d come from the Hatcher place.  It’d been hit by Indians.” He stumbled to halt under Favor’s withering glare.

“Well you heard wrong.” Favor’s look was stern but his words were delivered with a derisive snort.

Baxter frowned. “But you did come by Hatcher’s?  Gutherie said it was bad.”

“He got that right.” Favor was disgusted. He should have left Rowdy to keep an eye on that nosey jaybird till he’d finished with Hatcher, but how was he to know?

“There’s been murder done, but it wasn’t Indians.  It was whites.  There were two of them.”  Well there was no time like the present and it looked like most of the townsmen were there anyway.  His voice rose. “The place was burned out and rigged up to look like it was Indians that done it. We came in here to get the law, find Hatcher and warn you about the two men who did it.”

Conversation was now rising in the crowd and while things were still tense, the panic had subsided.

“Boss, we checked the horses.  None of ‘em match.”  Quince figured it best to pass that information along before anything else happened.

Baxter was still mulling things over and Quinces comment crystallized his fear.  “Mister, when you road in here, what were you afraid of?”

Mental gears ratcheted up in the crowd as they reviewed the cowmen’s arrival and the anxiety level in the crowd once more grew.

Favor spoke calmly. “You were to be told it was Indians by the men who did it.” He let his eyes travel over the crowd.  “We didn’t know where those men were, did we?”  As explanations went, it wasn’t the whole truth but it’d do, and the menace of two murderers still running loose was a valid distraction.

“Why stop at Hatchers?  What’s to stop ‘em from killing other folks?” Clay’s voice was almost a squeak.  “Do you know who did it?”

Favor gave the harried farmer a once over.  “Good point. And no, we don’t.”  He held their attention with easy authority. “But we think they planned to kill Hatcher too.” Favor turned to Baxter.  “Some where between here and his place on the wagon’s route, but we could a been wrong.”  He had to give them that.

“You think there still out there?” Baxter queried anxiously.

“Might well be.” Favor nodded. “They might be some where’s closer.”  He hated to stir up a hornet’s nest but it had to be done. “Can you say where all your people have been for the past few days?”

He looked over the townsmen, noting a glaring omission. “Where’s your law?”

“We got no law, didn’t need any till now.  We mostly just locked up our trouble in Evan's back room and let 'em sleep it off." Baxter offered apologetically, clearly distressed about the big boss’s last observation.

“We ought to get out there and get them!”  Drew was again moving to the stable’s door.  “If they’re out there, they wouldn’t be expecting us.”

“Maybe you’d better wait till morning.  It’ll be night soon.  You’d be doing nobody any good shooting yourselves up in the dark.” Favor pointed out reasonably. “It might be better if you all stay in town tonight anyway.”  Here he looked meaningfully at Baxter.

Baxter taking his drift turned to the townsmen and raised his voice for attention.  “I think we all ought to meet back her at sunup!  I’m not saying any of you done anything, but my stables closed and no body leaves town tonight!”  Here he cast a hard look Favors way. “We’ll pick up the trail from Hatcher’s.  That suit you?”
 “Fine by me.” Favor responded.  It looked like Baxter had things well in hand and he was beginning to feel extraneous. With limited choices of places to go, he collected his crew up with a look and headed back to Gutherie’s.  He still had a few things he wanted to discuss with that nester.  There was no law in San Paulo and no bank neither.  So just how much had that farmer had squirreled away at his place?  And who would have known about it and find it tempting enough to go to all this trouble?  Oh yes, he had some questions for that nester.   A long day was threatening to become a longer night.
 
 

Pete had started a small fire and now sat wrapped up in his slicker.  Upon reflection it wasn’t like he was hiding his presence out here so he figured he might as well be comfortable.  Spring has come to these parts but the nights could still get chilly.  He hated drinking his own coffee, much preferring Wish’s brew but he’d never tell him that, it would just inflate his ego, like it needed help.  The sun had been well down and all had been quiet when he realized his small fire’s light was playing off the moccasins and leggings of a circle of men who had come up around him.  His heart did a sudden lurch and he mastered it down to a steadier rhythm while he set his cup down slowly with deceptive calm.

“English?  Spanish?” he queried.  He gestured when there was no response from his silent audience.

Two men stepped into the fire’s light to sit down across from him.  They were both men in their prime and both well armed.   This was no hunting party or a nomadic band on the move.  This was a fighting unit on a mission.

The older one on his left laid his rifle across his knees and began the graceful gestures of the Indian sign speech while the younger one to his right looked on.  Pete could wish in hindsight, he’d made the fire bigger.  Sign was tricky in the best of lighting and he sure didn’t want any mistakes being made.

“We see our horses.  We do not see our men.  You tell us now, where are they?” The older man queried.

The younger man’s opinion of the light must have been identical to Pete’s as he now put down his rifle and began to feed wood to the flames.

“Well, here goes.” Pete took a deep breath and began to ‘talk’ of his arrival at the nester’s place and the sum total of the subsequent deductions he’d made to his silent audience.

“My chief now goes to the whites…to bring them… to catch these bad men… to punish them for what they have done.” He concluded.    Not a man had moved during his narrative and he could tell nothing from the impassive faces he could now see in the fire’s stronger light.  The older man’s features were inscrutable while the younger man sat idly poking at the fire with his knife, while studying the scout from across the flames.  For an excruciatingly long period of time there was silence save for the coals shifting with the blades movement.

“You lie.”  The older Indian abruptly gestured. The younger man was instantly in motion as Pete was seized from both sides, pinning him firmly against the cottonwood’s bole.

“Oh lord,” Pete breathed.  His death would probably be but the first in a long line of dying, he mourned with profound sorrow… on both sides.

“I’m telling you the truth!” he stated through clenched teeth, mute and unable to defend himself by sign with his arms held.

The blade’s point hovered in his peripheral vision, dull orange and steady in the younger Indian’s hand.  An inch from his left eye, he could feel it’s heat radiating against his cheek as he schooled his features to calm and kept his eyes locked on the older man, willing him to believe his sincerity.

The younger Indian was still and then the blade was in motion, darting abruptly forward.

Pete felt two searing blows impact his left temple hard, and his arms were free.

The younger Indian was stepping back to his companion and the men who had been standing now were seating themselves loosely around the fire.  The older Indian had not moved.

Pete raised a trembling hand to gingerly explore the two thin scabbing lines that now ran from his eyebrow to his hairline while the Indian that had done it, resumed his seat with fluid grace.

“You speak truth.” He intoned.

It was now clear who was in charge of this band and he had some English.

“We not kill you now. You come here again, we maybe not kill you a second time.”  He gestured to the circle of now interested onlookers and rattled out a patter of Kiowa.  Pete’s puzzlement apparent, the speaker shrugged.  “All whites look the same.”

He spoke again in his own tongue.  “Now you look different.” He pronounced pointing to the confounded scout.

“Thanks.  I think.” Pete signed back, much to the satisfaction of the uniformed featured and now genial band.  If that didn’t beat all!

“I am Sees Far.  Tomorrow we go.  You will take us to where our men are.  We will then find these men and they will pay.”

And I bet they will, a still shaky Pete Nolan reflected with a shiver. ‘If this was how they handled their friends….!’
 
