Michelle Tanner: Going West

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

 

This book would not have been possible, if not for the colorful upbringing I had, surrounded by my father and his brothers, who, though good men, were scoundrels in their own endearing way. The tales they told gave me a love of an era long since passed into history; that of the American west of the 1800s.

To my wife, who proofreads, co-writes parts, creates my book covers, keeps my website updated and handles all the boring stuff like marketing and keywords, I thank you.

To my editor and publisher, thank you for turning my rambles into a coherent tale before I set it loose and released it into the world. You made me look good.

PART ONE

AMBUSH AT KANSAS CITY

 

The Western frontier was settled and tamed by bold men and women whose exploits of derring-do reached mythological proportions. Fueled by writers who exploited their deeds in cheap, sensationalized books—the penny-dreadful and the dime-novel published stories by authors who, often, hadn’t even met the person about whom they wrote. They exploded the tales beyond recognition even to the person on whom it was based. One notable, upon reading one of the stories about himself, commented, “It may be the gospel, but I don’t have any recollection of it, a’tall.”

For a time, a celebrated frontiersman’s legend grew and then declined—usually accompanied by two simultaneous events. Their age advanced and so their exploits declined, along with some new singularly unique individual capturing the nation’s attention. On rare occasions, the declining celebrant tutored the climbing upstart. Such was the case of Joseph Nathan Meeker and Michelle Tanner.

 

Sleeps with Bears

The rain had threatened to fall for several days. Winter was behind them, while summer didn’t yet beat its heat down on them. The north coast of Maine produced a hardy people with a yearning for adventure in their souls. Joseph Nathan Meeker was no different from other young folks from Maine. At fourteen years old, he wanted to see what there was to see.

Many Maine adventurers turn to the sea. Not Meeker…he possessed a yearning to see what lay to the west. Therefore, it was on a beautiful March morning in 1830 that Meeker’s mother and father watched as he walked out of their life. Walking down the small rock walkway in the front yard of the house, Meeker mounted a horse, a big bay Morgan.

Meeker’s father knew he would never see his boy again. Meeker’s mother feared he was far too young for the adventure he set out to find. Having raised him the Maine way, they taught him self-reliance, responsibility, and that he had a right to do whatever he wanted—as long as no one else was harmed by what he did. Having raised him this way, they found it hard to tell him, “You can’t do this.” Even so, he was only a boy of fourteen.

Meeker’s father argued with him through the nights leading up to his departure. Yelled at him, accused him of breaking his mother’s heart, but in the end, he could not bring himself to say, “No.” They never had, in point of fact, said no to Nate. Always a good boy, Nate never got into trouble. The boy had excelled in school but left school short of where his parents had hoped for him.

His father had a dream; a foolish one in retrospect. A dream his boy would share law offices with him. This was America, and they were Americans, a rougher cut of human than their ancestors back in England. Somewhat lacking in the social graces, or so it seemed in the 1830’s.

Nathan rode less than a mile before the rain started to fall; showers fell on him for over one hundred miles. By the fourth day of his trip, he thought the deluge would never quit. Eventually, the rain did stop; the sun shone down on him, improving the mood he was in. Still, he missed his folks. Nate Meeker would never return to Maine in his life. Never again, stand watching the sea from the cliffs less than one hundred yards from the back door of his parent’s house. He would write to his mother once a year, and she would write back.

His father would be dead for more than six months when he received the miserable news. The exchange of letters ended in 1847. He sent his message at the usual time and waited for the response, a response which never arrived. He received a letter from an uncle in 1850 telling him of the death of his mother three years prior. Joseph Nathan Meeker hated letters and telegraphs, for they only fetched you sorrow and sadness.

The boy went westward, meeting with others with the same intentions as him. As some fortuitous piece of luck would have it, or perhaps the hand of God, Meeker fell in with a hearty, good-natured lot of men. They possessed foul mouths and some hideous habits, but still they were what you would call good men.

Meeker became a trapper; he learned enough of many of the languages of the Natives he would contend with to communicate. He also learned sign language, which enabled him to talk to almost any member of any tribe. In the year of our Lord 1835, at the ripe old age of twenty, Joseph Nathan Meeker was an experienced trapper and mountain man. The respect afforded him by his fellow hunters and trappers, the company to whom he sold his pelts, and the many Indians he dealt with spoke as much to his temperament as his work ethic. In mid-October of that year, while young Meeker explored a new area he thought he would like to trap, snow fell hard, turning into a blizzard in the twinkling of an eye.

The storm howled through the mountains; the furious snowfall descended so fast and hard that Meeker could barely see his hand in front of his face. Moving as fast as he could, Meeker searched for some place of safety. At last, he spied an opening in the side of the mountain he was on just as the last rays of sunlight faded and darkness began to cover the land. Riding up to the opening, Meeker dismounted his horse and began to lead the animal into the cave. His horse dug his hooves in while it whinnied and snorted, protesting this decision. Meeker, not wishing to freeze, tethered the animal just outside the cave entrance. Gathering some twigs, sticks, and other firewood, he entered the cave.

Young Nate busied himself with building a fire. Once the fire was going, he went out to the horse and tried one more time to get the creature inside the cave. The animal put up even more protest.

“Well, the hell with you, you can freeze to death for all I care,” Meeker yelled, as he took his bedroll and saddlebags into the cave. He huddled up next to the fire while he chewed his jerky. Then he heard the audible soft, snorting sound almost like snoring. An enormous hulk lay on the cave floor only about twenty feet from him. Lifting its massive head, the bear’s eyes opened and she stared at him. The animal peered at the other inhabitant of her cave. Emitting a soft growl, the terrifying creature put a paw up over its eyes to shield them from the glare of the firelight. Laying her massive head down, the beast moved a smidge, settling in to get more comfortable. Soon the sound of snoring filled the cave again.

To say Meeker was afraid would be wrong; however, he damn near soiled himself. He was firm in his knowledge of just how vulnerable his position was. He wondered whether he should go out and retrieve his rifle from the scabbard. Perhaps his pistols from their holsters hanging from the saddle horn would be a better plan.

Looking at the slumbering beast, a sense of peace passed over him. Why should I kill her? His presence didn’t particularly bother her. He was not in any particular need of meat at this point. Why should I murder her in her sleep? Some would say his decision was foolish. I’ll just get me some shuteye, rise early in the morning, and be gone. He reasoned that more than likely he was safe. She would hibernate there for the entire winter. At least that was what he thought.

In the middle of the night, Meeker awoke with a start, feeling the sting of hot, moist breath blast across his face. Opening his eyes, Meeker was greeted by the sight of the colossal face that stared at him while her enormous paw pushed on his shoulder. Just above her left eye was a jagged scar from some previous adventure. She sniffed him and continued to push. Grasping the handle of his knife, Meeker stared back at her and spoke to her in a calm, soft voice.

