The Bad Bet

By Robert Lubrican.

Bookapy Edition.

Copyright 2005 Robert Lubrican.

2^nd edition edited 2023.

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* * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter One

July first, 1868, Abilene, Kansas.

Arabella Mortenson was standing just outside the batwing doors of a saloon, closer than she'd ever been to such a den of iniquity in the thirty-one years she'd been alive. She was thankful for the full bonnet that hid most of her blushing face.

That she was driven to come that close to such a place was proof that her need was dire. She needed to get her husband out of that saloon. He had gone in to get a drink, but had stayed much too long for that simple pursuit. She knew that meant he was gambling again.

He'd been losing their money in games of chance for years. Before leaving for Kansas, they had lived in the house she'd inherited after her mother's death. She'd had a garden and had been able to barter laundry services for some beef each week, so they'd had food and a roof over their heads. She had to provide the food for the table, because Frank gambled away all his wages unless, after being paid, he came home first. She had learned to tolerate a bottle of whiskey in the house because the bottle was sometimes enough to lure him home on payday, giving her the opportunity to lift a few dollars from his pockets before he'd be off to the saloon to gamble away the rest on cards.

Her first signal that something was terribly wrong had been when he started talking about going to the Kansas territory, where it was said land was available for free and a man could carve out a farm in the lush, fertile soil that lay under the prairie grass.

Arabella was well aware that Frank Mortenson was a lazy man. She'd married him at the tender age of fifteen and, in the sixteen years since, had done all the work that got done around their house ... unless she was abed because of one of her "accidents." Frank had a mean streak in him too, particularly when he had been drinking and most certainly when he'd lost at cards or some other foolish game of chance. She often had to stay indoors until the bruises went away, so the neighbors wouldn't see them. Once she'd been laid up for weeks while a bone knit enough that it could bear weight. The thought that Frank would be willing to work hard enough even to hook a team up to a plow was laughable to Arabella. She came from a farm family and she knew how hard it would be to start from scratch in soil that had never felt the bite of the plow. She assumed the homesteading idea must be the result of some alcohol fogged conversation he'd had with some worthless gambler.

Then one day he came home with a covered wagon. Almost frantically he'd told her to pack what would fit in the wagon, leaving room only for the two children, Becky and Frank Jr.

What Arabella was unaware of was that her husband had borrowed money ... a lot of money. When he'd lost it all and been unable to pay it back, he sold the house quick, getting the two horses and wagon as part of the deal. Then he'd run from his debts.

They'd picked up supplies along the way, including two oxen when he'd ruined the horses, driving them too fast and too far with too little rest, trying to put too much distance between them and the men he was sure were looking for him. And by the time they got to Abilene, Kansas two thirds of the pockets on his money belt were empty. Still, it might be enough for them to get a new start, if they were able to claim any land.

Upon pulling into the bustling town of Abilene, Frank had stopped the wagon in front of the saloon.

"I'm going to go get news," he'd said. "You stay here."

"We don't have money to spend on whiskey, Frank Mortenson!" Arabella had protested. He'd answered her with a backhand to her right cheek.

"Don't sass me, woman," he'd snarled. "I've been putting up with your whining for weeks and a drink will clear my ears of it. You wait here, and don't let your brats stray either."

When he'd been gone for more than fifteen minutes, she'd known he was gambling with all they had left. She had to do something or they'd be penniless.

Thus she'd been driven to stand perilously close to the entrance of a place she would normally have crossed the street to avoid. And not only was she standing there, she was actually thinking about going inside.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Aloysius Julian Hobbs was footloose, fancy-free, seventeen years old, and had money in his pocket. There were probably a couple hundred cowboys within a few days travel who were just like him ... except most of them didn't have money in their pockets. Aloysius, who began calling himself "AJ" after the second time his name got him laughed at by a grizzled cowpoke, and he got into a fight as a result, had just finished helping drive three thousand head of cattle up the Chisholm trail. Once he and fifteen other cowboys had herded the longhorns into the stock pens at the railhead of the Kansas Pacific Railway in Abilene, he'd been paid off by the trail boss and cut loose.

He ambled down the dusty street, looking for a saloon where he might find a bath, a woman, and a meal consisting of something other than beef and beans, in that order. Not being the most patient of young men, he headed for the first one he saw. A wooden sign adorned with the faded image of a bull's head hung over the doors.

A heavy Conestoga wagon that was loaded down with household goods and two kids was blocking his path. A girl, wearing a bonnet with a load of fluffy brown curls hanging below the cloth was sitting on the wagon seat. Idly, he estimated her age at about fourteen or fifteen. A younger boy was leaning out of the back, peering around.

AJ detoured around the wagon, wondering why anyone would want to haul all that stuff west and go through the pain and toil of trying to wrestle a living from the earth. He didn't understand sodbusters.

As he mounted the boardwalk in front of the saloon, he saw a woman standing hesitantly at the batwing doors, peeking inside. Something about her drab gray dress and bonnet marked her in his mind as the mother of the kids in the wagon. He thought it was odd that a decent woman would be about to enter a saloon.

He forgot about the family as he stepped past the sodbuster woman and pushed through the swinging doors of the drinking establishment. Had someone asked him where he was, he wouldn't have been able to name the place.

This is not to say he wasn't aware of what was going on around him. But AJ automatically prioritized the information fed to his brain through his five senses. The name of the place just wasn't important. What was important was that the noise level was all wrong for a place like this. There wasn't enough of it.

And tension filled the room. That caught his attention instantly. He stopped in the darkened interior, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He also dropped his left hand to the pistol that was canted forward, butt first, set up for a cross draw, and took the leather loop off the hammer of the pistol. He had no idea what was causing the tension he felt, but it was his nature to be ready when he smelled trouble.

It didn't take him long to find that trouble.

There was a card game going on at a table to his right, situated near the grimy windows through which the only light in the place was coming. The bartender wouldn't light any lamps until dusk. No sense wasting precious oil.

There were four men seated at that table. Three were nondescript men wearing hats. Two wore vests on top of the store-bought shirts they favored. Another wore a leather shirt that was fringed and dirty. The last wore homespun, and AJ knew instantly that he was the sodbuster who the family outside belonged to. What he was doing in a saloon playing cards while his family waited outside was a puzzle. The tension he had felt was coming from the table, and was being transmitted by the small crowd of maybe a dozen men who were standing around watching the game.

Leather shirt was dealing and AJ saw immediately that he was dealing off the bottom of the deck. The cards he dealt from there went to the sodbuster. At first AJ thought he and the sodbuster were in cahoots, but as he watched it became clear that wasn't the case. AJ saw the things he'd been taught to look for in the three men who were playing the sodbuster - cheating the sodbuster, actually. Just about all the money on the table was evenly spread in front of the three men. The sodbuster had six coins left in front of him and he was sweating. AJ could see it running down the back of his neck, below the badly chopped hair above his collar.

He was also sipping heavily at the whisky in the dirty glass to his right. While AJ watched, a saloon girl appeared at his shoulder, refilled the glass and faded back into the crowd. AJ knew she'd been told to do that by someone other than the sodbuster. Every saloon he'd ever been in was a pay as you drink kind of place. Since the sodbuster wasn't paying, that meant somebody else was. When the farmer picked up his cards, AJ saw two queens and two threes. Leather shirt had dealt him two pair on purpose.

AJ shook his head and turned for the bar. If the sodbuster was stupid enough to get into a rigged game, then he would learn a hard lesson. AJ ordered whisky and savored the first few sips before knocking back the rest of the shot. He ordered another and was about to drink it too when the voices rose from behind him.

"You know that's all I got. You done took the rest of my money from me. I need that money to make a go of things when I claim a homestead. You got to let me bet!" It was the sodbuster, who had been raised to the point that everything he had was in the pot.

One of the vested men replied. "I raised you, and if you cain't see me then you got to fold. Them's the rules of the game, mister."

"I got things in the wagon worth money. Let me put that up!" cried the sodbuster. He was frantic. AJ got up and moved toward the table. He could see, over the sodbuster's shoulder, that he had drawn another three. Holding a full house he was frantic to stay in the game.

Leather shirt looked out of the window, toward the wagon. "Don't need no pots and pans." He spat tobacco juice on the floor. "That's a right purty girl up there on the seat, though. You could bet her if you want ter." He spat again and cackled. The other two men laughed.

One of them leaned over and looked through the window, too. "She's a right tasty looking girl, she is," he said. "How's about you add her to the pot, farmer man."

The sodbuster was at once angry ... and greedy. AJ could see it in his posture. And he could almost hear the gears turning in the man's head. He had a full house ... sure to win ... what could be the harm? He still didn't know he'd been dealt that hand by design. If he he'd known that, he would also have known that somebody else had a better hand, and that the whole purpose of the game had been to take his money. All of his money. And now it looked like they wanted the girl, too.

"Don't take that bet, mister," AJ heard himself saying.

He hated that about himself. He had a tendency to talk first and think later. It got him into trouble pretty regularly.

