REBEL COUNTY
by
B. J. LANAGAN

                                  Jove Books
                                   New York
                             Copyright (C) 1997 by
                            Jove Publications, Inc.
                             All rights reserved.


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Printing history
Jove edition / September 1997

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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                                       1


                      County Courthouse, San Saba, Texas

     "Hear ye!  Hear ye!  Hear ye!  This here trial is about to commence, the
Honorable Douglas Canaby Presidin'," the bailiff shouted.  "Everybody stand
respectful."

     The Honorable Douglas Canaby came out of a back room.  After taking his
seat at the bench, he adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, then
cleared his throat.

     "Would the bailiff please bring the accused before the bench?"

     The bailiff, who was leaning against the side wall, spit a quid of
tobacco into the brass spittoon, then walked over to the table where the
defendant, Ray Kingsley, sat next to his court-appointed lawyer, Arnold
Fenton.

     "Get up, you," he growled.  "Present yourself before the judge."

     Ray was handcuffed, and had shackles on his ankles.  He shuffled up to
stand in front of the judge.  Fenton went with him.

     "Ray Kingsley, you stand accused of the crime of ridin' for that
butcherin', thievin', rapin' bastard Quantrill," the judge said.  "How do you
plead?"

     "Quantrill never raped nobody," Ray said.  "It was only the red-legged
Yankee bastards done that."

     "How do you plead?" the judge asked again.

     "Your Honor, if it please the court," Fenton said.

     "You got somethin' to say to this court, Mr. Fenton?" Judge Canaby asked.

     "Yes, Your Honor.  Quantrill did most of his murderin' and thievin' up in
Kansas and Missouri," the lawyer said.

     "What's your point, Mr. Fenton?"

     "Well, Your Honor, this here is Texas.  Don't know why we're tryin' Mr.
Kingsley in Texas for any murderin' and thievin' he might have done while he
was up in Kansas.  I move that this case be dismissed for lack of proper
jurisdiction."

     "Your Honor, it is known that Quantrill spent one winter in Texas," the
prosecutor said.

     "There you go," Judge Canaby said, slapping his gavel on the bench.  "If
Quantrill was down here, that gives me all the jurisdiction I need."

     "But Your Honor, these were his own people.  He didn't do no murderin'
nor thievin' while he was down here."

     "None that we know of, Your Honor," the prosecutor replied quickly.  "And
I hasten to remind Your Honor we're tryin' this defendant for being one of
Quantrill's riders, not for any specific act of murder or robbery he may have
done.  Therefore, the fact that Quantrill was once in Texas, and that this
defendant was with him, puts the case under your jurisdiction."

     The judge slapped his gavel on the bench again.  "You are right, Mr.
Prosecutor.  Mr. Fenton, your motion for dismissal is denied.  This case shall
proceed."

     "Very well, Your Honor."

     "How do you plead?"

     "Your Honor, my client pleads guilty and he throws himself upon the mercy
of the court."

     "Wait a minute, hold on there!"  Ray shouted.  "I ain't pleadin' guilty
to nothin'!"

     The judge glared.  "Did you or did you not confess before several
assembled men in the Red Dog Saloon last night that you rode with Quantrill?"

     "That wasn't a confession, Judge," Ray said.  "I was just drinkin' and
talkin' and tellin' war stories with some of the other fellas, that's all."

     "And during the course of your talking, did you say you rode with
Quantrill?" the judge asked.

     Ray looked at his lawyer.  "I don't know much about the law, but ain't
there somethin' says I don't have to answer questions like that?"

     "That's right," the lawyer agreed.  "It's called the Fifth Amendment, and
it says you don't have to answer any question that may incriminate you."

     Ray smiled.  "That's what I'm goin' to do then.  I ain't goin' to answer
that question."

     "Very well," the judge said.  "Clerk, change Mr. Kingsley's plea from
guilty to not guilty."

     "You're making a big mistake, Mr. Kingsley," Fenton whispered to him.  "I
know this judge.  If you plead guilty, he might show you some mercy.  If
you're found guilty, you'll get none."

     "Well, what can happen to me?  I mean, even if I did ride with Quantrill,
what can he do to me besides tell me I can't vote or hold office or something
like that?  Hell, I never signed no loyalty oath to the goddamn Yankee
government, so I can't do none of that anyway."

     "Oh, Mr. Kingsley, he can do a lot more than that to you," Fenton said
ominously.

     "What else can he do?"

     "He can hang you."

     Ray gasped, then put his hand to his throat.  "Hang me?" he asked in a
choked voice.

     "That's right."

     Ray looked back up toward the bench.  "Judge, I want to change my plea
again!" he said.

     "Too late for that, boy, we've done entered your plea of not guilty,"
Judge Canaby said.  "Mr. Prosecutor, are you prepared to make your case?"

     "I am, Your Honor.  You men over there," the prosecutor said, pointing to
several men sitting in the front row.  "You are all my witnesses.  Stand up
and hold up your right hand."

     The men did as they were instructed, and the clerk swore them in.

     "Now," the prosecutor said.  "Did all of you hear this man say last night
that he had ridden for Quantrill?"

     All the witnesses nodded yes, or answered in the affirmative.

     The prosecutor turned back toward the judge.  "Well, there you are, Your
Honor.  Every one of these men have just sworn that they heard the defendant
admit to being one of Quantrill's riders during the war."

     "Mr. Fenton, do you have anything to say in defense of this wretched soul
who is your client?"

     "Your Honor, I know that you and the sheriff and everyone else of
authority in this county are Yankees, appointed to office by the Federal
Government as part of our reconstruction," Fenton said.  "But if you would
just look out into the gallery you'll see men and women who were born and
raised here.  They are good people, Southerners by birth, and during the late
unpleasantness they were Southerners by loyalty.  If you ask them to pass
judgment against a man, simply because he fought for what he believed in, I
believe you are going to find that they will think Mr. Kingsley was just a
soldier doing his duty.  And as you have come to live among us, I ask that you
pass judgment on this matter with some feeling for the sensitivities of those
whom you now represent."

     The gallery broke into applause at Fenton's statement, and the judge
angrily banged his gavel until they were quiet.  "I represent the Federal
Government of the United States and her laws first," Judge Canaby replied,
"and the people and the laws of Texas second."  Canaby looked over toward the
jury.

     "You gentlemen of the jury," he said.  "Do you go along with what these
folks in the gallery believe?  Do you think this man who rode with Quantrill
was nothing more than a soldier doing his duty?"

     "Your Honor, that's what we think, yes," one of the men in the jury said
after taking a quick, visual poll of his fellow jurors.

     "In other words, if you had to make a decision now, you would say not
guilty?" the judge asked.

     The spokesman for the jury nodded.  "Yes, sir, Your Honor, that's what we
would say, all right."

     Again everyone cheered, and Ray smiled broadly.  "Then you are all
dismissed," the judge said angrily.

     "Thank you, Your Honor," Fenton said, putting his hand on Ray's shoulder.

     "No, not the defendant!" the judge said.  He pointed to the men in the
jury box.  "I mean those Rebel bastards on the jury are dismissed.  I will
decide the case."

     "You, Your Honor?"

     "Do you see any other judge in this room, Mr. Fenton?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then I will make the decision.  In fact, I have already made the
decision.  Ray Kingsley, I find you guilty as charged.  Now, you stand there
while I administer the sentence."

     "Your Honor, we beg for mercy," Fenton said.

     Judge Canaby fixed Fenton with an intense scowl as he took off his
glasses and began polishing them.  Then he looked back at Kingsley and cleared
his throat.

     "Ray Kingsley, you have been tried before me, and you have been found
guilty of the crime of riding with the butcher Quantrill, and aiding and
abetting in the atrocities of murder, arson, and robbery that he visited upon
innocent people," Judge Canaby said.  "Before this court passes sentence, have
you anything to say?"

     "Judge, all I can say is, I was just a soldier doin' my duty," Ray said.
"I know they was lots of Yankee soldiers done just as bad, and some of 'em
done worse, but they ain't no paper out on them like there is for thems of us
that rode with Quantrill."

     "You were just a soldier doing your duty, you say?  Well, Mr. Kingsley,
one day that duty included burning and sacking the town of Lawrence, Kansas.
Do you recall that day, sir?"

     "Yes, sir, I recall that."

     "Were you present on that day?"

     Ray cleared his throat.  "Your Honor, I ain't goin' to lie to you," he
said.  "It ain't one of my proudest moments, but I was there that day."

     "Lawrence, Kansas was a lovely, peaceful city, Mr. Kingsley, wherein
resided my younger brother, his wife, and two sons.  My brother and his two
sons were murdered that day.  And you, you miserable son of a bitch, whether
you personally did it or not, were there when it happened."

     Ray looked at the floor then, knowing that there was nothing more he
could say, and knowing too that he could expect no mercy from this judge.

     "Ray Kingsley, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken from
this courthouse and put in jail.  I further direct the constable of this town
to build, or cause to be built, a gallows or some other device, fixture,
apparatus, contrivance, agent, or whatever means as may be sufficient to
suspend your carcass above the ground.  When the machine is completed you are
to be taken from jail to that contrivance, where you will have a noose placed
around your neck.  You will then be dropped through a trapdoor, which will
bring about the effect of breaking your neck, collapsing your windpipe, and in
any and all ways squeezing the last breath of life from your worthless, vile,
and miserable body."

     "No!" someone in the court shouted.  "You can't hang him, you Yankee
bastard!  He ain't guilty of nothin' but bein' a soldier!"

     "Constable!" the judge said.  "Arrest the man who just made that outburst
and hold him in contempt of court!"

     The constable stood and looked out over the gallery.  "Arrest which man,
Judge?" the constable asked.  "I didn't see who it was."

     To a man, every person in the courtroom at that moment was quiet.

     "Who was it?" the judge asked.  "Who made that outburst?"

     There was no response to his inquiry.

     "All right, all right!" the judge said.  "You Rebel bastards think you
are putting one over on me.  But we'll see who has the last laugh when this
miserable bastard is hanged.  Constable, I leave the prisoner in your hands.
You are to watch over him until the sentence is carried out."

     "Yes, sir," the constable said.

     "In the meantime I had best hurry down to the depot and catch the train
when it returns to Lampassas."

     The judge, the sheriff, and the bailiff hurried out the back door then,
leaving the courtroom under the control of the city constable.  Unlike the
three officers of the court, Constable Gibson was a native Texan and
personally sympathetic to the lost cause of the South.

     "Goddamn, Gibson, you ain't goin' to hang this boy, are you?" someone
called.

     "You heard the judge, Andrew," Gibson replied.  "He give me the order.
There ain't nothin' I can do about it."

     "Son of a bitch!  Hangin' a man just 'cause he soldiered for the wrong
side.  That ain't right!"

     "Come on, Fenton," the constable said.  "You've got to help me get this
prisoner back into jail."

     The crowd booed, and shouted angry curses at the constable and the lawyer
as Gibson and Fenton began escorting Ray back to the jail cell.  But though
the mood of the crowd was ugly, they made no attempt to try to rescue Ray
Kingsley.


                                       2


     Win Coulter was walking behind a mule, watching the dirt fold away from
the plowshare as it opened a deep, new farrow.  A few yards in front of him
his younger brother, Joe, was plowing another furrow, while a few yards
behind, their father was breaking open a third row.  Half the field had
already been tilled, and the coal-black dirt glistened with the nutrients that
made the soil so fertile.

     Win looked over toward the two-story white house where they all lived,
and at the barn, granary, and machine shed that made up the Coulter farm.  The
windows in the house were shining brightly in the sunlight first silver, then
gold, then red.  The color spread from the windows to the side of the house,
then to the roof, and then to the other buildings.  But as the color
intensified, Win was shocked to see that it wasn't reflected sunlight at all.

     It was fire!

     The house, barn, and all the outbuildings were engulfed in a blazing
inferno!

     Win looked back toward his father and gasped, for his father was now a
human torch.  Flames were leaping up from his body, yet he continued to walk
behind the plow, as if totally unconcerned that he was being consumed by fire.

     "Joe!  Joe!" Win shouted.

     "I'M RIGHT HERE, WIN," JOE'S CALM VOICE ANSWERED.

     Win looked up with a start and saw his brother's concerned face.  Now,
outside sounds intruded ... the rattle and squeak of a train in motion, the
rhythmic clicking of wheels over track joints, the conversations of other
passengers.  Time and place returned, and he realized that this wasn't pre-war
Missouri, this was post-war Texas.

     "Are you all right?" Joe asked.

     Win ran his hand across his face, as if wiping the sleep away.  "Yeah,"
he answered.  He sat up.  "Yeah, I'm all right."

     "Did you have that dream again?"

     Win nodded without speaking.

     "Win, there wasn't nothin' we coulda done," Joe reminded him.  "The
Jayhawkers come to the farm while we was gone.  They killed Ma and Pa and
burned the place.  You got to get over feelin' guilty about it."

     "If I hadn't stayed for one more day of drinkin' and card-playin', we
would've been there."

     "It wasn't just you wanted to stay," Joe reminded him.  "I was with you,
remember?  And I was enjoyin' the trip just as much as you.  But that was a
long time ago."

     "Yeah, I know it was a long time ago."

     "I don't know why this has been botherin' you so much lately.  You didn't
have these dreams durin' the war."

     "During the war we were with Quantrill and we were doing something about
it."

     "I reckon we done our own share of burnin' and killin' then," Joe said.

     Win looked out the window and saw nothing but mesquite and dirt sliding
by under the late afternoon sun.  He didn't believe he had ever seen anything
as God-awful-ugly as West Texas.

     The view inside wasn't all that attractive either.  It consisted mostly
of overweight drummers and washed-out, poor immigrant families.  It had
improved somewhat when a young woman had gotten on the train a couple of hours
earlier.  When she'd boarded she'd smiled at Win while passing by, looking for
a seat.

     Somewhat later a young, sandy-haired cowboy, wearing an ivory-handled
pistol, leather chaps, and highly polished silver rowels, had gotten on the
train.  He'd swaggered back and forth through the car a few times before
finally settling in a seat next to the pretty young woman.  They were sitting
together when Win dozed off.

     Now, as Win looked toward them, he saw that though they were still
together, the young woman did not appear to be enjoying the cowboy's company.
She got up and changed seats, but it was to no avail, as the cowboy also
changed seats to be near her.  The young woman got up again, and this time she
stepped out onto the vestibule.  The cowboy waited for a moment, then got up
as well and followed her outside.

     Win turned his attention away from them.  "Where are we anyway?" he
asked.

     "We're nearly there.  I just heard the conductor say we'd be coming into
San Saba in a few minutes," Joe answered.

     "And Ray is going to meet us?"

     "That's what his letter said.  He said he has a deal that is too sweet
for us to pass up."

     "I hope it's not bullshit."

     "Ray was always pretty dependable,  remember?  When he came back with a
scouting report, we could always count on what he said," Joe said.

     "That's true," Win agreed.  He stretched, then stood up.  "I think I'll
go out onto the vestibule and get a breath of air.

     "Don't fall off," Joe quipped.

     Win smiled, then picked his way forward through the rattling, rocking
car.  When he stepped outside he saw that the pretty young woman was still
being harassed by the cowboy.

     "Please," the girl was saying.  "Please, just leave me alone."

     "Who do you think you're foolin' by bein' so high-and-mighty?" the cowboy
asked.  "I know who you are, and I know what you are."

     "I am someone who wants to be left alone," the woman said.

     Win looked over toward them to measure the sincerity in the woman's
voice.  He was hesitant to butt into anyone else's business, but the woman was
clearly having a hard time with the cowboy.

     "Mister, why don't you go away and leave the lady alone?" Win said.

     The cowboy looked toward Win as if shocked that anyone would have the
audacity to interfere.

     "What did you just say to me?"

     "I told you to leave the lady alone."

     "Why don't you just go to Hell?" the cowboy growled menacingly.  He
turned back to the girl, as if dismissing Win out of hand.  Win stepped across
the gap between them and grabbed the cowboy by the scruff of the neck and the
seat of his pants.

     "Hey, what the ..."  the cowboy shouted, but whatever the fourth word was
going to be was lost in the rattle of cars and the cowboy's own surprised
scream as Win threw the young man bodily from the train.  The cowboy hit on
the down-slope of the track base, then bounced and rolled through the rocks
and scrub-weed alongside the track.  Win leaned out far enough to see him
stand up and shake his fist, but by then the train had swept on away from him.

     "He'll be all right," Win said.  "He'll have a little walk into town, is
all."

     The girl laughed, and even above the sound of the train Win could hear
the musical lilt to her laugh.  Joe stepped out onto the platform at that
moment.

     "What is it?" Joe asked.  "What happened?"

     "The fella with all the silver just got off the train," Win said easily.
He looked at the girl.  "Do you know him?"

     "Yes.  His name is Tyrell.  Tim Tyrell.  He works for Jason
Bellefontaine."

     "I never stopped to think that you might know him.  I hope I wasn't out
of line.  I hope you were serious when you told him to leave you alone."

     "I was very serious, and you weren't out of line at all," she said.

     The train started slowing.  "This is it," Joe said.  "Our stop."

     "Oh!" the girl said.  "You are getting off here?"

     "Yes," Win answered.

     "So am I.  Maybe we'll see each other again," she suggested hopefully.

     Win smiled, and touched the brim of his hat.  "You can count on it," he
said.

     "Come on, Big Brother," Joe said.  "We have to see to our horses."

     Joe's reference to Win as "Big Brother" stemmed from the fact that Win
was older, not from their relative size.

     Win was a leather-tough and wiry five feet eight, with ash-blond hair and
blue eyes.  He was the kind of man women considered good-looking, but there
was also a quality about him that frightened them, as if they could see a
flash of hellfire in his eyes.

     Joe was the younger of the two, but at a very muscular six foot one and
nearly two hundred pounds, he was also bigger.  His hair was much darker than
his brother's, but his eyes were exactly the same color and had the same flash
of hellfire.

     SOME FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, WIN AND JOE HAD THEIR horses off the stock
car and saddled as the train, its whistle blowing, bell ringing, and steam
puffing, started chugging around the wide circle of track that would start it
back in the other direction, San Saba being the end of the line.  The brothers
walked the horses off the wooden loading platform, and were about to mount
when Joe caught sight of a wall filled with wanted posters.

     "Win, wait," he said, pointing.  "Think we ought to take a look at them
wanted posters?"

     "Probably wouldn't be a bad idea," Win agreed.  They walked over for a
closer perusal.  "Look at this," Joe said.


                                    WANTED

                      FOR MURDER, TRAIN AND BANK ROBBERY
                              $500 DOLLAR REWARD
                                 DEAD OR ALIVE
                                  THE OUTLAWS
                              WIN AND JOE COULTER
                            FORMER GUERRILLAS WITH
                              QUANTRILL'S RAIDERS


     "Murder?  We've done our share of killing," Win said.  "Don't know as I'd
call it murder."

     "Didn't know there was paper on us this far out," Joe said.

     Win looked around, and seeing that he wasn't being observed, tore off the
circular.  "Long as there are no pictures or descriptions, we've got nothing
to worry about," he said.

     "I reckon not," Joe agreed.

     As the noise of the receding train faded, it was replaced by the sound of
hammering and sawing.

     "Sounds like some building goin' on," Win said.  "Must be a busy little
town."

     "Ray said it was," Joe said.  "By the way, where is he?  I thought he was
going to meet us."

     "Yeah, so did I.  But I sure as hell don't see him."

     "So, what do we do now?"

     "Maybe he had to go somewhere.  Best thing for us to do is board our
horses, get us a room in the hotel, then wait around a few days."

     As Win was talking, the young woman he had rescued on the train walked
by.  She nodded in his direction, then smiled again.

     Joe chuckled.  "From the looks of things, waitin' around may not be all
that hard for you," he suggested.

     "We do what we can, Little Brother, to while away the hours," Win teased.

     The two brothers mounted and started toward the stable.  When they
reached the street side of the depot, they saw the cause of the construction
sounds they had been hearing.  At the far end of the street, a gallows was
being built.

     "I'll be damned," Joe said.  "Look at that.  I wonder who it's for?"

     "Why don't we ride down there and ask?"

     There were two carpenters up on the platform itself, and a third down on
the ground, sawing boards at a sawhorse.

     Half a dozen young boys, barefooted and with ragged bottoms to their
pants, stood around watching.

     "You boys get away from here," a large, middle-aged man shouted to the
youngsters.  "This ain't no place for you.  What are you doin' out here
anyway?  Your mamas will be setting supper to the table soon."

     "We want to see the hangin'," one of the boys answered.

     "Well, there ain't goin' to be no hangin' today, so why don't you go on.
Get away and let these men get their work done!"

     The man who was shouting was wearing a badge.  He looked up at Win and
Joe, and as they were mounted, the action caused him to have to look into the
brightness of the sky behind them.  He squinted.

     "Don't know you two fellas, do I?" he asked.

     "We just come in," Joe answered.

     "So it's already started, has it?"

     "I beg your pardon?" Win asked.  "What has already started?"

     "Folks comin' in to see the hangin'.  Well, I'll tell you just like I
told these kids.  The hangin' ain't until tomorrow."

     "You the sheriff?" Win asked.

     "I'm the town constable.  The name's Gibson.  Charley Gibson.  Used to be
sheriff of San Saba County, but I wouldn't swear no oath of loyalty to the
goddamn Yankee government, so I can't be sheriff no more."  He spat a quid of
tobacco, then wiped the residue from his chin with the back of his hand.

     Win nodded toward the gallows.  "Truth is, we didn't know anything about
the hangin'.  It's tomorrow, you say?"

     "The lynchin' takes place tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock."

     Curious at Gibson's remark, Win twisted in his saddle for another look at
the gallows.

     "Lynching?  Never heard of building a gallows for a lynching," he said.
"Always thought they used something like a stout tree limb, or a telegraph
pole, for things like that."

     "Yeah, well, you might call this hangin' a legal lynchin'.  It's legal
'cause they was a trial, if you can call what they had for this fella a
trial."

     "You sayin' he didn't get a fair trial?"

     "Ain't my place to say," Gibson answered.

     "Sure it is.  You are an officer of the law, aren't you?"

     "I told you, I'm just the town constable.  The real law around here
belongs to Jason Bellefontaine."

     "Jason Bellefontaine?"

     "You know him?"

     "I'm not sure," Win answered.  He remembered the girl telling him that
the cowboy he threw off the train worked for Jason Bellefontaine.  "I believe
I've heard that name somewhere before.  It's the second time I've heard it
today.  Who is he?"

     "He was some Yankee bigwig during the war," Gibson answered.  "They say
he was a general, but I don't know if he was a fightin' general."

     Win snapped his fingers.  "The Kansas Tenth," he said.  "I have heard of
him.  He was their general, but he never rode with them."