 

“Mister,” Favor was past irritation and well into menace.  “Your wife was killed. Your place burned out.  Five men are dead and the two men who done it went to a whole lot of trouble to cover their tracks!  What did you have out there that was so damn’ valuable?”

Favor and crew had found Hatcher still in his room sitting on the bed’s edge as they had left him.  For a broken man, Hatcher had closed up quick and mow sat, his face expressionless avoiding eye contact with the big man standing in front of him.  Rowdy had lit the lamp and was propped back in the only chair in the room while Quince and Scarlet were holding up the wall.  It had all started out reasonable enough.  Favor had broached the subject in as delicate a manner as he knew.  They had all felt sympathy for the man and it was clear his loss was genuine, but he evaded their questions and stone walled them when they took a more direct turn.

Rowdy and company would have been having some sympathy for the man if the situation hadn’t been so serious.  Gil Favor ‘s wrath was never anything to be on the receiving end of they knew from first hand experience even if it blew up quick and passed, mostly.

The nester was a puzzle and there was something about him that nagged at Rowdy’s memories.  It was sure he’d never seen the man before but there was an air about him that Rowdy found familiar just the same.

Rowdy looked, really looked him over and it hit him.

“You’ve been in prison.” He pronounced as he dropped the chair’s front legs to the floor.

“Huh?” Favor turned to his ramrod.

“Well, look at ‘em.” Rowdy gestured. “I’ve seen men before who’ve had chains on for a while.  You’ve done hard time and you haven’t been out for long, have you?”

Hatcher had flinched under Rowdy’s accusation, a sure sign the ex prisoner-of-war’s aim had hit the mark.  Quince grunted in satisfaction while exchanging a look with Scarlet. Now that Rowdy had pointed it out, he didn’t know why none of them had seen it before.

Favor turned back to Hatcher, his expression speculative.

“You ain’t hanged so it wasn’t murder, it had to be money, and a lot of it.  The law must not a found it, so you still had it.  Am I right?”

Hatcher hesitated and then slowly nodded.

“How much?” Favor demanded.

“Thirty thousand dollars.”  Hatcher’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Thirty thousand-!” Favor was now staring down at the nester.

Rowdy gave a low whistle and Scarlet and Quince straightened.  When a dollar a day and found was good wages, thirty thousand dollars was a fortune.

Favor’s voice was a flat accusation. “You crossed some people. Is that it?”  All of them were finding this aspect of the nester of increasing interest.

“Why didn’t they just ride in on you and do it clean?”  Favor wondered.

Hatcher slowly shook his head. “And kill me?  What could they do to me that’s worse than this?”  He choked.  “They’ve left me alive.  So I’d have to remember…my wife..” here he couldn’t continue.

“And you wouldn’t tell anybody?” Rowdy was incredulous.

“I broke jail, I’m a wanted man.” Hatcher had nothing left to hide.

The incongruous specter of this man crossing the kind of desperadoes who were capable of the mayhem perpetrated at the homestead was a lot to swallow.

“When you took the money, were they in on it?’ Favor asked.

Hatcher shook his head.  “They were in jail with me.  They helped me get out….” After he probably talked too much, Favor reasoned.

“ Then what?” He asked.

Hatcher sighed. “I gave them the slip.”  He did not elaborate. “They got caught.”

“They didn’t think you’d talk. It’d be Indians that done it.  You’d be the only one who would know.”  They could be anywhere by now.  He looked at his crew. The killers had no reason to hang around.

“How’d you explain your money? He inquired.

“I told ‘em I’d sold my family’s store back east.” Hatcher shrugged.  “Most folks don’t ask a lot of questions out here.”

Favor pondered for a moment, then he came to some decision.

“You come clean to these people.” Favor’s voice was stern.  “And get word to the Rangers.   You tell them everything you can about those two.  It might go easier on you.” He added in on a softer note.

“We still going out in the mornings?” Rowdy inquired. “With the posse, I mean.” He amended.

“We’d better.  We don’t know what luck Pete’s having now do we?”  Favor commented which gave everybody pause for sober thought.

Out here the devil was red to most folks, but he didn’t have any horns or a pitchfork.  There was still a possibility the posse would turn into a burial detail at someone’s holding miles from here.

“Let’s go see Baxter.”  Favor headed for the door.
 
 

Pete was dragging his heels and trying had not to be obvious about it.  As horsemen went, he’d rate high but few could match the superb mastery of the men he now rode with.  He was making a subtle effort at being worse than he was and the band had accommodated their pace to his.  If it made them feel smug by comparison, he didn’t care.  He needed time to think.

If the boss had met with success, they’d be heading back to the nesters just like he was to start tracking from there.  Favor and company had had farther to go than he had, but they had been moving faster.  Figure the townsmen to be a mixed bunch, he’d still be showing up at Wishbone’s camp fire with a fighting band of Tsain Tamme before anybody else showed.  And wouldn’t Wishbone be having a heart attack about that!  If on the other hand the whites were already stirred up, his presence with the Indians could be a deterrent long enough for some palavering to take place so as to straighten things out if they met up with anybody.  He’d carefully worded his advice to Sees Far about any casual contact between their peoples for the near future, and Pete now rode with the only mobile band in the vicinity.

Many of them were relatives of the departed near as Pete could figure but you didn’t just come out and ask. The hereafter of the Kiowa was a livelier place than the whites, to be taken seriously.  The dead walked for these people, had opinions and ways of expressing themselves.  They wanted their dead avenged and at peace.  Pete, remembering what he’d found in the burned ruin, suppressed a shiver as though some one had walked over his grave.  Maybe the Indians had to right of it after all.

When they reached the herd, he’d fill Wishbone in on how the land lay then they’d ride out immediately.  Mr. Favor could move the herd if he had a mind to do so, and the townsmen could scrape up the parts and pieces of the two bastards, if and when they caught up.

With all things arranged to his mental satisfaction, Pete’s horsemanship miraculously improved much to the puzzlement of his Indian companions and their speed increased.

Hatcher had insisted on coming along. Better to go back with company than alone, Favor reflected. He was an object of curiosity to his companions, drawing covert looks from the assembled townsmen.  Not a man was unaware of his story by now, but given what they’d find at trails end they were being pretty tactful about it.  Favor didn’t think much of their chances of catching the two men, with what he now knew. He had no idea how Pete had made out so there was still some doubt about the Indians.  A large armed party had a better chance than four men alone so he didn’t begrudged the company on the ride back to the herd.  Simmons and Gates. Previously “Brokenail” and “Blackmane”. Gates and Simmons.  The word was going out to the scattered settlements.  Men would be watching for them so where could they go?  Outdoors men, they had to be.  It wasn’t easy to kill an Indian that didn’t want to be dead and they’d killed four.  Maybe they’d head south and avoid the settlements, not west into the Kiowa, not after what they’d done.  All whites would be at risk if the Indians were aroused, good or bad.  And they’d sure done what they could to rile the Indians up.  How confident were they?  Hatcher would come back, find the place burned, the money missing, then what?  What had they expected to happen?  He was giving himself a headache.   There was no figuring out a twisted man’s thinking so Favor quit trying.  They’d know more when they picked up their tracks from Hatchers.  This presuming they could find them without Pete, he thought ruefully.