Leather shirt looked up. "You shut yor trap, cowpoke. This ain't none of yor affair."

The sodbuster had turned around and looked to see who had warned him. AJ saw in his eyes what he saw in a lot of farmer's eyes when they looked at a cowboy - derision. The man turned around. "You're on," he said. "My Becky and my last five dollars say I've got the winnin' hand."

Leather shirt grinned. "Lay em down." One of the vests had folded earlier. The other one was still in and laid down a pair of jacks. The sodbuster threw down his full house with a yell and reached for the pile of money in the center of the table.

"Not so fast there, farmer man," said leather shirt, with a mean grin. He flipped over his cards. There were four tens and an ace.

It was deathly quiet for three split seconds and then there was a wail of anguish, followed closely by three men laughing.

"Haul her in here, farmer man," said one of the vests. "We got us some lovin' to do!" He yelled over his shoulder. "Sydney? You still got a room free? Looks like we'll be needing it for three or four hours." His grin, when he turned back to the sodbuster, was malicious.

AJ glanced at the bartender, to see what he'd do. Without even looking up from the glass he was polishing with a dirty rag, the man called out, "Cost you three times as much, if you're all gonna use her."

The sodbuster was still staring at the cards. "No!" he shouted.

"A bet's a bet, farmer man," said the other vest. "Now git her in here. I've got an itch in my pants that needs scratchin'."

"You were cheated, sodbuster."

Again, AJ couldn't believe the words came out of his mouth. He had no call to get involved in this mess. But he'd seen the girl out on the wagon, and she'd reminded him of his sister. He hadn't seen his sister in four years, but he remembered her saucy disposition. If that girl out there had a saucy disposition, it would be gone in a very short time, most likely never to return, if these hard cases had their way with her.

It got really quiet then, as three faces turned toward him and the crowd around the table split apart like they had practiced doing it a hundred times.

Leather shirt stood up and looked at AJ. "I thought I told you to butt out." His hand drifted toward the holstered Army revolver on his hip.

AJ sighed. One of these days he'd learn to mind his own business. But one thing he never did was back down once he'd made his stand.

"You dealt him that hand off the bottom of the deck. I'm bettin' I'm not the only one who saw you do it either. You cheated him, plain and simple."

There was no posturing. There were no verbal threats or warnings. There was only sudden movement, and there was a lot of it.

People in the crowd made a mad dash to get away from the table, some of them leaping headlong, to land on the floor. The two vests stood up as one, their chairs falling backwards as all three reached for the revolvers in their holsters. The farmer pushed his chair back and prepared to stand up. Apparently unaware of the gunplay that was about to erupt, he was thinking about how to demand his money back.

The only part of AJ that moved, initially, was his right arm.

The extremely short and extremely violent gunfight would be described later by at least a half dozen patrons of the saloon who actually observed it. It was surprising, all in all, that their descriptions were actually quite similar in most of the important points.

All agreed that the three men drew first. All agreed that if the farmer hadn't stood up, he wouldn't have been shot. And all agreed that the kid who had caused all the trouble was the fastest man with a gun any of them had ever seen.

In fact, AJ's eyes sorted out all kinds of information in the split second it took him to reach across his body for his gun. Leather shirt's movements were the most practiced, so AJ shot him first, putting a bullet in the middle of the chest. His left hand came up and he fanned the hammer three times, once for the man in the middle, who took the bullet high, just below his Adams apple, and twice for the third man as he pulled the barrel back down. Both shots ended up within one inch of a button in the middle of the man's vest.

Only the two men wearing vests had managed to get a shot off. One hit the farmer in the face; the other winged AJ's left arm.

As the men went down, the sodbuster sat back down heavily and his head tilted back, his ruined and lifeless face staring up at the ceiling.

The whole fight had lasted no more than three and a half seconds.

AJ knew he was in trouble. He also knew it was highly unlikely that any of the other three men was still alive. His instinct had been to go for the heart. He'd seen the dusty impact of at least two of his slugs and, in any case, he knew he rarely missed. He'd practiced for hours until his muscle memory did it all for him ... even if he didn't think he'd actually ever shoot anybody. Like most young men, AJ performed his routine tasks surrounded by an invisible haze of fantasy, like smoke from a campfire.

It wasn't wood smoke stinging his eyes now, though.

A boy, who had been peeking through the doors of the saloon, began shrieking the news outside. AJ's instinct was to flee, and he gave in to that instinct as terror over what he'd just done sent fire to his muscles.

The way out was clear, because the small crowd of watchers had exploded away from the danger. He ran past the woman who had been standing outside. She was now just inside the doors, her mouth open in a silent scream. AJ's boots thudded on the raised sidewalk outside the saloon and he leapt for the dusty street. Like any cowboy, he hated to walk anywhere, much less run, but he'd left his horse in the livery stable where it could get a pan of oats. That was clear down the street, and his shoulder blades pulled toward each other as he anticipated bullets flying toward his back.

He couldn't stand the idea of going down shot in the back and, as he came level with the sodbuster's wagon, he whirled, realizing he only had two shots left and there would be no time to reload.

But no one was boiling out of the saloon, eager to shoot down the murderer. There were a couple of faces there, peering out into the brightness of the sunlit street ... but no pursuit.

Once again he turned and ran. He ran as hard as he'd ever run in his life.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Arabella had heard everything from her vantage point just inside the saloon doors. No one had noticed her slip in, because all attention was on the men at the table. She hadn't been able to see much, initially, but she'd heard everything. Her horror at hearing Frank bet her daughter's virginity had left her in a curious state of being frozen and weak-kneed at the same time. At the last moment when the crowd around the table had evaporated like mist in the sun, she had watched in horror as the gunfight erupted. In the few seconds that followed she saw Frank's face change shape as the bullet struck it.

It was most likely her next actions were caused by the combination of what she'd been trying to get the courage to do originally, mixed with the shock and panic that zinged through her when she saw events play out.

She'd been planning on going in there and taking the money in front of her husband off the table ... and damned with convention. What he had left was all they had, and she couldn't bear to see it all lost. That had given her the strength to start through the doors. Then she had heard her husband bet their daughter, and cold panic had left her unable to move. Her mind was, as yet, unable to deal with the processing of the immediate facts, so it settled on what she'd come in this place to do.

The cowboy who had shot the three cheaters ran past her. Noise exploded in the room, and it freed Arabella's muscles. It was dark and, still in a panic, she ran to the table, scooped up bills and what coins she could. Part of her was shocked that she wasn't the only one grabbing for money. Horrified she ran back outside. The wagon was only yards away. She literally threw the money in the back of the wagon, where Frank Junior's wide eyed face was staring at her, and then continued to the front of the wagon where she fairly leapt to the top of the smaller front wheel and onto the seat. The brake wasn't set, and she picked up the reins and snapped them expertly, screaming "HEYAH!" at the top of her lungs. The startled oxen lunged in the traces, their hooves churning the dust, until the wagon creaked forward, and then gathered speed slowly. By the time they got to the edge of town, headed south, the wagon was lurching alarmingly and Arabella loosened the reins.

She was crying now, babbling without thinking about what she'd seen and heard. Some part of her brain realized she was going to kill the team if she didn't slow them down. Becky was screaming "Mama!" over and over again. She didn't know what to do, and the reins dropped from lifeless fingers as she swooned.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Becky knew something bad had happened. When she'd seen her mother go to the saloon doors, it seemed as if she was suddenly dreaming. She couldn't believe it when Arabella had actually gone inside, and then shots had rung out. The handsome young cowboy Becky had seen looking at her only a few short moments ago came tearing out, followed soon after by her mother, who was also running, holding something to her chest.

Then there had been the wild ride, with Mama screaming only half understood things and leaving her father behind. She was terrified of the wild lurching of the wagon as it went much too fast. When she saw her mother sway backwards and drop the reins, Becky dove for them herself, grasping the leather strips and tugging on them instinctively, to slow the team.

The oxen bawled, tossing their heads. One looked sideways and Becky could see its eye rolling in excitement.

"Whoa!" she called out.

The team slowed a bit, and her mother came alive. "No!" she shouted. "Keep going!" Arabella had visions of a posse coming after them, saying she stole cash money, and putting her in jail.

A horse thundered past them, the rider leaning forward and so low that it looked like he was lying down on the neck of the horse. Becky recognized the cowboy who had fled the saloon after the gunfire. He and his horse grew smaller, leaving a trail of dust that hung in the air.

Becky had seen their team of horses killed by running them like this, and she ignored her mother's scream, slowing the team more, yelling "Whoa!" in softer tones as the team fell to a trot and then a fast walk. They were breathing hard already and foam flecked their mouths. Almost suddenly they adopted their usual routine, plodding gait, as they finally calmed.

Arabella's control broke and she began sobbing as the impact of events reduced her to helplessness again.