     "That's him, all right."

     "What's he doing down here in Texas?"

     "He come down here after the war with a carpetbag full of government
warrants and bills, and he's turned all those Yankee laws into Yankee
dollars."

     "Sounds like a fella could get rich doing that," Joe suggested.

     "He's rich enough to buy up half the land in the county."

     "And the law?" Win asked.

     Gibson nodded.  "And the law."

     "It's just a guess, Constable, but I'd say he hasn't bought you," Win
said.

     Gibson snorted.  "Hell, what would the son of a bitch want with me?  I
ain't worth his money.  I don't do nothin' more'n run away pesky kids, or now
and again throw a drunk in jail to sleep it off."

     "This fella they're hangin' tomorrow.  They keeping him in your jail?"
Win asked.

     Gibson nodded.  "Yeah, a man by the name of Ray Kingsley.  You ever heard
of him?"

     Win and Joe exchanged a quick, secretive look.  Ray Kingsley was the man
they were there to meet.

     "No, never heard of him," Win replied.  "What did he do?"

     "Do?  Hell, he didn't do nothin' but get drunk the other night and tell
some folks he once rode with Quantrill.  Seems like our sheriff and judge have
a special hatred for anyone who ever rode with Quantrill.  They've got ever'
poster ever put out on any of 'em, includin' some, I think, that was put out
durin' the war.  Truth is, most of those wanted posters wouldn't be given a
second look in any other county but San Saba.  Makes no difference to our
judge and sheriff, though.  If a man rode for Quantrill, he'd be a lot better
off if he'd just stay away from here."

     "I don't understand that.  This bein' a Southern town, why would your
judge and sheriff have such a special hatred for Quantrill's men?" Joe asked.

     "'Cause neither one of them are Southerners.  They was both appointed to
their offices down here.  The judge was a lawyer somewhere up in Kansas.  And
the sheriff was a first sergeant in the Tenth Kansas."

     "Bellefontaine's division?" Win asked.

     "Now you're beginning to catch on," Gibson said.  "The judge and the
sheriff come down here with Bellefontaine and the other carpetbaggers.  Just
like buzzards, they've started pickin' the carcass clean.  By now, they've
pretty near taken over all of West Texas ... stealin' land for back taxes and
buying up businesses for pennies on the dollar."

     "What do the locals think of it?"

     "The real folk--that is, the decent folk in this town--still have a lot
of hard feelings against the Yankees, especially them that have come down here
to take over things.  And if you'd ask one of them, they'd likely tell you
that Quantrill, Bloody Bill Anderson, and others like them was patriots, and
Ray Kingsley and them that rode with Quantrill was brave men."

     "Glad to hear that," Win said.

     "You boys wasn't with Quantrill, was you?"  Gibson held up his hand
almost as soon as he asked the question.  "No," he said.  "Don't answer that.
It would be better all around.  But unless I miss my guess, you two was in the
war yourselves."

     "Yes," Win said.

     "You don't sound Texan, though.  More like Arkansas, or Missouri," Gibson
said.

     "Could be either one," Joe said.

     "I'd be careful 'bout who I told that to.  Quantrill was in Missouri."

     "So was Sterling Price, General Van Dorn, Jo Shelby, Jeff Thompson, and
several others," Win replied.

     "What do you say we just let it go at that?" Gibson suggested.

     "I'd say that was a good idea," Win said.

     "You boys plannin' on staying around for a while?"

     "A couple of days maybe.  I see the Red Dog across the street.  Is that a
pretty good place to wet a whistle?"

     "If you don't mind givin' your money to General Bellefontaine," Gibson
said.  "If you're more partial to a Southern patriot, you might try Matt's
Place, just up the street a ways.  His whiskey ain't watered and he's a good
man."

     "Thanks," Win said, touching the brim of his hat and turning his mount
away.

     "WHAT ARE WE GOIN' TO DO ABOUT RAY, WIN?" JOE asked quietly as they rode
away.

     "Don't know as there's anything we can do about it," Win replied.

     "I hate to just stand by and watch him hang."

     "We're on the wrong side of the law, Little Brother.  When you're on this
side, hangin' is a risk we all take."

     Instinctively, Joe reached up to pull his shirt collar away from his
neck.


                                       3


     Win and Joe put their horses up at the livery, then walked across the
street to the saloon known as Matt's Place.  It was not yet supper time, and a
little early for peak business, so the salloon was only about a third full.
The scarred piano sat unused in the back of the room.  There were two saloon
girls working the customers, but they were occupied by a table full of men.

     "Two beers," Win ordered, sliding a piece of silver across the bar.  The
man behind the bar drew two mugs and set them, with foaming heads, in front of
the brothers.  They drank the first ones down without taking away the mugs.
Then they wiped the foam away from their lips and slid the empty mugs back
toward the barkeep.

     "That one was for thirst," Win explained.  "This will be for taste.  Do
it again."

     Smiling, the bartender gave them a second round.

     With the beer in his hand, Win turned his back to the bar and looked out
over the saloon.  Noticing them then, one of the two girls pulled herself away
from the table and sidled up to the two brothers.  She had bleached hair and
was heavily painted, but behind her tired eyes was a suggestion of good humor.
She smiled at Joe.

     "What a handsome devil you are," she said.  "I'll just bet you've broken
many a poor girl's heart."

     "I've bent them around a few times," Joe quipped.  "Don't know as I ever
broke any."

     The girl laughed.  "My name's Sandra," she said.  "What's yours?"

     "Joe."  Joe turned toward the bartender.  "It looks to me like this
lovely young lady needs a drink."

     "Coming right up," the bartender said, filling a glass from Sandra's
special bottle.

     It was at that moment that the bat-wing doors swung open, and the cowboy
in black and silver came in.  He had scratches and bruises on his face, and
his clothes were dirty and torn.

     "You lost, Tyrell?  This ain't the Red Dog," someone said.

     Tyrell glared at the speaker, and that was when everyone noticed his
condition.

     "Jesus!  What the hell happened to you?" someone asked.

     "Some son of a bitch pushed me off the train," Tyrell growled.

     Everyone laughed.

     Tyrell started to say something else, then saw Win standing quietly at
the bar, calmly drinking his beer.  He pointed his finger at him.

     "You!" he shouted.  He was so choked with anger that he could barely get
the words out.  "You're the one who did this to me!"

     "Did you have a nice walk into town, Tyrell?" Win asked easily.  He took
another swallow of his beer, then pulled the mug back down and wiped the back
of his hand across his mouth.  "Why don't you have a beer on me?  You could
probably use one."

     "You son of a bitch!  You offer me a beer?  You offer me a beer and think
I'll forget about what you did to me?  What the hell got into you, mister, to
do a damn thing like that?"

     "Back where I come from, when a lady asks a man to leave, he does," Win
said.  "Since you didn't leave when she asked you, I figured maybe you could
use a little lesson in manners."

     Again everyone laughed.

     "Is that what this is all about, Tyrell?  Teaching you some manners?"
someone asked.

     "We'll see who is the teacher and who is the pupil around here," Tyrell
said.  "I'm going to teach this bastard never to butt into anyone else's
business again."  He grinned evilly.  "Only the lesson ain't goin' to do him
no good, 'cause he's going to be dead.  Pull your gun, mister!  Pull your gun!
I'm goin' to shoot your eyes out now!"

     The laughter stopped then.  This had gone beyond joking and, anticipating
a killing, there was a quick scrape of chairs and tables as everyone,
including Sandra, scrambled to get out of the way.

     Joe was the only one who didn't move away from Win.

     "Looks like he don't want your beer," Joe said nonchalantly.

     "I reckon not."

     "I'll take it then," Joe said calmly.  He looked back toward the barkeep,
who had ducked down behind the bar.

     "Oh, there you are," he said easily.  "Could I have another beer,
please?"

     "Mister, are you crazy?" the barkeep hissed up at him.  He was waving for
Joe to get away.  "You had better get out of the line of fire!"

     "What line of fire?" Joe asked innocently.

     "Didn't you just hear what Tyrell said?  He's going to shoot your
brother!"

     Joe chuckled, then looked around toward Tyrell, who was standing about
twenty feet away, his arm crooked and his hand opening and closing nervously
just above the handle of his pistol.

     "You ain't talking about that little pissant standing over there, are
you?" Joe asked calmly.

     "Oh, my, you shouldn't have said that," the bartender said in a
frightened voice.

     "Hell, mister, there ain't no call for you to be worryin' about him.  We
ain't in no line of fire.  As soon as he twitches, Win will kill him.  Now,
how about that beer?"

     "Beer?" the bartender repeated, as if unable to believe Joe's total lack
of concern for what was happening.

     "Yes, and listen," Joe went on, as if the next beer was much more
important than the impending gun battle.  "When you draw my beer this time,
could you tip the mug a little so's there isn't quite as much foam?  I swear,
that last one was mostly head."

     Several people gasped.  They were as surprised as the bartender by Joe's
easy words and calm manner.

     The barkeep didn't move.

     "What about it?  Do you get me another beer, or do I have to draw it
myself?"

     Raising himself just far enough to take the mug, the bartender quickly
drew another beer, then set it on the bar and ducked down again.

     "Thanks," Joe said.  He blew the foam off, then turned around.  He was
still standing right next to Win, clearly in the line of fire if a gunfight
should break out.  He took a swallow of his beer and stared across the room at
Tyrell.

     Tyrell, like the others, had heard Joe's calm declaration.  It was
beginning to have an effect on him, and his hands started shaking.

     "Look at the little sonofabitch shake," Joe said.  "Hell, you might as
well go ahead and kill him and get it over with, Big Brother.  Otherwise he's
goin' to stand right there and piss in his pants."

     "You're right," Win said.  "All right, Tyrell, let's do it.

     "No!" Tyrell suddenly screamed, holding his hands up.  "No, I'm not going
to draw on you!"  He turned to face the others.  "You are all my witnesses!
I'm not going to fight!"

     "If you aren't going to fight, then get the hell out of here," Win
growled.

     Tyrell licked his lips a couple of times, then turned and ran outside,
chased out into the street by the laughter of everyone in the saloon.

     "Step up to the bar, boys!" someone shouted.  "The drinks are on the
house!  Anytime I can see one of Bellefontaine's boys backed down like that,
it's worth a round."

     "Beer!"

     "Whiskey!"

     More than a dozen voices called out their orders as everyone rushed to
the bar.  The man who had offered to buy the drinks came down from the stairs
where he had been a witness to what just transpired.  He walked over to Win
and Joe with his hand extended and a broad smile on his lips.

     "Matthew Pate's the name, but folks call me Matt.  You two boys are new
around here, aren't you?"

     "Just got off the train," Win said.

     "Yes, I heard about the incident on the train with Mr. Tyrell."  Matt
took in the saloon with an expansive sweep of his long arm.  "I own this place
... and you are as welcome as rain.  Especially after what you did for
Christina."

     "Christina?"

     "The girl you rescued on the train," Matt said.

     "She works here?"

     "In a manner of speaking, she does.  She's my daughter," Matt said.  He
pointed toward the back of the saloon and there, coming down the stairs, was
the same young woman Win had seen on the train.  She smiled as she walked
toward them.

     "Hello," Christina said.  "We were not formally introduced on the train.
I think my father told you, my name is Christina."

     "I'm Win."  Win hesitated.  He had removed the wanted poster, but someone
might have seen it, and there might be others around.  If so, the name Coulter
would be recognized.  He came up with another name.  "Carver.  Win Carver.
And this is my brother, Joe."

     "It is so nice to meet you," Christina said.

     "Are you two boys staying in town?" Matt asked.

     "For a short time," Win said.

     "Far as I'm concerned, you two can stay for as long as you want.  But I
have to warn you that you've made a dangerous enemy today.  And he has
dangerous friends."

     "Won't be the first time we've made enemies," Win replied.

     Matt laughed.  "No, I'm sure it isn't."

     "Say, Matt, where might be a good place to eat around here?"

     "I'd recommend Moynahan's, right next door," Matt answered.  "Tell you
what.  You two go over there and eat all you want.  Tell Moynahan to put it on
my tab."

     "That's mighty decent of you," Joe said.  "Win, what do you say we go
have some supper?  I could eat a horse."

     "Don't say that around Moynahan," Sandra teased, coming back up to stand
beside Joe.  "You never know but what he might take you up on it."

     Those close enough to overhear her laughed.

     Joe looked at Sandra.  "Will you be here when I come back?"

     "Honey, in case you ain't noticed it, you've done got my comb red,"
Sandra said.  "I'll be here waitin' for you, just anytime you're ready."

     Sandra's directness caused Joe to take a quick breath.

     "On second thought, Win, why don't you go on over there without me?" he
suggested.

     "I thought you were so all-fired ready to have supper," Win said.

     "Yeah, well, I've got somethin' else in mind right now."

     "All right.  I guess I can eat by myself."

     "You don't have to eat by yourself, Mr. Carver," Christina said.  "Unless
you'd rather not be bothered with a foolish girl's company."

     Win smiled.  "Well, now, if I turned down the offer of such beautiful
company, I'd be the fool," he said.  "I would be pleased and honored to have
you eat with me."  He offered Christina his arm.



     Joe watched Win and Christina leave the saloon, then turned his attention
back to Sandra.  "So, what do we do now?" he asked.

     "I'm sure something will"--Sandra looked pointedly at the front of his
pants--"come up," she said, emphasizing the last two words.  Again, those who
were close by laughed.

     Sandra turned and started walking away, glancing back over her shoulder
to let Joe know that she intended him to follow her.  They went up the stairs
and along the second-floor hallway.  From his position behind her, Joe could
watch her butt wiggle inside the snug fit of the red satin gown she was
wearing.

     "My room is down at the end of the hall," she said.  "It's in the back so
we won't be bothered by any noise from below."

     "Honey, there are times when noise doesn't bother me," Joe replied.  "And
this is one of those times.  We could be alongside the railroad track for all
I care."

     Sandra unlocked the door, then pushed it open, inviting Joe to go in
first.  The room, which was considerably larger than a normal hotel room, was
dominated by a four-poster bed.  The bed cover was a bright scarlet, and there
were curtains to match hanging at the windows.

     The windows on the back wall looked out onto a freight company, its yards
busy with departing and arriving wagons.  A large sign on top of the building
read: "Bellefontaine Freight."  Beyond it, the sun was setting in a blaze of
gold and red.

     "You just going to stand there and look at them wagons all day?" Sandra
asked.  "Or is there something I could do that might get you interested in
me?"

     When Joe turned back around, he saw her working on the buttons at the
back of her gown.  She watched him with smoky eyes and a provocative grin as
she undid the last button and let the gown fall away to her waist, exposing
her large breasts.  She started pushing the gown down over her hips, squirming
as she did so, causing her breasts to jiggle.

     "You plannin' on doin' this with all your clothes on?" Sandra asked.

     Joe grinned crookedly.  "I guess it would be better if I shucked out of
them," he said.

     Joe was out of his clothes so quickly that Sandra barely had time to flip
the scarlet coverlet back.  Then they were in bed together, and without any
further preliminaries, he moved on top of her as her legs went around his
waist and her hands slid up from his ribs to grab him just below the
shoulders.

     Joe was propped on his hands and knees on the bed, SO enjoying the sight
of nakedness that he was almost unable to restrain himself.  Reaching down,
she helped him make the connection.  Then he lunged, hot and hard, deep into
her.  He pulled back slowly and held himself for a second before thrusting
into her again.  After that, he established a steady pace of long, powerful
thrusts and withdrawals.

     He felt half drunk, his hips rocking in long slow thrusts, watching every
thrust reverberate through her, her big breasts jiggling, erect nipples
pointing up at him.  He managed to keep himself just below climax, pacing
himself so it would last, so he could bring her with him.

     Joe felt Sandra's fingernails rake down across his ribs, saw her grin
widen to a pleased leer as he jerked in response.  He took her with him, right
up to where he was, hanging on the edge, hot and blood pounding with lust.

     Joe slid one arm under the small of her back, lifting her up from the bed
until only her shoulders touched the sheet.  He began thrusting deeper into
her, long and slow and powerful, feeling that hot drunken lust raging through
his brain, driving and driving into her until he saw her eyes close, saw her
hands come down to clutch at the sheet, saw her head begin to rock from side
to side, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

     And then the little cries began to come from her; he felt her ankles lock
across his back, her hands clutch the bed for leverage, and her hips pump
frantically.  For a moment he held her to a slower pace, never losing contact
with her, until finally he let her go and felt her surge into wild rapid
lunging.  Joe caught up to her pace, surpassed it, mastered it, then mastered
her, his own eyes closing from the heat of it.  Through the blood pounding in
his own ears he heard her wild cries as she surged up in a frantic rhythm that
brought her up and over.  He came after her, lunging and thrashing in a long
final frenzy that brought them both back down on the bed.  He felt her hands
snake up around his neck, felt those big breasts heaving against his chest,
felt her shudder up against him, shudder down again, and then leech herself to
him in one final prolonged quiver, all her sleek round curves soft against his
skin.

     They lay that way for what seemed like a long time, on their sides, her
head tucked down under his.  He was still in the warm hollow of her thighs,
her legs around his waist.  He cupped the nape of her neck, feeling
consciousness slowly returning.  A faint breeze stirred curtains at the open
window.  By now the sun had set and there was only the final crimson glow in
the west.  The clatter of wagons and the activity had stilled at the freight
yard, the day's work of the many employees completed.

     "I've been with my share of men," Sandra finally said, breaking the
silence.  "But it's not often I lose myself like that."  She grinned and slid
a sharp fingernail up his chest.  "A fella like you could make me forget I'm
even in the business.  This one is on the house."

     Joe laughed, then shook his head.  "Uh-uh," he said.  "When I get my
money's worth of anything, I expect to pay for it."  He reached for his pants.
"And darlin', you gave me my money's worth."

     "Too bad you can't take advantage of a special offer I have," Sandra
said.

     "Now, what offer would that be?"

     "My two-for-one sale."

     Joe put the money on a bedside table, then smiled at her.

     "And just what makes you think I can't take advantage of it?" he asked,
moving down to take one of her nipples into his mouth.

     "Oh, my," Sandra said, feeling him growing again.  "You are quite a man!"



     The china, silver, and crystal gleamed softly in the reflected light of
more than a dozen lanterns.  Moynahan's Restaurant was an oasis of light in
the darkness that had descended over the little town.

     "The Bellefontaine ranch takes up most of the county," Christina was
explaining as she ate with Win.  "Bellefontaine Ranch is now made up of what
used to be Trailback, the Lazy M, Doubletree, and a couple of other, smaller
ranches.  I was born on Doubletree.  It belonged to my father.

     "I didn't realize your father was a rancher."

     "He was a rancher and so was my grandfather before him.  When
Bellefontaine took over Doubletree, he got a ranch that had been thriving
since Texas was part of Mexico."

     "I don't understand.  If the ranch was doing that well, why did your
father sell out to Bellefontaine?"

     Christina looked up sharply.  "My father didn't sell Doubletree," she
said.  "He had it stolen from him.  Not one penny did he get for it."

     "How can that be?"

     "Bellefontaine got Doubletree the same way he got Trailback and all the
other ranches.  He paid the taxes and took over the property.  Only in my
father's case, he didn't even know there were any taxes due.  Bellefontaine
took the taxes off the books and paid them before the notices were even sent
out."

     "But how could he get away with something like that?" Win asked.  "Where
was the law?"

     "Bellefontaine is the law.  You have to remember that none of our
officials actually represent the people now.  They have all been appointed to
their positions by the people in Washington.  We lost the war, Mr. Carver, and
the Yankees are seeing to it that we pay for it."

     "I ran across the constable when I came into town," Win said.  "Charley
Gibson, I think he said his name was.  He mentioned that he used to be the
sheriff."

     Christina smiled.  "Uncle Charley was sheriff for fifteen years."

     "Uncle Charley?"

     "My mother's brother," Christina explained.  "He found out what
Bellefontaine was doing with the taxes, and he started going around the county
warning people.  Bellefontaine got wind of it, and had the Yankees push Uncle
Charley out of office."

     "I believe he told me he wouldn't take the loyalty oath," Win said.

     Christina smiled.  "Bellefontaine knew that he would never take the oath,
and he knew that was all it would take to get rid of him.  So he had his
cronies come down here and make Uncle Charley an offer.  Either take the oath
and help in the administration of the law, which meant evict people from the
homes and ranches they and their parents before them had built, or refuse to
take the oath and give up the office.  Uncle Charley chose to give up the
office, but I wish he would have taken it.  The whole county was a lot better
off when he was sheriff."

     "He can't help anyone as constable?"

     Christina shook her head.  "He has no authority to do anything.
Bellefontaine's hand-picked sheriff stops him every time he tries."

     "That's him, right over there," a loud voice suddenly said.

     Win looked toward the front door and saw Tim Tyrell pointing at him.  The
man Tyrell was talking to was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sweeping
handlebar mustache.  He was wearing a badge.

     "Is that the sheriff?" Win asked.

     "Sheriff Angus Buford," Christina said.

     "Buford?"

     "Yes.  Have you heard of him?"

     "Yes, I have," Win said.



     When Win and the others arrived at the Russell farm, they found Mrs.
Russell and her daughter standing on a rock.  The women had their ankles tied
together, and their wrists tied behind them.  They each had a noose around
their neck, and the noose was tied to a tree limb overhead.  If either of them
slipped, or fell off the rock, they would be stepping into eternity.

     From another limb, hanging so that the women could clearly see them, were
the bodies of Mr. Russell and his two sons, one of whom was only fifteen.  The
men had been hanged the day before, and the two women had remained tied on the
rock, poised one half-step from death, for nearly twenty-four hours when Win
arrived.

     "Cut the women down!" Win ordered quickly.  Both women collapsed from
exhaustion, and it wasn't until after the men had been buried that they were
recovered enough to tell what had happened.

     "It was Jayhawkers," Mrs. Russell said.

     "Do you know who?" Win asked.

     "I heard 'em call out his name," the girl answered.  "It was Buford.
Don't know iffen that was his first name or his last, but Buford it was."



     "I don't know what you have heard about him," Christina said quietly.
"But I can tell you this.  He's as mean a man as ever kicked a dog."


                                       4


     All eyes in the restaurant were on the sheriff as he walked over to the
table where Win and Christina were eating.  Win got up from the table and
wiped his mouth with a napkin before he turned toward the sheriff.  It was a
casual move, but one that cleared the way for Win to pull his gun quickly if
need be.  The move wasn't lost on Buford, who halted for just a step or two
before continuing on.

     "Something I can do for you, Sheriff?" Win asked.

     "What's your name?" the sheriff asked.

     "My name is Win Carver."  Win smiled disarmingly.

     "And you must be the Sheriff Buford I've heard so much about."