“I’m okay, ‘little lady,’ just sleeping like you.” The bear turned and walked back to her side of the cave. Again, she lay down and waggled about until she was comfortable. Soon her snoring filled his ears, and he drifted back to sleep.

The next morning Meeker ventured out of the cave and looked at his horse. He stood knee-deep in the snow, still tethered to the tree. The snow was deep and fluffy, and Meeker waded through it to the still-nervous horse. The Morgan pawed the ground through the deep snow, desiring nothing more than to get away from this place.

“Coward,” he told the beast as he loaded his gear back on the horse. Mounting up, he saw two Lakota dog soldiers looking at him. They stood by the stream, debating between themselves who would wade into the frigid water to catch breakfast. He knew the two men and signed to them, “Good morning!”

They signed back the same. The big grizzly lumbered out of the cave. The horse tried to bolt, but Meeker kept the reins tight on him, telling him, “Whoa.” The bear held her head high as she rose on her hind legs, letting out a growl at the two men. Then she roared loudly in a threatening manner. She dropped down in the snow on all fours, turned from the couple, and made her way back up the mountain.

“She’s a friend of mine,” Meeker hollered out to the men. He then signed it and added in sign language, “Leave her alone.”

One of the Indians grunted out in his native tongue, “Crazy fool, sleeps with bears.” From that day forward, Sleeps with Bears was how Meeker was known to all the tribes. It wouldn’t be the last time Meeker saw these two Lakota dog soldiers or his bear.

 

Twenty-Nine Years Later, 1864

Screaming, whooping, and hollering filled the air. The bloodcurdling yell filled hearts with fear. The Rebel Yell preceded the attack. Rifle balls whizzed through the air; men fell on both sides. It always started that way...that God-awful yell! The dream, or rather a nightmare, invaded a peaceful sleep, shattering his rest. Jerking up in the bed, Meeker looked around the darkened hotel room and realized it was just the dream, well, the nightmare. He’d had the same awful dream for almost a year now, disrupting his rest. Cold sweat covered his face while a deep fear gripped him hard. All those bodies piled like cordwood, one atop another.

The fear began to drop as his mind’s eye saw him standing his ground, sword drawn, determined not to break. He smiled, his fear gone just by thinking of the man, Chamberlin. The colonel gave instruction for an assault on advancing Confederate soldiers at Little Round Top. Pride and fear rolled into one memory of a dreadful gambit. Chamberlin led the Maine men in a charge down the slopes of that rocky, steep hill. Their daring maneuver while nearly out of ammunition saved the day, along with possibly saving the Union Army and the War.

Jumping out of bed, Meeker toddled to the dresser in the room. The sound of the water pouring from the pitcher to the basin broke the silence. Cool water bathed his face as he washed the sweaty mist away. Fumbling around, he eventually struck a match and lit the lamp. 3:40am, the gold pocket watch showed the time with precision as it performed its duty.

His wife and son’s faces stared at him from inside the pocket watch, and the memory of the telegraph flooded him. Sadness overtook him.

“Sleeps with Bears my pale white ass,” he said to no one, “can’t sleep at all most nights. Not anymore.”

The hardwood floor felt good against his bare feet as he moved to the window. He pushed up the sash, and the night air flooded the room. No longer hot, a gentle breeze blew in, almost cooling the room. Almost. After a visit to the chamber pot, Joseph Nathan Meeker somewhat calmed down and settled back into the bed. His long, flowing white hair covered the pillow as he blankly stared at the dark.

Forty-eight years old, Meeker’s hair had turned gray more than a decade prior. Having left home at fourteen, he had lived a life of adventure. He was a fur trapper, scout, celebrated frontiersman, deputy US marshal, and the subject of many a penny dreadful and dime novel. He was all those things and yet—none of them. Husband and father were his favorite personae, but when the war broke out, he had had to choose sides.

He had two things he loved more than life, both now gone taken from him by an act of vengeance. That damn telegraph had shattered his world. Resigning his commission, Meeker had set out for home, only home would not be home anymore. Looking up at the tinwork ceiling, he admired the intricate pattern stamped in the panels, which showed horses running on the flat prairie. Sleep crept over him again, and he finished the night blessedly free of dreams or nightmares.

 

Michelle Tanner—1856

She was tall for her age, taller than all the boys her own age. She had lost her mother two years before and for a while struggled to accept it. Still, she was happy, well-adjusted, and the light of her father’s life. Michelle Tanner was quite the precocious twelve-year-old girl.

Many called her spoiled, being the only child of a wealthy widower. It would have surprised no one when this headstrong daughter stood in a corral face-to-face with a horse. Blanket and saddle in one hand, she petted the beast on his long face as it whinnied at her. Turning from the great white beast, the girl moved in a steady pace to the fence. The stallion followed her, his head bowed down to her level in a show of submission. Michelle hoisted the saddle over one of the rails of the fence, throwing the blanket over the seat of the saddle.

Picking up the hackamore bridle she turned back to the horse, placing the bridle on his head. Rubbing the beast on the neck as she cinched up the bridle, she spoke to him in a soft voice, “You will not need a nasty ole bit in your mouth. No, you will behave yourself for me. I know you will.” She led Blanco around the corral for a few minutes and then threw the blanket on, continuing to march him around the enclosure. Soon she put the saddle on him and tightened the cinch.

Michelle walked Blanco around for at least fifteen minutes, working the animal just as she had seen her father do on many occasions. John Tanner broke his own horses in the manner taught to him by his father, who had learned from a Cherokee long before John was even born. Michelle, having observed this all her life, felt she knew exactly what to do. With care, she stood on the left side stirrup, her left hand on the horn and right hand on the cantle. She spoke to the mount with a calm, sure tone.

With her gentle prodding, the steed walked around the corral with the girl standing in the left stirrup. Blanco moved around the arena in a slow trudge. One would believe that the animal had carried the girl in this style a thousand times in as many days.

After a short time, the girl swung her right leg over the horse and put her foot in the other stirrup. Shell took the reins in her hand and pulled them. Not tight, but she held a good firm grip. Michelle assured herself that not too much rein hung between her hands and where the reins attached to the halter.

“Now, Mr. Blanco, I would really appreciate it if you would walk briskly in a circle around the corral.” Speaking to the beast as though he understood her words in perfect clarity, the girl tapped her heels to the animal’s rib. The first few times she touched him, Blanco did nothing, but the third time he moved forward. Michelle guided him in a smooth liquid motion, using her reins and knees.