Over the next ten minutes Becky got bits and pieces of information from her mother. Frank Junior crawled over the load in the wagon, his face appearing above her, and he told her what he'd seen and heard. He had money gripped in his fist and waved it at his sister, telling him where he'd gotten it. She found out her father was dead, shot during a card game, but not by the cowboy who had fled past them.

It came out in a disjointed and unbelievable fashion, at first, and her own adrenaline caused her to flick the reins and set the team at a trot again when she realized her mother had taken money from the table in the saloon, and expected pursuit.

Ten more minutes refined the information into a narrative, of sorts, in Becky's mind, that explained what had happened, and why they were fleeing without seeing to her father's body.

Most young women might have collapsed into the same uselessness that her mother was displaying, under the circumstances. But Becky had had to grow up much faster in many ways than other girls her age. She and Frank Jr. had been on the receiving end of her father's rages too ... many times. She'd had to work hard in the garden and helping her mother collect, wash and return clothing to customers. Her hands were tough and red, like those of a much older woman. In truth of fact, she felt no remorse that her father was dead.

There was, in fact, one bit of information that Becky did not pursue. One of the things her mother had screamed, initially, was "He bet Becky!" The girl, knowing it was a poker game, unconsciously inserted a comma into the sentence, making it into "He bet, Becky!" She would not realize the import of those few words, or the way she had interpreted them, until much later. But the pure fact is that it wouldn't really have made any difference.

"It was our money, Mama," she said, at length. "You said he was cheated, right?"

"It was said," moaned Arabella. "I don't know. I just grabbed it! What was I thinking?"

"You were thinking that it was our money!" said Becky firmly. She slowed the team a bit. Her practiced eye determined they were going to have to stop and let them rest soon. They'd need water too, pursuit or no pursuit. She turned and looked up at Frank Jr. "Go back and see if we are being followed," she ordered. His wide eyes were complimented by his Adams apple bobbing and he nodded. He turned and disappeared.

"It was our money, Mama," she said again. Her mother's hands were twitching in her lap.

"But he's dead!" wailed Arabella.

"Then we're safe at last," said Becky.

Her mother was shocked into silence as her jaw dropped and she stared at her daughter.

"Well we are!" insisted Becky. "He put his hands on me two nights ago, Mama."

Arabella's mouth closed and she sat up suddenly. "Oh no!"

"When you went to sleep he put his hands on me. I had a bottle hidden, just in case. I gave it to him and he left me alone. I told him he could get more in Abilene. It's my fault he went in there, Mama, but I'm not sorry!"

"It's not your fault," moaned Arabella. "He'd have done it anyway."

"I'm not sorry," said Becky in a dignified voice. "He treated us all like animals and slaves, Mama. And lately it's been harder and harder to stop him from doing things to me. Your face is bruised right this minute and Frank Jr. is still limping from the last time he was kicked. We're better off without him, Mama, and you know it."

"Don't speak ill of the dead, Becky!" blurted Arabella.

"All right," said the girl. "May he rest in peace..."

She let that lie for a few seconds, and then added: "If there's peace to be had in the fires of hell..."

Chapter Two

Back in town, Sheriff Dan Cross stood, looking at the four bodies laid out in the dusty street. There were three bodies grouped together, with the farmer's body a couple of feet away. Their glassy-eyed stares were typical of the dead, looking foreign, somehow ... not quite human. The farmer's face bulged where facial bones had given way to pressure inside the skull. It looked grotesquely flat, somehow, despite the bulge.

"Anybody know who they are?" he asked. There was still a crowd of ten or fifteen men milling around.

Jasper Wiggins spoke. "Them three rode in this morning," he said, pointing at the group of bodies. Sydney seemed to know them." Sydney was the bartender and Sheriff Cross had no real use for him.

Tim Humphreys stepped forward. "The farmer came in around noon. He asked for whisky. Them three were playing amongst themselves and he sat down at the table." He stopped there, not wanting to admit that he, too, had seen the men cheating the farmer, and had done nothing.

"And this Cowboy ...?" Cross knew he was gone, but looked around anyway. He'd already heard of the amazing feat the boy - and all described him as a boy - had accomplished. He'd already examined the shooting irons of the dead men, and all were well worn, indicating frequent use, and suggesting some skill with them. For the boy to have taken them all suggested he might be a gunslinger, but that didn't fit with the story being told.

"He lit out," said another man. "Might still be in town. I'd know him if I saw him."

Cross snorted. The town was full of cowboys, in from various cattle drives, and more were arriving every day. Now that the railroad had arrived to take cattle back east Abilene was growing by leaps and bounds. Cross wasn't happy about that, but there was no stopping progress.

"Anybody else hurt?" he asked.

There were murmurs, but no information surfaced as to other victims.

"And they were definitely cheating?"

Dub Whittaker, a bent old man with a long dirty white beard stepped forward and pointed to leather shirt. "That one was double dealing. The farmer got the cards off the bottom, and that one," he pointed to the man who had claimed the win, "got the better hand off the top. I knowed somethin' was up earlier, but couldn't see what they wuz doin' until that last hand. I think they got careless when the sodbuster was all in. He was so excited at his hand that he threw the girl into the pot."

"And that girl?" asked Cross. "Where is she?"

"Wagon went south out of town," said a man. "Damndest thing I ever saw. It wuz like they didn't even care he was dead."

Another man yelled. "I saw the woman grab some money after the shooting!"

"Did she get it all?" asked Cross, who knew there was no money lying around anywhere, and knew it was in the pockets of these men, or others who had decided not to stick around.

"Probly," said the man, whose hand went to touch the front pocket of his pants, unconsciously.

Cross didn't care about the money. If the farmer had been cheated, then as far as he was concerned the money belonged to his family. There was the little problem of who'd pay for the burials, though. As if that thought had produced him, a man hurried up. He was tall and lanky, with pale skin and was wearing a stovepipe hat that was easily a foot tall.

"Four!?" gasped the undertaker.

"It's a red letter day for you, Mister Remmington," said Sheriff Cross.

"Who are they?"

"That remains unclear."

"Who's going to pay?" asked the sallow man.

"We'll sell their gear," said Cross. "That should more than compensate you."

Cross stepped up onto the boardwalk and went inside to talk to Sydney. The man's attitude was surly as he polished glasses with a dirty rag.

"Who were they, Sidney?" asked the lawman.

"How should I know?" The man didn't meet the lawman's eyes.

"They knew you, according to them out there," said Cross, shoving his thumb over his shoulder at the street. "This is the fourth time in as many weeks I've had problems with your ... establishment ... Sydney. Seems to be a threat to public safety around here. I might have to have a word with the town fathers about closing down any unsafe businesses, if you get my drift."

"You can't do that!" growled the barkeep. "I been here since this shit-hole got named!"

"Progress moves apace, Sydney," said Cross. "I've even heard tell that some folks want to issue licenses to operate a business, like they do back east. Pretty fancy notion if you ask me, but progress brings such things."

"I'm just trying to make a dollar!" complained the man.

"Who were they, Sidney?" Cross was tired of negotiating.

The bartender's eyes darted left and right as he scowled. "I tell you and you leave me be ... right?"

"Depends," said Cross. "They caused a heap of trouble."

"They just showed up," complained Sidney. "I can't help it if somebody just walks in my doors."

Cross started to turn. "Good luck with your business, Sydney," he said. He made it to the batwing doors before the man called "Wait!" Cross turned, but he didn't plan on waiting long. That must have been obvious.

"Fisby," said the bartender. "They claimed to be brothers. They always had cash. I didn't ask no questions."

Cross's eyes widened. He'd heard that name. Most lawmen west of the Mississippi had heard that name. The Fisby brothers were reputed to have robbed three trains, and killed more than ten men between them. Nobody knew what they looked like ... until now ... if that was who they were.

"They spent some time in town some years back, and hung around here. I couldn't turn them away," whined Sidney. "They'd have made trouble."

"I'll mention that to the city fathers," said Cross. "I'll remind them you went to pains to make sure there was no trouble."

Cross pushed through the doors. The undertaker's two sons were there now, lifting bodies onto a wagon. Cross went to the three horses that were already tied to the rear wheel of the wagon. His examination revealed a very nice Sharps buffalo rifle and he removed it from the scabbard.

"Here now!" called Remmington. "That's my fee!"

"This is my fee," said Cross, shouldering the rifle. "You're getting three horses and saddles for your work, plus their pistols, which I might add are possibly famous. That's worth three times what you have coming."

"Who's going to pay for the farmer?" complained the man. "His clothes ain't even worth keeping and one of his boots has a hole in the bottom!"

"Those fellers are," said Cross, looking at the bodies of the three outlaws. He paused to say one last thing to the undertaker. "And talk to Homer. Make sure he gets a good photograph of their faces before you plant them. His fee can come out of their belongings too."