     Buford stroked his chin with his forefinger.  "You look familiar to me,
Mr. Carver.  We ever run acrost each other afore?"

     "I doubt it.  I just arrived in town today."

     "Wasn't talkin' about here.  I was talkin' about before," Buford said.

     "Could be," Win answered.  "I've traveled around quite a bit since the
war.  I figure you have too, seem' as that's no Texas accent."

     "Kansas," Buford answered.  "And yours is what?  Missouri?"

     Win smiled.  "Arkansas, but folks often get us confused.  I reckon it's
them Ozark hills.  Makes us all sound the same."

     Buford nodded toward Tyrell, who hadn't advanced beyond the door.  "This
fella says you pushed him off the train.  Did you?"

     "No."

     "What?" Tyrell shouted, his voice practically going into falsetto.
"Sheriff Buford, he's lying!"

     Buford stroked his chin again, and studied Win for a moment.  "Now, let
me get this straight.  You're saying you did not push Tim Tyrell off the
train?"

     "That's what I'm saying."

     "Look at him.  He's bruised and cut, his clothes are dirty and torn.  How
do you reckon he got that way?"

     "I think it happened when he fell off," Win said.  "I saw him fall.  I
reached out to grab him, but it was too late."  Win smiled.  "Now that I think
about it, he must've seen me reach for him."  Win smiled broadly.  "Why,
Sheriff, I'll just bet that's why he thinks I pushed him."

     "You did push me!"

     "Mr. Carver is telling the truth, Sheriff," Christina said.  "I was on
the train too, and I saw the whole thing."

     "You're lying!  Both of you!" Tyrell sputtered in frustrated anger.

     "Tyrell," Win said coldly.  "I'd think twice about calling a lady a liar
if I were you."

     "Carver, I don't intend to let you start anything in here," Buford said
quickly.

     "I'm not planning on starting anything, Sheriff," Win said.  "But I'll
damn sure finish it."

     Buford looked at Win for a long moment, then turned to Tyrell.  "Tyrell,
it looks to me like you fell off the train.  Try and be more careful from now
on."

     "But ..."  Tyrell said.

     "Go on back to the ranch," the sheriff told him.  "If you stay in town
you're going to get yourself in trouble."

     Defeated, Tyrell turned and left the restaurant.

     Buford went with him, but just before he exited, he stopped long enough
to let his eyes sweep around the room, taking in all the diners, as if making
a mental note for future reference as to who was there.

     Buford's exit was followed by a collective sigh of relief from all.  Then
there was a sudden buzz of excited voices as everyone started trying to talk
at once.  Whatever the subjects of conversation had been before Sheriff Buford
came into the room, they had all changed.  Now everyone was talking about what
they had just seen.

     "Thanks for backing me up," Win said to Christina.  "Under the
circumstances, lying seemed the best way to go."  He laughed.  "And you have
to admit, my denying it did about give Mr. Tyrell conniptions."

     Christina put her hand across the table and rested it on Win's arm.
"Watch out for Sheriff Buford, Win," she said.  "He is not the kind you would
want to turn your back on."

     "Thanks for the warning," Win said.



     At that same moment, in the dark street just in front of the restaurant,
Tyrell and Sheriff Buford were talking.

     "I can't believe you let the son of a bitch get away with lying like
that," Tyrell growled.  "You should've done something about it."

     "What could I do about it?  The girl backed him up."

     "She was lying too."

     "She said it in front of the entire restaurant," Buford said.  "Even if I
had arrested him, when it came to a court hearing, it would be their word
against yours."

     "I thought you had some loyalty to General Bellefontaine."

     "I've proved my loyalty to the general many times," Buford said.  "I
don't have to prove it to you."

     "Sergeant Buford, you forget I was a lieutenant and-"

     "It's Sheriff Buford now, Tyrell.  And I haven't forgotten anything.  I
had to go along with it during the war 'cause you was duly appointed over
me--and because you are the general's nephew.  But the war's over and you
don't outrank me anymore.  In fact, you ain't jack-shit now, and I don't
intend to waste my time wiping the snot off your nose ever' time you bite off
more'n you can chew."

     "If you're talkin' about that bushwhacker I got into it with the other
night, I coulda handled him.  I didn't ask you to arrest him."

     "You could've handled him?  He was half an inch away from killin' you.
It's a good thing we're hangin' him tomorrow.  Otherwise he'd be comin' after
you."

     "All right, so maybe I did let the argument get a little out of hand.  At
least I got him to admit that he was a bushwhacker, didn't I?  I mean, if he
hadn't started braggin' about ridin' with Quantrill, you woulda never known."

     "That's right.  I would've never known."

     "So, now, what about Carver?  What are you going to do about him?"

     "I'm not going to do anything about him."

     "Sergeant, you can't just-" Tyrell began but Buford held up his index
finger and shook it back and forth.  "I mean, Sheriff," Tyrell said.  "You
can't just do nothing."

     "The hell I can't.  If you have a problem with Carver, take care of it
yourself."

     "All right," Tyrell said.  His eyes narrowed.  "All right, I will.  But
when it happens, you just remember that it was your idea."

     "When what happens?" Buford scoffed as he mounted his horse.  "Carver
would shoot you down before you even cleared leather."

     "How do you know?"

     "Because I know Carver."

     "You know him?"

     "Not him personally, but I know his kind.  His soul died during the war.
What's left is nothing but pure hate and venom.  His kind is going to kill
until he gets killed, and it don't matter that much to him which way it comes
out."  Buford clucked at his horse and began to ride away.

     "Yeah, well, he doesn't look so tough to me!" Tyrell called after him.
"You just watch me and see!  I'll handle him!"

     Tyrell looked back toward Moynahan's Restaurant.  Carver had now made a
fool of him three times.  Once on the train, once in the saloon, and once in
the restaurant.  Three times!  He was not going to let that happen again.
Whatever it took, he was going to make things right with Mr. Win Carver.  He
looked down the dark street toward Buford.  "And when I settle with Mr.
Carver, I may just have an accounting with you," he said under his breath.



     Win and Christina had just finished eating, and were about to leave the
restaurant, when Joe came in.

     "So, how was supper?" Joe asked, his words jaunty, his mood ebullient.

     "Well, Little Brother, you certainly look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

     "Do I?  Well, a little lady named Sandra and I had some very pleasant
business to attend to."

     "So it appears.  I'm glad to see that you decided to take the time to
eat," Win teased.

     "Believe me, after what I've just been through, I need to eat," he said.
"I have to get my strength back."

     Christina laughed, and Joe suddenly realized that he had said more than
he intended.  He smiled sheepishly, and put his hand to the brim of his hat.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am," he said.  "I sure hope I didn't give offense."

     "You don't have to apologize to me," Christina said.  "From what I have
heard, Sandra can be a most energetic woman."

     "Yes, ma'am, I'll vouch for that," Joe said.  Then he asked Win, "Are you
leaving?"

     "Yes.  I'm going to walk Christina back.  Then I'll get us a room at the
hotel.  Unless you've made other plans," he added pointedly.

     "Sandra offered, but I need my rest," Joe quipped.  "And you were the one
complaining about having to stay here," Win teased.  "Try the steak, it's very
good."

     "Reckon I'll just try two steaks," Joe replied.

     Win laughed, then held the door open for Christina as they went outside.

     "You and your brother seem to get along very well," she said.

     "Yes."

     "That's good.  I think family should be close.  What about the rest of
your family?  Any other brothers, sisters?  Where do your parents live?"

     "Joe and I are all that's left," Win said.  "Our mother and father were
killed during the war.  Jayhawkers."

     Christina put her hand on Win's arm.  "Oh, Win, I'm sorry," she said.

     "It was several years ago.  I don't think about it much anymore," Win
lied, recalling the dream he had on the train.



     The town of San Saba was actually two towns, divided by the railroad
track.  The north side of the track was the American side, while the Mexican
population was concentrated on the south side.

     Rip-sawed lumber buildings made up the American town, while across the
tracks, adobe buildings were laid out around a dusty plaza.

     Tim Tyrell crossed over to the south side of the tracks, then tied his
horse off at a hitch rail in front of Jose's Cantina.  A woman's high, clear
voice was singing, and it and the accompanying guitar music spilled out
through the beaded doorway.

     Although Tyrell knew that the Mexicans were generally much poorer than
the Americans, you couldn't tell that by listening.  The cantina was buzzing
with energetic conversation, and bubbling over with laughter.

     Tyrell pushed through the hanging beads.  He was sure he could find a
solution to his problem inside.



     Christina and her father lived on the top floor of the saloon, and it was
a walk of no more than a dozen steps from the restaurant to Matt's Place.  Win
escorted her home, then told her good-bye and started down the street to the
hotel to get a room for himself and his brother.

     It was very dark outside.  There were no street lamps in this small town,
so that only the moon and a few dim squares of light splashing through open
windows kept it from being as black as the inside of a pit.  At the far end of
the street, however, Win could see the gruesome shape of the gallows.  It was
dimly lighted by the moon, and by a splash of light which fell from the front
window of the jail house.

     The piano player, who had been absent when Win was in the saloon earlier,
was hard at work now, an empty beer mug sitting on top of the piano in the
hope that there would be a few generous patrons.  Now his rendition of
"Lorena" spilled out into the street from Matt's Place.

     From the shadows of the Mexican quarters on the South side of the tracks
Win could hear a guitar and trumpet.  They were playing different songs, yet
somehow it all seemed to blend into a single melody.

     A dog barked.

     Somewhere a baby cried.

     Win saw the lights of the hotel and started toward them.

     He felt the assassins coming for him before he heard them, and he heard
them before he saw them.  Two men suddenly jumped from the dark shadows
between the buildings, making wide slashes with their knives.  Only that
innate sense which allowed him to perceive danger when there was no other sign
saved his life, for he was moving out of the way at the exact Moment the two
men were starting their attacks.  Otherwise their knives, swinging in low,
vicious arcs, would have disemboweled him.

     Despite the quickness of his reaction, however, one of the knives did
manage to cut him, and as Win went down into the dirt, rolling to get away
from them, the flashing blade opened up a long wound in his side.  The knife
was so sharp and wielded so adroitly that Win barely felt it.  He knew,
however, that the knife had drawn blood.

     But for all their skill with the blades, the assassins had made a bad
mistake.  Both were wearing white peon shirts and trousers, so that despite
the darkness of the street they were easy to see, and being easy to see, were
easy to avoid.  One of the assassins moved in quickly, thinking to finish Win
off before he could recover.  But Win twisted around on the ground, then
thrust his feet out, catching the assailant in the chest with a powerful kick
and driving him back several feet.  The other one darted in then, his action
keeping Win off his feet and away from his gun.

     The assailants were good, skilled and agile.  Win sent a booted foot
whistling toward one of them, catching the man in the groin.  Then he lunged
upward, and rammed stiff fingers to gouge the other in both eyes.

     "Aiiyee!" the assailant screamed, dropping his knife and reaching up to
his face.

     The one who had been kicked in the groin reached for his partner and,
pulling him away, broke off the fight.  The two men ran toward the track, then
disappeared into the darkness on the other side before Win managed to get a
good look at their faces.  He knew only that they were Mexicans, but he didn't
know why they had attacked him.

     Win felt the nausea beginning to rise.  Bile surged to his throat.
Light-headed now, he turned and staggered back down the road toward the
saloon.  He grabbed the porch pillar for support and pulled himself up onto
the plank porch, then pushed in through the door to stand in the brightness.

     One of the bar girls happened to be looking toward the door just as he
came in, and seeing the bloody apparition standing there, screamed.

     All conversation stopped at Win's entrance, and a dead silence hung over
the saloon as if it were something palpable.  Everyone stared at him, their
eyes wide and their mouth open in shock.

     Win didn't realize it, but he was terrifying to behold.  He was standing
just inside the doorway, ashen-faced and holding his hand over a wound which
spilled bright red blood between his fingers.  With a silly, disconnected grin
on his face, he surveyed the room for just a moment, then with effort, walked
over to the bar.

     "Whiskey," he ordered.

     The solemn-faced bartender poured him a glass and Win took it, then
turned around to face the silent patrons.  By now his side was drenched with
blood from his wound, and the blood was beginning to soak into the wide-plank
floor.

     "Win!" Christina shouted in alarm.  She had gone up to her room when he
brought her home, and now she hurried back down the stairs and ran over to
him.

     "Hello, Christina," Win said.  He smiled and held his glass out toward
her, offering a toast.  Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled
to the floor, passed out cold.


                                       5


     "In here," Christina said.  "We will put him in my room."

     Joe had been quickly summoned from the restaurant next door, and now he
was carrying his brother in his arms.  He pushed through the door into
Christina's room.

     The room was hot and humid, and Christina and Joe could smell the blood
from Win's wound.  Christina felt around in the dark until she found the
bedside table and candle.  A moment later she found the box of lucifers and
struck one, then held the flame to the candle until a small light perched atop
the taper.  The dark of the room was pushed away.

     "Put him on my bed."

     Joe hesitated for a moment.  "Do you have any towels or anything to put
down?  He'll be upset if he finds out he bled on your bed."

     "I have an old blanket we can use," Christina offered, getting one from
the bottom drawer of the bureau, then spreading it out on her bed.

     Joe laid his brother down gingerly.  "Did you see who did this to him?"
he asked.

     "No, but some men in the saloon saw them.  They said it was a couple of
Mexicans from the other side of town," Christina said.

     "Why would a couple of Mexicans attack Win?" Joe asked.  "We ain't done
nothin' to none of them."

     "Robbery, perhaps?" Christina suggested.

     "He doesn't have that much money.  And believe me, there's easier ways to
make money than tryin' to steal from Win.  What about that little pissant
Tyrell?  Does he know any Mexicans?  Maybe he hired 'em."

     "That's very possible," Christina said.  "There are many Mexicans on the
other side of the track who would do anything if the price is right,"
Christina said.  "And I'm sure Mr. Tyrell would be acquainted with such
people."

     "Yeah, well, if you ask me, Tyrell hired them Mexicans to cut up Win,
sure as a gun is iron.  Only the Mexicans didn't know what they was gettin'
themselves in to, or like as not they wouldn't of done it."

     "Two men attacking him in the dark with knives," Christina said.  "He is
lucky he wasn't killed."

     Joe looked down at his brother.  "Yeah, he has bled a lot, hasn't he?
You think I should get a doctor?"

     Christina shook her head.  "There is no doctor in San Saba.  The nearest
one is fifty miles away.  But I sometimes help the doctor when he is here, so
I know how to treat the wound.  Also, I've got some salve, crushed aloe
leaves, and plenty of fresh wrappings for bandages.  I would be glad to take
care of him."

     "I appreciate that," Joe said.  "And if you don't mind, I'll just leave
him with you until I can get us a room over at the hotel."  Joe started to
leave, then stopped just before he stepped through the door and looked back
toward Christina.  "You think I should come back later tonight?"

     "No, that won't be necessary," Christina said.  "Or even desired.  Once I
get him bandaged, he will need to get a good night's sleep."  She smiled.
"You could probably use a little rest as well.  Go on over to the hotel.  If I
need you, I'll send someone for you, I promise."

     "All right, whatever you say," Joe agreed.



     When Christina sat on the bed beside win a few moments later, his eyes
snapped open.  He saw her reach down to loosen his belt and start unfastening
the buttons on his pants.

     "What?" Win asked.  He tried to sit up.  "What are you doing?"

     "Shh, lie back down," Christina said quietly.  She pushed him back down
gently.  "I'm trying to help you," she said.

     Slowly, Christina began peeling the blood-soaked clothes away from his
skin to expose his wound.  "I'm going to treat your cut.  Then I'm going to
wash your clothes."

     "You don't have to worry about that.  I hate to be a bother.  I'll be all
right," Win insisted.

     "No, you won't be all right Unless the wound is cleaned and treated.  And
you can't walk around wearing blood-soaked clothes," she said.  "I have soap
and water for your clothes and medicines for you, so I may as well take care
of it."

     She took off his shirt, then removed his pants, though for the time being
she protected his modesty by the strategic placement of a towel.

     Christina sucked in her breath as she looked at the cut and the blood
which had coagulated around the wound.  "You have lost quite a bit of blood.
It is no wonder you passed out."

     "Did I pass out?"

     "Yes, of course you did.  Do you mean you don't remember?"

     "No," Win said.  "I remember the fight, and I remember coming into the
saloon.  Then I don't remember another thing until I woke up just a moment
ago."

     Christina chuckled.  "What do you call that, if it isn't passing out?"

     "I guess I would call it going to sleep real fast," Win joked.  He
laughed, then winced as a stab of pain cut through his side.

     "You must be still now," Christina instructed.  She got up from the bed,
then walked over to the bureau to pour water from a porcelain pitcher into a
basin.

     Win lay back and folded his hands behind his head.  The muscles in his
arms, shoulders, and chest rippled as he did so, and he watched as the
beautiful young woman poured the water, then brought it back over to set it on
the small bedside table.  Again she sat on the bed beside him.

     Gently, she began cleaning the blood from Win's side.  The knife wound
started just above the belt line, then disappeared below the towel she had put
on him.  Christina slipped the towel a little farther down.  His pubic hair,
which began as a tiny dark line at his navel, broadened into a dark, curling
bush.  As the entire length of the cut was now visible, she stopped before any
more of his privacy was compromised.

     "It doesn't appear to be too deep," she said as she examined the cut
critically.  "And I don't think any of the vital organs inside were cut."

     Win looked directly into her eyes, and saw the latent smoke of Just in
their depths.

     For reasons she couldn't explain, Christina felt a tremendous heat
suffusing her body as she cleaned his wound.  She felt his abdomen.  It was
incredibly hot, perhaps fevered by the wound, yet she could feel the pulsing
of his blood just beneath the skin.  Though it wasn't necessary for her to
pull the towel any farther down, she couldn't stop herself from doing so, now
exposing him to her.

     When his wound was completely clean she applied a salve to it, then began
to rub the crushed medicinal herbs on it.

     "Does it feel good?" she asked.

     "Yeah," Win croaked.

     Even though she had completed applying the medication, she let her hand
continue to rub his skin, as if mesmerized by it.  Her hand moved in
ever-widening circles until finally it reached his penis.  Then, as if moving
of its own volition, her fingers wrapped around it, squeezing it until it
began to grow in her hands.

     "That feels good too," Win croaked.  He reached up to feel her breast
through her dress.

     "Wait," she said.  She walked over to her door, opened it, looked
outside, then closed and locked it.  When she returned to the bed she began
removing her dress.  She laid it neatly on a chair, its colors visible by
candlelight, then stepped out of her petticoat.  Next came the camisole,
followed by her bloomers.  That left her as naked as he was.

     Hesitating for a moment, as if either unsure of what to do next or
frightened to proceed any further, Christina just stood by the bed for a
moment, displaying her young, beautiful body to him.  Her nipples glowed
softly, while shadows kept mysterious the promise of her thighs.  Then,
drawing a deep breath and gathering her courage, she sat back down on the bed
and looked at him.

     Win raised his hand to one of her nipples, and it hardened under his
touch.  He tried to sit up, winced in pain, then lay back down.

     "You are wounded," she said.  "You might not be able to do this."

     "We'll find a way," Win insisted.

     "Yes," Christina agreed.  "We'll find a way."  She leaned down and kissed
his neck, then started working her way down his chest.  Win could feel the
soft velvet heat of her darting tongue as she licked his skin, trailing back
and forth until she stopped at his nipple and flicked her tongue over it
several times.  Win tried to move over her, but again the pain stabbed at him.
When Christina saw that, she smiled gently and put her cool fingers on his
shoulders to indicate that he should stay where he was.

     "You just lie there.  I'll take care of everything," she said.

     "You're the doctor," Win teased.

     Studying him closely through lust-filled eyes, Christina moved over him,
straddling him, preparing to take him into her, orchestrating the moment for
both of them.  She reached down to grab Win's steel-hard penis, then put the
head of it just inside her slick, wet crack, and pulled it in.

     She sat down on it, and Win watched as his cock pushed into her, like a
lubricated piston sliding into a cylinder.  He raised his hips to facilitate
the move.

     The bedsprings began to creak, and Christina whimpered and moaned in her
rapture as she made love to him.  Win felt bubbles of fire ascending from his
belly up through what connected them together, and he felt her jerk in wild
spasms as the jolts of rapture racked her body.  Then Win felt her slacken
above him, and he put his hands on her hips to hold her down to him as, with a
groan, she fell across him even as he was spending himself inside her in his
final, convulsive shudders.

     They remained that way for several moments, with Christina lying on top,
allowing the heat and the pleasure to drain slowly from her body.  Finally she
disconnected from him, his penis making a tiny sucking sound as she pulled
herself from it.  Then she stood beside the bed and looked down at him.  Her
tongue slid out of her mouth to lick across her lips.

     "You are the first man I have been with since my husband," she said.

     "Your husband?" Win replied in a shocked voice.  Almost without thinking,
he raised himself to his elbows and looked toward the door.  "I didn't know
you were married."

     "I'm a widow," Christina said quickly.  She chuckled softly.  "Did you
think you were going to see him coming through the door?"

     "I gave it a passing thought," Win admitted sheepishly.  "What happened
to your husband?"

     "He was a lieutenant in my father's company.  They were both part of
General Kirby Smith's division.  Johnny Rawlings was killed at the Battle of
Palmetto Ranch on the Rio Grande."

     "Palmetto Ranch?  I've heard of that battle.  It took place after Lee
surrendered at Appomattox.  It was even after Jefferson Davis was captured."

     "Yes," Christina said.  "It was the last battle of the war."

     "That was every soldier's worst nightmare, you know," Win said.  "To get
killed by the last bullet in the last fight of the war."

     "And every wife and mother's nightmare as well," Christina said.  She
began to get dressed then.  "My father says that we won that battle.  But the
fact that we won the battle seemed little consolation when they unloaded
Johnny's body from the train.  And now I can't even visit his grave, for he
was buried in the family cemetery at Doubletree.  Johnny, my mother, my baby
sister, my grandparents.  They are all buried on land that now belongs to
Jason Bellefontaine, and he won't even let us visit their graves."

     "I'm sorry," Win said.

     Christina looked at him and smiled wanly.  "No, I am the one who should
be sorry," she said.  "It was wrong of me to bring all of this up, especially
after what we just did."

     "No, it was good for you to bring it up.  I think you needed to talk
about it," Win said.  "And if it helped, I'm glad I was here."

     Christina looked down at his wound and saw that it was bleeding again,
though not as badly as before.

     "I'm going to have to redo the bandage.  We've opened your wound again.
We should have been more careful.  I shouldn't have been so ... so
aggressive."

     Win smiled.  "It doesn't hurt at all," he said.  "And you weren't
aggressive, you were generous.  Believe me, it was worth it."