John Tanner had a good healthy heart, which considering what he saw was a good thing. He looked through the window expecting to see his daughter on her charger. What he saw instead was Michelle on the new horse. His young daughter sitting atop a seventeen-hand-high, 1,475-pound stallion. An animal he had not yet broken.

Rushing out the back door of the house, John yelled at his daughter to get off the steed. He was running as fast as he could and screaming at the top of his voice. Glasses flew from one pocket while documents he had been reading fell from his hand. The papers blew off in the light breeze that wafted through Washington Town.

“What do you think you’re doing, Shelly?” he screamed at her as he climbed on the fence. Michelle pulled back on the reins, and the creature stopped in place. Reaching forward, she rubbed his ear, and the animal responded by rolling his head against her hand.

“Father,” she said in a strict voice, “stop yelling or you will frighten poor Blanco. He was lonely. He just needed some companionship.” Tanner climbed down, motioning with his hands his wish for her to get off the beast.

“He has only been here a week, dear. He isn’t used to the place yet, so just get down off him,” Tanner said, still pushing downward motions with his hands. “Besides, I have not yet broken him.”

“Father,” she said indignantly, “you told me we do not break horses. We train them. I have ridden him twice a day, for two hours at a time, for four days straight. He is as mild as a lamb.” She was now patting the horse’s neck while he nodded his head as if trying to tell Mr. Tanner she was right.

John Tanner squatted; putting elbows on knees, he held his head with his hands. “You have ridden him for four days?” he asked in disbelief of what he had heard.

“Yes,” she said with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice. Michelle could not believe her father’s reaction.

A realization exploded in John Tanner’s mind. Michelle was an extraordinary person. He had known she was special, but how special he never understood. Not, that is, until that moment. He also knew in his heart that he would not be around her nearly long enough to satisfy him. At that moment, any thought of her marrying and having children passed from his mind. John Tanner would spend every moment possible with his daughter over the next eight years.

 

Eight Years Later, 1864

Michelle Tanner fidgeted in her bed, trying to get comfortable. Unable to sleep she was too excited about the life upon which she was about to embark. Sitting up in bed, Shell turned to the mirror on her dresser. Taking the brush from her nightstand, she brushed her bright red hair while she pondered what possible adventures she might encounter.

She would need a horse, but best to purchase that after she was out west. Out west. The thought of going west agitated her. A new life awaited her no matter what it brought, it would be...at least...different from the life here.

Life was not hard here; that was not a part of the equation. Life lacked a challenge for her. If she wanted a man, a good man, it would be challenging for several reasons. First, there were far more women than men in the eastern United States; the war ensured that. Second, Michelle Tanner was taller than most women were. Well, to be honest, Miss Tanner was taller than most men were—standing over six feet tall, she towered over most men in the 1860s.

Michelle had no need for a man, not to provide for her, not to protect her, and certainly not for any carnal pleasure. Her desires were considered unnatural by the conventions of polite society; Michelle kept those thoughts to herself. Wearing men’s clothing set her apart. Ridicule of her was what passed for entertainment by some of her peers.

Out west, Michelle hoped to find several things there—adventure, happiness, and something that eluded her here, freedom, the freedom to be who she was. In the west, people were more apt to overlook ticks, quirks, and the oddities of one’s personality—Shell had read that and believed it to be true. In turn, she would do likewise for them.

This is not to say that she did not have suitors; no, she had them in droves. Michelle Tanner was bored with the long line of suitors after her father’s money. She never had been drawn toward men. Still, to know that their chief interest was her father’s money was hurtful. She knew she was too tall, too muscled, and too smart to attract the opposite sex. John Tanner’s vast wealth was plenty of incentive for the would-be suitors who swarmed around his daughter. They were not unlike bees swarming to protect the hive. Or perhaps, more akin to vultures converging on a fresh body.

Messing with her hair, she looked in the mirror thinking of what was to be; this calmed her. Laying the brush down, she again lay on the bed. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. She dreamed of horses, running free—the ponies moved across an endless sea of grass. The wind blew and caused the grass to have ripples just like waves on the ocean.

****

July 1864 was hot in Washington D.C. The war raged on with no end in sight. Washington sweltered in the heat. Even with the war raging on, people went on with their lives. The trip west on a train should be safe from the war. The union occupied the lands surrounding the tracks; there were also soldiers on every train, acting as guards.

The horrid screeching of train wheels jerking forward filled the air. Spinning on the iron rails, the wheels ultimately got traction as the train lurched forward in earnest. Thick billows of steam and smoke belched from the stack on the front of the engine. Jerking forward and back, the tall woman moved as the train dictated. Holding her hand up, Michelle waved to her father. John Tanner fought the urge to cry and only waved back to his daughter.

He watched the train until it at last faded from his view. John Tanner shook his head and moved away from the tracks. Making his way past the station, he walked home, lost in thought, hopeful his little girl would be safe. His wife had died in childbirth ten years before; the child likewise did not survive. The misfortune left John and Michelle, his little Shelly, to move on in life. Now he was alone, and he hoped for the best for his little girl. “Little girl” was not an accurate description of Michelle.

Realizing his daughter had left him behind made him sad. Even so, John Tanner knew his daughter needed to do this. There comes the point in all people’s lives when they feel the need to prove themselves. This was her time. Hoping she would find happiness, John Tanner prayed for his “little” girl.

****

The train moved at a slow, steady pace at first, then picked up momentum. Leaning out as far as safety permitted her, Michelle maintained the sight of her father. The train began to pick up speed. Eventually, she realized she could see the man no more and lowered her arm, wishing her father goodbye over and over. She jostled from side to side as the train moved down the tracks. Lost in thought, she stood there for some time. Finally, shaking herself from her doldrums, Michelle Tanner stepped inside the car. Walking down the tight aisle between the benches, she reached out occasionally, steadying herself by grabbing the back of a bench. Everyone stared at the sight of her. Some women giggled, and some men wondered why she was dressed as she was.

A buckskin-clad man sat looking out the window; his long gray hair and keen eyes gave him a distinguished and distinctive look. Michelle, along with everyone on the train, knew him as soon as she saw him. Known by sight from the covers of a dozen or more dime novels, Joseph Nathan Meeker was one of the better-known mountain men.

“Hello, sir. If you wouldn’t mind...” Michelle stammered for a second, and then continued. “There don’t look to be many open spots on this car.” Again, her tongue failed her for a moment. “If it is not too bold of me to ask, would it be alright for me to sit beside you? I promise to not be a pest,” Michelle said as the famous man looked up at her. He was unaccustomed to seeing such a sight. Lord, this gal was tall—over six feet he guessed—and her brilliant red hair and green eyes spoke of her Irish heritage, he assumed. The oddity was her dress. Sporting a man’s dress shirt, vest, and a frock coat, she wore braces, which held on tight to her men’s riding pants. He smiled up at her and stood.