He left the fuming man behind and turned toward the train station. There was one bit of progress he was happy about, and he headed for the depot to send a telegraph. Barely a year past, the Turner gang had terrorized Coffeyville, and the resulting gun battle, which had killed eight men, outlaws included, was still talked of. The territorial authorities were trying to bring civilization to Kansas, and they'd put out wanted notices on a number of troublemakers. That included the Fisby Brothers. Cross had a copy of that wanted notice in his office, but no images of the brothers had been supplied. He knew there was a reward for them, but couldn't remember the figure, or whether it a "dead or alive" notice. In any event, Cross knew he couldn't claim it, but getting some attention for his blooming town couldn't be bad, especially if it helped establish the town's reputation as a place outlaws and trouble-makers should stay shut of.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Arabella Mortenson sat on the wagon seat, staring at the dust being kicked up by the now walking team of oxen in front of her. Most of an hour had passed. Her son had returned to the front of the wagon, saying he saw no riders, and no dust behind them.

She was slowly coming to grips with the idea that her life might not be over. But that brought with it other concerns. If she stayed alive and out of prison, she would have to figure out how to provide for her family.

She seemed to go through cycles of thought. First she reminded herself that they had, in the wagon, the tools and supplies necessary to establish a new home. She didn't know how to use some of them, but she could learn. She thought of what needed doing next, in pursuit of that. Then, as she contemplated what would be required of them, she lost hope and slid back into the abyss of self-pity.

Becky was still handling the team, going south toward the Oklahoma territory. They had been headed there anyway, and she had no better plan. Frank had never let her make a single decision after she was told to walk up the aisle to meet him on her wedding day. She'd never laid eyes on him before that day.

Now, as she realized she'd never lay eyes on him again, she felt peculiar. That was because she felt guilty. And that was because, now that she'd had time to think about it, the idea of never seeing Frank Mortenson again did not, in any way, make her unhappy. Her daughter was right about that. He was a beast ... had been a beast. How could she be so relieved that her husband was dead? Did that make her a monster?"

No. He had been the beast. Now there would be no more bruises ... no more loose teeth from his fist hitting her mouth. There would be no more drunken rages where she was dragged to the bedroom, stripped bare and then taken like a common whore. She shuddered, as she had for years, at the thought of his slapping hands and squeezing fingers, that left bruises on her after sex that was always painful. No longer would she know that just outside the bedroom, her children could hear her screams as their father made her wish he'd just kill her and get it over with.

She had stayed alive for the children though. She had been able to protect them thus far. The price had been steep but providence had finally taken a hand.

Her demon of a husband was no longer a threat, to her or her children.

Her shoulders sagged as their situation sank in. They were hundreds of miles from their former home, which was now owned and being lived in by another family. The man of her own family was dead. She'd stolen money and left his body for whatever courtesy the town of Abilene might accord it. She'd never even know where he was buried.

Even so, other matters clamored for her attention.

Frank's plan had been to arrive in Kansas, or perhaps the Oklahoma Territory, where he intended to homestead a hundred and sixty acres. There was land to be had there, he said, free for the taking. He'd been vague on the details, but just last night he'd told them they'd be "there" in a week or two. He'd gone in the saloon, he said, to get news. She knew he'd gone in to get whiskey, because all but one of the bottles he'd brought were empty. Becky had now confirmed that suspicion.

Well. There'd be no more whiskey, evidently. She couldn't be unhappy about that either.

"Mama!" Becky interrupted her healing process. "Look there ... up ahead!"

Arabella lifted her eyes. A horse was standing, head down and one rear leg lifted, off the ground. A man was sitting, his head in his hands, beside the horse.

It was the cowboy who had shot the men who had killed her husband.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

U.S. Marshal Jeremiah Stone looked at the dispatch his boss, Jeffrey Tomlinson had just handed him. It was spare in the details, but the meaning was clear: "presumed fisby brothers shot dead in abilene stop killed during card game stop burial proceeding stop photographs available stop please advise details of reward stop" The signature was just one word: "cross.

Tomlinson waited until Stone was finished reading. "Get on over there and see if there's any way you can show it was them," he said. "That would be a nice thing to be able to tell Judge Baker. Maybe we can stop looking for them."

"How in tarnation am I supposed to prove it was the Fisbys?" asked Stone.

"Marcus Fisby is said to have had his great left toe shot off by one of his brothers," said Tomlinson. "That and the photographs should be enough to convince the judge if we can get their mother to say it's them."

"It says they're being buried," commented Jeremiah.

"Then dig 'em up when you get there," said Tomlinson casually. "Our resources are stretched thin. We don't need to be chasing ghosts if we can help it. And try not to say anything about that reward when you get there. I don't want to authorize that kind of payment unless it's absolutely necessary."

Stone left the office, still frowning. Ever since the Supreme Court had upheld the right for Marshals to use deadly force in the commission of their duties, some three years past, the Marshal Service had been invaded by dandies and politicians who knew nothing about law enforcement, but wanted the glory of "catching" felons. Most of them never left their comfortable offices, sending men like him out instead to do the dirty work.

Well, examining rotting bodies dug from the ground was one bit of dirty work he planned to avoid. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram back to Abilene: "marshal on way about fisbys stop have photographs taken of faces and bare feet of all dead before burial stop" He added the name "Stone" at the end and handed it to the clerk. Then he went to get his gear ready for the long ride from Topeka to Abilene. It would be good to get out of the stink of the city and out under the open skies again.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The wagon rolled to a creaking stop. The team stamped and blew, finally able to rest. The cowboy's horse looked around at them and whickered. Its ears flicked forward in interest.

"What happened?" asked Arabella. She still didn't know why she'd told Becky to stop the wagon. The young man looked up at them.

"Threw a shoe. He went lame before I figured it out." He looked hopeless.

Nobody said anything for so long that only the sound of the oxen's labored breathing convinced Becky that she hadn't gone deaf.

"I'm sorry," said the cowboy. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen. I should have just kept my mouth shut."

"And let us be robbed?" said Arabella, whose mix of disturbing emotions had her reeling. At once she felt relief that Frank would never break another of her bones, and the shame of having taken their money back in a way that seemed a lot like stealing, to her. On top of that there was pity for this young man, who had done something that should have righted a wrong, but which turned both his and their worlds upside down. She felt both pity for this young man and herself. But it was the knowledge that he had saved her daughter from a fate worse than death that was probably responsible for the snap decision she made at that moment.

"Why don't you come with us?"

He goggled at her. "I just got your husband killed!" he gasped.

She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling some strength flow into her body. "Some things are not as they first appear," she said.

AJ was confused. "He wasn't your husband?"

"Oh he was that," said Bella. "I can't explain now. There may be people looking for us, and I do not wish to be found just now. May I say plainly that we are not as sad at Frank's loss as we should be ... but we're going to need help to survive. It looks like you could use some help as well." She let that lie there in the still air.

"This is crazy," he muttered, still unbelieving. "I killed those men. You should get as far from me as you can."

"Perhaps," said Bella. "They were bad men, though."

"Cheats!" gasped AJ. "But not deserving of being gunned down like that!"

"What choice did you have? I heard more than your shots, and Frank was killed. They would have killed you too."

"The law will not see it that way," said AJ.

"Then I suggest you avoid the law," said Bella. "Come with us. Help us get to some place where we have a chance, slim though it may be, to regain our lives. After that you may go whither you wish."

It was the whicker of AJ's horse that made his decision for him. The gelding had been a damn good horse, but it was lame now, and might not be whole for weeks, even assuming he could find a farrier to reshoe the bare hoof. If he had to walk those weeks, pursuit would find him easily and he'd swing from the end of a rope for murder. He knew that one of them had drawn first, but they were from town, and he was a stranger. It was unlikely there would be testimony in his defense.

He stood and began taking his gear from the gelding. He went to the rear of the wagon and threw his saddle in the back. He added the blanket and his bedroll and then stroked the horse's cheek before removing the bridle. The horse tossed his head, as if to ask "What now?"

"Go on," he said, pushing the animal away from him. "Good luck to you. Better than my luck, I hope."

Then, uncomfortable at facing the woman whose husband he'd gotten killed, he climbed into the back of the wagon and told her to drive on.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Riding in the wagon was completely foreign to AJ. Even so, the creaking of wood and metal, the rocking motion and bumps that tossed him and everything else in the back around couldn't penetrate into the part of his mind that replayed, over and over, the scene that he couldn't get out of his head. Keeping his eyes closed or open didn't matter. He still saw the dust jump from the clothing of the men as his bullets struck them. He had killed a man. He had killed three of them, in fact.

It wasn't at all like he'd expected it would be, back when he practiced by firing countless bullets at bottles, or knots on trees. He'd killed his share of game as well.

But this was different.

His rational mind insisted that they would have gunned him down if he hadn't let instinct and his muscle memory loose in those few seconds. That was the other thing that kept his jaw slack. The scene played on in what would, a hundred years later, be given the name "slow motion." His memory supplied other things about the scene too ... the almost identical sneer on the men's faces ... their guns coming out of holsters ... the belch of smoke from the ends of the barrels. He understood now why they were called barrels. They had looked as big around as a pickle barrel. He saw the bodies slowly turning or moving away from him as his bullets struck their bodies. He remembered one pistol flying from a suddenly limp hand.