                                       6


     When Win awakened the next morning, he experienced a moment of confusion
about where he was.  But when he moved, a sharp stitch in his side reminded
him of what had happened the night before, and he reached down to feel the
bandage.  He was gratified to see that there had been no more bleeding since
the previous night.

     Win looked around at his surroundings.  He knew that he was in
Christina's room, but it had been dark when he was brought here, and he hadn't
been able to see much.

     He didn't know exactly what time it was, but he could tell by the texture
of the sunlight streaming in through the window that it was still fairly early
in the morning.  He also saw his clothes, clean and nearly dry, spread out
near the window to take advantage of the warm air and sun.

     He lay back in bed for a few more moments, listening to the sounds of a
town coming to grips with a new day.

     The first sound to get his attention was a heavy, thumping sound.  For a
moment he didn't recognize it.  Then, with a chill, he realized what it had to
be.  Down at the far end of the street the workers on the hangman's gallows
were testing the trapdoor.  They were letting it fall open, time and time
again.  Each successful triggering of the trapdoor was marked with a heavy,
rattling thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

     From the blacksmith shop he could hear the sound of the smithy shaping a
piece of iron at his forge.  The hammer made a ringing sound on the off-beat
of the thumping trap door.  Thump.  Ring.  Thump.  Ring.  Thump.  Ring.

     Downstairs, the bartender was sweeping off the front porch of the saloon,
and he added the scratch of his broom to the thump of the door and the ring of
the hammer.  Though unintended, the result was a rhythmic composition.

     Thump, ring, scratch-scratch-scratch ...  Thump, ring,
scratch-scratch-scratch.

     There were other sounds as well: the hollow clop of hooves on the
sun-baked dirt of the street, the rattle of a freight wagon coming slowly into
town.  Some children were playing a game of hide-and-seek, and a nearby sign
creaked as it moved back and forth in the morning breeze.

     The door to his room opened then, and Joe came in, carrying Win's
breakfast on a tray.

     "How do you feel?" Joe asked.

     Win sat up, pleasantly surprised to see that moving wasn't that difficult
an ordeal.

     "I'm a little sore," he admitted, putting his hand over the bandage to
test his wound.  "But Christina did a pretty good job of patching me up.  I
think I'm all right."

     "Good.  Speaking of Christina, I saw that she was about to bring your
breakfast to you, but I told her she didn't have to do that.  I figured you
would rather have me bring it."

     "Oh, hell, yes, of course I would rather you bring it.  I would much
rather look at your ugly face than see her again," Win teased as he picked up
a piece of bacon from the plate.

     "Yeah, well, I had a reason for wanting to see you alone," Joe said.

     "It better be a good one."  He broke off a piece of biscuit and raked it
through the yellow of his fried egg.

     Joe held up his finger as if asking Win to wait a minute.  Then he
stepped to the doorway and looked up and down the hallway to make certain no
one was standing just outside, before he closed the door.

     Win laughed because he had seen Christina do the same thing last night,
just before she took off her clothes.

     "What is it?" Joe asked, a confused expression on his face.  "Why did you
laugh?"

     Win shook his head.  "Never mind," he said around a full mouth.  "It was
just something I thought of, that's all.  I don't think it would interest
you."

     "That's all right.  I have something that will definitely interest you,"
Joe said.

     "What?"

     "I went by to visit Ray this morning."

     "In jail?"

     "Yes."

     "Wasn't that a little risky?"

     "I told Gibson that I knew some of the men who rode for Quantrill, and I
wanted to ask his prisoner about them.  Gibson didn't question me at all.  In
fact, he even left the jail while I was there so Ray and I could talk alone
for a few minutes."

     "How is Ray holding out?"

     "He's pretty nervous about it," Joe said.  "He doesn't want to hang."

     "Can't say as I blame him.  Don't reckon anyone would feel too good in
that position."

     "Win, do you know why he asked us here?"

     "It was supposed to have something to do with money."

     "It does have to do with money.  Lots of it," Joe replied.

     "How much money?  And how do we get to it?"

     Joe chuckled.  "Well, now, that's the problem," he said.

     "What do you mean?"

     "Ray says he ain't goin' to tell us anything more about it until
tomorrow."

     "Tomorrow?  Hell, what's he talkin' about?  There ain't goin' to be a
tomorrow for him.  They're plannin' on hangin' 'im today, aren't they?"

     "That's his point, Win.  If we want to find out what this is all about,
we're goin' to have to get him out of the pickle he's in."

     "What did you tell him?"

     "I told him don't worry about it, you are a pretty smart fella, you can
come up with something," Joe said.  He rubbed his hands together and smiled
broadly.  "So, have you got any ideas?"

     "Why do I have to have all the ideas?"

     "'Cause you're the smart one, I'm the good-lookin' one," Joe said with a
wide grin.  "Ma always said so."

     "Yeah, well ..."  Win paused and looked at his brother, then laughed.
"Ma was half right.  All right, I'll come up with something.  But you're going
to have to help me on with my boots," Win said.

     "Help you with your boots?  Why the hell do I have to help you with your
boots?"

     Win pushed the rest of his breakfast away.  "'Cause we aren't going to be
able to stop the hangin' with me layin' in bed."

     "All right," Joe said, looking around the room.  "I'll help you with your
boots."



     It was just after noon, and Win and Joe were standing in the alley behind
the livery stable.

     "Here are the wood shavings you asked for," Joe said, setting a bag down
in front of Win.  "I got 'em from a pile out behind the cabinet shop."

     A couple of horses in the lot whickered, and Win looked around to make
certain no one was coming.  When he was sure they weren't being watched, he
emptied a whole can of kerosene into the sack of wood shavings, then stirred
them around so that all of them were wet.  After that, he took a piece of
rawhide and tied it around the bottom of Joe's right trouser leg so that the
cord would hold the pants cuff in a blouse, tight against the boot.

     "I still don't know why I'm the one has to do this," Joe said.

     "Because I'm the one who came up with the idea," Win reminded him.  "Now,
loosen your belt and pull your trouser waist out," Win ordered.

     "Just because you-"

     Joe's comment was interrupted when Win, suddenly and unceremoniously,
dumped the entire sack of shavings down into his pants.

     "Hey!  What the hell?"

     "Push those shavings on down your right pants leg," Win ordered.

     "Win, have you gone crazy?"

     "You don't want my hand poking around down there, do you, Little
Brother?"

     "You stick your hand down there and I'll break it off at the elbow," Joe
growled as he began directing the shavings down his right leg.  "These damned
things itch," he complained.

     "You won't have to put up with them too long," Win promised.



     It was about one-thirty when Joe walked, a little stiff-leggedly, down to
the gallows.  There was still half an hour before the scheduled hanging, but
the crowd was already thick, filling the street from porch to porch, jostling
for position.  Although individually most in the crowd thought that the
hanging was an unjust penalty for someone who had done nothing more than ride
with Quantrill during the war, there was nevertheless a festive air to the
crowd.  The celebration came from the fact that a hanging was a spectator
event of the first order.

     The crowd was made up of a cross section of the town.  Standing
unobtrusively at the rear of the crowd were a score or more of Mexican men,
wearing peasant shirts, colorful serapes, and wide, fringe-brimmed sombreros.

     Nearby, an old Mexican woman was selling tortillas from a box she
carried.  She didn't have any teeth, and she kept her mouth closed so tightly
that her chin and nose nearly touched.  A swarm of flies buzzed around the
box, drawn by the pungent aromas of beans and sauces.  She worked with quick,
deft fingers, rolling the spicy ingredients into tortillas, then handing them
to her customers.

     The Americans, many of whom were the old woman's customers, were
variously dressed in suits, shirtsleeves, and overalls; the women wore long
dresses and bonnets and watched over the children, who threaded in and out of
the groups as they chased one another, laughing at their games.

     To one side of the crowd, on the opposite side of the street from the
jail, a black-frocked preacher stood on an overturned box, taking advantage of
the gathering to deliver a fiery sermon.  The man was of average height and
build, with a full head of thick black hair.  Standing on the box, he jabbed
his finger repeatedly toward the gallows as he harangued the crowd.

     "In a few moments, a poor, miserable sinner is going to be hurled to
eternity ... sent to meet his Maker with blood on his hands and sin in his
heart."

     Several of the Mexicans, upon hearing that, crossed themselves and
mouthed a quick prayer.

     "No such thing, Preacher!  That fella rode with Quantrill and he didn't
do nothin' more'n kill a few Yankees!" someone shouted.

     "He didn't kill enough of 'em, is my way of thinkin'," another added, and
the crowd laughed and cheered the hecklers.

     "Hell, yes!  Instead of hangin' him, we ought to elect him to Congress!"

     "Congress wouldn't take 'im!  He ain't a big enough sinner!"

     There was more laughter.

     Undaunted, the preacher continued his sermon.  He waggled his finger at
the crowd.  "Brothers and sisters, hear this now!  That sinner is goin' to be
cast into Hell because he has not repented of his sins!"

     "Good for him!"

     "Tell him to give the Devil a kick in the ass from me!"

     There was more nervous laughter.

     "It's too late for him, brothers and sisters!  It's too late to save his
soul, and he is consigned to the fiery furnace of Hell, doomed to writhe in
agony forever!"

     Again, the Mexicans crossed themselves, and now, even among the Americans
in the crowd, the preacher's words began to sink in.  A few shivered
involuntarily at the powerful imagery of burning forever.  One or two of them
touched their necks fearfully, and a few souls, perhaps weak on willpower,
sneaked a drink from a bottle.

     "It's too late for them, but it's not too late for you!  Repent!  Repent
now, I say, for the wages of sin are death and eternal damnation!"

     Joe moved quietly and unobserved through the crowd.  The preacher had
everyone's attention, which was exactly what he needed.  With a lit cigar in
his mouth, he moved over to stand directly adjacent to the foot of the
gallows, where a pile of sawdust and wood shavings remained from the recent
construction.

     Joe reached down with his knife and cut the rawhide cord that had bloused
his trouser leg.  Then he shook the pants leg to allow the coal-oil-soaked
shavings to fall out of the bottom of his pants.  That done, he took several
more puffs on the cigar to get the tip glowing brightly, then dropped the
cigar in the pile of shavings.

     It took but a moment for the shavings to flame up.  As soon as Joe saw
that the fire had caught, he moved back into the crowd, edging over to the
opening between the jailhouse and the hardware store.

     "After this here hangin' takes place," the preacher was saying, "I invite
all of you to come down to the creek with me!  Come down to the creek and get
right with God!  Ask Him to save your souls from eternal perdition and I will
dunk you in His cleansing waters!  I will- Holy shit!" the preacher suddenly
shouted.

     "What'd you say, Preacher?" somebody in the crowd asked, shocked by the
preacher's outburst.

     "Fire!" the preacher shouted, pointing to the gallows.  "The goddamned
gallows is on fire!"

     The crowd turned to see what the preacher was talking about, and they saw
flames shooting up the side of the gallows, licking over onto the gallows
floor, and leaping up to the cross-beam where the rope, already in place, was
also burning.

     The women screamed and the men swore.  Sheriff Buford and his deputies,
the hangman, and Constable Gibson all ran out of the jailhouse to see what was
going on.

     "Goddamn!  How did this happen?  Buckets!  Get the buckets!" Buford
shouted in agitation.

     Mothers began calling for their children as several men ran to get
buckets to extinguish the flames.  In all the confusion, no one saw Joe moving
quickly through the narrow passageway between the jail and the hardware store.

     In the alley behind the hardware store, three saddled horses were tied.
Joe untied them, mounted one, then held the reins of the other two, keeping
them ready.

     Sixty feet away Win started running back toward the horses.  Behind Win,
against the back wall of the jail, a little string of smoke began working up
from a sputtering fuse.  The fuse was attached to a keg of gunpowder.

     There was a brilliant flash of light, then a loud blast as the planted
bomb exploded.  The back wall of the jail came crashing down into the alley,
and a moment later, a short, bandy-legged man, coughing and waving at the
cordite-strong smoke, picked his way through the rubble.

     "Are you all right, Ray?" Win shouted.

     "Yeah!" Ray answered, still waving at the smoke and the powdered brick
hanging in the air as a result of the pulverized wall.  The dust from the
explosion had peppered his beard, making it look white.

     Win and Joe rode up to him, leading the third horse.  Ray swung into the
saddle.  Then the three horses bolted into a gallop as if they were shot from
a cannon.  So complete was the surprise that no one even saw them leave.


                                       7


     Win, Joe, and Ray were at the salcedo way station, a gray, weather-beaten
building which sat baking in the afternoon sun.  A faded sign just outside the
door of the building gave the arrival and departure schedule of stagecoaches
that no longer ran, for a line that no longer existed.

     The stage line had been abandoned three years earlier when the railroad
reached Brownwood from Lampassas.

     The roof and one wall of the nearby barn were caved in, but there was an
overhang at the other end that provided some much-needed shade for their
horses.  Ray was sitting on the front porch with his back against the wall.
Win was inside the building, looking around at what remained of a once-busy
passenger station.

     Joe was outside, by the pump.  A little earlier, he had taken the pump
apart, and now he was reassembling it.

     Win stepped back out onto the front porch.

     "Find anything interesting in there, Win?" Joe asked from his position,
bent over the pump.

     "Not really," Win answered.  He looked down at Ray.

     All right, Ray, we've done our part.  We came to San Saba like you
wanted.  We even busted you out of jail.  Now it's time for you to tell us
what this is all about."

     "I've told you all I know," Ray replied.

     "Tell us again."

     "I met a fella some weeks back in a saloon back in Henderson.  He said
his name was Al Summers.  We got to talkin' some 'bout what we done durin' the
war, and turns out our paths musta crossed, only we just never know'd it.  I
mean, me an' him had never run acrost each other before, but he know'd lots of
the same folks we know'd.  Like ole' Bill Anderson, and George Todd.  Hell, he
even knowed Quantrill."

     "They're all dead," Win said.

     "I know they are dead.  What's that got to do with anything?"

     "It means we have no way we have of checking him out."

     "He's all right," Ray said.

     "How do you know?"

     "I can feel it."

     "That's it?  You feel it?"

     "Win," Joe said, looking up from the pump.  "We went by Ray's feelin's a
lot durin' the war, and he never steered us wrong."

     "Yeah," Ray said.  "Why you doubtin' me now?"

     Win paused for a minute, then nodded.  "Joe's right," he said.  "All
right, Ray, if you think this Al Summers is tellin' you straight, then that's
good enough for me.  Now, tell us the rest again."

     "After he found out I once rode with Quantrill, he asked me could I round
up any of the other fellas who was still around.  Right off, that put me to
wonderin'.  I mean they's paper out on nearly all of us, so I was thinkin'
what if this guy's a bounty hunter?  Wouldn't that be an easy way to catch
some of us?  So I asked him what for.

     "'I've got a little job in mind,' he says.

     "'What kind of job?' I asks.

     "'One that'll let you and the fellas you round up make a lot of money,'
he says.

     "'I'm always lookin' for some easy money,' I says.

     "'This ain't exactly takin' candy off a babe.  You goin' to have to take
some risks,' he says.

     "'What kind of risks?" I asks.

     "'Same kind of risks you took when you was ridin' with Quantrill,' he
says.  'Only this time, you'll get to keep a lot more of what you take.'"

     "But he didn't say how much?" Win asked.

     Ray shook his head.  "He just said there was a lot of it.  More'n any of
us had ever seen before."

     "What do you think, Win?" Joe asked.

     "I think if there is a lot of money, we'd better be getting an equal
share," Win replied.  "If we share equally in the risk, then we are going to
share equally in the money."

     "He didn't say nothin' 'bout whether the share would be equal or not.  He
just said there'd be lots of money," Ray said.

     "Equal," Win said again.

     "What if he won't go along with that?" Ray asked.  "I mean, it's his
plan.  He may figure he deserves more.  And I don't want to pass up the deal,
not if it means a lot of money."

     Win smiled.  "My reckonin' is that he'll go along with it.  He really has
no choice.  He can't do it alone, or he wouldn't have asked us in on the job.
And it's too late for him to get anyone else."

     "Hey," Joe called, smiling broadly as he began working the pump handle up
and down.  "Hey, you fellas, look at this!  It's moving real smooth now!  I
think I fixed it."

     "Don't do no good to have a working pump if there ain't no water down
there," Ray said.

     "There's water down there," Joe answered.  He started toward the barn.

     "Where you goin'?" Ray asked.

     "To the horses.  I'm going to get my canteen so I can prime the pump."

     "Joe, wait a minute!  Do you think that's a good idea?" Win asked.  "If
you use up all your water trying to prime this pump, there's no telling where
we're going to find some more."

     "There's water down there, Win.  I can smell it.  Only we ain't going to
get it if the pump ain't primed."

     "You use all your water up, don't think you're goin' to get any of mine,"
Ray warned him.

     "Hell, as I recall, it ain't your water anyway," Joe called back.  "I
seem to mind that you was in jail.  We had to dig up a horse and tack for
you."

     Joe returned a moment later with his canteen.  He unscrewed the cap and
held it over the pump for a second, then, with a shrug of resignation, poured
it in.  The water glistened brightly in the sun, then gurgled as it all rushed
down the pipe.

     Joe began working the handle.  "It's comin'!" he said.  "I can feel it!"

     Win moved over to the pump, and even Ray stood up to watch.

     Suddenly the suction was broken, and the pump handle began to move easily
again.

     "Damn!" Joe said.  "I lost it."

     "Tole' you," Ray said, moving back over to resume his position on the
porch.

     "Win, let me have your water."

     "Come on, Win, it was almost there.  I could feel it.  Think about it.
Wouldn't some cool deep-well water taste good about now?  And there would also
be plenty of water for the horses.  And a bath!  Win, hell, we could even take
us a bath!"

     "A bath?" Ray said.  "Why the hell would you want to take a bath?  Out
here, you'll just get dirty again."

     "You sure there's water down there, Joe?" Win asked.

     "I'm tellin' you, Win, it was right there.  I just lost the suction,
that's all."

     "All right," Win finally agreed.  "I'll get my canteen."

     Ray sat back down on the edge of the porch, reached down to pull up a
straw, then stuck the end of it in his mouth.  "You two boys is crazy, you
know that?" he asked.  "You're throwin' away good drinkin' water on the chance
there might be some in that well.  And for what reason?  So's you can take a
bath."

     Win came back a moment later, carrying a canteen.  He handed it to Joe,
who then poured it into the top of the pump.  Once again, Joe began pumping.

     "Yes!" he said, after a moment.  "Yes, it's coming!"

     Win stood by watching with intense interest, and again Ray came over to
see what was happening.

     "Shit!" Joe shouted.  "Shit, I need some more water to hold the suction.
It's almost there, but I may lose it.  I need more water!"

     "Well, don't look at me," Ray said.  "You ain't gettin' my water."

     "We already got your water," Win replied.  "That was your canteen I just
got."

     "What?"

     Win started toward the horses again.  "Don't lose the suction, Joe.  I'll
get my canteen."

     "Joe ..."

     "Hurry!" Joe called.

     Win ran to his horse, got his canteen, then ran back.  "Pour it in while
I'm still pumpin'," Joe said.

     "You crazy sonsofbitches!" Ray shouted.  "You've used up ever' damn bit
of our water!"

     Ignoring him, Win began to pour as Joe continued to pump.

     There were more gurgling sounds as the water disappeared down the pipe.
For several long, anxious seconds, Win and Ray watched as Joe continued to
pump, the only sound being the squeak and clank of the pump handle and piston.

     Suddenly a big smile spread across Joe's face.  "Get ready," he said.
"Here it comes!"

     At that moment, water began pouring out of the mouth of the pump.  For
the first few seconds, the water was red with rust.  Then it cleared.

     "Look at that!" Joe said.  "Ain't it beautiful the way it's flashin' and
sparkling like that?  Why, it looks like I'm pumpin' pure sunlight!"

     Win cupped his hands under the cascading water, then bent down to take a
drink.

     "How is it?" Ray asked anxiously.  "How does it taste?"

     Win took several deep swallows, then stood up with water running down his
chin.

     "Oh, that's fine!" he said.  "Joe, you remember when we were with
Quantrill and we hit Shawnee Station?"

     "Yes."

     "We got some champagne there, remember?"

     Joe smiled.  "Yeah, I remember.  We got two cases of it."

     Win pointed to the water that was still cascading down from the pump.  By
now the water splashing on the ground was beginning to form little rivulets.
"Well, Little Brother, that champagne wasn't half as good-tasting as this."

     "Yahoo!" Joe said.  "Here, you pump!  Let me have a drink!"

     Win took over the pump while first Joe and then Ray drank their fill.
Next they filled their canteens.  Then they found a bucket and took water to
the watering trough for their horses.

     Finally, they dragged another trough over to the pump so they could pump
water directly into it.  When it was full, they stepped back to look at what
they had done.  Ten thousand points of light danced on the undulating surface.

     "There you go, Big Brother.  It's ready for your bath."

     "No," Win said.  "It was your idea, and you are the one who fixed the
pump.  You go first."

     Joe smiled broadly, then began stripping out of his clothes.



     Joe had finished his bath, and Win, with his cigar titled at a jaunty
angle, was sitting in the tub toward the end of his own bath, when the three
riders arrived.

     "Here they come," Ray said, shielding his eyes.  "The fella on the right
is Al.  Don't know the other two."

     Joe came around to stand with Ray as they waited for the riders.  Win
didn't get out of the water.

     "Wasn't sure you would be here," Al said to Ray.  "Word I got was that
you got yourself throwed in jail and was goin' to get hung."

     "I was in jail," Ray replied.  He smiled.  "But my two pards here busted
me out."

     "These the boys you was talkin' about?  The Coulters?"  Al dismounted and
walked over to the water trough, then splashed some water on his face.

     "This is them.  The one takin' the bath is Win.  The big ugly one is
Joe."

     Al was lanky and rawboned, with a handlebar mustache.  One of the two
riders with him was a big man, almost as large as Joe, though perhaps twenty
years older, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard.  The third rider was small
and clean-shaven.  This rider seemed to be eyeing Win with a bemused
expression.

     "You goin' to introduce them two?" Joe asked.

     Drying his face with his bandanna, Al nodded toward the riders who had
come in with him, neither of whom had yet dismounted.

     "The big fella there is Jeb Finley.  He was a colonel with General Jo
Shelby."

     "Colonel Finley, I've heard of you, sir," Win said.

     "And I have heard of you, Mister Coulter," Finley replied.

     "And this is-" Al said, but he was interrupted by Win standing up in the
water.  As the water only came to a little above his knees, his nudity was
completely exposed.

     "Mister, I see you've been eyein' the bath-water," Win said easily.  "I'm
finished now, you're welcome to it if you'd like a bath."