Collins liked this side of the herd, not that the beeves looked any better, just that there were 3000 of them between him and the Indians which might give him enough time to do something about staying alive.  Not that there were Indians, he didn’t think there were so far, but right now, Collins was not a happy man. Making a slow circle around the steers he didn’t get any happier and his eyes strayed more to the west than to the cattle.  This was worse than waiting for the Yankees at Fredricksburg.  At lest there you were scarred spitless but you could see what was coming for you.  Out here he felt naked.

Shadows took substance resolving into moving forms under the canopy of the cottonwoods as riders came out from the tree line.  His first impulse to bolt for the camp died a quick death when he recognized who was riding with them. He put his racing heart back in it’s customary location and headed over to meet the new arrivals.

Wishbone hadn’t had a heart attack after all for which Pete was grateful.  In retrospect they’d a’ all been in trouble if he had.  Mushy was a good kid but he had limited skills in the cooking department and the Favor outfit would have starved to death in a week.  Pete’s arrival had created quite a stir in the camp.  Kiowas weren’t Wishbone’s brand of Indian, having more acquaintance with the denizens further north but these Indians were coming in friendly and here he was the host.  The traditions of hospitality to visitors with nomadic people served both sides well.  At present several Indians were sampling the white mans food with mixed reviews, others were off by the ruin, probably at the graves and a few were scouting the ground for sign and doing a sweep around the nesters spread.

With everybody tended to, Wishbone headed over to where Pete was saddling up a new mount from his string.

“Now what do you think you’re doing, Pete Nolan?” His eyes taking in the scouts preparations with some alarm.

“Soon as we find tracks, we’re heading out.  I figure even Mr. Favor can follow our sign, there’ll be enough of it.”  He tightened the girth of his saddle, butting his knee into Spot’s barrel.

“You’re assuming a lot aren’t you?  We don’t even know if he reached that town.” Wishbone was trying to sound reasonable.

Pete looked at him. “Four men against two.  What do your think?”

“Well suppose you’re right.  He said for you to come back here.  He wasn’t expecting you to bring back a whole damned army.   You were supposed to come back here and take over the herd.  Well, now you’re back.”  Wishbone stated vehemently.

Pete stopped what he was doing and turned to directly face the agitated cook.  “All right.”  Pete pronounced. “I’m back.  And now I’m putting you in charge to hold the herd here for two more days.  If Mr. Favor hasn’t showed up, head to San Paulo.”  His eyes strayed to a scenario he hadn‘t contemplated.  “We may catch up with Mr. Favor before you do.”  He commented bleakly.

“And if you don’t?”  Wishbone still had to protest. “Those are white men you’re after!   You know what those Indians will do the ‘em?”

Pete’s jaws tightened. “No, Wish’.  Those are murdering bastards we’re after.  I figure they deserve everything they get.”  His tone softened.  “It won’t be white justice, but it’ll be justice just the same.  For the ones they killed here, maybe even for Mr. Favor and the rest of ‘em.”

The idea of the Favor outfit minus Gil Favor wasn’t sitting too well with either of them. Suddenly, Wishbone was as anxious for Pete’s departure as he was.

“How in the blazes could you let him ride out of here like that?!” Favor was on a tear. “You knew we’d be heading back here right away!”

“If you wasn’t dead some where’s on the trail!”  Wishbone shot right back.  “It wouldn’t a’ been Indians that done it either!  He said you could follow him.  He’d leave sign.”

Favor’s eyes traveled to the townsmen now sharing the evening fire with the hands and eating Wishbone’s cooking.  Hatcher was sitting a way off from the group.  He, like the rest had been to the ruin and the graves.  He wasn’t taking it well.  Not well at all.  Favor heaved a long sigh and let his anger go with it.  No matter how good Simmons and Gates might be, no one could match the skill of the Kiowa and he felt sure they wouldn’t be able to evade their pursuers for long.  The townsmen might or might not want to continue on in the morning now they knew a war band was on the killers’ trail.  There was no love lost between the two peoples, but even they were talking about it being just desserts.

Two bad whites dead, and they could go back to hating and fearing the enemy they knew.

“Boss, maybe it’s better this way.”  Wishbone too was looking the townsmen’s way. “I’d hate to think what could a happened if you ‘d come in here with the Indians around.”

“Tomorrow morning, we’ll see what they want to do.”  Favor was still troubled.  “If they don’t want to go on..”  He shook his head. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
 
 

Hatcher was going after Simmons and Gates.  Short of hogtying him and throwing him over his horse, no argument was working.

The morning consensus was to go on home. They were storekeepers and farmers and so on.  Favor was not surprised. Baxter at any rate was proving to be the exception, whether out of responsibility for Hatcher or their posse’s original purpose, Favor did not know.  Hatcher was going after his wife’s killers, Baxter was going after Hatcher and those who were going were going after the Indian and the remains of Thirty Thousand Dollars he reminded himself, which everybody seems to have forgotten.  Of course bracing two bad men and a band of Kiowa to get it might be too much of a risk for storekeepers, farmers and so on.  Two white men –yes. Two dozen Indians-no.

“Wishbone,” Favor began.

“Yeah, I know. Hold the herd here another day and if you’re not back, start ‘em up the trail.  You’ll catch up.”  Wishbone reeled off with a snort. “You’re mighty free with my job description.  I ought to be drawing extra pay.”

The original San Paulo crew was mounted again with the addition of Teddy and Colins to their number.  Thirty thousand dollars was a lot of temptation for any man and a strong escort was a good deterrent.  There was also the matter of one scout to be returned to the fold.

Favor had to wonder at how it was almost a forgone conclusion among the crew that the two men would be dead when they came up on them.  Pete would be leaving a good trail for them to follow so they would be making good time.  The Indians on the other hand would have to track those two.  They were only a few hours behind and as Favor figured it, it was going to be a near thing.  They might have to brace the Indian band if it came down to it.  He didn’t think he could stomach a man being tortured to death.

“Let’s ride.”  He stepped up into his saddle and headed to where Wishbone had said the band had gone with his crew falling in behind him.  Hatcher and Baxter followed as the townsmen stood watching the riders depart from the camp’s fire.

A cavalryman always looked first to his horses care before his own and for good reason. The men they were chasing might be in a hurry but they could only go as fast as their mounts.  Pete wasn’t surprised by what they’d found late afternoon.  He’d expected it at some point.  “Brokenail” had thrown the shoe that had been his signature mark.  The two men had surprised him.  They weren’t heading to San Paulo but southeast, a direction that had white settlements scattered along the frontier.  The pursuers had been making good time and the pursued weren’t more than a day ahead.  With a shoe gone, they might well head for the nearest blacksmith or look for a replacement mount and that scenario gave him cause for worry.  He had no idea what homesteaders were out this way, being familiar only with the towns near the Chisolm although he had a working familiarity with the general area.

Sees Far had greeted the find with a wolfish grin and the band now advanced with an air of purposeful anticipation.

Pete moved up to where Sees Far was riding.

“What do you know of the land up ahead? Any settlers around here?”

Sees Far knew this country like his own backyard and he nodded distastefully.  “Three.”  He pronounced already following Pete’s train of thought.  “They have been following the water.  They will come to the whites.”  Sees Far studied the scout for a moment.    “They will need horses.  You are afraid.” His words were a statement.

“After what they’ve already done, they might try it again.”  The scout nodded unhappily.

“It is possible.” Sees Far tone was grave.

