END OF THE TRAIL
Jean Marie Stine
 
ON A cool fall morning in 1893, a young man rode up the trail from the Little Bighorn River into Billings, Montana. In the far distance, he could see the blue glint of the Yellowstone River. West of the Yellowstone River stood the towering cliffs of rimrock that circled Billings on the north.
He wore a shapeless old army coat over a worn shirt and faded blue pants with a faded yellow stripe down each leg. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, his sun baked face was gaunt, with the look of someone who has ridden many hard trails without any sign of an end. His dark eyes held the bitterness of a man who has known only disappointment in life.
His horse's hooves thudded down the street past wood-frame homes set behind white picket fences. The young man felt lonely. He yearned to be inside one of those homes. He ached to warm himself by a family fire. But he knew that such was not for "his kind."
When he crossed the railroad tracks of the Northern Pacific onto Billings' main street, the young man knew he must be near his destination.
In his pocket was a letter with directions from the only man he knew would give someone like him a chance. His former captain in the cavalry knew how hard and how well he could work. For a moment he felt a flash of hope. He hoped that here at last he might find an end to his trail.
As he rode, the young man began to scan the signs hanging from the two-story wooden buildings: Cothron and Todd: Feed & Swill. J.W Cook: Livery, Board, Hack & Transfer. P Yeagen & Co.: Groceries and Dry Goods. Around him swarmed farm families in buckboards, rich ladies in carriages, tradesmen driving wagons, and ranch hands on horseback.
When he failed to find the building he sought, the young man dismounted and tied his horse in front of the first storefront. He entered the store to find a young woman in a white shirtwaist and long dark skirt sweeping behind a counter.
The store overflowed with barrels of molasses, apples, beer, sacks of flour, shelves of ammunition, Pear's soap, flannel underwear, Huckin's soup, Brunswick cigars, collars, Hire's root beer, seeds - and a thousand other items. Handbills papered the walls selling furnaces, Studebaker carriages, upright pianos, Victor bicycles, Singer sewing machines, porcelain bathtubs and Montauk cameras.
He approached the young woman and removed his hat. "The Northern Pacific Hotel?" he asked.
The woman's eyes took in his worn out clothing. "If you came for a job, you're out of luck," she said. "The hotel burned down a few months ago."
The young man's bitter look got deeper. "Thank you," he said. "It seems I am always - as you say - out of luck." Settling his hat on his head, he moved toward the door.
"Are you an Indian?"
A sharpness crossed his face as he looked closely at the young woman behind the counter. The cinnamon of her skin told him why she had asked - and why she was the one doing the sweeping
"Yes, señorita. My father was Anglo; my mother, Mexican. To most people that's the same as Indian. A half-breed like yourself," he said with a sting.
The young woman blazed. "You looked part Indian. We rarely see Mexicans this far North. My mother was Crow - and I'm not ashamed of it!"
"I feel no shame either, señorita," he said evenly. "But one tires of hearing 'half-breed' - and being told 'There's no place for your kind in this town.'"
"So you run away?"
Cold hatred crept into his face. "I have never run away from a fight in my life."
"I'm sure you haven't," she said. "You're the kind to run away - after a fight."
"Would you have me stay here where I'm not wanted?" he said hotly.
"There's good and bad in every town. Maybe you never stayed around long enough to find the good." Then he saw caution in her eyes. "And here comes the bad in Billings now."
The door banged open, and a tall man stomped in. He was wearing silver conchos on a black vest, a wide brimmed hat, and a pearl-handled revolver. Other tough 
looking characters closely followed the tall man. His glance swept over the young man. "A half-breed! And a Mex at that." The big man flashed an easy smile. 
"Hi, Pedro. Ain't seen your kind since I left Amarillo."
The muscles of the young man's hands tightened. He was not afraid. Yet the memory of beatings from the likes of this man held him silent.
Then the big man stepped to the counter. "And here's my favorite squaw. How's my little Pocahontas?" The big man swept off his hat in mock respect.
The young woman's voice was freezing. "May I take your order, Mr. Lee?"