     "Jessica Moore," Al finished.

     Jessica took off her hat and shook her head, allowing long tresses of
fire-red hair to cascade down around her shoulders.

     Seeing that it was a woman, Win sat down again, so quickly that he
splashed water everywhere.  Jessica laughed.

     "Goddamn, Al, you could'a said somethin' sooner," Win said.

     "Why, Mr. Coulter," Jessica said in a soft, husky voice.  "It doesn't say
much for me that you can't tell I'm a woman just by looking."

     "Well, you had your hat pulled so low, and those pants and that shirt,"
Win sputtered.

     Jessica laughed again.  "You don't have to explain," she said.  "I
dressed this way purposely.  Until this is all over with, I'm going to have to
pass as a man."

     "Yes, well, you ain't a man," Win said.  He held out his hand and moved
it in a small circle.  "So if you would, please, just turn around until I get
out of here and get dressed."

     "Really, Mr. Coulter.  I've already seen you.  What is there to hide
now?"  Jessica continued to appraise him with her cool, green eyes.  Her lips
were curled in the suggestion of a smile, which accented her high cheekbones.

     As Win studied her, he began to wonder how he could have mistaken her for
a man.  He could see now that she was really quite a pretty woman.

     "I reckon you're right at that," he said, standing up again.

     Jessica had actually been teasing him, and had no idea he would call her
bluff.  When he stood up to expose himself again, she was caught off guard,
and she cleared her throat in embarrassment.

     "Perhaps I should give you a little privacy," she said, turning her horse
around.

     "By the way, Miss Moore," Win said as he began drying off.  "My offer
still goes.  If you want to take a bath, you're welcome to take off your
clothes and jump in the water."

     "Thank you, Mr. Coulter," Jessica replied.  "You will understand, I'm
sure, if I decline your generous proposition."

     "if you folks will climb down, I'll take your horses," Ray offered.
"There's water and shade for 'em over to the barn."

     "Thank you," Finley said as he dismounted.  By now, Win had pulled on his
trousers, and Finley looked back toward Jessica.  "You can turn around now, my
dear," he said.  "Mr. Coulter is decent."

     "Thank you," Jessica said.  She too dismounted, and handed the reins of
her horse to Ray.  Win began to rewrap the bandage around his waist.  "Oh, you
are wounded!" Jessica said.

     "Yeah, I had a run-in with a couple of Mexicans."

     "It looks very recent," Jessica said.  "When did it happen?"

     "About four days ago," Win answered.

     "Mr. Summers," Finley said.  "I told you to get responsible men, not men
who are likely to get into bar fights."

     "You said get someone like Quantrill's Raiders," Al replied.  "Well these
here fellas ain't like Quantrill's Raiders.  They are Quantrill's Raiders.
And that means they ain't Sunday School teachers."

     "It wasn't a bar fight, Colonel Finley," Joe explained.  "And my brother
didn't start it.  But if you don't want us in on this, just let us know and
we'll be going on our way."

     "No, no," Finley said, holding up his hand.  "I'm sorry if I seemed
judgmental.  It's just that in order for this to work, we are going to have to
have as much self-discipline as we do skill and daring."

     "We can be as disciplined as we need to be," Win said.  "For our fair
share," he added.  He dropped one end of the bandage, and had to start
reapplying it.

     "Here, you'd better let me help," Jessica suggested, stepping over to
take the bandage wrapping from him.

     "Thanks."

     Jessica started wrapping the bandage around him, carefully and
skillfully.  When her fingers touched his skin, they managed to be hot and
cool at the same time.

     "You do this well," Win said.

     "I have a knack for it," Jessica said.

     "Colonel, you want to tell us what this is all about?" Win asked, looking
up at Finley.

     "All right," Finley answered.  "But first, I think I need to tell you a
little about General Jo Shelby.  You men knew him, of course?"

     "Commanding general of the Missouri Cavalry," Joe said.  "Of course we
knew him."

     "What you may not know is that, after the surrender, General Shelby
decided to keep his men together.  We left Missouri and marched through
Arkansas and Texas, all the way to the Rio Grande, where, rather than
surrender our flag, we buried it in the river."

     "I heard you all had done something like that," Win said.  Jessica was
finished with the bandaging, and he began putting on his shirt.

     "Something happened during that last mission that has a bearing on what
we are about," Finley continued.  "As we passed through Austin we learned that
a group of brigands and deserters had taken it upon themselves to loot the
state treasury.  And although it wasn't our state, it wasn't our money, and it
wasn't even our cause, General Shelby decided that our honor lay in dispersing
the robbers and saving the money for the people of Texas."

     "You did that?" Joe asked.

     "We did that, yes.  We killed nearly all of the robbers and returned the
money."

     "You had your hands on all that money and you returned it?" Ray asked.
He shook his head.  "General Shelby must've had a great deal of control over
his men to convince them to do that."

     "If you remember General Shelby, you know that is so," Finley said.  "But
I must tell you, if we had known then what we know now, I don't believe even
General Shelby would have returned that money to the vault."

     "Why do you say that?"

     "Less than one week after we passed through Austin, the Union Army
arrived to begin their occupation duty.  The first thing they did was take the
money from the vault and transfer it to the Federal Treasury."

     "Hell, what did you expect, Colonel?  The Yankees won," Win said.

     "I could accept that if all the money they took had made it to the
Federal Treasury," Finley said.  "But less than one half of the money reached
the Federal Government.  The commanding general of the Tenth Kansas Cavalry
Brigade siphoned off the rest of it.  He then resigned from the army, and has
subsequently used that money to bribe tax collectors and buy himself a
sheriff.  He now owns much of this land and most of the businesses in the
towns.  He's turned San Saba County into his own little kingdom."

     "You must be talking about Jason Bellefontaine," Win said.

     "Yes," Finley said.  "You've met him?"

     Win shook his head.  "I haven't met him, but I have heard all about him.
And I met some of his hirelings."

     "Ah, you would be talking about his sheriff, Angus Buford," Finley said.
"Perhaps you ran across him before?  He was a first sergeant in Emil
Slaughter's company of Jayhawkers.  Slaughter's Jayhawkers, of course, being a
part of Bellefontaine's Tenth Kansas Cavalry Brigade."

     "Emil Slaughter?" Win asked sharply.

     "Yes," Finley said, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard.

     "The same Emil Slaughter you killed when Quantrill hit Lawrence."

     "Colonel, if ever there was a man needed killin', it was Emil Slaughter,"
Joe said.

     "Believe me, I'm not finding fault with his being killed," Finley said.
"I know the story of what happened at your family farm, how Slaughter murdered
your father, raped and murdered your mother, then burned all the buildings."

     "Let's change the subject," Joe suggested.

     "Of course," Finley said.  "I can see how that might not be something you
would care to remember."

     "There's another fella I met in San Saba," Win said.  "An ornery young
cuss named Tim Tyrell.  Do either of you know anything about him?"

     "I know quite a bit about him, Mr. Coulter," Jessica said.  "He is my
brother."

     "Your brother?"

     "My half-brother, to be more accurate," Jessica said.  "We had the same
mother, but different fathers.  When Tim's father died, my mother married my
father.  Tim's father was from Kansas, my father was from Texas.  When the war
began, my father returned to Texas and my mother and I came with him.  Tim
stayed in Kansas with an aunt and uncle on his father's side."

     "I'm sure you must've asked yourself why we would have a woman involved
with this job," Finley said, then.  "Perhaps it will help you to understand
when I tell you that the uncle Tim Tyrell stayed with is General Jason
Bellefontaine."

     "What does that have to do with Miss Moore?" Win asked.  "She just
explained that Jason Bellefontaine is Tyrell's uncle, not hers."

     Jessica dipped her handkerchief into the water and wrung it out.  "Jason
Bellefontaine may be my brother's uncle," she said as she began patting her
face with the wet cloth.  She aimed a penetrating stare at Win.  "But he is my
lover."


                                       8


     It was dark.

     Win was sitting on the edge of the porch, eating peaches from a can.  The
meadow between the building and the tree line glowed in a soft luminescent
yellow from the winking of hundreds of fireflies.  High overhead, the
black-velvet sky was filled with stars which ranged in magnitude from
pulsating white all the way down to a barely perceptible blue dust.

     Win had taken his supper with the others inside the building, then come
outside to eat his peaches and get a breath of fresh air.  Colonel Finley had
not yet filled them in on what he had in mind, though he'd promised to do that
before everyone bedded down for the night.

     Win heard someone walking across the porch behind him.  Without turning
around, he spoke.

     "Evenin', Miss Moore."

     "That's very good," Jessica said.  "How did you know it was me?"

     "Your steps are lighter and quicker than the others," Win said.  He held
out his can.  "Would you like the rest of my peaches?"

     "Why, how nice of you to share," Jessica replied, sitting on the porch
beside him.

     "I have sort of a weakness for canned peaches," Win admitted.  "I almost
always have three or four cans in my saddlebags."  He chuckled.  "I'm not sure
my horse appreciates my habit."

     Jessica pulled a spoon from her shirt pocket and began eating.

     "They are very good," she said as she took the first bite.

     "Miss Moore, may I ask you a question?"

     "It's Win, isn't it?  Win, don't you think you could call me Jessica now?
I mean, we are going to be working together."

     "All right, Jessica, but that is my question.  If your brother is
Bellefontaine's nephew, and if you are his woman ..."

     "I am not his woman," Jessica said quickly, interrupting Win in
mid-sentence.

     "I thought you said ..."

     "I said he was my lover," she told him.  "There is a difference.  I have
no more feeling for him than a whore does for the men who visit her."

     "Then why?"

     "I do it for the same reason the whores do it," Jessica said.  "Only, I
will be getting a lot more money than any whore has ever gotten."

     "Then it is just the money?"

     "Yes," she answered quickly.  Then, after a pause, she said, "No.  It's
not just the money."

     "What else?"

     "I told you that when the war started my father moved us to Texas.  When
he got here, he joined the Confederate army.  During the war he led a patrol
into Kansas.  He was caught, and even though he was in uniform when he was
caught, he wasn't treated as a prisoner of war.  Instead he was tried as a
spy, and he was hanged."

     "I'm sorry to hear that," Win said.

     "General Bellefontaine could have interceded on my father's behalf.  My
mother wrote to him, begging that he do so, but she got no answer from him.
After the war, when he came to Texas, he told my mother and me that he never
received the letter, and that he didn't know about my father until it was too
late.

     "We believed him.  Then his wife died and he offered me a job managing
his household.  It seemed like a respectable enough position, with good pay,
so I accepted.

     "But one day, when I was looking for something, I happened to find in his
papers my mother's letter to him.  I also found a letter from General Halleck
suggesting leniency for my father.  Most damning of all was General
Bellefontaine's answer to General Halleck.  'As the Federal Government has not
recognized the Confederacy as a legitimate government, then it follows that
their army is not a legitimate army,' he said in his letter.  "Therefore I
believe the sentence of death I have imposed upon Major Moore to be correct.'"
She sighed.  "I think it was the fact that he lied to us that disturbed me
more than anything else.  He swore to us that he did not know about my father
until it was too late, when in fact, he was the one who ordered my father's
execution."

     They were silent for another moment.  Then Jessica continued.  "That was
when I decided I would kill him."

     "I reckon I can understand you wantin' to kill him, all right," Win said.
"But sleepin' with him seems to me to be a funny way of doin' it."

     "Perhaps not," Jessica replied with a wry smile.  "Do you know why the
black widow spider is called a black widow?"

     "No, I can't say as I do."

     "it is because after she mates with the male spider, she kills him."

     "Damn," Win said.  "I'm glad I'm not a male spider."  He looked at her
and smiled.  "Although I guess if I got randy enough, I might be willin' to
take the chance.  Especially if it was with someone who looked like you."

     Jessica smiled at his comment, then continued with her explanation.  "I
figured letting Bellefontaine into my bed would allow me to gain his
confidence, which would make things easier.  I started out thinking I wanted
to kill him, but when I found out just how much money he has managed to steal
since coming to Texas, I came up with another idea.  Losing all of his money
would be worse than death to him.  And it would be much more profitable for
me."

     "And that's about the time Colonel Finley got in touch with you?"

     "Not quite," Jessica said.  "Colonel Finley didn't recruit me.  I
recruited him."

     "You mean ... this is all your idea?"

     "Every bit of it," Jessica replied.

     At that moment, Finley stuck his head through the door.

     "Jessica, my dear, Mr. Coulter, would you two like to come inside?  I
think it's time we went over the plans."

     Win stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants.  "Yes, indeed, I am
ready," he said.  "I don't want to miss this."  He held out his hand to help
Jessica to her feet.



     Inside, on what had been the ticket counter, Finley spread out a large
hand-drawn map.  He kept the corners from rolling back up by the application
of four disparate weights: a rock, a pistol, a can of beans, and a coffeepot.

     "Gather round the map now," Finley said.

     The map showed a stretch of railroad, with all the adjacent terrain
features clearly marked.

     "Next Wednesday a two-car train will make a run from San Saba to
Lampassas," Finley said.  "One car will be General Bellefontaine's private
car.  The other will be an express car.  Gentlemen, this is no ordinary
express car."  Finley pointed to the lower right-hand side of the paper, to
the drawing of a railroad car.

     "The walls of this car are reinforced with steel, so that they are
bullet-proof.  It is also fitted front and rear on both sides with firing
slots.  But what makes it most dangerous is this."  Finley tapped the end of
his pencil on something that stuck up from the top.

     "What is that?  A smokestack?" Al asked.

     "That is a turret," Finley explained.

     "A turret?" Joe asked.  "What is a turret?"

     "It is a cylinder with a gun attached, fitted so it can turn three
hundred and sixty degrees.  It's not an original idea.  I'm afraid the
designer of this car borrowed the concept from Mr. Ericson's ironclad ship,
the Monitor.  This ability to turn means that one man, protected by the steel
sides of the turret, can spin all the way around to face a threat, no matter
from which direction it may be posed."

     "I'll be damned," Ray said.

     "And there is something else," Finley added.  Again, he touched the
turret with the end of his pencil.  "The gun that will be firing through the
firing slit on this turret is probably unlike any gun any of you have ever
seen before.  It is capable of extremely rapid fire."

     "That would be a Gatling gun?" Win asked.

     Finley looked up in surprise.  "Yes.  Are you familiar with the Gatling
gun?"

     "I've never seen one, but I have heard of them," Win said.  "They're guns
with several barrels and you turn a crank to make them all fire fast."

     "Yes.  That crank not only rotates the barrels, it also ejects the old
cartridges and loads new ones," Finley said.

     "Lordy, wouldn't I love to see that, though?" Joe said.

     "I'm afraid you will see it, Mr. Coulter," Finley said.  "Unfortunately,
you will see it from the wrong side."

     "Colonel, you've made your point as to how difficult it is going to be to
stop this train," Win said.  "Now, tell us why we should stop it."

     "Why, to get at the money the express car is carrying, of course."

     "That's my next question.  How much money is in there?"

     Finley smiled.  "I know that some of you have been wondering just what
Miss Moore's role is in all this.  I'm going to let her answer the question as
to just how much money we are talking about."

     "The amount of money the express car will be carrying that day is three
hundred thousand dollars," Jessica said.

     "Whew!" Ray said, whistling.

     "That's fifty thousand dollars each," Win said quickly.

     "Not quite," Finley said.  "Not all shares will be equal."

     "Colonel, you just described a train car that is built like the Monitor,
and you expect us to go up against it.  We'll do it, and we'll get the money
it's carrying.  But we're going to divide it equally."

     "I'm afraid you don't understand," Finley began, but Jessica cut him off
with a raised hand.  "There are some others involved," Jessica said.  "Their
cut is one hundred thousand."

     "Will the others be taking the same risks?" Win asked.

     "No," Jessica said.  "But they are necessary."

     Al and Joe looked at Win.  He ran his hand through his hair, then nodded.

     "All right," Win finally said.  "I reckon I can go along with that."

     "Good," Jessica said, obviously relieved that there wouldn't be a
problem.  "Colonel, you want to go on with your plan?"

     "Very well," Finley said.  He pointed to the express car again.  "As long
as this Gatling gun is operating, one man can hold off an entire troop of
cavalry.  So, the first thing we have to do is get rid of the turret."

     "Any ideas?" Ray asked.

     Finley shook his head.  "All I've come up with so far is what has to be
done.  Just how it is to be done is yet to be worked out," he answered.

     "All right, what else has to be done?" Win asked.

     "The train has to be stopped.  The guards in the express car have to be
taken care of.  The doors to the car have to be breached, and once we are
inside, the vault has to be opened."

     "It's easy enough to stop the train," Joe said.  "All we have to do is
pull up some of the track."

     "That won't work," Jessica said.

     "Why not?"

     "Bellefontaine is no fool.  He knows that this train is going to make an
attractive target, so he is sending a pilot engine and a track repair crew
half an hour ahead," she explained.

     "And even if we got it stopped, there is still the problem of the express
car and the Gatling gun," Finley said.

     "What if we buried a bomb under the track?" Win suggested.  "We could set
it off just as the train arrives."

     "That could get some innocent people killed," Jessica said.

     "Who on board that train is innocent?"

     "The engineer and fireman," Jessica suggested.  "They are both men with
families just trying to earn a living.  And then, of course, there is me."
She smiled.  "Although I'd be the first to admit that calling me innocent begs
the term."

     "Wait a minute.  You're going to be on that train?"

     "She has to be," Finley said.

     "Why is that?"

     "Because once you do get the train stopped and get into the express car,
I am the only one who can open the vault for you."  She smiled.  "I know the
combination."

     "There you have it, gentlemen, all the details," Colonel Finley said.
"Surely, if we all put our heads together, we will come up with a workable
plan."


                                       9


     Although everyone had thrown their bedrolls down inside, Win woke in the
middle of the night feeling hot and stuffy.  Thinking it would be cooler
outside, he got up a little after midnight, gathered his bedroll, then picked
his way quietly through the snoring, sleeping bodies.

     He spread his blankets out on a small, grassy knoll about fifteen yards
from the building and lay down.  The stars were so clear and bright that he
almost felt as if he could reach up and pluck one from the night sky.  He saw
a falling star, and he spent a moment wondering what caused them to sometimes
become dislodged.

     A creaking sound on the front porch caused him to grab his pistol and
raise up quickly.  He looked toward the source of the sound, then saw that
someone else was abandoning the building.  At first, whoever it was was hidden
in the shadows of the porch.  Then the person walked over to the pump and into
a silver splash of moonlight.

     It was Jessica.

     Win almost called out to her.  Then he took in a quick, sharp breath as
he saw her start taking off her clothes.

     Win remained still and quiet as Jessica removed her shirt, then stepped
out of her pants.  She had been wearing a camisole under her shirt, and that
came off too.  She was wearing nothing under the pants.

     Jessica walked over to the trough, which still held the water that both
Joe and Win had used for their bath.  She lifted a long shapely leg over the
edge of the trough, tested the water with her toe, then stepped down into it.
She sat down, but even then her breasts were still exposed, the curving globes
silvered by the moonlight, the nipples dark but clearly visible.  Win watched
her at her bath, feeling himself grow erect at this unexpected and enticing
view.

     Finally Jessica finished and stood, like Aphrodite emerging from her
bath, and stepped over the edge of the trough.  Then, still wet and naked, she
started walking toward Win.

     Win was surprised--first that she knew he was there, and second that she
was displaying no sense of embarrassment or anger at having discovered him.
She sat down beside him with as little concern about her nudity as if she were
fully dressed and this had been a chance encounter on a busy sidewalk in the
middle of the day.

     "I'm sorry about watchin' you take your bath," Win said.  "I didn't mean
to be spying on you.  But I was already out here and I didn't realize what was
happening until it was too late.  I didn't want to embarrass YOU."

     Jessica turned her face toward him and studied him for a long moment with
a rather whimsical smile on her face.  "Did you enjoy the show?" she asked in
a throaty voice.

     "Well, yes," Win admitted, surprised by the question.  "I must confess
that I did."

     "Good.  Then we are even," she said.

     "Even?"

     "I had my own show this afternoon, remember?"

     "Yes.  I remember."

     "I saw you get up and take your bedroll outside," Jessica said.

     "You mean, you knew I was out here when you came to take your bath?"

     "I knew," Jessica said.

     From the barn a horse whickered, and Win saw Jessica shiver as the night
breeze passed across her drying, naked body.  He examined the tightly drawn
nipples on her uplifted breasts, the long supple lines of her legs, and the
shaded invitation at the junction of her thighs.

     "Are you cold?" he asked.

     "A little," she said.

     Win lifted his blanket and held it out toward her.  She moved toward him.
Then he wrapped it around her, drawing her nude body against his.

     "Better?"

     "Much."

     They were silent for a moment.

     "Win, what is it like?" she asked.

     Win was confused by her question.  "What is what like?"

     "To live the life of an outlaw?  To be as free as a bird, to go where you
want, when you want, and to be beholden to nobody?"

     "That sounds good to you, does it?"

     "Yes."

     "I didn't plan this life, Jessica."  Win pulled up a stem of grass, then
began sucking on the cool, sweet root.

     "What kind of life did you plan?"

     "I figured I'd be a farmer, marry some girl from a neighboring farm, or
maybe from town.  By all rights I should be raising a couple of kids about
now, worrying about rain and helping my neighbors put up a barn or a granary."

     Jessica laughed softly.  "It's hard to imagine you as a farmer, Win
Coulter."

     Win laughed with her.  "Yeah," he said.  "Well, to tell you the truth, my
pa shared your opinion.  'You was born to hang,' he used to say."

     "I guess the war changed the plans of a lot of people," Jessica said.

     "I reckon so."

     "What are you going to do with your money?"

     "Nothing."

     "Nothing?"

     "I've got this funny habit," Win said.

     "What's that?"

     "I don't spend money until I actually have it in my hands."

     "Don't you even like to think about it?"

     "No."

     "Well, I know what I'm going to do," she said.  "I'm going to San Fran-"
She stopped.  "Come to think of it, maybe it would be better if I were more
like you.  There's no sense in my spending money I don't have."

     "Money doesn't mean anything anyway," Win said.

     "How can you say that?"

     "If you've got enough money for a good horse and saddle, enough to keep a
few necessary items in your saddlebags ..."

     "Like canned peaches?" Jessica interrupted.

     "Like canned peaches," Win agreed.  "Plus a few coins to buy yourself a
steak dinner, have a few drinks, play some cards, and get someone to warm your
bed for a night or two ... what need is there for more money?"

     "Well, I'm not going to cook a steak dinner for you, Win Coulter,"
Jessica said.  He felt her hand then, moving across his thigh, stopping to
rest over the mound caused in the front of his pants by the erection he had
from sitting next to such a beautiful naked woman.  "But I'll warm your bed if
you'd like."