The car swayed from side to side. Chug, chug—the deep, distinctive sound of the steam engine along with the clanking of the wheels on the track invaded the car. Meeker reached out and steadied himself, smiling at the woman—or oddity—who stood before him. He formed in his head what he would say. Something he had cultivated doing in the past five or six years to avoid misstatements.

“I would be honored. I’m Joseph Nathan Meeker, but you can call me Nate or Nathan, Miss, and conversation would be dandy. I used to crave solitude, but of late I have a desire for company.” He bowed to the woman. “But not just any company.”

Meeker moved to the aisle to give Michelle the window seat. She moved in and stood as Meeker reentered the tight area between the fronts of the seats and the back of the next row. Michelle sat first while Meeker followed suit as he sat and continued to talk. “The last few years have been a journey I am happy to complete. With my service to my country, I hope performed with honor now complete, I look forward to the vast freedom of the West.” His hand swept toward the front of the train. “Now, Miss, what is it that brings you westward? Visiting family in St. Louis, I suspect, or old friends of the family.” He looked at her with a trace of nothing but curiosity. Michelle felt at ease with this living legend.

“I am Michelle Tanner, and I, of course, know who you are. I have read the books about you…”

“All lies, Miss Tanner, but lies fueled by drink and a crafty penny dreadful writer.” He smiled, wagging a finger at her. He was always amused that his exploits—some real and some blown so out of proportion they were laughable—were always the first thing anyone would want to talk about with him. Perhaps it was just the nature of things.

“Well, I knew you as soon as I saw you, but would have never intruded on your privacy had there been other seats.” Michelle’s eyes lit up as she spoke, “Though, in truth, to sit beside someone I have so much admiration for pleasures me a great deal. As to me, I’m not visiting relations or going to visit a friend of the family.” Michelle looked him full in the eyes, showing no shame, no embarrassment at the words she spoke; her head and body shook with the motion of the train and perhaps a tad of excitement. “I’m striking out to make my way in the West. What I will do? I am not sure, but I will find my way. I am a very determined woman; I will have the life I want, and not the one that society says I should have. I will not sell myself short, nor make my way by selling myself.”

Meeker broke into a loud laugh, looking at the woman with wonder. “I like you, Michelle Tanner. You are what the West needs more of, and the East as well, but you can’t be in both places at the same time.” Meeker pulled a leather bag from the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a large black rectangle of chewing tobacco. He bit off a hunk and worked it to the side of his mouth. As Meeker continued to talk, he put the tobacco back in the pouch and then returned it to his pocket. He did all this without missing a beat in his conversation. “The West will be more accepting of you for at least ten to twenty years. Then who knows? When civilization with all its prejudices, rules, expectancies, and refinement will catch up,” he spoke this with some contempt in his voice. “Eventually civilization always catches up to wherever you go. Miss, civilization always finds its way to paradise and messes it all up; for better or worse, that is what we have to look forward to, civilization. They think they bring God to you. Hell, God was there first.”

The two people talked as the train moved westward chasing the sun, which outpaced it. For his part, Meeker would tell her a story, as true as his memory and his penchant for exaggeration would allow. Michelle would marvel at the story, and he would always add in the end, “Now that is how I remember it; accuracy is not ensured. I am sure I have added some colorful events or made those happenings a mite more spectacular than they were.”

They talked between themselves as minutes turned to hours. Sooner than one would want, the night followed the day. The train stopped every thirty to fifty miles, taking on water and wood, allowing some passengers to depart and others to come aboard. Still, they managed to move thirty miles an hour, flying along at breakneck speed.

The odd pair dozed through the night, alternating between talking and sleeping, as best they could, in the uncomfortable seats. The following day they continued their conversation. In no time, Meeker grew fond of the upstart young woman. He felt a fondness for Michelle akin to her being his niece from some long-lost brother.

Michelle was confident that Meeker had told her the straight truth. Later in life, she began to suspect that everyone adds bits and pieces to their stories. For now, though, Shell was a twenty-year-old woman full of faith in those she had admiration for, her father being the person she respected first and foremost. She could hear that last advice he gave her just before she boarded the train. For a few minutes, she was lost in her thoughts, of her father and the life she had left behind her. Meeker’s voice, coupled with the loud scream of the engine’s horn, shocked her back to the here and now.

“I have been dominating the conversation. Now we come to your turn. Why move west? What is so wrong in your life that you feel the need to change it? Once you are out west, what do you think you want to do?” Meeker questioned her. She turned her attention to him once more. She was not sad about her choice, but already she missed her father. Her father, who had been her only parent for all those years since her mother had died in childbirth; Michelle’s little brother had died as well. Her mother died leaving only John Tanner and his ten-year-old daughter to move forward with their lives. They had been each other’s world, so it had been, for ten years.

She explained how her life had a hole in it. She wanted to fill the hole. She talked about the need for more than she had and told him about the suitors who only wanted her father’s money. She spoke about her childhood and her interests and explained about wanting to make her own way.

“I love to play poker, and I like horses. I am a superb horseman—or horsewoman, I reckon I should say. I like hunting and fishing; not to brag, but I reckon I would have been a hell of a trapper, perhaps not as good as you or Jim Bridger,” she said, smiling at him.

“Well, you will not be a trapper, young lady; there aren’t enough of the beaver left to supply a lot more seasons. Men must change their haberdashery habits, I fear.” Meeker frowned. “Trappers find enough of the critters every year for the ‘Company’ to make hats that cover empty heads. The ‘Company’ always finds a way to cheat the trapper out of most of what he is due.”

“Well, sir, if you do not mind my asking, what do you intend to do out west this year? Returning to trapping?” Michelle asked him, bubbling with curiosity as to what his answer would be. Meeker’s face grew stern and cold-looking while his bright eyes darkened and his lids nearly closed. A single tear ran down his face as he looked angry and sad at the same time.

“No, Miss Tanner, I’m going hunting. I’m hunting for a man. Once I find him, I’ll kill me a man who has needed killing for a long time.” Meeker’s voice grew harsh. It was a tone she had not heard from him. He fell silent for a few moments. “But that’s nothing about that for you to fret your pretty head.”

The statement shocked her, though. She was not sure why. She knew this legend of man had killed men, Indians included but white men as well. He grew silent for several minutes, and Michelle did not know what to say. Choosing discretion to be the better part of valor in this instance, Michelle said nothing. Asking no question, Michelle offered no conversation at that point as well. Her silence was more of a judgment to him than she intended.