Another part of his mind centered on the fact that he had almost died. That was different than the past too. His life had been threatened by stampedes, and lightning, and rattlers, among other things. He'd almost died of thirst one time. But in all those cases he'd still felt like he had some control over his life. He'd been able to take action to lessen the danger, or at least try to live.

His thoughts flickered to his bullets striking the men again. That had been action that had saved his life. The sodbuster had taken one right in the face. AJ's mind produced a quick glimpse of a shattered face, suddenly shaped all wrong, a third dark eye where no eye should be.

It could have been him.

He shuddered suddenly and sobs wracked his young frame. He was instantly mortified, ashamed beyond anything he'd ever faced before, and grimy hands flashed to knuckle his eyes. His glance darted to the other passenger in the back ... the young boy. The boy's stare brought a surge of anger.

"Does it hurt that turrible?" asked the boy, looking at the blood-soaked sleeve below AJ's left shoulder.

"I don't know," growled AJ, feeling helpless. Pain registered in his brain, a pain he almost welcomed because he could think about that instead of the fact that killing men ... even men who deserved it ... just didn't make him proud of himself at all.

"You ought to clean that," said the boy sagely. "Mama says you got to clean a wound so's it won't fester."

"I got other things on my mind," said AJ.

"We got some water," said the boy, jerking his thumb behind him. "But the barrel's on the side of the wagon. You want me to tell Mama to stop?"

"No," said AJ. "Leave me alone."

Maybe an hour later AJ wished they would stop. The rocking of the wagon kept his arm moving, and he had to brace himself to keep from being thrown against furniture or provisions. His arm felt like it was on fire now. His shirt sleeve had turned almost black and was stiff. It kept sticking to the wound and then tearing loose as he moved. It was stifling in the wagon too. There was a fine coat of dust over everything and clouds of dust boiled into the opening of the back of the wagon occasionally.

Finally he took the shirt off, wincing at the pain of moving his arm. He examined the wound, which had torn a chunk of his skin out in a strip about two inches long. The wound itself was seeping bright red blood.

He muttered an oath. "Damn!"

"Better not let Mama hear you cursing," warned the boy. "She's death on cursing."

AJ coughed as another cloud of dust wafted into the back of the wagon.

"How in tarnation can you live like this?" he asked the boy.

"Like what?" The boy looked confused.

"Never mind," said AJ. "Ain't you got any water in the back here?"

"No." The boy didn't even look around. "We'll stop soon, though."

"Why?" asked AJ. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and pursuit as possible. As slow as the wagon was going he was quite sure he'd hear the rattle of hooves behind the wagon at any minute.

"Team's got to rest," said the boy, as if anyone should know that. "Got to be watered too."

AJ felt uncommonly stupid as he realized he should have thought of that himself. He looked out the opening in the back of the wagon. His horse, now less its saddle and bridle, limped along behind the wagon. He'd expected the beast to stay where it was, but it seemed to want company more than it wanted to favor a lame hoof. He sighed as he realized the horse was leaving tracks in the trail of the wagon ... tracks a blind man could follow.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

AJ followed the boy out of the wagon, still shirtless. He didn't want to wear the shirt again until it had soaked in a stream for a while. It didn't occur to him to be embarrassed about appearing in front of womenfolk with a bare chest. He was more concerned with the pain in his arm that made something so simple as getting out of a wagon seem like a major event.

The boy had removed the wooden lid from a water cask and dipped water into a bowl. AJ watched him take the bowl to the standing oxen and then got a dipper of water out for himself. He drank from it first, and then poured the rest on the un-bloodied shirt sleeve of his shirt. Wincing he started swabbing his wound.

"Let me do that," said the woman. "I'm Arabella Mortenson, by the way. Frank Junior is watering the team. Becky's my daughter."

Her fingers plucked the shirt from his grasp. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the condition of the garment. Then she called to her daughter to find the last of the whiskey. Becky produced a bottle that, to AJ's practiced eye, had perhaps three shots left in it. She worried at the cork unsuccessfully until AJ took the bottle from her and pulled it with his teeth. He was sorely tempted to swig from it, but she took it back before he could get the cork out of his mouth.

He tensed at the incredible burning sting as she poured whiskey from the bottle into the open wound and then used the cleanest part of his shirt to wipe the caked blood away. When she poured the rest of the bottle on the wound his groan wasn't from pain, but from seeing what she had said was the last of the whiskey dribbling off his arm into the dust at his feet. When she was done she handed the shirt to her daughter and instructed the girl to get rid of it in a nearby copse of trees.

"Hey!" complained AJ. "I only got one other shirt."

"I'll give you one of my husband's," she said. "He was bigger than you, but it should fit all right." Her voice was peculiarly flat as she went on. "He has no more use of them."

She gave Becky more instructions and the girl appeared from the back of the wagon with two shirts. Arabella tore one into strips to make bandages while the girl stood, holding the other shirt and staring curiously at AJ.

"Don't stare, Becky," ordered her mother. "It's not polite."

AJ was doing some staring of his own. The woman's calm attitude didn't make sense, considering what had happened. Her touch was gentle, almost caring as she bound up the wound and then helped him slip on a nicer shirt than he'd ever owned in his life. His eyes took in the girl's form, which took his mind off the pain in his arm. Even the loose long dress she was wearing couldn't hide the fact that she was a girl. The bodice was tight across her breasts. Under the sun bonnet her brown hair hung in natural ringlets.

She was cute, but AJ could almost always find something cute about most women. He'd lived the life of a cowboy for over a year now, and that included patronizing saloons and the women who worked in them. He hadn't been around what his mother would have called a decent woman in a long time though, and he felt a little funny about wondering what this girls breasts might look like heaving as she lay under him. It was hard to envision, though, because thus far there had only been two women who found themselves in that situation. Both had been closer to Arabella's age than Becky's.

That brought his attention to the woman who was now standing and staring at him herself, despite her previous rebuke to her daughter. Her dusty dress didn't hide the fact that she was female either. Her bust was larger, and her face had lines of care in it, but she was easily as good looking as either of the painted women AJ had dallied with.

It occurred to him that his indecent thoughts might end him up walking and he tried to push them out of his head.

"Thank you," he said, moving his arm experimentally. It still hurt like the blazes, but the whiskey had knocked the sharp edge off the pain.

"You're welcome," said Arabella. "Now, as to avoiding pursuit. We should leave the trail ... don't you think so?"

AJ looked in the direction of their back trail. The road had deep ruts in it from countless wagons that had traveled this way in the past, heading down to join the Santa Fe Trail. All around them was prairie, dotted here and there with small groups of trees. His eyes drifted naturally to a line of trees that announced a stream in the distance, ahead. As Frank Junior made another trip to the water barrel and returned to the team AJ wondered why the woman hadn't driven the wagon on to the stream to let them drink, instead of using their stored water.

"If we leave the road here the wagon will still leave tracks in the grass," he pointed out. "We should go on to that stream up ahead and see if the wagon might be able to go up the stream bed, where the water will wash out the tracks."

"How do you know there's a stream there?" she asked curiously.

"That line of trees wouldn't be there unless there was a regular supply of water," he said.

"Oh," said Arabella, looking surprised. "All right." Her face took on a slightly strained look. "I don't believe you never mentioned your name." She looked almost embarrassed, as if she felt like she was prying.

"AJ," he said. "I'm just called AJ."

"I see. Well, shall we be off again?" It sounded like she was talking about going on a picnic or some such thing. Frank Junior approached with the bowl and announced he was finished watering the oxen.

AJ looked at their back trail again, trying to discern if there was any dust being raised in the distance. He didn't see any, but the wind was gusty. His horse was standing, cropping grass contentedly. He took the bowl from the boy and put some water in it. His horse drank greedily.

"Off again sounds good to me," he said, handing the bowl back to the boy.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the fifteen minutes it took them to get to the stream, AJ's thoughts ranged free. His wound was now only throbbing, and his immediate shock and fear was giving way, allowing him to think more clearly.

He admitted to himself that he was scared, more so than he'd ever been before in his life. True, the men had been cheating, but he had no proof of that. And true, they had drawn first, or at least one of them had, but he was a stranger in town and who would back him up on that? These cow towns loved the money that the herds brought in, but they had little use for the cowboys who got them there. And for all he knew, those men had been pillars of the community.

Then there was the woman. He was puzzled by her actions and attitude. She didn't act like a woman whose husband had just been killed. And she didn't act towards AJ like he was the man who had precipitated that killing. Then he remembered how the man had agreed to throw his daughter into the pot as a bet. Maybe the woman was as mercenary as her husband. Maybe she was trying to make him feel beholden to her. She had to know she had a tough row to hoe, now that her man was no longer there to do the heavy work. The wagon told the tale that they were setting out to start over again. It was likely that everything they owned was in this wagon.