     "I'd like," Win said.  He undid his belt, unbuttoned his pants, then slid
them down across his legs, taking them and the boots off at the same time.  It
being summertime, he was wearing no underwear.  He took off his shirt, and
within a moment was sitting beside Jessica as naked as she was.

     Jessica's hand traced a path across Win's skin.  Then she wrapped her
fingers around his erection, feeling its incredible heat and throbbing power.

     "Oohh," she breathed.  "I had no idea."

     "What?"

     "This ... this thing," she said, squeezing his penis.  "I've only been
with Bellefontaine.  I thought all men would be pretty much the same."  She
began moving her hand up and down his cock, making a tactile exploration of
it.

     When Win felt her long cool fingers closing around his erection, a web of
flame shot through his body.

     His fingers went to her thighs, slipped through the hair, and spread the
moist lips.  She was incredibly wet, hot, and moaning with desire.

     "Oh ... oh, my!" she said.  "So this is what it can be like!"

     Win kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.  She opened her eyes
in surprise, then, with an eager little squeal, pushed his tongue out of her
mouth with her own and began probing his.

     Win laid her back onto the blanket, then moved over her.  Jessica raised
her legs and spread her knees for him, then put her hand on his penis again
and guided it inside her.

     "Oh ... oh, my!" she said again as he pushed himself deep inside her.

     Win began thrusting, and she raised her hips to meet him, taking him down
inside her, sliding him across every nerve ending within.  She gasped with the
pleasure of it, and cried with the joy of it as she built toward fulfillment.
To Win, it was as if her senses were like a restless willow in a windstorm,
moving, tightening, latent with the promise of more.

     Win felt her when she climaxed.  Unable to hold back her cries of joy,
she let moans of pleasure escape her lips, and threw her arms around Win and
pulled him to her.  Win felt himself coming and he pumped harder, deeper, and
faster.

     Afterward, they fell asleep in each other's arms.

     Much later, Win was awakened by an extremely pleasurable sensation.  When
he was fully awake he became aware of two things.  Jessica was sucking his
penis, and she was lying on top of him, grinding herself into his face.  He
had only to put out his tongue and it slipped through the musky fur and into
the wet slit that was above him.

     Once she knew that he was awake and was fully participating in her game,
she began thrashing and moaning, sucking and licking, nibbling and squeezing,
until Win came again, feeling it blast out of him, wondering how she could
hang on during such an eruptive orgasm.  Then he knew by the throbbing,
pulsating muscles in the thighs she had locked to either side of his face that
her orgasm was every bit as explosive as his own.

     Sometime before morning, she got up from his bedroll and padded, still
naked, across the grass over to the porch, where she got dressed, then went
back inside.  He put his own clothes back on, then went to sleep.



     "Damn, big brother, you planning on sleeping your life away?" Joe asked.

     Win opened his eyes and saw Joe squatting on his haunches, looking over
at him.  Joe was holding two steaming cups of coffee, and he handed one cup to
Win.

     "Thanks," Win said, sitting up.  He looked around and saw that several of
the others were up.  But he didn't see Finley or Jessica.

     "Finley and Miss Moore still asleep?" he asked.

     "Asleep?  Hell, no," Joe answered.  "They got up and left before the sun
come up."

     "I'll be damned," Win said.  What he didn't say was how he admired
someone who could screw all night and still have the strength and energy to
get up and leave before sunup.

     "Come on inside," Joe invited.  "You've got some plannin' to do."

     "I've got some planning to do?" Win asked as he pulled on his boots.
"What do you mean I've got some planning to do?"

     "How we're going to get the train stopped and get into the express car,"
Joe answered.  "I told the others you were really good at figuring out stuff
like that."

     "Oh, you did, did you?"

     "Yep," Joe said, smiling broadly.  "So they decided to put you in
charge."

     "Put me in charge?  I thought Colonel Finley was in charge."

     "Ah, you know how colonels are," Joe said.  "They're big ones for tellin'
you what to do, then sittin' back an' lettin' you do it.  When it comes time
to hit the train, it'll be just us.  And I'd feel a heap better about you
leadin' us than I would if it was Al or Ray."


                                      10


     Jason Bellefontaine was a very large man.  The men who worked for him
were fond of saying that he would "dress out" at over 350 pounds.  Rather than
try to hide his weight, he played it up, wearing ruffled shirts and a gold
watch chain which stretched across his vest.  He didn't wear a beard, but had
bushy muttonchop sideburns framing jowls which hung like saddlebags from each
side of his face.  He had no visible neck.  Instead, a series of chins started
somewhere just under his rubbery lips, then trailed down to the top of his
chest.

     Bellefontaine was sitting at a large, polished mahogany table in his
dining room, and he reached for a little silver bell, then picked it up and
shook it.  The melodic dinging brought a young, attractive Mexican woman out
of the kitchen.

     "Si, Senor General?" she asked.

     "Maria, I would like you to bring me some more pancakes," Bellefontaine
said.

     "Si, Senor General."

     "Oh, and Maria?" Bellefontaine called as she started toward the kitchen.
Maria stopped.  "Only about ten or twelve this time," he said.  "I'm just
about full."

     "Si, Senor General."

     When Maria left, Bellefontaine looked toward the opposite end of the
table.  This morning he had ordered Maria to set a place for Jessica, but she
had not yet returned.  He was a little irritated by her absence.  She had told
him she was going to visit her mother and that she would only be gone for four
days.  He had expected her yesterday.

     He heard the front door open and close, and when he looked up, he saw Tim
coming into the dining room.

     "Uncle Jason, we've got the Gatling gun mounted in the turret now, and
we're ready to test it."

     "Tim, how many times have I told you not to call me Uncle?"

     "I know.  You said it's because of the men," Tim said.  "But I thought
when we were alone ..."

     "It's not just because of the men.  It's for you as well.  If the men
hear you calling me Uncle, then they will not give you the respect you
deserve.  They will be convinced that you attained your position by way of
family connections, rather than through your own initiative."

     "Yes, Sir," Tim said.

     "The fact that it's true, that you hold your position only because of a
promise I made to my late wife, makes no difference.  The men must think you
are one of them."

     "Yes, General."

     "And another thing," Bellefontaine continued.  "There had better never be
another example of what happened last week.  It is being said all over the
county that you hired a couple of Mexicans to take care of a personal problem
for you and because of that, one of them is blind in one eye and the other has
a cracked rib."

     "If they were unable to handle the job, they shouldn't have taken it,"
Tim replied.

     "Maybe not.  But the fact remains you hired someone else to fight your
battles.  It doesn't look good, not for you, and not for me.  See that it
doesn't happen again."

     "Senor General, your pancakes," Maria said, returning with a plate piled
high with the steaming cakes.

     "Thank you, Maria," Bellefontaine said.  He scooped three tablespoons of
butter from the butter tub.  Then, as the butter melted and cascaded down on
every side, he poured on a generous amount of syrup.  "Has your sister
returned?" he asked Tim.

     "No, Sir."

     "I want you to go to your mother's house and get Jessica.  She was
supposed to be back last night."

     "I'm sure she'll be along soon," Tim said.

     Bellefontaine took a large bite of pancakes, then spoke with his mouth
full.

     "I intend to see that that is so," he said.  "Because you are going to
fetch her back here."

     "Yes, sir," Tim said, obviously not pleased with the task.  At that
moment, however, he happened to look through the dining room window and saw
Jessica arriving, driving a buckboard.  "What did I tell you?" he said.
"There she is now."

     "Good.  Will you tell her I would like to see her, please?"

     "Yes, sir.  What about the test of the Gatling gun?"

     "You see to it."

     Tim smiled broadly.  "Yes, Sir!" he said.  "I'll be glad to."



     A moment later Jessica came into the room.  She was wearing a long blue
dress and a white straw hat, having changed from the men's clothes she had
worn when she was at Salcedo.  She smiled brightly.

     "Did you miss me while I was gone?" she asked, coming over to kiss
Bellefontaine on his cheek.

     "I thought you were going to be back yesterday," he said petulantly.
"You said four days."

     "I'm sorry.  Mother wasn't feeling well, so I stayed a bit longer than I
intended."

     "No harm done," Bellefontaine said, reaching up to take her hand in his.
"As long as you're back."

     Jessica looked at his soft, fat hand on hers, and she compared it to
Win's broad, strong hand.  Then she thought of Win's hand on her body, and she
shivered.

     "You must have some of these pancakes," Bellefontaine said, totally
missing the shiver.  "They are quite good this morning."



     Three straw-dummy targets were set up approximately one hundred yards
away from the turret-mounted Gatling gun on top of the express car.  Tim
climbed up into the seat behind the Gatling gun, placed the
one-hundred-cartridge magazine into position, sighted on the targets, then
began turning the crank.

     The gun roared loudly, filling the inside of the turret with eye-burning
gunsmoke and red-hot shell casings.  He saw dust kicking up all around the
straw dummies, and from the dummies themselves.  The head of one of the
dummies was completely cut off by the stream of bullets.

     Tim began yelling in excitement as he twisted the crank, and he continued
to do so until the last bullet was expended and there was only the rattle and
click of the rotating empty barrels.

     When the gun was empty, Tim hopped down, then ran out to examine the
targets.

     "Son of a bitch!" one of the other men said as he too went over to look
at the straw dummies.  "I've never seen such a thing.  Hell, if we'd'a had
these guns durin' the war, we would'a whipped you Yankee sonsofbitches
bigger'n all hell."

     Tim looked at him.  "Yes, but you didn't have them," he said.  "We did."

     "Reckon you're right," the unreconstructed Rebel said.  "Figured there
had to be some reason the damn Yankees won."



     Bellefontaine held a celebration down at the depot.  The volunteer fire
department was there, and so was the municipal band.  Free food and beer were
being served to all who showed up.  The occasion was the official christening
of the Bellefontaine Express Car.

     Bellefontaine made a short speech, thanking everyone for coming.

     "As many of you know, I have bought the bank since I came to this fair
community," Bellefontaine said.  "And I have invited you here today to see the
great care I will give to the money that is entrusted to me.  Not only while
it is in the bank itself, but also whenever it becomes necessary to ship
species from one location to the other.  Behold, the Bellefontaine Express
Car!"

     Bellefontaine held his hand out toward the car.  As if on signal, the
covers over the two firing slits dropped down, and rifle barrels were poked
through.  At the same time the turret on top, which had been facing away from
the crowd, spun around so that the wicked barrels of the Gatling gun were
facing the crowd.  Those who were close enough could see Tim's face just
inside the turret.

     The crowd gasped, and several women emitted little screams.

     Bellefontaine laughed.  "Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen," he said.
"This is only a demonstration, designed to show you what any potential train
robber would see if he were foolish enough to attempt to stop this train."

     Tim began turning the crank and the Gatling gun started rattling in rapid
fire, the bullets slamming into a large target pinned to the side of a wagon
load of hay.

     The women screamed in alarm, and the men shouted in surprise, as large
chunks of the target were ripped away by the stream of bullets.

     As abruptly as it started, the gunfire stopped, and for a long moment
there was nothing but the haunting sound of returning echoes.

     Finally the shocked crowd regained their voices, and dozens began
shouting as one.

     "Hey, General, you goin' to let us inside that thing to have a look
around?" one of the voices called from the crowd.

     "I'm afraid that wouldn't be prudent," Bellefontaine said.  "I'm certain
that any potential robber would love to know what the inside of this car looks
like.  But I don't intend to share that information with them.

     "I will tell you this, however.  The express car is equipped with the
latest model of vault.  It is called an American Standard.  The door is
four-inch-thick steel, and it is locked by four steel bars, each two inches in
diameter.  In addition, the tumblers are absolutely silent so that no one can
pick the lock."

     "What if someone blasted it open?" someone in the crowd called.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, you could literally fill this train car with
gunpowder, then set it off.  The car would be turned into kindling wood, but
the safe would be unscratched," Bellefontaine said proudly.

     "It sounds pretty secure, all right," one of the townspeople said.

     "Yes," Bellefontaine replied.  He looked over toward the constable.
"Would that our jail were as secure."


                                      11


     The buckboard creaked and groaned as Bellefontaine stepped out of it and
onto the wooden platform that surrounded the depot in San Saba.  There were
nearly one hundred people gathered around to watch the departure of
Bellefontaine's special train.

     The engine, which was painted dark green with yellow filigree, rode upon
huge red driver wheels.  It was trimmed out in highly polished brass, and it
glistened brightly in the morning sun.

     The express car was also green, with Bellefontaine's name rendered down
the side, in yellow script.  The express car was followed by Bellefontaine's
special car, also green, a luxurious vehicle complete with a bedroom, dining
room, and kitchen facilities.  That was followed by a red caboose.  In
addition to the train crew and guards, a telegrapher would be making the trip.
The telegrapher, who would ride in the caboose, had an instrument, complete
with wire clamps, which would allow him to tap into any telegraph line to send
a message.

     There were a total of six guards, including in the number Sheriff Buford
and Tim Tyrell.  Tim would be riding in the turret.

     When the buckboard arrived, Angus Buford stepped out of the express car
and walked over to greet Bellefontaine.

     "General, the steam is up and everything is ready," he said.

     "Is the money aboard?"

     "Yes, sir, it is," Buford replied.

     Bellefontaine looked around.  "Where is Miss Moore?" he asked.  "She
should be here.  She came into town earlier this morning."

     "She's on the train, General," Buford said.  He nodded toward the second
car.  "In your private car."

     The dispatcher and the train conductor came out of the depot then.  The
conductor was carrying a sheaf of papers.

     "Is everything arranged?" Buford called to the conductor.

     "Yes, sir," the conductor replied, holding up the papers he was carrying.
"We have track clearance all the way to Kansas City."

     "Then, gentlemen, I suggest we get under way," Bellefontaine said.
Puffing from the effort, he walked across the platform, then climbed up into
his car.  He smiled when the aroma hit him.

     "I wasn't sure if you'd had time for breakfast this morning," Jessica
said, greeting him at the door.  "So I fried some ham and baked some
biscuits."

     "You did it yourself?"

     "Yes.  I know you have servants running all over the house, but I wanted
to show you that I could be quite domestic, given the opportunity."

     "Well, that's very nice of you, Jessica," Bellefontaine replied.
"Actually, I did have breakfast before I left, but I wouldn't be adverse to a
small snack."

     "Good.  I would hate to think I went to all this trouble for nothing.
Now, how do you want your eggs?"

     "Fried, over easy, I suppose.  But only about half a dozen."

     "You have a seat at the dining table, General.  I'll have your eggs ready
for you by the time the train leaves the station.



     Outside, the crowd watched as the engineer opened the throttle.  There
was a hiss, followed by a sudden puff of steam.  Metal creaked and groaned.
Then the piston began to slide out of the cylinder, pushing the connecting rod
against the driving wheels.  The engine started forward, taking up the slack
at the drawbars between the cars until, with a clacking jerk, the entire train
was in motion.

     The engineer blew his whistle, and a team of horses, sitting at the
crossing just beyond the depot, reared.  The train, consisting of a powerful
engine and a short string of cars, was able to gather speed quickly, and by
the time it was at the end of town, it was moving much faster than anyone had
ever seen a train travel.

     Christina watched the train until it was out of town, then went into the
depot and wrote out a telegram.


TO BILL JONES STOP SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT JOHN'S CONDITION STOP FIRST MEDICINE
LEFT HALF HOUR AGO STOP AM SENDING SECOND SHIPMENT NOW STOP


     She tore out the page and handed it to the telegrapher.

     "Send this to Dallas, please."

     "A relative?" the telegrapher asked.

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "The fellow who is ill.  John.  Is he a relative?"

     "Oh.  Yes, he is my cousin."

     "Would you care to include a love, Mrs. Rawlings?  It would only cost six
more cents."

     "No, what I have written is fine, thank you."

     "Very well.  That will be seventy-two cents," the telegrapher said.

     Christina gave him the money.  Then he sat down at the table and began to
send the signal.

     "That's funny," he said after he operated the key.

     "What?"

     "The key isn't as crisp as it should be."

     "What does that mean?  Is the message getting through?"

     "Oh, yes, you don't have to worry about that," the telegrapher said.
"It's a little slower, that's all, like more than one receiver is connected."
He smiled.  "Sometimes they do that in the bigger towns, like Dallas.  They'll
have an instrument down at the depot, and another one in a separate telegraph
office."



     Thirty miles east of San Saba, five horses were grazing peacefully in a
grassy meadow near the track.  Al was pacing nervously up and down the track,
while Win, Joe, and Colonel Finley were sitting on a small grassy knoll
alongside the track.  Actually, only Win and Finley were sitting.  Joe was
lying down, with his hands folded behind his head.

     Ray was sitting cross-legged beneath a telegraph pole, holding a sending
and receiving instrument in his lap.  Already this morning he had intercepted
half a dozen telegrams, but he had discounted them all as being not important.

     Suddenly the machine started clacking.  Al looked up from where he was on
the track.  Win, who was sucking on the root of a grass stem, tossed it away.
Joe sat up.  Colonel Finley walked over to stand beside Ray.

     Ray nodded.  "This is it, boys.  This is what we've been waiting for," he
said.  He began writing.  After the clacking stopped, he read the message:


TO BILL JONES STOP SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT JOHN'S CONDITION STOP FIRST MEDICINE
LEFT HALF HOUR AGO STOP AM SENDING SECOND SHIPMENT NOW STOP


     "We've only got half an hour between the pilot engine and the train," Win
said.  "That doesn't give us much time."

     "Where are we going?  To the bridge?" Joe asked.

     Win nodded.  "The bridge," he said.



     Christina's father and uncle Charley Gibson were in the jailhouse,
drinking coffee.  Although repair had started on the back wall of the jail, it
was not yet completed, and therefore there were no prisoners in custody.  The
few drunk and disorderly cowboys Constable Gibson had rousted during the last
week had been released, either on their own recognizance or to the custody of
their employer.  For anyone with a more serious charge, provision had been
made to transport him to the jail over in Lampassas.

     "Did you send the message?" Matt asked his daughter as she came in the
front door.

     "Yes," Christina said, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

     "I hope everything goes all right," Matt said.

     "If I know the Coulter brothers, we have nothing to worry about.  They
are the best when it comes to things like this," Gibson said.

     "Yes, but are you absolutely positive these are the Coulters?" Matt
asked.  "They claim their name is Carver."

     "Well, they would hardly use their real name," Gibson said.  "Especially
when they saw that their friend was about to hang.  But they are the Coulters,
all right.  I saw them during the war, when Quantrill spent a winter here in
Texas.  I recognized them right off ... but I didn't say anything because I
didn't want to scare them away."

     "Then that brings up the next question," Matt said.  "And it's a big
one."

     "I know what you are going to ask.  Can we trust them?" Gibson said.

     "Well, can we?"

     Gibson rubbed his chin.  "I don't know.  Right now they don't know
anything about our involvement.  When they find out ... well ... we'll just
have to wait and see how they take it."

     "And if they don't take it well?" Matt asked.

     "I asked that same question to Colonel Finley and he said let him worry
about it, so that's just what I'm going to do.  And I suggest you do the
same."

     "Well, I'm not worried about them at all," Christina said.  I've never
met anyone like Win before.  I would be willing to put my fate entirely in his
hands."

     "I'm glad you feel that way, my dear, for that is exactly what you have
done," Gibson said.

     As Christina recalled her time with Win, she felt an involuntary shiver
of pleasure pass over her, and she looked up quickly to see if her father or
her uncle had noticed her reaction.  When she saw that they had not, she
smiled, then sank back into the warmth of her memory.



     Win, Joe, and Al were hiding in some bushes, just out of sight from the
track.  They had a large bucket of grease with them.  Ray had left a few
minutes earlier, but now he came running back.  Only Finley was missing.  He
had taken the horses ten miles down the track.  If everything went as planned,
the men would get on the train, take the money, and then be off at about the
place where Finley would be waiting.  That way they would have fresh horses
ready for their getaway.

     "The pilot engine is just now coming around the curve," Ray said, panting
from the exertion of his run.

     "Okay, boys," Win said.  "Get ready.  As soon as the pilot engine has
passed, we have less than thirty minutes to get the rails greased and get up
on the trestle."

     "How much grease do we have to put down?" Al asked.

     "I'd say at least one hundred yards," Win said.  "Otherwise the train
won't lose traction long enough to amount to anything."

     "Thirty minutes isn't much time to put down one hundred yards," Joe said.

     "Yeah," Win agreed.  "And we may not even have that much time if the
train has caught up any with the pilot engine."

     The pilot engine came by then, the engineer leaning out of the right cab
window, staring ahead down the track.  The engineer had a prominent chin, a
hooked nose, and a very thin mouth so that nose and chin gave the illusion of
nearly touching.  The engine hurried by with a hiss of steam and the whirring
sound of steel rolling upon steel.  It pulled out onto the trestle, thundering
in its reverberations.  Then, as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone.

     "All right!" Win shouted.  "Let's get that grease down!"

     The four men climbed up to the track and began applying a thick layer of
grease onto the rails.  As they put it down, the grease glistened blackly in
the noonday sun.

     After only a few minutes, they heard a whistle in the distance.

     "Damn, it hasn't been anywhere close to thirty minutes!" Joe said in
agitation.

     "Yeah, I was afraid they might have closed the gap between them," Win
said.  He grabbed the bail of the bucket, then slung the remaining grease far
out into the bushes.  "All right, boys.  Up onto the trestle," he ordered.

     "Win, how much do you reckon we got done?" Joe asked.

     Win looked at the track.  "I would say no more than fifty yards," he
suggested.

     "You think fifty yards of grease is going to be enough to do the trick?"

     "It has to be.  Remember, we don't have to actually stop the train.  All
we have to do is slow it enough to allow us to drop down onto it from the top
of the trestle."

     "I'm not all that happy about dropping down onto a moving train," Al
said.

     "You'll make it all right," Win said.  "All you have to think of is what
will happen to you if you don't.  If you miss it, you'll be stuck out here
without your horse and without your share of the money."

     Al grinned sheepishly.  "I reckon that's enough proddin', all right."

     "Son of a bitch!" Joe said, grinning broadly.  "We're goin' to do it,
ain't we?  By God, we're really goin' to pull this off."

     "If we all do our part," Win agreed.

     They climbed on top of the trestle.

     "Now all of you, lay down!" Win ordered.  "We can't take any chances on
the engineer or fireman seeing us!"

     Once again the approaching train whistled and this time, when the boys
looked up, they could see it coming around the wide, sweeping curve the track
made on its approach.

     "Get ready!" Win shouted.

     The sound changed when the train hit the long grease slick.  There was a
sudden acceleration of the steam-relief valve.  The great driver wheels lost
traction, then began spinning.  The train jerked and cracked at the sudden
change in its propulsion dynamics, then slowed considerably.