"Call me Gentry, honey," the big man grinned. "I'd like a box of Remington forty-fours-and the pleasure of your company at the Yellowstone County Fair."
She pushed the box of shells across the counter. "That will be one dollar and two bits, please," was her only reply.
Gentry Lee leaned over the counter, smile flashing. "What about the County Fair?"
Her glance was as freezing as her voice. "You know the answer to that, Mr. Lee."
The big man's smile faded. "Why, you cheap little squaw! What makes you think-"
The young man stepped between Gentry Lee and the counter. "Apologize to the senorita" He could smell the alcohol on Lee's breath.
Lee's face went ugly with rage. His companions moved forward. The young man stood his ground.
Lee snarled. "You'd best high-tail it back where you came from, Mex. We don't need your kind around here."
There was iron in the young man's reply. "That is exactly what I plan on doing. 
But not until the señorita's apology."
Contempt twisted the big man's face. His right hand fell to his gun. "Why, you lousy half-breed! For two cents, I'd-"
The young man pulled his coat wide. "I have no gun, senior."
Lee's eyes flamed in triumph. "Well ain't that just too bad."
"EASE UP THERE, GENTRY!" came a woman's brassy voice from behind. "Shooting an unarmed man ain't exactly my idea of a fair fight. And you know how I feel about fair fights."
Lee froze. Fear mixed with anger in his face. Even the rough group around him stirred uneasily. Suddenly a grin split the blond man's face and he lifted his 
hand wide of his gun. "Sure, Miz Jane. I was just funning." He pointed to one of his men. "Frisco here was gonna loan Pedro a gun."
"Sure he was, Gentry," the woman's husky voice drawled. "I know how careful you are about things like that."
Lee backed off. "The half-breed and me can settle this outside - fair like. That okay with you, Pedro?" His eyes had the sureness of a gunman so quick on the draw, he believed he had no equal.
The young man shrugged, "Why not, senior. But first apologize to the lady."
"Yes, apologize to the lady," said the woman called Jane.
"Sure, Miz Jane." Lee grinned broadly. "It's just that Miz Margery here has been turning me down so long, I kinda lost my head."
He tipped his hat to the young woman behind the counter, and took his box of gun shells. "We'll be waiting outside, half-breed," he added. Then he and his pals swept out.
The young man turned and saw "Miz Jane" for the first time. She had deep-set eyes, a face of granite, and a long-barreled rifle resting in the crook of her arm.
"You okay, Miz Margery?"
"Yes, Miss Jane. I've been dealing with his type all my life."
Margery came out from behind the counter. "You any good with a revolver?" she asked the young man."
"I was in the cavalry," he replied.
When the young man stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk, he heard the woman with the husky voice remarking, "Seems to me the cavalry fights mostly with sabers and rifles - don't get much practice with pistols."
As the young man expected, gunfights were rare enough that word had spread rapidly through the small frontier town. The wagon-filled street was now clear.
Groups of men gathered along the sidewalks to watch.
Across the street, by a water pump, Gentry Lee was waiting with his friends. The one called Frisco took off his gun belt and started forward.
"Fool!" Behind him the door banged open, and the young woman was beside him on the sidewalk. "You're not any match for Gentry Lee with a gun!"
"I'm not afraid of Gentry Lee," he said.
"I know you're not. But youare afraid of finding out there aren't any good people - or any good towns - for you."
He shrugged. "The people of this town won't miss one more half-breed fool."
"The people of this town might just surprise you." He heard the venom in her voice.
"At any rate, senorita" he said, "It's just a little late for that." He stepped down into the street.
"No," he heard her say. This time her voice was harsh. "You're not dying for me!"
Not for you, he thought - for me. Then he took the gun belt, nodding to the man who had brought it.
Lee moved away from the water pump. His right hand hung just above the handle of his gun.
There was a soft smile on the young man's face. He was ready to die here - today. There was nowhere left to go. He knew he had reached the end of his trail and he was content.
As they moved toward each other, the young man heard the voices of hate from the sidewalk: 
"Don't need your kind in Billings!" 