If her intent was to ensnare him, it was working. He did feel responsible for getting her husband killed. And she had helped him. His arm did feel better, and sepsis was less likely after that whiskey bath on the wound. He remembered seeing an old one-armed coot in Texas who hung around the saloon and traded the story, for a drink, of how he lost his arm in the war. He'd lost his arm to gangrene after receiving a simple flesh wound, like AJ now had. AJ shuddered at the thought of becoming that old man.

He decided to take things slowly ... but he was beholden to the woman. If there was pursuit ... and he was sure there was ... he'd have been helpless on foot, and probably already tied to a horse, on his way back to Abilene ... and a gallows."

Chapter Three

When the wagon stopped, AJ and Frank Jr. climbed out again. AJ walked to the head of the team and looked up and down the creek. Like many he'd seen before there was only a rivulet of flowing water in the middle of a wide mostly flat bed, caused by a hundred years of flash floods. He walked out onto the flat beside the small stream. It wasn't terribly soft, but the wagon would leave ruts in it. Still, he thought it could be done. He'd have to scout things out upstream, to make sure they could get back out of the creek bed.

He told the woman to stay put and then scouted at a trot, trying not to think about the pain his jolting gait caused in his arm. The heels of his boots sank in deeper in some places than others, but he still thought the wagon could make it. The trees thinned a bit upstream and he found a place where, if the oxen could be urged to a trot, the wagon might be pulled back up onto the prairie.

On his way back to the wagon AJ reflected on how it all depended on time. It would take them half a day to get the wagon upstream and wipe out the tracks. They might get caught by a posse while doing it. But if they just went ahead, that same posse would find them just as easily.

By the time he got back to the three family members, standing forlornly by the wagon, he had decided that it was better to go down fighting than just lie down and give up.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

They were all drenched with sweat when the wagon creaked over the last hillock onto flat ground. Frank Jr., being the lightest, stayed on the seat and handled the reins while the other three gripped wheel spokes and strained, helping wheels to turn in sand as the oxen also strained to pull the heavy load, their hooves churning the soft ground.

All three sank to sit on crushed prairie grass, panting, drops of salty liquid dripping from their noses and chins. The women looked like they had gone in swimming, fully dressed. AJ's eyes picked out bumps on Arabella's bosom that he knew were nipples under the thin dress, but he was too tired to think about it.

Frank Jr., of course, was filled with excitement, and full of energy as he jumped down from the wagon seat.

AJ groaned and stood, telling Frank Jr. to follow him. He took his bowie knife from the scabbard on his right hip and hacked off two leafy tree limbs, handing one of them to the boy. Then he showed him how to scuff up the wheel ruts with his feet and sweep the bough across them to soften their look.

By the time they'd reached the road, Frank wasn't so cheery anymore. He had blisters on his hands from handling the limb, and was just as hot and dusty as all the others.

AJ looked at the results of their efforts from the road and sighed. It was a hasty job. Anybody who looked twice would know what had happened, but it was the best they could do. His last act was to walk to the same side of the creek as the wagon was now on, wiping out their boot prints. Then he and Frank Jr. picked their way carefully through the trees for a few dozen yards.

They abandoned their branches and then walked tiredly back to the wagon.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Jeremiah Stone dismounted at the small wooden structure, obviously newly built, that had a painted sign above the door that simply said "JAIL." He went inside, stomping his boots and making ineffectual swipes at the dust on his pants legs. The office was empty of humanity, as were the two cells built into the back wall. They appeared to have been built out of flat iron, probably used wagon tires, riveted together by the blacksmith who supplied them. There were a few posters on one wall, and a rifle rack. The desk had originally been some kind of shipping crate that had been altered to serve its current use.

He returned to the street and looked around. Abilene was booming. The stink of cows permeated the air, and their lowing could be heard in the distance, where Stone knew the rail head was. People were hustling this way and that on the main street, a few dozen yards from the new jail, which had been built on the current edge of town.

It took him half an hour to find Sheriff Dan Cross, who appeared to be jawing with the storekeeper of the Manelly Dry Goods Emporium. After introductions were made, Stone followed Cross back to the jail. On the way he learned that the bodies had, indeed, been buried. Cross produced photographs. The missing toe in one of them convinced Stone that the notorious Fisby brothers' days of mayhem were, in fact, a thing of the past.

He got the story of the incident then. During the narrative, Stone learned that three witnesses had said that one of the three Fisbys had drawn first, though they didn't agree on which one. The only thing everybody agreed on was that the Fisbys had indeed been cheating, and that the cowboy was the fastest gun any of them had ever seen, with deadly aim to boot. That was evident to both lawmen, even without witnesses. One man had taken down three very bad men, firing a total of four shots. And while he was doing it, all three had drawn their guns. That the mystery man had fired four times, while the men who drew first only got off two made it clear the winner was very fast indeed.

Cross related that he had found the trail boss the cowboy had come up the trail with, but had gotten only "AJ" as the hero's name. The description the trail boss gave matched that of the witnesses, including the cross draw holster rig. That wasn't all that common.

"So we're not talking about murder here," said Stone.

"Not unless you count the farmer, and his murderer is already dead," replied Cross. "For all practical purposes three wanted men were brought down, and one bystander got in the way." He squinted at the Marshal. "So is there really a reward for the Fisbys?" .

Stone simply nodded.

"Good luck finding that AJ feller," drawled Cross. "He lit out of here like he was trying to make Mexico in one day."

"Anybody go after him?"

"Why would we? All he did was expose them for what they were and then rid the world of them. It was self-defense, pure and simple."

"What about the family?"

"The only person who wanted them was the undertaker, so's he could charge them for the burial," said Cross. "As near as I can tell from what the witnesses said, they don't have no money anyway, other than what the woman snatched off the table after her man was killed. Did I tell you he threw his daughter into the pot?"

"You did," said the Marshal.

"Sometimes I wonder what this world is coming to," sighed Cross.

"Hard times make hard people." Stone shrugged.

"Well, considering that her husband was cheated and killed, I can't fault her for what she did. They lit out too. Same direction as the cowboy ... south." Cross tilted his head sideways and a speculative look came into his eyes. "So what happens to the reward now?"

Stone shrugged again. "I'll put out the word about this AJ fellow. If anybody runs across him, he'll get the money. If not, I guess it will sit there until some judge decides what to do with it. I suspicion it will just stay in the pot and end up being paid out for some other misfit."

Cross sighed.

"Figured it would be something like that."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Within a mile of striking off through thick tall prairie grass that came up to the seat of the wagon, they rolled onto an area where the grass was flattened in a wide swath for as far as the eye could see. Bella stopped the wagon. They'd all ridden for an hour, recuperating from their half day's labor. Cutting through the prairie grass had been a bumpy, slow process, but the ground looked much smoother ahead.

Frank Jr. watered the oxen again, while AJ looked around.

"This is the Chisholm trail!" he observed. "I just brought a herd of beeves across here."

"So that's why it's all trampled down," said Bella.

"Yes, Ma'am," said AJ. "This trail leads right back down to Texas."

"We're not going to Texas," said Bella.

"Well there's a fair piece of Kansas and all of Oklahoma Territory in between," said AJ. "But the going will be a lot easier if we stay on this trail for a while. There's some pretty country up ahead. It's a lot greener than further south." He looked at the woman. "Where were you headed?"

"Frank had some information about homesteading on the plains," she said. "He didn't tell me much more than that. He seemed to know where we were headed."

"Most of Kansas is still Indian country," said AJ, frowning. "I haven't heard of any land being opened up for settlers west of here."

"As I said, I know only what Frank saw fit to tell me," said the woman. She leaned over and scooped up a handful of dirt, loosened by thousands of hooves. "The soil looks good."

"Don't know much about farming," muttered AJ. He'd never wanted to think about farming once he'd left his parents farm, and he didn't want this woman to know that he had any knowledge of growing things at all. He much preferred the active life of handing cattle.

"Well, I suppose we should go on," said Bella. "Though, to be honest, I don't know what to look for, as far as good land."

She told the children to walk. Now that they'd had a chance to rest it was the team's turn to have less weight to pull. She told AJ to get up on the wagon seat.

"I can walk, Ma'am," he said. He just naturally looked over at his horse, which he'd rather be riding. The animal seemed to be doing fine. Without the weight of a rider, it was putting a little weight on the hoof the shoe had come off of. He'd thought about putting it down, but couldn't bring himself to do it for just a thrown shoe. If it kept following them, they'd eventually find a farrier and the horse would be fine after that. Assuming it didn't go completely lame in the meantime. If that happened, he knew he'd have to kill again."

And, as things had turned out, he suddenly had no interest in killing anything other than, perhaps, dinner.

"You broke open your wound getting the wagon to this trail," said Arabella. "You'll ride. I've no desire to stop moving again to bury you."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Marshal Stone had to wait as a double column of cavalry rode out before he kneed his horse through the gates of the tall stockade. He didn't glance up at the hand carved sign that said "FORT BENNETT RILEY." There was no sentry on duty at that time of day, though the fort was bustling with activity that far exceeded what had been there the last time Stone had happened by the outpost. Established fifteen years earlier, to protect settlers using the Santa Fe and Oregon trails on their movement westward, the fort looked like it had been there for decades.