     "What's happening to the train?" Bellefontaine asked the conductor.  "Why
are we slowing down?"

     "That happens on occasion, General," the conductor replied, looking out
the window.  "If a section of rail gets flattened out a little, it sometimes
gets very slick and the wheels lose traction.  I expect we'll be across it in
a moment."

     Looking out the window as well, Jessica saw that they were passing onto
the trestle.  Then she saw something else, something that she didn't want the
conductor to see.

     "Conductor, would you ask the porter to bring some more coffee, please?"

     "Yes, ma'am," the conductor said, turning away from the window.

     "And another one of those cakes," Bellefontaine called toward the
conductor as he started up the aisle.

     Jessica continued to look out the window at the shadow the train cast
onto the water, and on the opposite bank of the Lampassas River.  The shadow
showed four men dropping, one by one from the trestle, onto the top of the
train.


                                      12


     As soon as they hit the top of the train they had to lie on their
stomachs to make certain they weren't knocked off by the cross-beam at the far
end of the trestle.  Win found a supporting rod running the length of the top
of the car, and held onto it as he watched the support timbers flash by.  By
now the train had moved through the greased part of the track, and was
beginning to build up speed again as it threw off the grease that had built up
on the driver wheels.

     Once they were clear of the trestle, Win lifted his head up to look
ahead.  Almost immediately his eyes began to water from the smoke that was
rolling back from the engine.  He turned his face away, blinked a few times,
coughed, then looked around to make certain everyone else had made it.

     They all had, and they were now lying on top of the car, holding on
against the wind and the jerking movement of the train.

     Win got their attention, then pointed toward the opening of the turret.
He made a waving motion with his hand to indicate that they should move to the
side of the car, just above the door, while at the same time warning them to
stay away from the turret opening so that they couldn't be seen.

     "Joe, have you got the smoke pot?" he shouted above the wind and the roar
of the train.

     "Yes, I've got it," Joe answered, patting the haversack he was carrying.
He pointed toward the turret.  "Looks like we got lucky, Win!  There's no one
on watch!"

     "Yeah," Win replied.  "They are either very confident or very stupid."
Win looked toward Al and Ray, and saw that they had moved into position, ready
for the next step.

     The plan was to introduce the smoke pot into the express car by dropping
it down the turret.  For now, the car was tightly closed, but when the smoke
started pouring out, Win knew those inside would be forced to open the big
side door.  As soon as the door slid open, the raiders would swing down from
the top of the car and let themselves in.  They would have the benefit of
surprise, plus the advantage of fresh air, whereas those inside would be
partially blinded and perhaps confused by the smoke.

     "All right, Joe, let's do it!" Win said.

     Using his body as a shield against the wind that was being generated by
the train's velocity of forty-five miles per hour, Joe struck a match, then
lit the fuse on the smoke bomb.  He held the bomb until the first bit of smoke
began to stream out, then dropped it down through the opening in the turret.

     Almost immediately, smoke started gushing out of the turret opening.

     "Get ready!" Win said to the others.  "That door's going to slide open
any minute!"

     The men waited, lying on the edge of the car, looking over the edge
toward the still-closed side door.  From the turret behind them, smoke
continued to boil.

     The door didn't open.

     Win and the others looked at each other in confusion.

     "What the hell?" Joe asked.  "Ain't they breathin' in there?"

     "You sure you got that smoke bomb all the way inside?" Al asked.

     "It went all the way," Joe insisted.  "I heard it hit the bottom."

     "Well, somethin's wrong," Ray insisted.  "How could they stay in there
with all that smoke?"

     By now the bomb was nearly spent, and the smoke coming from the turret
was beginning to grow thinner.

     "I'm going to look down inside," Win said.

     "Win, be careful!" Joe called.  Win nodded, then still on his belly,
wriggled back up to the top of the car.  He got into position behind the
turret, then raised his head and peered over the edge, looking down inside.

     The inside of the car was so dark and smoke-filled that, at first, he
couldn't see anything.  Then, when he could see, he saw nothing, not anyone,
and not any movement.  He raised up from the turret with a puzzled expression
on his face.

     "What is it, Win?  What do you see?" Joe called to him.

     Win shook his head.  "That's just it," he said.  "I don't see a damned
thing.  You'd think there would be someone moving around down there."

     The train whistle blew.

     "What do we do, Win?" Joe asked.  "We've got to get inside.  We're going
to be up to where the horses are pretty soon."

     Win looked around for a second, then nodded as if just making up his
mind.

     "We're going to stop the damned train," he said.

     "How?"

     "The old-fashioned way.  By sticking a gun in the engineer's face."

     Standing up, Win, Joe, and then Al and Ray started running forward on top
of the express car.  They jumped from the car down onto the tender, then moved
through the piles of wood until they reached the back of the engine.

     At that precise moment, the fireman turned to pick up some more wood.
When he saw Win and the others, his eyes grew wide with fright.  Win cocked
his pistol and pointed it at him, and the fireman backed up with his hands in
the air.

     "What the hell's got into you?" the engineer asked when he observed the
fireman's strange behavior.  He turned around then, and seeing Win and the
others, raised his hands as well.

     "Stop the train," Win ordered.

     The engineer shook his head.  "Can't do that," he said.  "I got orders
from General Bellefontaine not to stop for any reason."

     "Is General Bellefontaine standing here holding a gun on you?" Win asked.

     "No, sir," the engineer said, shaking his head.

     "Well, by God, I am!" Win growled.  "Now, stop the goddamned train, or
I'll shoot you where you stand and stop the train myself."

     "All right, all right!" the engineer answered urgently.  He pulled on the
brake handle, and the wheels locked, bathing the inside of the engine cab with
a shower of sparks thrown up from the action of steel wheels sliding on steel
rails.

     The train decelerated so rapidly that Win had to grab something to keep
from falling.  The fireman, seeing that as his opportunity, picked up a poker
and started toward Win.  He got no more than a few steps before Joe dropped
him with a solidly thrown punch.

     Finally, with squeaks, rattles, hisses, and pops, the train came to a
complete stop.  The engineer moved the relief valve to vent off the excess
steam, and the engine hissed and snorted like some living creature.

     "What did you do to my fireman?" he asked.

     "He'll be all right when he comes around," Joe insisted.  "Pulling a damn
fool stunt like that, he's lucky he wasn't killed."

     "Get down from the engine," Win ordered.  He nodded toward the prostrate
fireman.  "And take him with you."

     "What ... what are you going to do?"

     "Nothing," Win said.  "I just want to make certain you don't do anything
either.  I wouldn't want this train pulling off without us."

     Groggily, the fireman started to get up, and the engineer helped him to
his feet.  Then the two men, under the direction of Win, jumped down to the
ground.

     Win, Joe, Al, and Ray got off as well, then started walking toward the
rear, keeping close to the cars in order to minimize their exposure to anyone
who was on the train and who might take a notion to fight.

     From the back end of the private car, a black man climbed down and began
looking around.

     "You the porter?" Win asked, suddenly stepping out from between the cars.
The black man had not seen Win, and his eyes grew wide in shock when Win
spoke.  He nodded.  "Yes, sir," he said.  "Who else is in the car with you?"

     "General Bellefontaine, he be in the car.  So do Mr. Kelly, the
conductor.  And Miss Moore, she be in there too."

     "Anyone else?  Any guards?"

     The porter shook his head.  "No, Sir."

     "Anyone in there armed?"

     Again, the porter shook his head.  "No, sir.  All thems with guns is in
the 'spress car with the money," he said.

     Win stepped up behind the porter.  "Let's go into the car," he said.

     Walking behind the porter, Win climbed the steps into the car.  The entry
passageway was narrowed by the bathroom and kitchen.  After a run of fifteen
feet, the passageway opened up into the lounge area, and there Win saw
Bellefontaine, now out of his seat, looking through the window, trying to
figure out what was going on.

     "'Sense me, General Bellefontaine," the porter said.

     "What is it?  What did you find out?" Bellefontaine asked gruffly.  "Why
did that fool engineer stop?"

     "Perhaps this here gentleman can tell you," the porter suggested.

     "What gentleman?" Bellefontaine asked.  He turned then, made curious by
the porter's statement.  Win pushed the porter to one side and pointed his gun
at Bellefontaine.

     "Good morning, General Bellefontaine," Win said.

     "What are you doing on my train?  What do you want?"

     "Why, I've come to rob it, of course," Win answered easily.  "But I'm
going to need your help."

     "Help?  You're asking me to help you steal?"

     "It should be easy enough for you, General, since you stole all the money
in the first place," Win said.  "Besides, if you don't order your guards to
open the door to the express car, I'm going to shoot you."

     "You're bluffing."

     "I'm afraid he isn't bluffing, General," Jessica said, smiling at Win.
"Don't you recognize him?"

     "Recognize him?  No, I don't.  Should I?"

     "I would think so," Jessica said.  "Especially as he and his brother, and
the men they rode with, caused you a considerable amount of difficulty during
the war.  Besides, their faces have decorated half the posters in Texas for
the last few years."

     Bellefontaine's eyes narrowed.  "My God, I do recognize you," he said.
"You're the Coulter brothers, aren't you?"

     "I'M WIN," WIN SAID EASILY.  "MY BROTHER, JOE, IS outside."

     Bellefontaine put his hand inside his jacket, and Win cocked his pistol,
the metallic click making an ominous sound.  "General, your hand had better
come back out of there slow and empty," he said.

     "I ... I was just getting a handkerchief," Bellefontaine said nervously.
His hand shaking, he held the handkerchief out to validate his claim.

     Win nodded, and Bellefontaine began to wipe the sweat from his face.

     "What about it, General?" he said.  "Do you help us?  Or do you die?"

     "I'll ... I'll help you," Bellefontaine said.

     Win made a waving motion with his gun.  "Let's go," he said.

     Win ordered everyone off the car so he could keep an eye on them.  Then
they walked forward toward the express car where Joe, Ray, and Al were still
standing close in, out of the line of fire of anyone who might suddenly appear
at the gun ports.

     "You!" Bellefontaine said, pointing to Al.  "You are in league with men
such as these?"

     Win was surprised by the apparent recognition, and he looked at Al
suspiciously.  "You two know each other?" he asked.

     Bellefontaine, sensing an advantage, smiled.  "Mr. Coulter, allow me to
introduce someone from the other side.  This is Al Santos.  You have no doubt
run into him before.  He is the man who killed Bloody Bill Anderson."

     "You was a Jayhawker?" Ray asked.

     Al nodded contritely, then looked at Win.  "Win, I'm sorry about not
bein' straight with you boys," he said.  "Wasn't sure you'd want anything to
do with me if you knew who I really was."

     "No wonder the only ones you said you know'd was dead," Ray said.  "Hell,
you kilt 'em."

     "Of them three that I named, Captain Anderson is the only one I killed,"
Al said.  "Though I fought agin you boys enough, I reckon I killed my share of
your friends ... and I reckon you killed your share of mine."

     "And now, you are in league with bushwhackers," Bellefontaine said
derisively.  "You are a traitor, sir."

     "No, sir, I ain't no traitor, General," Al said.  "During the war, I was
true blue to the Union.  But the war is over now, and we're all goin' our own
paths.  You got your way of gettin' rich ... I got mine.  And if they was one
thing I learned durin' the war, it was that the bushwhackers did what they did
better'n anyone I ever saw.  Seemed to me like if I was goin' to put my
trainin' to use, it might as well be with the best.  So, here I am."

     "Santos, did you ever ride with Emil Slaughter?" Joe asked coldly.

     Win held up his hand.  "No, Al, don't answer that!" he said quickly.

     "Win," Joe said, but Win shook his head.

     "Let it go, Joe," he said.

     "What do you mean, let it go?  Slaughter's the one that raided our farm,
killed Ma and Pa."

     "Slaughter's dead and the war is over," Win said.

     "For us, the war ain't ever over," Joe insisted.

     "I reckon it's not over for Al either," Win said.  "But the way I look at
it, the enemy has changed.  And now men like Al and us are on the same side."

     Al nodded.  "I'm glad you feel that way," he said.  He looked at Joe.
"And Joe, I will answer your question.  I wasn't with Slaughter, but I have to
confess that I done things just as bad as anything Slaughter ever done."

     Joe was silent for a long moment.  Then he shrugged.  "Hell," he finally
said.  "So have I.  And I reckon Win's right.  We're on the same side now."

     "Good move, General, trying to get us to fight among ourselves," Win
said.  "But it didn't work.  Now get this door open."

     "Hell, we don't need him for that," Ray said.  "Why don't we just kill
the sonofabitch and blast the door open?"

     "No, no!" Bellefontaine said.  "Buford!  Buford, open the door!  They've
got me covered!  Open the door, they'll shoot if you don't!"

     Bellefontaine's shout was met with silence.

     "Win, there's somethin' fishy about this," Joe said.  "We ain't heard a
sound since we stopped the train."

     Win raised his pistol and pointed it at Bellefontaine.  "Try again," he
ordered.

     "Buford, I'm ordering you to open the door!" Bellefontaine said.  He
stepped up to the door and banged on it.  When he did, it slipped open about
half an inch, and he jumped back in quick surprise.

     "Win!" Joe said.  "The door ain't locked!"

     "Yes, I see," Win answered.

     Pistols at the ready, the men stood by, waiting for the door to be thrown
open.  Nothing happened.  "Get ready," Win whispered.

     Stepping up to the door he suddenly shoved it open.  A few dying wisps of
smoke drifted out, but nothing else.

     Win stepped up to the open door and looked inside.  "Ray, give me a boost
up," he said.

     Ray made a stirrup with his hands, and Win climbed up into the car.
Although most of the smoke had dissipated, enough of it remained to hang in
the bars of sunlight that splashed in through the open door.  Win saw someone
lying face-down on the floor, and he knelt beside him, then rolled him over.
There was a bullet hole in his forehead.  He dragged him over to the door.

     "Who's that?" Joe asked.

     "It's Dobbs, my accountant," Bellefontaine said.  "You didn't have to
kill him."

     "We didn't kill him," Win answered.

     "What do you mean, you didn't kill him?  If you didn't, who did?"

     "Maybe the same one who did that," Win said, pointing across the car
toward a vault.  The door of the vault was wide open, and the shelves inside
the vault were bare.

     "My money!  What happened to my money?  Buford!"  Bellefontaine leaned
his head into the car and looked around.  "Buford, where are you?"

     "If you want my guess, find the money and you'll find Buford."

     "That thieving, double-crossing bastard!" Bellefontaine swore.  "The
guards are gone too, aren't they?  They were all in it together.  Buford, the
guards, my worthless nephew.  All in it together."

     Win looked around the car, then glanced up.  He saw something that held
his gaze for a moment.

     "No," he said.  "I don't think Tyrell was part of the deal."  He pointed
to the top of the car.

     "What is it?" Jessica asked anxiously.  She stepped up to the opening of
the car, then looked up toward the turret.  Tim, who was obviously dead, was
slumped forward against the unused Gatling gun.  "Oh," she said.  "Tim.  Poor
Tim."


                                      13


     One hour before Win and the others dropped down from the overhead trestle
onto the top of the express car, the train had stopped for water.  When it did
so, Buford stepped over to the door and pushed it open.

     "Sheriff, you shouldn't be opening the door like that," Dobbs said.

     Buford looked around at the accountant.  The small man, who was wearing a
green visor, was sitting on a three-legged stool near the vault.

     "Why the hell not?" Buford growled.

     "General Bellefontaine left strict orders this door is not to be opened
until he says so."

     "Is that a fact?"

     "Dobbs is right, Buford," Tim called down from his perch up in the
turret.

     "I'm just having a look around," Buford explained.

     "You don't need to.  I can see everything from up here," Tim said.  He
put his hands on the ring that surrounded the turret and began turning it
through the full 360 degrees.  "There's no one out there except the fireman,
and he's putting water into the tank."

     "What about you, Shaw?  You see anything?" Buford asked.

     Rufus Shaw, one of the four guards, looked out through the firing slit in
front of him.  "I don't see a thing," he answered.

     Peterson, McCloud, and Lomax, the other three guards, also reported that
all was clear.

     From outside the train, they could hear the fireman and engineer calling
back and forth to each other.

     "Get ready, boys, we're about to get under way again," Tim said.  "The
fireman just put the water spout back up and has climbed into the cab."

     "Good, good," Buford said.  He looked at the four guards and nodded, and
they returned his nod.

     "Dobbs," Buford said.  "Open the safe."

     "I beg your pardon?" Dobbs replied.

     "I said open the safe."

     "I ... I don't know if I should do that," Dobbs said.  "General
Bellefontaine was very clear in his directions."

     Buford pulled his pistol and pointed it at Dobbs.  "I'm glad to see that
you follow instructions.  Now, you let me be clear," he said.  "Open the
goddamn safe or I'll blow your brains all over the inside of this car."

     "Sheriff Buford, what are you doing?  Are you robbing the general?"

     "Yes," Buford said.  "I'm robbing the general."

     Dobbs looked around in fear, desperate for one of the guards to come to
his aid.  The expressions in their faces told him, however, that they were not
only not going to come to his aid, they were themselves part of the robbery.

     Shaw stepped up close to him.  "Are you going to open the safe, Dobbs?"
he asked.  "Or do you need persuading."

     "Get out of the way, Dobbs!" Tim suddenly shouted.  There was a gunshot
from above, and Shaw went down.

     Peterson returned fire, and Tim grunted in pain, then slumped forward,
his gun falling to the floor.

     "Damn!" Shaw said in a strained voice.  "I didn't know that sonofabitch
had a handgun up there with him.  I thought he just had that Gatling."  Buford
stepped up to Dobbs.

     "I'm ... I'm not going to open the safe for you, Sheriff," Dobbs said.

     "You don't have to, you little bastard," Buford growled.  "I know the
combination."  He put the gun to Dobbs's forehead and pulled the trigger.

     Less than a minute later he had the safe open.  The money inside was in
five large cloth bags, and he started passing it out, one bag to each person.
When he held a bag out toward Shaw, he stopped and pulled it back.  "Give it
to me," Shaw said.

     "You think you can keep up with it?"

     "Yes," Shaw said.  "I'm not hurt that bad."

     Buford paused for a moment, then handed the bag to Shaw.  "You lose it
and I'll kill you," he said.

     "I'm not going to lose it."

     With all the moneybags passed around, Buford took out his watch and
looked at it.

     "All right," he said.  "We should be to where the horses are.  Everybody
out, now!"

     Buford slid the door open.  Shaw came to the edge, paused for a moment,
then jumped out.  After Shaw the others went out, one after the other, until
it was Buford's turn.  With one hand, Buford grabbed hold of the firing slit,
then moved outside to hang along the side of the car.  With the other hand he
pulled the door closed so that, when the train went around curves, no one
would notice that the door was open.  When the door was pulled shut, he pushed
himself away from the car, hit on the down-slope side of the track bed, rolled
several times, then got up and brushed himself off.

     Buford had purposely left the car last because, by his calculations, it
put him nearest the horses.  It was his way of discouraging any of the others
from deciding to strike out on their own with the money they were carrying.
The effectiveness of his plan was proved when he found the horses right where
he expected them to be.  He then had a leisurely wait of some fifteen minutes
before the others showed up.  None seemed the worse for their leap from the
train, though Shaw was obviously suffering from his gunshot wound.



     The little group of five riders pushed hard across the purple sage.
Buford figured that they had put at least ten miles between themselves and the
railroad track.  And since the train had continued on even after they jumped
from the car, that meant that by now the train had to be at least another
forty miles away.  He smiled at the way things were going.  By the time the
robbery was discovered in Dallas, they would be so far away that no one would
ever catch up to them.

     This robbery was the culmination of a year of work on a plan to divest
Bellefontaine of his money.  Buford had come up with one idea after another,
discarding each idea as being unworkable almost as quickly as it had been
conceived.  His break had come when Bellefontaine told him that he was
beginning to be nervous about keeping so much cash on hand.  When Buford
suggested that he deposit his money in the local bank, Bellefontaine laughed.

     "In San Saba?  Have you taken a good look at that bank?  It has a safe
that could be opened by a child, or blown open with a firecracker!  I may as
well keep my money hidden in a mattress.  No, sir.  My money is going to
Kansas City where they have a real bank."

     "Kansas City?  How are you going to get it there?" Buford asked.

     "By train."

     "Train?"

     "A very special train," Bellefontaine said.

     Bellefontaine then asked Buford if he would take personal charge of
recruiting a guard detail that would oversee the transfer of his money to the
bank in Kansas City.  Smiling broadly because he could see that the way to
Bellefontaine's money had finally been opened to him, Buford agreed
immediately.

     Buford had let neither the clerk, Dobbs, nor Bellefontaine's nephew,
Tyrell, in on the plan.  As he thought back on it now, he realized he should
have paid more attention to Tyrell, but who would have thought the cowardly
little bastard would have the guts to put up a fight.  It would've gone off
without a hitch if Tyrell hadn't shot Shaw.

     Thinking of Shaw, Buford turned in his saddle to see how Shaw was doing.
Shaw was slumped forward in his saddle, one hand holding onto the pommel, the
other stretched across his stomach.  The hand he held across his belly was red
with the blood that had spilled through his fingers.  Peterson was riding
alongside solicitously, leading Shaw's horse.

     "Buford," Peterson said.  "Buford, we got to stop for a while and give
Rufus a rest."

     "Shaw took his chances, just like the rest of us," Buford replied.

     "Hell, look at him, Buford!  He can't hardly even sit up no more, let
alone ride."

     "Buford, we could all use a little rest," Lomax said.

     "Yeah," McCloud added.  "Hell, what with the train still goin' and all,
we must be near fifty miles away by now."

     "All right, there's a stream just ahead, under that clump of trees,"
Buford said.  "We'll stop there, give our horses a blow, and fill our
canteens."

     "Thanks," Peterson said.  "Did you hear that, Shaw?  We're goin' to stop
and rest for a bit."

     Shaw nodded weakly.

     It took the riders another couple of minutes to reach the clump of trees.
Buford held up his hand and they stopped, then dismounted.

     "This is a good place to stop," Lomax said.  "We've got shade and water."

     "McCloud, get up on that hill and take a look around," Buford ordered.
"Make sure there's no one following us."

     "Who the hell would be followin' us?" McCloud replied.

     "Just do what I say," Buford ordered.

     "Lomax, help me get Rufus down," Peterson said.

     Buford watched as the two men gently pulled Shaw from his horse, then
laid him down.  Shaw stretched out on the ground with his eyes closed and his
breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

     "How is he?" Buford asked.

     "He's hurt real bad, Buford," Peterson said.  He pulled Shaw's hand away,
and Buford saw that his entire stomach was covered with blood.  "He needs a
doctor or he's goin' to die."