Pete surely didn’t want to see a repeat of what he’d found at the nester’s place.  Burying corpses, red or white could sure depress a man.

Sees Far gave no overt signal but their pace accelerated never the less.

There was no hope in hell Pete could match the stealth of the men who crouched beside him.  This was as close as he dared get to the homestead without fear of detection and he had no false pride about the matter.   Later as it got darker, he might have a better chance.  They’d left the horses back a ways and moved into a location where they could see and remain unseen.  The place looked peaceful in the growing twilight.  Smoke curled up from the stone chimney and horse could be seen in a rough corral adjacent to a stock shed.    Whoever lived here was probably just finishing up the evening meal.  One last check on the stock and they’d probably call it a night, if everything was as peaceful as it seemed.  The Indians interest was fixed on the horses.  Odds were “Brokenail” was among them, but how long ago?   And what speed could be made on any remount they’d picked up?  Or were they still here?  That was possible.

Sees Far stiffened and touching the scout’s shoulder pointed to where light spilled from an open door. “Two.” He murmured. “A man and a boy.”  He grunted as the sound of barking dogs wafted faintly up to their position.  No one was happy about that.

Sees Far turned as a man ghosted up to where they were seated and in a low tone began speaking.   Sees Far glanced to the scout when he had finished. “We go.  Your chief is here.”

Pete took one last look at the homestead watching the two figures moving casually to the stock shed, tall and short, barely discernible now in the gloom, then he turned to follow the line of descending Indians.

He was on Pete’s trail and that was about all he knew regarding his relative position to anywhere. The Chisolm lay to his left about 60 miles, some town was about 40 miles roughly south and he was in the middle of nowhere.  He drew on his cigarette. They’d followed the sign till it had gotten too dark for certainty and had made a dry camp in a copse of trees.   They had some idea how fat ahead the outlaws were, a fair idea from the tracks the Indians weren’t too far ahead either, and he wasn’t going to go blundering into anybody, not in the dark.  Nerves were strung tight enough already.

Wishbone would have to start the herd tomorrow, they’d lost enough time. If they didn’t find those two soon, Wishbone would really be in a snit about his job description.

What would they find when they did catch up?  That was the fear they all were facing.  There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation taking place around the fire.

Death could drop a hand on your shoulder out here for a variety of reasons, accidents, stupidity or acts of God.  But sometimes you had to step up to something and meet it.  You would if you had cause enough and you might win or you might lose.

He studied the faces of the men now loosely grouped around the fire.  His men would back his play.  He knew that.  But did he have the right to maybe get any of them killed over two sons of bitches destined to end up swinging at the end of a rope?

He threw his cigarette into the fire, his face impassive and his thoughts his own.

Rowdy had a fair idea what his boss was thinking.  For his part, he really hoped the two men were dead. He wanted them cold, stiffening corpses lying out on the ground.   He wasn’t particular about how they looked or how they’d died.  Just that they were dead when they came up on them.  Laid out, stone cold dead. He had worked up a passionate fervent hatred for them sight unseen.   He hated them for what they’d done.   He hated them for what he might have to do in the near future.  He might have to kill somebody whose only crime was wanting these same men dead as much as he did. Or be killed by them, he acknowledged with a chill.  Dead was dead whether by a noose or at the hands of the Kiowa.  Those men were going to die but by who and how was the problem.  The idea of any white man being done to death the Indian way just struck too close to home.  Any of them could face that same end in the right circumstances. Or wrong ones he mentally grimaced.  How would the Kiowa take being deprived of their idea of justice?  Trust was a commodity in short supply between the two people.  The white man’s word was dust in their mouths, a lie when they had been promised water too many times. Even if they believed the two would die because Favor said so would it be enough?  He just didn’t know.

“Mr. Favor.”

Rowdy almost gave himself whiplash as he pivoted unconsciously reaching for his gun.

Pete stepped into the fire’s light accompanied by Sees Far and two other men.

If Favor had been startled he did a better job of hiding it than Rowdy and the rest of the crew.  The townsmen had frozen like rabbits.

“Damn it,” Quince cursed. “Pete Nolan! Why don’t you give a man some warning!?” He bent down to retrieve the coffee tin he’d spilled and resumed his seat.

Collins just glared dabbing his chaps dry.  He’d been the happy beneficiary when the cup went flying.

“Who’s your friend?” Favor stood up, his stance loose and relaxed.  Rowdy had to admire his composure as he unknotted the muscles across his own neck and shoulders.

“Mr. Favor, this is Sees Far, Two Horses and Buffalo Hump.  Sees Far, this is my chief, Mr. Favor.”

Sees Far nodded to Favor from across the fire.   This one was not afraid.  This was a man who lead men, he decided, measuring the big trail boss with a critical eye.  He would be a formidable foe.  Favor was returning the scrutiny with the same intensity and purpose.

“He speaks English.” Pete added for everyone’s benefit.

As it was his fire and his camp, Favor gestured.  “Have a seat.” And took his own advice.

“Well?” he asked looking Pete’s way.  The question didn’t need elaborating and he dreaded the response but it needed asking.

Pete could feel the tension around the circle and he really hated that he could do nothing to relieve it.

“We haven’t caught them, not yet, but we think we know where they are or were.” He amended. “And that’s going to be a problem.”

Someday he was going to have to sit down with Pete Nolan and have a long talk about expanding his vocabulary.

Problem: small problem, big problem, little problem, kind of a problem. Flooded rivers, burned out grass, dried up water holes, prairie fires and nesters who might be playing host to two killer all unawares.

“Problem.” Favor muttered studying the homestead from the same position the Indians had occupied the night before.  It took conscious effort to stay relaxed among the impassive men who flanked him but he was finding it easier as time passed.

All right. They didn’t know if they were there.  Sees Far had scouts out now to check for tracks away from the place but “Brokenail” was in the corral.  They had observed a lamed up horse.  If they had come in and moved on, they’d resumed the chase with the homesteader none the wiser at how close he’d come to maybe dying, but if they hadn’t?  If they were still down there, the man and his family sure could be in a bad way.   Maybe they’d just ride out which would be great as far as Favor was concerned or maybe they’d do some murder before they left.  For the moment everything looked quiet in the early morning light. How to get men down there without arousing suspicion?

A slight noise drew his attention as Rowdy crept up to join him.

“What do you think, Boss?” He too peered down at the quiet scene.

“I don’t know.” Favor stopped as the door opened and two men stepped out on the porch then moved aside for a small boy who made a bee line for the out house.  A woman came out with buckets heading for the well.  The men stepped off the porch and ambled over to the corral where they propped on the fence rail and stood apparently discussing the horses This homesteader had given himself a good line of sight all the way around with no easy places of concealment close by.   This was no easterner and Favor had a good idea there were battle shutters ready to fit into windows and a supply of water already laid up in the solid stone and sod structure.  He could wish they were closer and could get a better look but that was out of the question.  Unless?

His lips curled up off his teeth in a feral grin, which surprised the hell out of his ramrod given the circumstances.

“Let’s go, Rowdy.  I’ve got an idea.”

It would have to be quick.  There was no telling when the killers might pull out if they were there.  Hatcher and Baxter would be staying up in the draw.  Hatcher for obvious reasons and Baxter might be recognized if Gates and Simmons had ever been to San Paulo.  In fact most of the crew would not be involved.