Stone had decided to let the commanding officer know about the Fisbys. Not that the Army spent much time looking for outlaws. That wasn't their job. But on those rare occasions where someone needed help, nobody was too picky about whether those chasing an outlaw wore a badge or just stripes on his sleeves.

He tied his horse to the hitching post outside the headquarters building which was made of limestone blocks. There were other stone buildings scattered around as well. Lt. Colonel George Custer had lived in one of them, before he took the 7th Cavalry out to fight the Cheyenne. At this point in time, Custer was only famous for having gone AWOL to see his wife after that battle, and being tried by court martial for it. He was, in fact, in New York City, halfway through a one year suspension, though Stone wasn't aware of that.

The Marshal entered the headquarters building with his badge clearly visible on his vest and told a Corporal that he'd like a few minutes with the commanding officer, who he knew to be Colonel Frederick Cotton. He'd met the man once before.

He was ushered in immediately and shook hands with the short, stout man, whose face was dark red and lined, a sure sign that he spent much of his time outside this building.

"What brings you to see the Army, Marshal?" asked Cotton.

"I have some news," said Stone.

He relayed the information about the incident giving the description of the mysterious "AJ" and the fact that, if found, he could be notified that he was due a reward.

"His behavior suggests he thinks he is in trouble," said Stone, "so he may be hiding out. It's possible that your men, in their normal duties, might chance upon him."

"Hmmm," mused Cotton. "If he decided to hide out to the west, he may be bones when we find him. The Comanche, among others, are kicking up their heels. We've just mustered the 19th Kansas Cavalry here at Riley, as a matter of fact. The traffic on the Santa Fe trail is starting to slack off, due to the railroad pushing west, but we still have our hands full with those who can't afford the train."

Stone mentioned the settler family then, who survived the dead farmer.

"South out of Abilene, you say?" muttered Cotton. "She may be headed for the Santa Fe. It crosses some miles south of there. And a lone wagon, you say?"

"It appears that way," said Stone.

"Foolish!" barked the Colonel. "These people just don't understand what they're getting into."

"Well," said Stone, "I just thought you should know about something that happened in your area of operations."

"Normally I wouldn't do anything about all this, Marshal, but I have several troops of raw recruits who need time in the saddle to sharpen their skills. I'll send a troop out that way. They can have a look see around while they learn how to find their way around the trackless prairie and toughen up their backsides!" He laughed. "If we find your young hero we'll set him straight. Who knows? Maybe we'll sign him up. After taking on all three Fisby brothers I'm sure a group of howling savages would present no challenge to him." He laughed again.

The men shook hands and Stone left. If he kept a good pace, he'd only have to spend one more night sleeping on the ground before getting back to Topeka.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The oxen pulled steadily. To AJ, used to riding a horse, they seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. Even so, the wagon creaked and jounced, sometimes alarmingly as the wheels rolled over the roots of tufts of prairie grass and stones laid bare by the scouring of thousands of hooves. With nothing else to do but bounce along, Arabella's natural tendency to keeping silent gave way. Curious about the man on the seat beside her, she provided information about her little family, unconsciously urging him to share the details of his past with her.

He did tell her a little about himself, though he was spare with the details, at first.

Eventually he realized she was talking just to be talking, and AJ was convinced that she was just a woman, more or less just like any other. When she mentioned her dead husband, it almost sounded like he wasn't dead, just off somewhere and expected back some day. Some of what she said about their foray off to start a new life was patently ridiculous, though she didn't seem to know that. Take for instance how late in the season they'd started their trip. She was months behind breaking the soil and hadn't even found any soil to break. Had she been a man, AJ would have thought she was posturing about the plan to find land and settle it. It sounded like she thought it would be easy.

"Have you farmed before?" he asked.

"As a girl on my parents' farm," she said. "We lived in town after I married Frank. I was fifteen then, and thought he was a man of means."

"That why you married him?" AJ didn't think of it as a hurtful question.

"My father said I was to marry him," she said simply. "I had been around other men, of course. Frank seemed nicer than the others," she sighed. "At first he said sweet things, and made me feel grown up. I thought living in town would make me a lady."

"You are a lady," he said automatically.

"I never felt like one," she said sadly. "I wasn't married a month before he got drunk and struck me."

AJ was appalled. A man didn't hit a woman. It was just that way.

"Did somebody horsewhip him for it?" .

"Land sakes no," she said. "Nobody knew. I didn't tell anyone...

"Why on earth not?" he asked, surprised.

"And be the laughing stock of all those women I wanted so much to be like?" It seemed to make perfect sense to her. "I suppose I didn't really know what to do about it. He said he was sorry. He always said he was sorry ... eventually...

"It happened again?!" AJ fidgeted on the board seat as adrenaline surged into his system. He was outraged.

"Many times," she said stolidly. "It wasn't so bad when I was pregnant. He knew people checked on me then, and I couldn't hide the bruises."

"Bruises?" AJ's voice went up a notch. "He should have been dragged through the street behind a horse! You should have left him!"

"And done what?" she asked, quite seriously. "Where would I have gone? How would I have eaten ... fed my children? I'm not at all sure how I'm going to feed them now. He wasn't much, but at least we didn't starve. There were some lean times, to be sure, but we managed. Without him I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Grow food," said AJ. "Plant seeds and eat the crop. People been doing it for centuries.

"But there's the building of shelter, and winter to get through," she said. "I almost think it would be better to find some town and try to find some kind of work.

The only "work" AJ knew of that women did in town had to do with rooms upstairs, above the saloons. Unless they were married to the storekeeper, or something like that. AJ had never paid much attention to what women did when they weren't promenading on the street. He knew his mother worked her fingers to the bone on the farm, but not what took up the time of the average women in town.

"I don't think you're the kind of woman to work in a saloon," he suggested.

"Lord no!" she gasped. "I've taken in washing before. That's how we got much of our food these last few years."

The more he heard of Arabella's life, the more he realized that she wasn't as helpless and stupid as he'd originally thought. He still didn't understand why a woman would allow herself to be abused like that, but at least she had some worries about the same kinds of things that AJ would have worried about, had he been aiming to do what she was.

At one point AJ wondered what he was going to do. He still had his pay in his pocket, but that would be used up getting a new horse. Even then he'd have to get back to Texas and find another job wrangling beeves. He had no idea if word of his criminal status would spread once his former compatriots got back to Texas, but if it did, he'd be hard pressed to find any work at all. Then there were the Texas Rangers to dodge. They loved nothing more than going after wanted men.

There was always New Mexico. He'd heard some tales about the growth there, after the Mexican American war, and how there was gold out west too. Perhaps he could make his way there and see what could be found."

As they talked Arabella slowly got what there was to get out of him, concerning his own background. He insisted there wasn't much to tell. He'd left home, gotten a job as a cowboy, and here he was."

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" she asked."

AJ was shocked that she'd be curious about how he came by the skills that, the way he still thought about it, got her husband killed. But her face held no trace of anger; only curiosity."

"I just like shooting," he said. "I did, anyway. Now I'm not so sure."

"Do all cowboys go around getting in gunfights?" she asked."

Again, AJ thought the woman must be simple minded, or egging him on, but there was only curiosity in her eyes."

"I reckon not," he said. "That was the first gunfight I ever got in, and I hope and pray it's the last.

"That's good," she said, her eyes going to the oxen as if she were evaluating their health. She sounded almost relieved.

"I never thought it would be like that," he said softly. "I mean I had ideas of glory ... but it wasn't like that. There was no glory in what I done."

"They'd have killed you dead," she said. "All three of them were drawing their guns. I saw it myself!"

"I shouldn't have even opened my mouth," said AJ.

Her head swiveled and he knew she was looking at her daughter, who was walking quite close to the wagon, her bonneted head tilted as if she were trying to hear what they were saying.

"You'd have let them take my daughter ... as a wager?"

AJ felt uncomfortable as thoughts of what the men would have done to Becky flooded his mind and his own manhood reacted. He felt ashamed.

"Somebody would have stopped them," he said.

"Who? When you tried, they attempted to kill you. Do you really think other men from town would have foiled the evil plans of men they had to live with in that place?"

AJ remembered how eager faces had leaned in when the cards were turned over and the sodbuster had learned he'd lost. There had been no condemnation on any of those faces. He was quite sure some of the others in the saloon must have known the men were cheating. They weren't very good at it, after all. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the other men in that saloon would have turned and walked away as the girl was dragged up the stairs to be used like a whore.

He saw Becky look directly at them, and then blush and look away as she saw his eyes on her. Her lurching gait, across the broken ground, made her breasts jump and jerk inside her thin dress. He almost groaned as his penis started to stiffen again in his pants. He looked away.

"I don't know," he said helplessly.