“Michelle, some men are just sick in an evil sort of way; they need to be killed. This is one of those men. I will kill him, for he did me wrong. Worse, he did my child and wife wrong. She was just a Sioux squaw…by God in Heaven, she was my…wife. He was only a half-breed kid…but by God in Heaven… he was my boy! I will not let it pass.” His eyes were open but saw nothing; tears streaked down his face as he spoke.

The gloomy mood lifted, at last, and then the conversation grew lighter. Michelle allowed that she might want to own a saloon—maybe even a brothel. But she would not be part of the merchandise. Confiding in Meeker, Michelle told him she wanted to learn how to shoot, not that she wished to be a gunman—gunwoman. Still, she wanted to be able to defend herself. She knew how to shoot a rifle, she could hunt, but she wanted to learn how to handle a pistol.

Another day and night passed by, and soon they were crossing the Mississippi River. Michelle marveled at how long it took the train to cross over the river. Meeker told her it was more than a mile across.

They moved forward at a steady pace, chugging along until they ran out of track. The conductor entered the car—he came clambering back down the aisle calling out to the passengers. “Last stop Kansas City, Kansas City, Missouri, everybody off the train for we are done a’going where we were a’going. END OF LINE.”

“I would like to tag along with you, and learn what there is to learn if you would take on an apprentice like me,” she told him. In honesty, she had the thought of changing his mind on this death quest. He laughed for a moment and then put his eyes on her.

“Alright, then I will teach you what I can. But when push comes to shove, you will not get in the way of what I have set out to do.” Meeker told her, “That is what I have to do, and by God, I’ll do ‘er.”

“I did not say I had the intent to change your mind on that subject,” Michelle said as convincingly as she could.

“You did not say you did...but you do.” Meeker turned his eyes back to the window. “But tag on along and you will learn, I will teach, and we will see what comes of what.” Michelle could not help but wonder why Meeker wanted to kill this man. She knew that the man had murdered his wife and child, but still…there was the law, even out here. There was the law, and it should handle such matters.

The odd-looking pair exited the train onto the boarded sidewalk of the station. Meeker moved toward the freight cars. He claimed his animal, and then Meeker, Michelle, and Star walked toward town, the horse following behind in a type of contentment. He was saddled, the reins were thrown up over the saddle horn, and the white Morgan walked dutifully behind his master.

As they entered the bustling city, they saw the sign. It was a big sign with words painted on it and the wood cut in the shape of a running stallion. “Samuel Piggott Horse Trader N Stables” the sign read. The pair walked into the courtyard and looked around at the establishment. There were barns and a round pen and a big corral. The owner walked out at a fast pace to the couple.

“Now what can I do for you, fine folks?” he asked them.

“We’re looking for a horse for this young woman,” Meeker told him.

“My God, you’re tall for a female!” Piggott blurted out the obvious. “Are you a Swede?” he questioned, and Michelle shook her head. “Well, you ain’t the tallest female I ever seen; they were all Swede gals. Still, you’re a tall one, that is for sure.” Piggott got down to business. “Well, I got several in here—each and every one is an excellent beasty. However, I got a deal on right now. Ya see that big Buckskin Dunn over thar? That mare is a testament to the stubborn nature of some beasts of burden. She is a tad on the insane side, and for just ten dollars, if you can ride her, she is yours. If you can’t, the ten dollars is my money, and you will be going away with bruised pride; then we can look at some milk-toast animal for you,” Piggott told them.

“What’s her name?” Michelle Tanner asked the man.

“Were I to name her I would call her Mary Todd Lincoln, for she is as crazy as one can be,” the man said with a great of deal of disdain shown for the First Lady.

“I’ll ride her and won’t be thrown,” she told the trader as she handed the ten-dollar Gold Eagle to Piggott. He looked it over, up and down, and then bit the coin. He smiled and nodded his head as he put the “wager” money in his pocket. For that was what it was—a wager—coin on one side, animal on the other.

“Saddle her up boys, we got us some entertainment. It will be a short bit of theater, though,” Piggott said.

“I will saddle her myself if you provide the rig, and it should be a mite smaller than that one.” He agreed, and she handed him another ten-dollar gold piece. He looked at her. “For the saddle, I’m riding her out in fifteen to twenty minutes.” Piggott laughed loud and shook his head.

“Each and every try is ten dollars, but if you can ride the beasty, the saddle is yours.” Piggott handed her back the gold coin.

An elderly Indian ambled into the stables at that point. He trudged back and took a position on the fence to watch the action with the others. Through weathered eyes, the old Indian watched the events unfold. His dress was strange for an Indian; a blue pinstriped suit and black derby hat.

Michelle walked up to the mare and patted her on the face. At first, the horse pulled away from the woman, but Michelle just kept stroking her. First on the horse’s face, then her neck and then down her back. Piggott watched Michelle—no one had ever done this before, but it would make no difference. He knew as soon as the weight hit the mount’s back, she would buck, and inside of four seconds, it would be over and he would be ten dollars wealthier.

Soon Michelle held the horse’s head and looked her in the eye. She stared at the animal, holding its gaze first in one eye. She then moved the pony’s head and looked her in the other eye. The mare started to nod its head. Michelle rubbed one of her ears, and she pushed hard against her hand, enjoying the massage. Her face next to the big nostrils of the animal, Michelle blew her breath at the animal.

“This woman is smart ‘horse trader’; she knows horses,” the Indian told the men around the corral. “She has hair like the flame of a fire. I’ll give her the name ‘Hair of Flame.’” He looked over at Meeker, and he recognized him. “I know you—Meeker the trapper, frontiersman, deputy US marshal, you are ‘Sleeps with Bears.’”

“I haven’t been called that in a coon’s age.” Meeker was amused as he remembered how his Indian name had been given to him. He returned his attention to Michelle and the animal. He wondered if he should know the man, though.

After a good two- or three-minute period, she put the blanket in place followed by the saddle. It was odd; for the first time the mare did not protest the saddle being on her back. Piggott was not worried. No one had gone for more than six seconds.

Michelle led the mount into the corral. The workers shut the gate behind her and climbed on the fence to watch the short action that would follow. Piggott and Meeker walked over to watch from ground level.

“Piggott, you’re going to lose that pony today,” the Indian told the horse trader. Piggott grunted at the Indian, a disgruntled what do you know sound deep in his throat. Still if that old man said he would lose the horse, he knew, he might lose the horse.

Michelle climbed on board; the beast immediately stood erect, and nothing more. Then she began to hunch her back. Michelle reached down and touched her neck. The animal softened her stance and flattened out her back once again. The animal started to paw the ground, showing her impatience again. Michelle reached down, patting her on the upper neck, scratching behind her ear. Again, the mare stopped and stood motionless.

“That doesn’t count as riding the horse, Ma’am. We call that sitting a saddle around here.” Piggott worried that she might be able to ride the mare. The cantankerous, skittish beast stood calm underneath this woman. The mare turned her head, eyeballing the rider. No rider had sat her like this; the mare always began bucking as soon as someone sat her.