“You ready?” Favor was mounted as were Rowdy and Quince, it being decided a smaller party would not be perceived as a threat but as needed allies.
 Pete had voiced some reservations about the scheme.   The risk was real that some Indians might be killed but Sees Far had voted him down.  Truth be told he rather liked the audacity of it all.  It seemed fitting justice that what the killers had conjured up in fiction should be the means to bring them down in fact.
 “All right.  Let’s go.” Favor turned his mount and spurred hard for the homestead and the whole body of horsemen went into motion.

Reb Johnson wasn’t keen on the looks of the bay horse in his corral.  Not that it was built badly but it would take a while for it to mend up and he only had a small string.  He had calves to cut and cows to catch and Mr. Brown kept eyeing his seven-year old sorrel and raising his offer.   The man knew horseflesh there was no doubt about it.  But Johnson sure was attached to that horse…

‘Brown’ stood expectantly watching the nester think it over.  He couldn’t push the price up any higher without his need being obvious and around here that meant a desperate man.  ‘Mr. Williams' was in the house keeping an eye on the teen-aged boys just in case there was trouble while Libbie Johnson went about fixing the morning meal.

They’d been welcomed just as ‘Brown’ figured they’d be when they came in with a sob story of needing work, being off the Chisolm on the way to visiting family and then their horse laming up.  Libbie Johnson knew her way around a kitchen and both ‘Brown’ and ‘Williams’ were sick of beans.  In the custom of the west they’d been made welcome even if they couldn’t give them work.  Johnson was an ex soldier like most Texans and they’d swapped yarns in the evening before bedding down, not that it made a difference one way or the other, ‘Brown’ reflected.  Maybe after breakfast he smiled genially.  The Johnson’s girl was a pretty little thing.

The dogs were the first to sound any alarm, their voices pitched up in hysterical barking and then came the sounds of gunfire.  Both men turned seeking its source as from the west faint cries and whoops now could be heard in the still air.  Reb Johnson didn’t need any eyeball confirmation.  He bolted for the house, ‘Brown’ a little slower followed straining to see what commotion was fast approaching.

Reb barreled through the door halting his momentum by grabbing the door jam, almost startling ‘Williams’ into going for his gun.

“It’s Indians!”

Around ‘Williams’ the Johnson clan moved into action that probably had been well drilled many times over or put into practice for real. Reb was reaching for his guns the two older boys were pulling the curtains down from the widows and dropping thick shutters over the openings.  Even the youngest was moving furniture to the back of the room to allow for freedom of movement by the door and windows.
Libbie and her daughter were pulling a heavy chest out away from the wall and all ‘Williams’ could do was stand in bewilderment in the middle of the room.

“Come on!” Reb beckoned impatiently and ‘Williams’ had no choice but to follow him out the door.

Riders could be seen now coming fast and hard, heading directly for what safety the stone dwelling might provide.  Behind them at least a dozen Indians screamed and shouted. The sound of gunfire was louder as they drew closer.  Two Indians fell to the marksmanship of the pursued, dropping from their mounts and tumbling to the valley floor, but the Indians were gaining.

“Give them cover!”  Reb suited action to words even if the range was long. ‘Brown’ and ‘Williams’ too began shooting giving the Indians pause.  The three whites bailed out of their saddles at the porch’s edge turning to add their firepower to the fusillade of bullets holding the Indians at bay.

“Get inside!”  Reb paused long enough to grab the arm of the big man blazing away from the porch’s edge.  “Come on!”  And all six retreated back into the structure.

Reb slammed the door shut and dropped a beam into braces across it then turned to the new arrivals. “That was close!” He said as he set the beam firm in its supports.

“Mister, you don’t know the half of it.” Favor took off his hat and slapped the dust off his chaps while holstering his gun. “I left four good men out there,” which was only the truth. “The Indians must be raiding all up and down the trail!’ which wasn’t the truth at all but beside the point.  “If we hadn’t seen your smoke…” he left it at that for everybody to draw the logical conclusion out here.

“I’m Gil Favor.  I’ve got a small herd on the Chisolm, least ways, I had.”  Here he shook his head. “Suddenly I had Indians all around.  They blocked us off and its been a running fight ever since.  They’ve been driving us like cattle.” He grinned ruefully. “Now I know how beeves feel.”  He collected himself.  “This is Rowdy Yates, my ramrod, Jim Quince.” He pointed.

“Reb Johnson,” the homesteader turned. “That’s my wife Libbie.”   Johnson had been looking the three over, as had ‘Brown’ and ‘Williams’. All three bore the marks of hard riding and sure did seem relieved to be in here.  That they were capable and tough men was also apparent, even the wiry short guy.

“Any of you hurt?” Johnson asked.

Quince gave a dry laugh.  “Truth is we ain’t had the opportunity to do a once over, till now.  I’m all right.  You, Boss?”

Inventory being taken these three had no damage, which pleased everybody.  The Indians hadn’t charged in on the house yet but they were letting their presence be known with a spattering of shots and a lot of yelling.

As the feeble new arrivals just saved from a horrible death, it was to be expected they’d be a little shaky.  Rowdy nodded gratefully as the girl brought over a dipper of water and he stepped back with Favor and Quince to clear the floor by the windows and door.  Libby was busy lighting a lantern.   With the natural light now mostly blocked, the interior of the room was dim and visibility poor.

Johnson was looking between the new arrivals and ‘Brown’ and ‘Williams’.  “You two were lucky.”  He observed.  At Favor’s look of inquiry, he elaborated. “They came in yesterday, horse threw a shoe.” Leaving the two men to make their own introductions.

‘Brown’ and ‘Williams’ had moved up to the windows and were peering out through the shutters rifle slots.  Whatever plans they may have had, had just been shot to hell and they were just as vulnerable as everybody else.

“I’m ‘Brown’.  He’s ‘Williams.’’ Brown barely turned to do the amenities.  Those reds out there weren’t any isolated hunting party but scalp hungry fighting men and the only hair suitable for taking was in this room.

Gates and Simmons.

Favor looked Rowdy and Quince’s way, as he casually drew his gun to begin reloading it.  He did a quick survey of the room for its occupants  location.  The youngster was at the back wall digging with a poker.  Probably rifle slots, Favor surmised.   He tilted his head in a slight nod and Quince moved to be near the boy. The two older boys were standing by the front wall off to the side, leaving the adults to hold the windows and door.  That wasn’t good but it couldn’t be helped.  Rowdy following Favor’s train of thought shifted to stand between the two women in the corner and the front part of the room.  He too pulled out his gun with the pretext of reloading it and watched Favor for a signal.

You had to give this Johnson credit Favor thought.  This place wasn’t impervious but by God you’d pay to take it.  Too high a price in the Indian’s estimation to make it worth their while.  The chest the women had opened contained an assortment of weaponry, some old but all serviceable and a hell of a lot of ammunition. This place would be too hard a nut to crack for the casual raiding party and that’s what Johnson had banked on.  A few past lessons had won him the right to a continued existence in these parts for himself and his family. Things stood at an uneasy truce.  We don’t bother you if you don’t bother us. Until now.

Johnson was scanning the ground through the doors shuttered slot, watching the now milling Indians who were just out of range, his mind working.