"You did a good thing, Mister AJ whatever your last name is," said Arabella. "You saved a sweet girl from something more terrible than any woman should have to face." She shook the reins and clucked at the team. "And I'll not miss being knocked around either," she said firmly. "My husband got himself into that mess. You tried to get him out. I heard you warn him. I find no fault in you. If your mother was here I'd thank her for going through the pain of birthing you.".

AJ was astonished to find that there were tears in his eyes. He wouldn't have characterized her attitude as one of forgiveness, because he didn't think about things like that. But the warmth of her comments affected him deeply. For the first time in a long time, he felt like hugging a woman for reasons other than feeling her femininity against his masculinity. In response he actually scooted further away from her a few inches.

"It's Hobbs, Ma'am," he said.

"What?"

"My name is Aloysius Julian Hobbs."

He expected her to laugh, but she didn't. Instead, she asked "Why do you go only by your initials?"

"Men seem to think it a funny name," he mumbled. "I decided to change it, instead of fighting about it."

"Well I think it's a perfectly fine name," she said. "It sounds gentleman-like to me."

"I ain't no gentleman," he snorted.

"Who says?" she came back.

Their eyes met, and AJ saw something in hers that stirred his groin again. It bothered him. On an unconscious level, AJ thought of her as a widow, and it wasn't seemly to have those kinds of thoughts about a widow. And having them about her daughter wasn't seemly either, especially since it was AJ who had made the girl half an orphan.

They rode on in silence for a while. AJ was purely astonished when, after he had curbed his salacious thoughts about the women, he realized there might be a streak of gentleman in him after all.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

They came upon the dead horse about an hour later. Conversation had slowly faded as they shared all they felt free to share.

"What's he doing now?" asked Arabella as she saw Frank Jr. running ahead of the slowly moving wagon.

AJ looked up ahead and saw the lump. He assumed it was a dead steer, since cattle died sometimes on a drive. It wasn't until they were closer that he saw it was what was left of a horse.

The carcass had been stripped of most of the meat by carrion eaters of one kind or another. There were a few crows around, but there wasn't much left for them to scavenge, even though the stink of death still clung to the corpse. The white of the bones almost gleamed in the fading sun.

"Get away from that!" called Arabella to Frank Jr., who was walking around the bones curiously.

Something gleamed in the sunlight and AJ sat up straight.

"Hold up," he said to Bella.

She didn't ask any questions, pulling the team to a stop. Instead she ordered Frank Jr. to water the team, which seemed a little skittish, probably because of the smell of death. Becky, uneasy with death as well, came to stand close to the wagon.

AJ approached the skeleton and leaned down. The hooves were shod. Pulling his Bowie knife from the scabbard, he lifted a hoof and started trying to pry the shoe off. The hoof came away in his hand, with the lower leg bones still attached.

"What are you doing?" yelled Bella, horrified that AJ was handling the corpse.

"I'm getting a shoe for my horse!" he called back. "Have you got a hammer?"

"There's one back there somewhere," she said. "Are you serious?"

"If I can reshoe my horse, maybe he won't go lame," said AJ, excited now for the first time since he rode out of Abilene.

"But ... " Bella felt her stomach heave as she watched the young man working on the bones.

AJ had to pound on the knife, using it as a chisel. He had to be careful not to break the blade, but he was sure he'd be able to get the shoe free, recovering the nails as well. Bella watched the light begin to fail, but said nothing. Other than the wide swath of churned earth, there was only prairie grass for as far as she could see. They'd have to stop for the night somewhere, and here was as good as anyplace else. She was dirty and tired anyway, and, since they'd left the wagon road, she wasn't as worried about pursuit.

AJ heard her telling the children about her decision and halted his work.

"Not here," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"This corpse will still draw predators," he said. "We need to move on a mile or so. Maybe there's another stream up ahead. I remember plenty of water on the trip up. A stream would be better than a pond. See if you can find one. You go ahead with the wagon. I'll catch up."

"Why a stream?" she asked.

"This shoe is valuable," he said. "But that doesn't mean I want to smell like this any longer than I have to."

"Oh," said Bella, wondering why she hadn't thought of that. "Of course."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

AJ had worked one shoe free, and pocketed the nails. He wanted to get another one, just in case, but couldn't take the time. Then he groaned as he realized he could have just taken the bones with him and worked on them at their camp site. Seizing another leg he wrenched the bones free from the knee joint and began walking."

Chapter Four

It was almost fully dark by the time AJ caught up with the wagon. As it turned out there was, indeed, another rivulet a little more than a mile from the corpse of the horse. A fire was already going and his stomach growled as he smelled food cooking. He realized he hadn't eaten all day. There was jerky in his saddle bags, but a hot meal would be much more welcome. He hoped it wasn't beans.

He decided to get the stink off of him before going into the camp, and altered his direction of travel to bypass the wagon and go directly to the creek. He had to go amongst the inevitable Cottonwood trees to get to the water, which was barely a trickle. Turning, he walked upstream toward the wagon, hoping to find a pool. His boots made almost no sound on the sandy bottom of the creek bed.

He was almost to the wagon when he found the pool, but was unprepared to find Arabella standing in it. The fire was behind her, and her silhouette was coal black, except around the edges where her pale skin glowed faintly orange in the firelight. Her long hair had been unbound and was hanging down as she bent over, scooping up handfuls of water.

It was the clear outline of her hanging breasts that made AJ realize she was naked. Their stark silhouette quivered and moved as she lifted handfuls of water to bathe them. He saw the outlines of stiffened nipples as he jerked to a stop. She was humming, which was probably why she hadn't heard his approach.

He stood, riveted to the spot as she continued to bathe. She stood back up, and the hanging breasts settled on her chest, sagging somewhat as her hands smoothed over her belly and thighs. He felt the tightening in his groin, but this time he didn't look away. He couldn't. He hadn't seen many paintings, and the ones he had seen, even in a saloon, couldn't hold a candle to what he was seeing now. Even though there was no detail, her form, outlined by firelight, made her seem like some magical creature, calling to the man in him.

He realized he was holding his breath, and let it out slowly. The last thing he wanted was to get caught intruding on her privacy. It wasn't because of any gentlemanly feelings now, though. He just didn't want her to run away. He wanted to keep watching her.

His horse ruined everything.

It had probably smelled him, having a keener nose than the humans in the area. It trotted toward him, splashing through the water and whinnying at its master.

Bella, startled by the big beast going past her, moved and saw AJ standing by the stream, not twenty feet away, as the fire illuminated his form. Her "Eeek" was accompanied by one arm covering breasts she didn't know were hidden in the dark, and the hand of the other arm going to her groin.

"I'm sorry!" blurted AJ. "I didn't know you were here." The horse butted his chest and almost knocked him down. "I was going to do the same thing."

Bella whirled and ran on bare feet that danced on small stones and sticks as she tried to get away. She yelped and stopped, lifting a foot, hopping on the other as she felt the injured one.

"Turn around!" she gasped.

AJ did so, finally paying some attention to his horse, which was obviously looking for something to eat. It was disgusted by the bones in his hand and snorted.

Hearing nothing, he stayed turned away for long minutes. Finally he peeked, only to find that the pool was deserted, and Bella was nowhere in sight. Sighing, he started stripping his own clothing off, piling his things on the sand beside the pool.

He didn't stand, like Bella had. He tried to immerse himself in the water, sitting. It came to his waist, and covered his legs. He washed over and over, even dunking his head, making sure that the stink of death was gone. Then he washed his clothes and the bones he'd brought with him.

It wasn't until he stood up to let the wind dry him that he realized he had nothing to put on except what he'd taken off. On the trail it wouldn't have mattered. He'd have just walked naked back to camp, letting the air dry him, and put on clean clothes. He sighed. Getting the wet pants on was a lot of work. He left the shirt off and carried his boots in one hand, the bones and horseshoe in the other.

Bella was fussing over the cast iron pot sitting on the edge of the fire when he arrived at the campsite. She looked up. Even in the weak light of the fire he could see her blush.

"I'm really sorry," he said.

"You look a sight," she muttered. "I suppose you bathed in your clothes."

"No," he said, confused. "I just didn't have anything else to put on."

"Your planning skills leave somewhat to be desired," she said darkly. "Unless you planned on spying on me."

"How was I supposed to know you'd be there?" he asked.

"Why didn't you come straight to the wagon?" she shot back.

"Because I stank!" he barked. "I was trying to spare you the odor!"

"Well you certainly didn't spare me the embarrassment," she mumbled. "My own son saw me bare naked when I ran back to camp!"

"He's a lucky boy," said AJ, without thinking. He looked up into the dark branches of the trees above and groaned.

"You are impertinent!" she scolded.

"All right," he said. "I'm impertinent. I stumbled upon you bathing, and took advantage of you. You may horsewhip me in the morning. Right now, though, I'm starved, and that smells good." He looked around. "Where are the others?"

"I sent them to gather wood," she sniffed. "While I made myself decent."

"In the dark?" AJ looked around. "What if there are Indians about?"

Bella stood straight up, a look of horror on her face. "Indians!?"

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