“She knows what she’s doing, Piggott, leave her alone,” the old Indian told him.

“Buffalo Head, leave me be!” Piggott said to the Indian. The old man winked at the horse trader and Samuel knew, he had lost the horse already.

Michelle touched the horse with her boot heels with a slight tap. Feeling the touch of her heels, the animal began to move forward at a fast trot. The mare began to arch her back; Michelle reacted, sitting hard down in the saddle. She reached down, touching the horse, rubbing the mare’s neck with a gentle hand. Michelle slowed the horse to a walk.

The pony never bucked; she started to, but Michelle would speak in a soft, comforting voice while touching her, and the mare would relax. This went on for about ten minutes, much to the surprise of those watching the events unfold. To a degree, it surprised even Meeker. After fifteen minutes, Michelle got the mare up to a trot, then a gallop.

The mount would move at a sharp pace down the center of the corral. Michelle would tug on the rein, and the horse would react and turn to the left or right in the direction indicated. In this manner, Michelle and the beast moved around the corral at a right fast gallop.

On occasions, the mare would give signs of being impatient or wanting to buck. Michelle would talk to the pony or touch her, and her attitude would change. The mount began to turn quicker for Michelle. When she had her in a trot, the mare lifted her legs high as if she were performing. Animal and rider developed a relationship in short order.

Michelle would slow the beast down to just a walk and repeat the whole set of exercises. Michelle began to nudge with her knee, pressing in the direction of the turn as she pulled the reins with a light touch. Then as a test, she turned her with just the knee. This worked every time—the mare was smart, Michelle could tell.

“This woman rides like a seasoned brave!” The Indian showed how amused he felt at what he saw. With a keen enthusiasm, Buffalo Head enjoyed Piggott’s apparent discomfort. The mare was not so much broken as tamed down; the horse trader had heard of breaking horses this way but never seen it. Buffalo Head had seen the method and used it, and he knew the woman would ride the animal when he saw her saddle the mare.

Then, Michelle had the animal running in a large circle in the center of the corral. The Mare had one last thought of bucking. She arched her back at one point. Shell started to reach down, but whatever had passed through the mind of the beast passed and she kept moving as directed.

“Well, Piggott, it’s her horse now.” Buffalo Head got off the fence and moved to the street.

“Go back to Colorado where you belong, you crazy old Indian,” Piggott yelled at him. The old man turned back to him and they exchanged faint smiles.

Then Michelle turned the animal, taking her to the back of the corral. Turning the animal toward an open spot on the front fence, horse and rider moved at a full run. The mare jumped at just the right moment, clearing the fence, and they charged out onto the street. Immediately Michelle pulled her down to a trot, then slowed her down more to a walk.

Piggott and Meeker ran to the opening at the front, watching as mount and rider made their way toward the inner town.

“By God, she’s riding my horse? No one has ever ridden that bitch of mine!” Piggott told Meeker.

“Not your horse anymore,” Meeker reminded Piggott.

“Guess not,” Piggott said to Meeker, his voice filled with a melodic melancholy. “By God! That critter has made me a fortune.” He looked wistfully at the animal and rider as they moved from view into the throng of city traffic. “All good things...” He smiled, shaking his head, then shook hands with Meeker. Putting the remaining ten-dollar gold piece in Meeker’s hand, he told him, “Tell her to enjoy that mare. She has earned her. I have never seen anything like that in my life.”

“Who’s the Indian?” Meeker asked Piggott.

“He works for the Flat Rock Ranch in Colorado Territory. Owned by some Englishman, he breaks and tends their horses. Can you believe that old buck has a degree in veterinary medicine from some fancy school back east? Pretty fair horse doctor, to be honest. Watch out, he’s a civilized Christian Cherokee; he’ll bust your balls about Jesus and salvation till the cows come home.” Piggott turned back to his establishment, muttering under his breath to no one.

****

From the shadows of an alley, the man saw Meeker. Touching the butt of his gun, he considered drawing and shooting him. He thought better of it—that would just be murder, and they’d hang you for that. He would bide his time, choosing where they would do battle. A duel would save him from the gallows. He would earn his money. He would kill Meeker, but he would not swing for it. Meeker was easy to spot. He could wait a day or so. Kill the man, then send a message and get the rest of his money.

****

Meeker led Star while he headed the way Michelle had ridden. Samuel Piggott walked toward his stunned men. “Well, by God you better have enjoyed that as much as seeing fellers thrown, pride bruised, asses busted. I’ll tell you the truth, and by God you can take this to the bank, that was one excellent example of horsemanship. And another thing, boys…” His voice faded from Meeker’s ears as he rode further into town. Meeker could see Michelle riding back toward him.

“I reckon that fellow is going to want more money now,” Shell Tanner said, sporting a big grin on her face. She ducked her head down as her long red hair fell over her face. Michelle rubbed the neck of her new mare. Raising her head up, she shook her head and threw her hair back in place again, running her fingers through flame-red locks like a comb.

“No, actually he is giving you a refund.” Meeker held out the gold piece to her. “He says you earned her.”

“Well, I will be a suck-egg mule. An honest horse trader!” she said, amazed, as she took the gold coin and shoved it back in her vest pocket.

“He probably ain’t too honest, Michelle. More than likely he was just mightily entertained by the way you handled her. What you going to call her?” he asked her, thinking he knew already.

“Mary Todd is her name, but she’s not crazy. I’ll tell you one thing, Nathan Meeker—in my opinion, she’s original as hell.” She smiled at him. “Fine horse, too, I guarantee you that. A little work with her and she will be wonderful.” The two riders rode on side by side.

“Shelly darling, the horse, isn’t half as original as her owner!” Meeker beamed proud of the girl and proud of his comment. The odd-looking pair scoured the city looking for a good hotel. Both trekkers were traveling light, only one satchel for each. The luggage had been hooked over Meeker’s saddle horn at first. Now, with the addition of another animal, each had their own bag, hung on the saddle horns of their respective saddles.

“I’ll buy us a pack animal so we don’t have to roll our clothes in the bedrolls,” he told her, then continued. “Shell, you will need buckskins for the trail. I think you will find them more comfortable. We will get them tomorrow. I have a friend here that can get you some. First chance you get, after you kill a buck or doe, you can make your own.” Meeker told her, “Probably have to wet fit the ones you get here!”

“Wet fit?” Michelle asked him. He laughed and turned to her in the saddle.

“Yep,” was all he answered; then Meeker fell silent.