“I’ve never had this many show up before.  If they come it’ll be from the back....” he speculated.  “We’ve ruined their fun for now…” and he was interrupted.

“Don’t anybody move.” Favor’s voice was laden with menace and Johnson froze, mind going numb with shock.

“Mr. Johnson, I’ll explain all this later, but right now, all of you drop your guns.”  Favor tone was low and urgent.  If Johnson was confounded, ‘Brown’ and ‘Williams’, Gates and Simmons rather, had no illusions about their situation.  Somehow and for some reason, they were being singled out by a crazy man in the middle of an Indian attack.

“Mister, I don’t know what you got against us…” Gates started to turn, a false smile plastered across his face.

“I said drop your guns!” Favor voice snapped out.

Gates froze under the weight of hatred he could now read in the big man’s eyes and he started to stoop down to place his gun on the floor. “Don’t shoot!” he whined.  “I’m doing it, just don’t shoot!”

Simmons was in a cold sweat. He hadn’t moved from the front window and like Gates, he already had his gun out.  He mentally cursed the homesteader, the Indians, and the three men behind him who might all have guns pointed at his back.  His gun hand was out of sight and they were hopefully all watching Gates.

Simmons suddenly was in motion, shoving in hard between the door and Johnson, pushing the now off balance man toward the big trail boss while pivoting to bring his gun to bear.

It could have worked.  He had cover and he had time.  Time enough to bring the big trail boss down. Favor couldn’t shoot, his field of fire was obscured by the homesteader’s bulk.  It might have worked, but it didn’t.

Simmons cry mingled with the report from Rowdy’s gun in the small confines of the room.

Favor quickly stepped back to keep Gates in his sights as Simmons fell crumbled to the floor.  Gates hadn’t moved, his features locked in a sickly grimace.  It had all happened in seconds.

Rowdy was taunt with adrenaline.

“Try it.” His gun was now aimed at Gates. “Please!” he snarled. This would solve everything.  No more worries about the Indian’s justice. No more fear about the homesteader.   This would be a fitting conclusion.

There was death in the lean ramrod’s eyes and Gates wanted to live.  “Don’t shoot.” He choked out, his voice constricted with fear and his gun hit the floor.

Johnson had regained his balance and turning swiftly took in the tableau at the front of the room. His sons were standing mouths agape while the youngest stood eyes like an owl in the gloom at the back of the room.  His wife had pushed Laurie behind her, interposing her body between her daughter and whatever might have happened.

“Mister! You’ll explain now!” He demanded through gritted teeth, turning to the big trail boss and ignoring the hardware Favor was still aiming Gates way.  Johnson was angry, frightened and helpless in about equal measure.

“These men killed six people up near San Paulo.”  Favor said, his words a flat bald statement of fact. “They would have killed you, too.”

Johnson, feeling beleaguered on all sides, still had to accept the truth in what Favor was telling him.

“But the Indians!  He protested weakly. “We might have needed every gun we could get!” He was looking at his family. “Couldn’t you have waited?”

Quince was tying Gates up and Rowdy didn’t seem to know what to do with himself now the threat was passed.  Favor looked around the house and saw it as Johnson did, the body on the floor and the terrified people, and felt inexplicably ashamed.

“Mr. Johnson,” he holstered his gun. “You aren’t going to believe it, but those are our friends out there, our allies” he amended.  “We had to get into this house.  I’m sorry.”  He ended his voice low.

If Johnson and his family were staring at him like he was loco, Gates mouth was working like a fish as the ramifications of Favor’s statement hit home.  Suddenly, he was struggling in Quince’s grip, screaming protests of innocence. The sudden outburst startled everyone and the youngster ran to bury his face in his mother’s skirts. Rowdy stopped pacing and stepping forward slapped Gates hard, fore and back dropping the man to his knees.   His fists working, Rowdy stood over Gates for a moment then turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Favor gripped Johnson’s arm as the homesteader made to stop him “I’m telling you the truth.” His voice was firm. “Let him go.”

The Johnson boys looked to their father who gave a small reluctant nod and they made no effort to interfere as Rowdy unbarred the door and stepped out.

There was abrupt silence outside the house. Johnson exchanged a look with his wife and swallowed hard while both boys hurried to the window, the older boy stepping over Simmons body.

“There’s an Indian riding in!” The younger one exclaimed excitedly.

Johnson and Favor moved to the door and watched as Sees Far rod to intercept Rowdy as he walked to where the now quiet war band sat their mounts.

Favor looked to the rocky draw where he knew the others would be coming now that Pete’s problem had been dealt with.  The Johnson clan had started crowding in the door for a better look so Favor moved out onto the porch.  There was still the matter of his problem, Gates, Gates and the Indians.

Favor didn’t like having to look up to anybody.  At 6’4” he didn’t often have to.  Sees Far, still mounted, would have found the big man’s irritation amusing if the situation hadn’t been so serious, but he wasn’t going to get off his horse just to make the trail boss feel better.  Both men were waiting for the others to arrive.  This joint expedition had come to a satisfactory conclusion as far as the Indians were concerned.  They’d been disappointed Simmons had died so quickly but Gates, awaiting their tender mercies, gave them no small satisfaction.  The scout would be pleased the white family was unharmed, Sees Far was thinking.  He rather liked the white scout.  He approved of the man’s concern for others, both red and white and few men would voluntarily have gone seeking the native people bringing dead men’s horse alone.  The white chief on the other hand was a man to be viewed with caution.

That he had the loyalty and not fear of his people spoke well for him.  That he was a warrior, there was no doubt.  He was a man to be respected.  This man was still unhappy and Sees Far had an inkling he knew why.  He sat his horse comfortably, mulling over the situation as a white might view it.  Both people had a grievance against the killers. One was dead by a white man’s hand.  It seemed reasonable to Sees Far, the other should be handed over for red justice. But he didn’t think it was going to go that way, not if he read the white chief correctly.  Nine whites, ten counting the tied up killer and over two dozen Kiowa.  He discounted the homesteader.  They would not be staying here.  They would have to travel a common trail back to where this chief had his cattle.  He would listen to their arguments. They had time.  And then they would take Gates and give their Kiowa dead peace.   He would regret any harm that befell these men true, but he would not let it stop him.
 

Reb Johnson’s sense of hospitality had been hard pressed.  The dictates of the code didn’t include the two dozen Indians now parked at his front door and he felt understandably vulnerable, not so much for himself as for his family whom he had ordered to stay indoors.

Apparently the consensus was the cowmen and the Indians would head on out and leave Johnson and family to their ongoing feud with their local neighbors. It was a decision he was profoundly grateful for but he was worried for the whites.  He stepped down to where the big trail boss was mounting his horse.

“Mister.” Johnson touched Favors’ stirrup. “You going to be alright? With that outlaw, I mean.” His words spoke of one thing but his eyes traveled to the mounted Indians patiently waiting.

Favor could read the concern in the homesteader’s eyes and did what he could, not that it was the truth but he could hope so. “We’ll be fine, thanks.” And he turned he horse to begin the trek back to Hatcher’s place.

There were many words he could use to describe Indians. Deadly, blood thirsty, menacing and so on.  Gil Favor would not have described Indians as a happy people under most circumstances but this was the most amiable group of Kiowa he’d ever had the misfortune to know.