"Get him, Gentry!" 
"Kill the half-breed!" 
Others with them simply watched. They were waiting for his death.
"No hard feelings, Mex," Lee said, teeth flashing in a smile. Then his hand flashed to his gun.
The young man reached for his own weapon, his fingers reaching the butt as Lee's revolver swung up at him.
A shattering CRACK split the air.
Gentry's gun flew from his hand.
The young man turned. The woman with the rifle stood outside the store.
"Don't mind me, boys," the woman's brassy voice called. "Just thought I'd even things up a bit. Why don't you two settle this up with your fists?"
"Suits me," Gentry said, but an ugly gleam lit his eyes as he dropped his gun belt into the street.
The young man studied him. Lee was bigger, but his body had the softness of a man who has lived too long by the gun and he was drunk. The young man took off his holster. For the first time, he felt hope.
Then he heard the ugly sound of men urging, "Give him a licking Gentry!" 
"Teach the dirty half-breed!"
Lee lurched forward, slightly off balance. His arms opened wide. Before Lee could close his arms, the young man stepped inside them, and his right fist traveled like lightning into the softness of Lee's stomach.
Quickly, he was back out of Lee's reach. He had practiced boxing in the cavalry. 
He began to feel more confident. Lee straightened, smile gone, fury on his face. 
"Why you, dirty-"
Fists ready, the big man moved forward again with startling swiftness and power. 
Dynamite exploded against the young man's cheek, a hammer against his belly. The sky turned dark and stars spun through it.
He was down on one knee, unable to breathe. White hot pain pulsed in his head and chest. Lee loomed above him, sweating and grinning in triumph.
The young man shook his head to clear it. There was no strength in his arms and his legs were unsteady. He knew two more such blows could finish him.
"Guess that's it, half-breed," Lee said, and reached down to grab at him.
At the sound of that hated word again, the young man felt something snap, deep down inside. He twisted around, bringing his right hand up again. It came from somewhere around his knees, came up with every ounce of power he had left. 
Behind that right hand was all the anger at being called "breed" by men like this in towns like this. It came up with the speed of a cannonball, exploding on Lee's chin.
But Lee only staggered. He placed a hand on his chin, felt it, then smiled. Lee raised his fists again, took a step forward - but wobbled to his knees. Then his eyes glazed and he slowly fell forward on his face in the dirt.
The young man found himself swaying on his feet, eyes cloudy. He tried to move toward his horse. He knew he was hurt and was going to collapse soon. But he wanted to show what a half-breed could do. He wanted to ride out under his own power, without anyone's help.
The ground tilted. His knees started to give way.
But there were hands under his arms, supporting him, and a babble of voices around him. He felt a rain of blows and realized they were pats on his back. 
"Good work, boy," people were saying. "Lee was always troubling me and my Missus." "Called me a Greaser." "Said my boy was a half-breed." "Wish I had your courage."
His vision began to clear, and he found almost everyone on the street was smiling, congratulating him, trying to shake his hand.
He sensed a different set of arms was supporting him. It was Margery. "Told you folks around here might surprise you," the young woman said. He could not believe how strong her arms were.
"Most of the folks who settled Billings were foreigners or half-breeds to someone." She nodded at the store. "My father owns this place."
She stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. He felt his head swim again.
The pounding pain returned. "I understand Mr. Yeagen is looking for someone to make deliveries at his store." Her eyes swept him scornfully. "Or shall I help you to your horse?"
The young man swayed and touched his swollen, bloodied face. His lips moved in a painful smile. "I don't think I could go any farther - even if I wanted to." And he gratefully let her ease him down to the steps.
The young man suddenly remembered he hadn't thanked the woman with the rifle, who had given him a fighting chance. He hadn't had reason to thank people in a long time, so the habit had grown rusty. He looked around. The woman was nowhere in sight.
"That woman-" he fingered his lip gingerly again. "Who was she?"
Margery laughed. "Don't you know? That was Sara Jane Canary. Some people call her Calamity Jane."