They checked into the Loafer House Hotel; of course, they had separate rooms. They cleaned up for dinner, meeting at the hotel restaurant. The hotel had a gambling hall as well as rooms with “extra” entertainment available. The two companions enjoyed dinner together and moved to the gambling room afterward.

Michelle had many eyes on her, dressed the way she was. No one refused her a seat at the table where she and Meeker played until well after midnight. Michelle Tanner was a natural at the game of poker. She just knew when to hold, when to fold—as they say. She could read men well also; studying their faces and habits helped her figure out when a man had a real hand and when he bluffed.

Some grumbling about Michelle came from some rough-looking customers at a nearby table. Meeker stood up after a hand, saying he needed to stretch his legs. Walking to the complaining table, Meeker put his arm on the biggest, meanest looking one of them. Leaning down, he spoke in a hushed whisper into the man’s ear, “Shut up your complaining, or I’ll gut you like a fish.” Meeker squeezed the man’s shoulder hard and opened his coat, revealing a big bowie knife sheathed and hanging from his belt.

The man turned a shade or two lighter, then bowed his head to his cards and mumbled something. Silence fell on the table with no further comments emanating from them for the rest of the night. Well, one man did say, “Sam, that’s Meeker.”

Michelle doubled her poke, then tripled it. Eventually, she had five times what she had when she sat down to play. Men were more amazed at her play than angry. All at the table could afford to lose. After all, just playing cards with Meeker, a living legend, was an honor. His winnings also increased the weight in his pocket, but not nearly to the degree that Michelle’s did. The new game of five-card stud was the game of choice, and Shell had mastered it with her father months before leaving Washington Town. It helped that she could “read” men.

As they made their way up the stairs, Meeker had just enough whiskey in him to be bold with his statements. “That was a fine fleecing you did on them. Honest as could be too. You just knew when to bet, when to fold. That’s poker, Michelle, you understand the game well. Wish I could read men’s faces as well as you. Just remember to leave them something, girl. Even if you have to lose on purpose occasionally, a man needs his pride, young lady. If you gut someone at cards, then be a sport and spot them their breakfast.”

“I’ll remember that,” she answered. Michelle knew what he meant; she took the advice to heart.

“Tomorrow we’ll go see the Dutchman and get your guns and clothes for the plains,” he smiled at her.

“Just how many guns do you think a woman traveling in the West would want?” Her voice showed some amount of excitement laced with just a trace of unease.

“Maybe one, perhaps two, or you might want to carry three. I don’t know for sure, but want them or not, at some point, you will need them. You are a woman in a man’s world. I guarantee you sooner or later you will need a gun. Unless you become a dressmaker or a saloon girl.” Michelle gave him a harsh look. “Didn’t think so.” He opened his coat, and there hung a holstered Navy cap and ball on one side and a big bowie knife on the other. “Even here in this apparently peaceful place you might need one. I hope not.” Letting his coat go so the gun and blade were covered again, he continued, “I hope you never kill. Killing’s awful…it haunts you no matter how many or few die at your hand. All of them ghosts haunt you, yes sir girl, on that, you can take my word.” Meeker’s eyes had an odd look to them as his thoughts seemed to turn inward for a moment.

Michelle dreamed of riding Mary Todd for most of the night. She had a good night’s rest and woke ready for what the new day would bring. The first rays of the rising sun streamed in the window.

After breakfast, they went to Meeker’s friend’s place. The Dutchman was an elderly gentleman, a gunsmith with a thick Dutch or German accent, his stock and trade buying and selling guns. Often, he customized the guns he sold. The two old friends talked for a long time; then Meeker told him what he wanted—buckskins to fit the lady.

“Oh, but she’s built wrong. Too big here,” his hand waved across the general area of her breast. “She is too small there,” pointing to her waist. “She is far too tall for the way she is built. No, no—whole damn body wrong for what I have. We have to get the skins too big for her build, and then we can wet fit, sure, that will work.” He moved to the back room and soon walked back with brown leather buckskin clothing in his hands. He tossed the clothes to her.

“Nothing under, please, just put them on with nothing else.” He smiled at her. “We will wet fit you.” The Dutchman smiled a wicked grin and rolled his eyes while arching his eyebrows. Michelle thought the request odd, but she dressed in the back room. The arms were too big around, as were the legs. Length from waist to ankles was long but not as bad as the rest. “Out, miss—we go out back, wet fit.”

“Wet fit?” she questioned as the trio moved outside. Barefoot, Michelle traipsed down the stairs. As they walked down, she saw a big water tank there for the horses.

“Well, get in and get wet,” the Dutchman told her.

She saw in an instant what they meant and complied. She got in the tank and lay down in the water. The buckskins absorbed the water. Once they were soaked through, she got out and stood looking at the men.

“How’s it feel?” Meeker asked.

“Wet,” the one-word answer sounded a mite testy.

Shell walked to the stairs, bounding from step to step. The Dutchman stopped her. “No, no,” the old Dutchman told her. “Go out in the sun, let it dry and shrink down to fit body.”

“Guns, she needs weapons now,” Meeker told the Dutchman.

“Which hand does she use?” the Dutchman asked.

“I’m ambidextrous,” she said.

“What?” he grunted.

“She can use either,” Meeker explained.

“Two guns then, sure, crisscross belts, sure, that works for her.” He went in, bringing back two Colt Army cap and ball .44s with belts and holsters. The guns had beautiful engravings of wild horses on the cylinders. The heat of the sun dried Shell’s buckskins in quick order. Once her clothing was dry, she tried on the guns. She felt somehow contented; the weapons were like old friends, comforting her. Holding them in her hands, they felt good to her.

“The engravings are beautiful,” she said, looking one gun over, admiring the old man’s work.

“Danka, danka, I try hard to make good engravings,” he said; then he continued to talk. “When the purpose of something is to kill, it should be a work of art. I don’t know if that lessens the evil. The belts and holsters belonged to a tall man, as tall as you are. The guns, though, belonged to a gambler. A small man with arthritis—it made the cocking difficult for him. I fixed the weapons...adjusted the hammers. They pull back very easy. The triggers will go if the wind hits them. So be cautious when you handle them.”

Michelle bought the guns, belts, holsters, with all the accompanying accruements—powder flask, the caps, and the balls. Michelle and Meeker rode out for her first shooting lesson. Much to his surprise, she was a natural. With either hand, she could hit her target with a quick, effortless efficiency.

“Speed is less important than hitting where you aim, but you have both. That is good. It is bad for you as well. For with success, you have those that want whatever fame you have garnered.” He shook his head as they rode back to town.

“You got it all, Missy. Yes-sir-ree, for better or worse, you got it all! You may become a legend, or you could be a corpse. I don’t want to be sending no letter to your Pa explaining how you were killed.”