The Indians had been content to play spectator to the white man’s disposition of corpse, money and murderer and that was making Gil Favor a very worried man.

“Pete,” Favor had moved up to the scout now riding a ways from Sees Far.” What are they thinking?  They going to give ups trouble?” He was making an effort to be discreet and he hated being subtle.

The whole Favor crew while too far for easy listening, was watching the scout and the boss so he kept his voice low for Favor’s ears alone.

“They mean to take him, I figure.” They might have been discussing the weather from what anybody could read from the scout’s expression.  Pete Nolan was a damn’ good poker player.  On the other hand Favor’s expression just looked dour but he looked that was most of the time so he was no help.

“How would you play it?”  Favor inquired.

Pete shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to be too close to our people.  We might come after them with the rest of the crew.  That’d make for an even fight.” His gaze slid to Sees Far, who catching the scout looking at him smiled a wolfish grin, which encompassed both the scout and the trail boss.

“Boss,” Pete absently touched his temple, “I’d like to think they wouldn’t kill us to get him but I wouldn’t bet on it either.”

All of which tallied with Favor’s conclusions and further darkened his mood. “Tonight or sometime tomorrow.” He mused, his expression bleak.  Both men looked back at Gates who was being led by Scarlet at the back end of the party.

“Maybe if we just shot ‘em…” Pete muttered, his expression still benign. “or had some of Mushy’s cooking…”

They’d bedded down for the night in not quite a communal camp.  The language barrier dictated a limited interaction but Sees Far opted to sit on the whites side of the fire and was holding forth on hunts he’d been on and being an entertaining guest.  Although the Kiowa did not understand the white tongue they too were listening with apparent interest as was polite in Kiowa society when a chief spoke.

None of which made Favor feel any better and quite possibly worse.  Gates was sequestered with a screen of Favor’s men between him and the Indians so as to remove temptation not that it mattered.

They would take it in shifts through the night and keep weapons ready.

The fire was dying down and the moon shown three-quarters full in the night sky when Sees Far stood up to call it a night.  He made it a point to bid farewell to the whites in their own tongue, in their own custom, shaking the hand of a startled Baxter then moving on to Quince and Rowdy who was sitting closest to the fire.

It was at that point a tense but tranquil evening took a deadly turn.

The ramrod had just put out his hand in a reflex response to Sees Far’s open palm when it was seized and the Indian was pivoting around him using the drover’s weight to pull him up in a shield.  The startled cowhand repressed a cry as his arm was forced up behind him and a knife was brought up hard under his chin.

The genial Indian was gone and Sees Far’s voice was thick with menace.

“Stand still or he dies!”

Favor was on his feet at the first move Sees Far had made and his men were not far behind him.  His gun was out and he could hear hammers being cocked behind him as the outnumbered whites stood grouped for what ever would come.

The Indians too were on their feet in anticipation taking out their weapons at a more leisurely pace.

“Give us the murderer.” Sees Far twisted the ramrod’s arm higher bringing Rowdy almost up on his toes trying to relieve the pressure. “And we will let you live.  No one else has to die.”

Favor’s voice was steady. “I can’t do that.”  His words were deliberate and implacable.

Sees Far’s eyes widened and then narrowed down to slits. “You would die for him?” He looked at the men now armed and tensely waiting.

“You will all die!” He pronounced.  “We are many and you are few.”  He tightened his grip on Rowdy.  “You will all die.  This one first!  Look around you!”  His voice was commanding. “You cannot stop us!” his voice hissed with fury.

“Maybe not, but I can stop you.” There was promise in Favor’s tone of cold sure certainty.  “If it’s with my last breath, I’ll stop you.  I’ll kill you.”

Rowdy’s mind was in an agony of frustration, anger and helplessness, but he was the only white in position to see Hatcher moving behind the line of drovers.

“Mr. Favor,” he croaked.

Hatcher had no gun, no weapon save his hate.  The Indians wanted the outlaw dead.  He’d oblige them.  He would give them Gates. He bent down and began to untie the outlaw’s bonds.

Gates was past terrified. He was almost mindless in his fear.  Hatcher barely had the ropes loosened and he was in motion, scrambling, crawling and kicking to get free.

Rowdy’s cry had twisted Favor’s guts into knots. He grit his teeth to ignore the pain he felt at the imploring look in Rowdy’s eyes until it registered on him that the drover was focused on a point behind where Favor stood.  He didn’t dare look away from Sees Far and his captive but Pete, quick on the uptake snatched a quick glance back.

“Mr. Favor!  It’s Gates, he’s loose!”

Gates was whimpering, a high pitched noise in the back of his throat.  He crawled toward the darkness that might mean safety.  A place to hide, he scrambled on hands and knees to the edge of the beleaguered party, his eyes looking back not seeing where he was going, not caring.  It was the dark and it was his friend. It would hide him and he didn’t see the small crustacean he put his hand on till he felt a sharp pain in the meat of his palm.  His cry was a strangled gasp and he clasped his hand to his chest rolling over to sit nursing the slight wound.

“Gates!” Favor’s voice was a whips crack of command. “Stay here and don’t move!  You’ve got no where to go!”

Gates’ mind snapped back to the now as if the pain had jolted him awake from a nightmare.  His safety was with the whites for now, for the moment.  He wouldn’t think about tomorrow or an hour from now, just the moment.  He shivered and with a moan moved back into their midst.

The silence stretched out, nerves winding tighter and tighter to a breaking point, as the two groups stood frozen in a stand off.

Sees Far was frustrated.  None save he spoke the white tongue in his band, which was good.   He was chief, they would do as he ordered.  He would do as he had promised; give their dead peace. But it would carry a price. There would be bloodshed on both sides, something he had tried to prevent.  He would die, he could see it in the white chief’s eyes.  They too would all die, that was a forgone conclusion and in a part of his mind he felt sorrow.

If men of their two peoples could not meet and part in friendship, what chance did the people as a whole have to make and keep any understandings?

He tightened his grip on the cowhand and drew breath to unleash hell.

Hatcher’s eyes had never left Gates.  He should have smashed the outlaw’s skull in with a rock while he had the chance. He could have done it when Gates was still tied he mourned.  He should have, but he couldn’t.  He was no murderer, he was a clerk, a minor official in a shipping company, who’d learned something he shouldn’t have and profited by it.  He couldn’t be a murderer and he shouldn’t have been a thief.  Hatcher hated himself almost as much as he hated Gates.  Gates had made him a murderer even with no blood staining his hands.   People had died because of Paul Hatcher.  People, the Indians, his wife… And Hatcher only wished that once, just once, he could take that onus on himself personally in Gates’ case. But he was a clerk and they were all going to die.  His eyes didn’t leave Gates but they weren’t seeing the outlaw either.