Meeker mounted his steed, and Michelle followed suit. As they rode back to town, Meeker held out the telegraph message to Michelle. She looked at it, seeing why Meeker wanted to kill the man.

It read, “From: City Marshal, Denver City To: Joseph Meeker stop Your wife and child have been murdered stop Person responsible one Daniel Anthony Hanover AKA Two Tongues Hanover stop Hanover fled jurisdiction stop Poster out, wanted for rape and murder, no reward offered stop Sorry to be bearer of bad news. Steven K. Helter, City Marshal.”

“Well, there you have it, Michelle, I’m going to hunt him down and kill him. Notice he is not wanted Dead or Alive, and Denver City didn’t offer a reward. That is because my wife was a Sioux Indian, and my boy was a lousy half-breed. People are dumb with their prejudice.” The pair rode into town in dead silence. When they reached their hotel, they dismounted their animals.

As they tied up the creatures, a man entered the street, yelling out at Meeker. Now was the time, he figured. Catch him by surprise, draw, and fire after calling him to duel. He would not give time for him to respond, just kill him fast. The man was bald as could be but sported a full beard. His look was one of anger and determination. “Joseph Nathan Meeker—you lousy bastard, meet your maker.” With his declaration, the only warning, the man pulled and fired the gun.

A shot rang out, barking loud as thick white smoke belched from the gun. A ball struck the ground near Meeker, harmlessly. Out of pure instinct, he shoved Michelle hard, pushing her out of the way. He yanked his own gun, firing at the man. The bullet struck him in the neck. The man at once dropped his weapon, grabbing the wound. The blood spurted from the wound out of control. Thick blood burst forth in a pulsing stream, flowing out between his fat fingers. The life blood surged forth with each beat of his heart, wetting the ground while his shirt and trousers darkened—turning darker and darker shades of red as the clothing soaked up the thick fluid.

Meeker helped Michelle to her feet, whispering in her ear, “Hide it no matter what; you must act as if this is nothing to you. Cry tonight, puke or whatever but not here. Here you do not let anyone see that it matters to you.”

The man on his knees struggled to breathe. Wet sucking sounds filled the air as his lungs flooded with blood. The bright red fluid surged in an unrelenting flow from his neck. He held his hands clenched tight to the wound. His mouth moved as he tried to talk. A gurgling sound was all one could hear. The blood rushed out between his fingers. His shirt was soaked with blood. His eyes widened with the cold realization that the damn money meant nothing. What good was the money now? Damn that Two Tongues—he told me Meeker could not shoot for shit! How could I have been so stupid as to believe someone called Two Tongues? All this passed through his mind as his life flowed out between his fingers. Falling face down in the dirt, legs and arms trembled and fluttered—then movement ceased. The man bled out in a short time as the town marshal ran up, shotgun in hand.

“Fair fight. The man fired first, and Mr. Meeker returned fire,” the bystanders spoke in agreement to the marshal.

They rolled the man over; the onlookers gawked down at him. Women seemed flushed with some excitement, while the men were giddy at having seen a gunfight. This attitude always perplexed Meeker—why people found death so interesting.

“Who is he, Mr. Meeker?” the marshal asked him.

“I have never laid eyes on him before in my life,” Meeker responded to the officer. No one knew the man. He was just another nameless body for the graveyard.

“We could just put ‘Stupid’ on his tombstone,” one man joked. The men chuckled in a nervous manner while the women just rolled their eyes.

“Well, he intended to do you harm. That is all I need to know. I will speak to the judge in the morning. You can attend or not, it’s up to you. Justifiable, I’m sure, will be his finding,” the marshal told him.

Michelle cried and puked that night. She threw the puke from the basin out the window of the hotel. She slept little through the night. She rolled around in her bed in a fitful, vain attempt to get comfortable. What little sleep she got was invaded by nightmares of the man’s face, filled with the fear of dying. All night Michelle heard that awful sound in her sleep. That tortured, wet sucking sound as he tried to breathe, coupled with the sick gurgling and gushing sounds as the blood squirted from his wound.

Something changed in Michelle that night. One could say she grew up. Or perhaps she realized how far she had to go. The death of that nameless soul hit her hard. Michelle realized the trail might take her places she had not intended to go.

Next day, they attended the hearing. Leaving afterward, the pair mounted their horses in silence; turning their mounts, the pair moved out of town westward—toward their future. They rode past men laying the rails that soon the trains would run on, moving the railroad further west.

Meeker and Michelle were riding side by side. Meeker mounted on a pure white horse named Star, a big Morgan; Shell straddled her buckskin dun she called Mary Todd, a fine American Quarter Horse. Meeker tried to remember the man and wondered what wrong he had done him. Michelle wanted to forget what had happened.

“Daniel Anthony Hannover,” Meeker said, breaking the silence. “Not the man I killed but the one I’m going to kill. He is a limy bastard, known more commonly as Two Tongues; the Indians named him aptly. He is a liar of the first order. The Crow call him Bone Picker. His taste in food is the reason for that name. I’ll spare you the full explanation of the reason for that appellation. He raped and killed my wife and murdered my boy, then went bragging about it to friends of mine. He came over from England about fifteen years ago, a necessary move I’m told. The blackguard has been a hired assassin most of the time since he first arrived. I had me a run-in with him the year or two before I went to make war. I reckon he held a grudge, taking out his revenge on my family rather than me. Hurting me all that much more by doing so.” He spat a thick stream of tobacco juice out the side of his mouth.

“He dares me to do something about it. Thinking on it, maybe that feller that I killed yesterday has something to do with him.” He stopped talking for a minute. Cleared his throat and continued. “Do something I will—I’ll kill him, by God I will. There ain’t nothing you can say or do that will change that fact. Come hell or high water … I’ll kill him dead. Not fast, not like that man yesterday. I want him to have a slow, painful death, giving him time to know.” He paused a moment and then faced Michelle. “I’m taking from him what he took from them,” again he paused and spoke the next word with slow deliberation, “ev—ery—thing!”

Tears streaked down Meeker’s face. “If you do not have the constitution for this, Miss Michelle Tanner, then you best leave my company now.”

“I’ll go with you to the end. Whatever you instruct, I will do. I’ll help you track him. I’ll even help you kill him…if you want.” Moved nearly to tears, Michelle Tanner meant the words she said. Still, Michelle would rather see him in the hands of the law.

“You just go with me. I find you a comfort to me. I wonder if Denver City has changed much. He is, or was, there. By God, we will know more in twelve to twenty days. We will ride hard, might be there in ten days if we push the animals. How is that packhorse back there? Think he can take a fast trot?”

As the pair rode off, an old Indian watched them. Buffalo Head wanted to talk to them. He decided he would wait and come on them at their camp. He had a proposition to make to them, but that is another story.