Joe Scarlet figured that when the shooting started, he’d grab the nester, Hatcher, he corrected himself, and hit the dirt, a low target being harder to hit. From there he could still cover the flank of the group.  He couldn’t shoot Rowdy’s way, he’d hit his own people, they were all near standing shoulder to shoulder.  Yeah, his best bet would be to grab the nester and hit the dirt.   He didn’t have a good line of sight on that Sees Far or the majority of the waiting Indians but that worked both ways.  He risked a quick peek to be sure of Hatcher’s position.  Satisfied the nester was close by, he wasn’t surprised Gates was close by either, the way Hatcher had been hanging around him.  But something was funny about the man and Scarlet frowned.  Scarlet risked a longer look at the outlaw.  Gates had scurried back into the fold and had been sitting huddled quiet close to Teddy but now he was holding his throat and his shoulders were working like he was having the dry heaves.   Scarlet had seen men in the war panic and break, weak men and strong men alike. This didn’t seem to be anything stemming from fear.  Gates would never have been called a handsome man but his features now were flushed and swollen, Scarlet noted with alarm.  Perspiration gleamed on his face in the poor light and his mouth was working like a stranded fish.  Scarlet could hear his breathing, a thin tight whistle as the man tried to suck air into oxygen starved lungs.

“Mr. Favor?” Scarlet's tone was low but urgent.

Favor’s world had narrowed down into a tunnel encompassing him, Sees Far and Rowdy Yates.  He could feel his men beside and behind him, a steadying presence that gave him both comfort and sorrow.  Joe Scarlet's cry was almost an intrusion in the drama of death that was about to unfold, throwing the rhythm of inevitability off stride.

“What is it?”  He demanded his voice harsh and impatient.

“There’s something wrong with Gates, Mr. Favor.  He can’t breath!”

Favor couldn’t move.  He didn’t dare risk braking eye contact with Sees Far and he tried to read in Rowdy’s expression an inkling of what was happening behind him.

Hatcher had come back to himself at Scarlet's first urgent warning and now sat staring at the changed Gates.

“Mr. Favor!”  Hatcher’s voice was tinged with fear and he shifted to get away from the outlaw. “Mr. Favor!”

Sees Far had paused at Scarlet's cry as well, and he too was trying to see what was happening in the white’s party.

Teddy stumbled into Collins as Gates lurched upright into him, the outlaw’s hands clawing for space to draw breath.  His throat was horribly distorted and his eyes were slits in a shiny moon of swollen flesh.

The Indians poised and waiting for Sees Far’s signal , stared frozen at the physical changes that marked their original quarry as the outlaw pushed past Teddy into the open area between the two contending peoples before any one could stop him.

Gates limbs jerked spasmodically as he tumbled in an uncoordinated sprawl to the ground.   His back arched as he rolled over, his heels drumming the dirt in a futile effort to breathe.

Pete Nolan hadn’t realized he had moved until he knelt down by the convulsing Gates.

Horrified at what his actions may have precipitated, he threw a look around the fire’s circle to find most eyes now were fixed on him, but the stand off remained unchanged.

Gates was incredibly strong, fighting him, as he tried to restrain the thrashing figure and keep him from going into the fire.  He had no clue  as to what was happening, but that the man was in a bad way there was no doubt.

Suddenly, Gates body spasmed stiffening under Pete’s hands.  Then he collapsed his limbs loose and splayed, twitching out on the ground.

Pete recoiled, then reached out his hand seeking a heartbeat, a pulse, anything, but the man was dead.

Pete sat back on his heels with an air of finality, turning to where Favor still stood immobile.

“He’s dead, Boss.”

Sees Far barked an order in Kiowa and Buffalo Hump cautiously approached the downed outlaw, eyes warily watching the beleaguered whites.  As Pete had done, he checked for life signs and he too found none.

“He is dead.”  He pronounced his voice laced with wonder.

Sees Far tightened his grip on the lanky ramrod, his mind working fast and furious.  There was still danger in their present circumstances but the initial cause had been some how removed.  There would be time later to ponder on it, but for the present all eyes were now turning to him.  He measured the white chief, Favor, and found the same expectation in the look he received.

“We will take our horses and go.” Sees Far pronounced and began slowly backing into the darkness, pulling Rowdy with him.

“You will not follow.”  He gave terse orders to his men while still watching the big trail boss.  His men, uneasy in the presence of apparent supernatural justice started moving toward the line of horses.

Buffalo Hump, the older Indian from Pete’s first encounter, gestured quickly, exchanging a significant look with the scout.  He touched Pete’s arm briefly and then he too stood up and headed into the night.

Pete climbed to his feet and turned to Favor.

“It’s all right, Boss.  They’ll let him go. They won’t hurt ‘em.”  He looked down at the dead Gates and then back to the retreating Indians.  “ I’ve never seen anything like it.”  Whether he meant the corpse or the Indians, no one could say.
 

There was enough light to see after his eyes had acclimated to the dark.  He no longer had the fires after image dancing across his vision field and the pressure on his arm had eased somewhat.  Things were looking up.

He was still angry at being manhandled but a quick mental debate dictated he couldn’t do anything about it.

They were well away from the campsite when he was suddenly loosed with a firm shove. He stumbled a bit before regaining his balance and pivoted to where Sees Far now mounted the horse Two Horses had been leading for his chief.  The others had apparently gone on leaving the two Indians and Rowdy as a rear guard, for they were alone.

Sees Far from his mount studied the angry ramrod.  Rowdy had straightened up and was doing his best to keep his features impassive,  trying to hide his emotional turmoil.  Another one who didn’t like looking up to anybody, Sees Far thought with amusement, much of the same stripe as the white chief but still young.

These men at least had some understanding, not like most whites.  It would be better if all whites were like them but his wish would not make it so.

“You tell your chief, it was not meant for others to die.  Just the one.”  Sees Far was still trying to wrap his mind around Gates death himself. “Let him think of that if we meet again.” He turned his horse and with Two Horses faded into the night.

Rowdy listened to the sound of hoof beats for a moment, then started walking back to camp.

Favor moved to meet him as he came into the fire’s light.

“Are you all right?”  There was a wealth of inquiry underlying his question. ‘Are you all right physically? You all right mentally? All right with almost having your throat cut because of Gil Favor? All right with Gil Favor?’

The big trail boss waited for accusations, condemnation or even hatred. Prepared to accept any and all of it.

Favor hadn’t asked from any man there anything he wasn’t prepared to deliver himself. Or accept, Rowdy realized.  If Rowdy Yates had died, he’d have only been the first man to do so and Favor would have died too.  But none of them had.

“I’m fine, Boss.” He shrugged, working his shoulder and arm.  And he was telling the truth, about everything.

Hatcher was bound for jail, the money was where it belonged and the Favor Outfit had all it’s parts and pieces back.  Even Wishbone was over his snit about ‘job descriptions’ and men were finishing up breakfast to his usual complaining, before they hit the trail.  It was spring, the beeves were fat and Favor’s world was as right as he could expect it to be.

“Say, Pete.”  He beckoned the scout over to where he was sitting.  “What all did that Indian say to you back at the camp?”

“Just Rowdy would be fine. They’d let him go.  Don’t worry.” Pete was being evasive.  Favor quirked an eyebrow.

“Just that?” he asked his tone skeptical.

While Pete Nolan would be no one to play poker with if you’d just met him, he couldn’t hide a whole lot from his boss so he gave in gracefully.

“And he mentioned he was sorry we both had bull headed chiefs and to stop by and see ‘em sometime.  I’d be welcome.”  Pete watched Favor’s expression change and smothered a grin.  “Course you’d have to put Wishbone in charge of the scouting which would make Mushy the cook…”

“That’s enough!” Favor growled getting to his feet. “Let’s head ‘em up.” And he stalked off to the horse line with as much dignity as he could muster.