     "And just where do you plan to find a doctor?"

     "I don't know.  Maybe Lampassas."

     "So we go riding into Lampassas about the same time they discover the
train has been robbed and two men killed and they send a telegraph message
back," Buford said.  He shook his head.  "You're not being very smart."

     McCloud came back down the hill then.  "Ain't nobody for miles around,"
he said.

     "Didn't think there would be.  But it didn't hurt to check," Buford said.

     "What about him?" McCloud asked, nodding toward Shaw.

     "What about him?"

     "What are we goin' to do about him?"

     "Nothing," Buford said succinctly.

     "Nothing?  We can't just let him lie here and do nothing," Peterson
complained.

     "Why the hell not?"

     "Because he's one of us.  It could be me, or Lomax, or McCloud, or even
you lying here."

     "That's right," Buford agreed.  "And if it was one of us, we'd be in the
same boat."

     "What if I go into town to get a doctor and bring him out here?" Peterson
asked.  "I could be back before tomorrow mornin'."

     "Tomorrow morning?  Look at him, for God's sake," Buford said.  "He's
been gut-shot.  You ever know anyone to live after bein' gut-shot?  Doctor or
no doctor, he'll be dead before tomorrow morning."

     "Still, it don't seem right not to do somethin' about it."

     Buford smiled.  "I'll tell you what I'll do.  Whenever he croaks, I'll
let the rest of you divide up his share."

     "You know, Buford, now that you bring it up, that's somethin' else I been
wantin' to talk about," Lomax said.

     "What's that?"

     "The shares," Lomax said.  "The way you're dividin' things up."

     "What's wrong with the way I'm dividing things up?"

     "It ain't right, is all," Lomax said.  "I mean, you givin' us only
fifteen hunnert dollars apiece, while you're takin' all the rest yourself."

     "Now you're gettin' an extra five hundred dollars each," Buford said.
"And that was the deal I gave you when you agreed to come with me."

     "Maybe so, but it ain't right," Lomax said.  "We took the same risk you
did.  Hell, look at Shaw.  He got himself shot.  The way I look at it, we
deserve a lot more'n any fifteen hunnert, or even two thousand dollars.  By my
thinkin', it ought to be share, an' share alike."

     "Is that right?" Buford asked.  His voice was thin and cold.

     "Yeah, that's right.  And the way I look at it, there are three of us.  I
figure if need be, we can make you see things our way."

     Without the slightest change of expression, Buford drew and shot, his
bullet raising dust from Lomax's shirt as it penetrated just below the
sternum.

     "My God!" McCloud shouted in sudden alarm.

     Lomax's face reflected more shock than fear, for Buford's sudden action
had caught Lomax completely by surprise.  He let out a loud whoosh, as if the
air had been driven from his body.  Then his eyes rolled up into his head and
he fell backward, landing heavily.  He flopped once, then was still.

     Peterson and McCloud looked on with a sense of shocked disbelief.  Buford
turned toward them with the smoking pistol still in his hand.  The expression
on his face had not changed in the least, and seeing him like that, so totally
impassive even though he had just killed a man, was somehow more frightening
than if his face had reflected rage.

     "You boys just got another seven hundred and fifty dollars each," Buford
said.  "Unless you want to argue about it?"

     "No, no!" McCloud said, shaking his head and holding his hands out in
front of him, as if warding Buford off.  "I'm perfectly happy with how you're
doin' things."

     "I am too," Peterson said.

     "I'm glad we understand each other," Buford said.  He put his gun away.
"Throw the money sacks on Lomax and Shaw's horses," he said.  "We'll make pack
animals out of them."

     "What about them?" Peterson asked.

     "What about who?"

     "Shaw and Lomax."

     "Leave 'em."

     "Buford, you can't just leave them here like this," Peterson said.  "I
mean ..."

     "You want to stay with them?" Buford asked.

     "No!" Peterson answered quickly.  "It's just like I told you, I hate to
leave Rufus here without tryin' to do somethin' for him.  After all, me 'n
him's been pards for a long time, now."

     McCloud walked over to look down at Shaw.  "Yeah, well, you and him ain't
partners no more, Peterson," he said.  "Shaw's dead."


                                      14


     Ray Kingsley was beginning to wonder if he hadn't made a mistake when he
left the Coulters.  They did offer to let him stay with them for a while, and
they were good men who he was proud to call friends.  Jesse and Frank James
were good men too, and so were the Youngers.  So were all the men he had
ridden with during the war.

     There were some who talked about the war, and how bad it was, but not Ray
Kingsley.  If he could have it his way, the war would still be going on.
During the war he had never been hungry, never without a drink, and most
importantly, never without friends.  Things were quite different now, when he
was broke some of the time, hungry most of the time, and lonely all of the
time.

     Ray was beholden to the Coulters for busting him out of jail,
particularly as he was about to be hanged.  But he didn't want to stay with
them.  They were brothers and sometimes, even though they didn't mean it, he
actually felt more alone when he was with them than he did when he was by
himself.

     Right now, Ray Kingsley was sitting in the Silver Dollar Saloon in
Puxico, a small town in West Texas.  Puxico was several hundred miles from
where the aborted train robbery had taken place, which meant it was just as
far away from any known wanted posters.  Ray liked it out here where he could
move about freely, without the danger of running into some zealous lawman.  He
was nursing a drink and playing a game of "Old Sol."  He would have welcomed a
game of poker, but he couldn't afford it.

     It wasn't supposed to be this way.  If the big robbery he had planned
with the Coulters had gone off as it was supposed to, he would be a rich man
now.  He could even afford to buy some of that railroad land he had seen
advertised when he rode into town this afternoon.  Why, he would've had enough
to buy this very saloon if he wanted to.

     His thoughts returned to the saloon.  Maybe he couldn't buy it, but he
did plan to rob it.  He had never seen a saloon that did as much business as
this one.  It was the middle of the afternoon and it had been full almost all
day.  At first, he'd thought he might be able to wait around until a slack
time, until there was no one here but the bartender and a few of the whores.

     But he had been here for most of the afternoon, and there hadn't been a
time when the saloon was completely empty.  Now he debated whether he should
wait until tonight, when everything was closing down.

     The problem with waiting was that he had overheard the bartender talking
earlier about taking the day's receipts over to the bank to deposit them.
That meant if he was going to rob the saloon, he had better do it while the
money was still there.

     The batwing doors swung open and a man came in and stepped up to the bar.
Ray looked up with only a casual interest, until he saw who it was.

     It was Angus Buford!

     "Let me have a whiskey," Buford said.  "And leave the bottle."

     "Yes, sir," the bartender replied, sliding the bottle across to him.
Buford put his money down on the bar and poured himself a drink.  Then he
turned and looked around the room.  When his eyes reached Ray, they stopped.

     "Well, now," Buford said.  "Look who is here."

     "I ... I don't want no trouble with you," Ray said.

     "If you don't want any trouble, Kingsley, why are you here?" Buford
asked.

     "I was just passin' through," Ray answered.

     "Too bad.  You shoulda kept on going."  Ray stood up.  "I seen 'em, you
know," he said.

     "You seen who?"

     "Them two dead men on the express car.  I seen 'em."

     Buford laughed, a short, evil laugh.  "Did you?  Well, you must've tried
to rob that train.  I figured with bait like that, someone was goin' to try.
I wish I could've seen your face when you found out there was nothin' there."

     "What happened to the money?"

     "What money?" Buford asked.  He shook his head.  "There never was any
money.  It was all a ruse--the guards, the express car, all of it.  The real
money was shipped by stagecoach."

     Ray's eyes narrowed.  "I don't believe you," he said.  "I told you, I
seen the two men you left there."

     "You calling me a liar, Kingsley?  I don't like being called a liar."

     Ray took a deep breath.  "I'm callin' you a liar, 'cause that's what you
are," he said.

     The others in the saloon began, slowly and quietly, to ease out of the
way, leaving a clear line of fire between the two men.  Buford shook his head
slowly.  "You should've kept going, Kingsley.  Now I'm going to have to kill
you, and killin' someone always puts me off my feed."

     "Could be that I'll kill you," Kingsley suggested nervously.

     "Could be, but it ain't likely," Buford replied calmly, confidently.

     Ray reached down to the table to pick up his glass of whiskey.  His hand
was shaking so badly, that he had to steady it with his other hand.  He turned
it up to his lips, spilling nearly as much as he drank.  Then he set the glass
down and stood there with his hand hovering over his pistol.

     "I'm going to let you draw first," Buford said.

     Ray's eyes narrowed, and his hand started toward his gun.  Buford's
shoulder jumped and the gun was in his hand, blazing.  His bullet caught Ray
in the throat and Ray, surprised by the suddenness of it, dropped his gun
unfired and clutched at his throat.  Blood spilled between his fingers as he
let out a gurgling death rattle.  He fell against the table, then rolled off,
dead, before he reached the floor.



     It was six weeks later that Win and Joe walked into the Bull's Neck
Saloon in Austin, Texas, having been summoned there by a telegraph message
from Jeb Finley.

     "Thank you for coming," Finley said when they joined him at the table.

     "You said you had some information that might interest us," Win replied.

     "Have you heard from Ray Kingsley?" Finley asked.

     "No," Win answered.  "Not since he rode off a month or so ago."

     "He's dead."

     "Damn," Joe said.  He sighed.  "Ole Ray always was one for gettin' his
dick stuck in a crack.  The law hang 'im?"

     "No.  He was killed by Angus Buford."

     "Buford," Win snorted.  "Someone should've killed that sonofabitch a long
time ago."

     "I know where he is, if you're interested," Finley said.

     "Why would we be interested in where he is?" Win asked.

     "I thought Ray Kingsley was your friend."

     "He was," Win agreed.  "But if we went around avenging ever'one we ever
knew who got himself killed, that's all we'd be doing."

     "Buford also has the money that you missed when you tried to hold up the
train," Finley said.  "Or quite a bit of it."

     "How much of it?"

     "He has bought a lot of property, but he still has over one hundred
thousand dollars in cash."

     "One hundred thousand?" Win said.  He sighed.  "That's a lot less than
the amount we started out after."

     "Yeah, but there are fewer of us to share now," Joe pointed out.

     "Are you interested?" Finley asked.

     "Yeah, we're interested," Win answered.  "Where is he keeping the money
... the cash that he has on hand?"

     "I understand that he keeps it in a strongbox in his house."

     "That's good to know," Win said.  "That makes it a little easier to get
to than if he was keepin' it in a bank."

     "Where is he?" Joe asked.

     Finley shook his head.  "I'm not going to tell you," he said.

     "What the hell do you mean you aren't going to tell us?" Win asked.
"You're the one who brought it up."

     "I am going to tell you, but not yet.  Not before we come to some
agreement."

     "Wait a minute," Win said, holding out his hand.  "Are you figuring on
trading your information for a bigger cut of the money?  Because if you are,
you can just forget it.  We'll find the sonofabitch without your help."

     "No, I'm not asking for a larger cut.  That's not it."

     "Then what is it?"

     "First, I need to tell you that I have just come from the governor's
office," Finley said.

     "The governor's office?" Joe snorted.  "That's a laugh.  Hell, far as I
know, the people of Texas don't even have a governor.  All they got is that
sonofabitch the Yankee army appointed."

     "Regardless of how James Throckmorton got there, he is the legal governor
of the state of Texas," Finley replied.  "And as governor, he has certain
powers that should interest you."

     "What makes you think anything Throckmorton might say or do would
interest us?" Win asked.

     "Because he has given me the authority, on behalf of the state of Texas,
to offer you a deal," Finley replied.  "Texas will give you a reward of ten
percent of any and all monies you may recover from Buford and his
accomplices."

     "Ten percent?"

     "Yes.  If our information is correct, that will be approximately ten
thousand dollars."

     "Let me get this straight," Win said.  "You're asking us to take the one
hundred thousand dollars Buford has in his safe, and then give ninety thousand
of it to the state Of Texas?"

     "Yes," Finley said.

     "Why the hell would we do something like that?" Win asked.

     "You would be earning not only the gratitude of the state of Texas, but
an official pardon as well," Finley said.

     "Is that what this is all about, Finley?" Win asked.  "Have you gone to
make a deal with the governor to get yourself a pardon?  Well, if you have,
you weren't talking for us."

     "You don't understand," Finly said.  "I'm not trying to make a deal with
Texas, I'm trying to make a deal for Texas."

     "For Texas?  What are you talking about?"

     "I am an officer of the state," Finley said.

     "You are an officer of the state?"

     "Yes."

     Win finished his drink, then held the empty glass and studied Finly's
face for a long moment.  Finally, he spoke.

     "Well, I'll be damned.  You've been workin' for them all along, haven't
you?  I mean, even when we set this deal up, you were working for Texas."

     "Yes," Finley answered.

     "You were setting us up?"

     "In a manner of speaking, yes, I was," Finley admitted.

     "Would you mind tellin' me who else was in on this little scheme of
yours?"

     "Everyone was in on it.  Everyone, that is, but you two.  And, of course,
Ray Kingsley."

     "Everyone?" Win asked.

     Finley shook his head.  "Jessica Moore, Al Santos, Christina Rawlings,
Matthew Pate, and Charley Gibson.  They were all part of the plan," Finley
said.

     "Why did you get us involved?"

     "We decided that the best time to go after the money was when it was
being transported by train.  And as Al Santos pointed out, when it comes to
robbing trains, you boys are the best."

     "And what did you have in mind for us after we pulled it off?" Joe asked.

     "We were going to offer you the same deal I just offered you," Finley
said.

     "Ten percent?"  Win rolled the glass in his hands.  "There were nine
people involved.  Just how far did you expect that ten percent to go?"

     "You two and Ray Kingsley are the only ones who would have participated
in the reward.  The reasons the others had for being involved had very little
to do with the money," Finley answered.  "For example, Jessica Moore wanted to
bring down the man she holds responsible for killing her father.  For Matthew
Pate and his daughter, it was the fact that the state of Texas was willing to
forgive the back taxes on Doubletree Ranch, thus returning ownership of their
ranch to them.  And all Charley Gibson wanted out of it was to be reinstated
as sheriff of San Saba County."

     "What about you and Al?  What was in it for you two?"

     Finley shook his head.  "Nothing but the satisfaction of doing our job.
We're not eligible for anything."

     "And just what is your job?"

     "I'm Chief of the Governor's Special Deputy Force, and Al Santos is one
of my deputies.  That means the entire ten percent would have been yours.
Yours and Ray Kingsley's.  So you see, it would only have been split three
ways.  And don't forget, the amount of money we were talking about then was
three hundred thousand dollars."

     "Still, thirty thousand dollars split three ways is a hell of a lot less
than we were led to believe we were going to get," Joe grumbled.

     "I admit that, but I was taking a chance that you would see it my way,"
Finley said.

     "What if you couldn't have talked us into coming around?" Win asked.

     "If you had refused the deal I was going to arrest you and turn all the
money over to the state," Finley admitted.

     "Did you think we would just give up all that money without a fight?" Joe
asked.

     "I hoped it wouldn't have to go that far," Finley said.  He sighed.  "But
I was prepared for it, if necessary."

     "Were you also prepared to die?" Joe asked.  "Because if you had tried
something like that, you would've been the first one to go."

     "Yes, I was prepared.  And I am prepared now, if need be," Finley said.

     "What do you mean you are prepared now?"  Puzzled by Finley's statement,
Win sensed that something wasn't quite right, and he took a quick glance
around the saloon.  That was when he realized that they were being very
closely watched by several men who had been posing as customers at the other
tables.  "Damn you," Win hissed.

     "I wondered how long it would take you to notice that you are
surrounded," Finley said.  "These are my deputies.  You are both wanted men.
I could take you to jail right now."

     "You don't think we'd go peaceably, do you?" Joe asked.

     "I don't know.  I would hope so.  If you put up any kind of fight at all,
both of you will die."

     "And some of you as well," Joe warned, menacingly.

     "Yes, that's true.  But don't forget, these men are also veterans, and
many is the time they have gone into battle knowing that they or their friends
might die.  That didn't stop them then, and it won't stop them now."

     "You son of a bitch!" Joe said.  He started to reach for his gun, but Win
stuck his hand up quickly and stopped him.

     "No, Little Brother, hold it," he said.  "Finley is right.  We won't
accomplish a thing except a little killing."  He looked at Finley.  "It's your
call now, Colonel."

     "The offer still stands," Finley said.  "Ten percent of what you recover.
Also, Throckmorton has promised a full pardon."

     "What good is a full pardon from the acting governor of Texas going to do
us?" Joe asked.  "We're a couple of Missouri boys."

     "It won't do anything for you in Missouri, or Kansas, or anywhere except
Texas," Finley admitted.  "But at least you'll be able to ride into any Texas
town without worrying about the law."

     As Win was contemplating the offer, he looked again at the deputies.
That was when he saw Al Santos sitting quietly, and unobtrusively, at the
table nearest the door.  Win nodded.

     "Hello, Al."

     Al nodded back.  "Win, it's good to see you again," he said.

     "A full pardon and ten thousand dollars?" Win said to Finley.

     "Win, wait a minute!" Joe said anxiously.  "You ain't thinkin' of takin'
him up on the deal, are you?"

     "Well, if you have a better suggestion, Little Brother, I'm open to it,"
Win said.

     "We could hit Buford ourselves, and keep the money," Joe suggested.

     "Yes, we could do that," Win agreed.  He looked back at Finley and
smiled.  "But I sort of get the idea that if we don't agree to the terms right
now, Finley and his deputies are goin' to throw us in jail."

     Finley chuckled.  "You've got that right.  Listen, boys, you haven't
stayed alive this long by being dumb.  Now, don't be dumb now.  Take the
offer."

     Joe stroked his chin as he studied those arrayed around him.  Finally, he
sighed in resignation.  "All right, Win, it's your call," he said.  "Whatever
you decide, I'll go along with it."

     Win looked back at Finley.  "I want the full pardon for my brother and me
now, before we leave town," he said.

     Finley smiled, then took out two sheets of paper and handed them across
the table to Win and Joe.  "I thought you might want something like that," he
said.  "That's already been taken care of."

     "And I want five hundred dollars working money," Win added.  "Two hundred
fifty each."

     "Five hundred dollars?"  Finley gasped.  He shook his head.  "I don't
know.  The governor didn't say anything about authorizing any kind of fee in
advance."

     Win forced a smile.  "You are Chief of the Governor's Special Deputy
Force.  Use your influence to talk him into it."

     Finley sighed, then pushed his chair back with a scrape and stood up.

     "All right, it's a deal.  You'll get your pardon and your five hundred
dollars.  Now, where will I bring the money?"

     "Why, with all the amenities this place has to offer?" Win replied,
taking in the saloon with a sweep of his arm.  "You can bring it right here.
This is where we'll be."


                                      15


     After Finley and his deputies left, Win ordered dinner and drinks.  The
soiled doves who normally worked the saloon had moved to the back of the room
while all the deputies were present, in order to be out of the line of fire if
any shooting erupted.  Now they began to circulate again, and seeing them, Joe
caught the eye of one and smiled at her.

     "Found something to stir your interest, Little Brother?" Win asked, as he
transferred a piece of steak from the plate to his mouth.

     "That gal over there in blue," Joe said, nodding in the girl's direction.

     Chewing, Win turned to look over his shoulder.  "The one in green is
prettier," he said.

     "Green?  Well, that just shows how much you know," Joe said.  "Did you
see how skinny she was?  It'd be like pokin' your pecker through a knothole.
Besides which if you'll just notice, that girl in green ain't even got no
titties."

     Win glanced back over his shoulder a second time.  By now a few of the
girls were aware that they were the object of the boys' contemplation, and
they began preening for them.

     "She's got titties," Win said.  "I'll admit they aren't very big, but
she's got 'em."

     "Not enough for me," Joe said.  "I like 'em with a little meat on their
bones," he continued, "and that gal in blue is just right.  Look at the size
of them titties.  You know, if a fella was to fall down in between 'em, he'd
like as not smother before he could get hisself excavated."

     Win chuckled.

     "Here she comes," Joe said.

     The woman in blue sauntered over to the table.  Realizing she had caught
Joe's fancy, she put her hands on the table and leaned forward in front of
him, giving him a good show down the scoop-top of her dress.

     "Do you see something you like?" she asked pointedly.

     Joe, who had finished his supper, stood up.  "Yeah, but I ain't seen
enough of it yet," he said.  He smiled.  "Although I got me a feelin' you
might be willin' to show me.  What's your name?"

     "The name's Amy," the girl answered.

     "Well, Amy, how about we go upstairs?"

     "You got a copper chit?" Amy asked, referring to the copper chits that
were for sale at the bar, to be redeemed only for a soiled dove's favors.

     "I don't have one yet," Joe said.  "But I reckon I can go buy one."  He
stuck his hand in his pockets, searching them all, but coming up empty.  When
Amy saw that he was broke, she frowned and started to walk away.  "No, wait!"
Joe said.  Joe looked at Win.  "Win?"

     "Damn, Joe, you're already into me for five dollars," he said.

     "Yeah, but can't you see that this is a goddamn emergency?" Joe asked.

     Laughing, Win took out some money and gave it to his brother.  When Amy
saw that Joe now had the wherewithal, she was all smiles again, and she put
her arm through his.

     "What about your brother?" Amy asked as they started up the stairs.

     "What about him?"

     "You may have noticed that I have several friends who are unengaged for
the moment.  Perhaps he would like to meet one of them?"

     "Nah," Joe said, laughing.  He motioned for her to lean over so he could
whisper.  "He don't like girls," he hissed.

     "Oh, my!" Amy gasped, looking around in shock.  "Why, I don't believe
I've never actually known such a person."  Quickly, she whispered the news to
the other girls, who, like Amy, began to stare in curiosity at Win.

     Win, who had not heard his brother's joke, continued to eat his supper,
unaware of the fact that he was now the center of intense scrutiny on the part
of the women.

     "Hell's bells," the girl in the green dress said.  "I seen the way he
looked at me while ago.  I'll bet I could change his mind."

     WHEN JOE AND AMY REACHED THE SECOND FLOOR, Amy opened a closet door and
reached in to get towels.  To her consternation, she found none, so she called
down to the other end of the long hall.

     "Mary!  Mary, where are the clean towels?"

     A very stout, very plain-looking woman stepped out of a room at the other
end.

     "They're down here," she said.  "I brought them in from the line and
folded them.  I just haven't got around to putting them in the closet yet.
You can come down here and get them if you need any now."

     "Mary, I don't want to come down there and get them," Amy replied
sternly.  "I thought we had an understanding, a division of labor, so to
speak.  We fuck, you keep us supplied with clean towels."

     "All right," Mary said.  "I'll bring some right down."

     "Thank you," Amy said.  She turned to Joe.  "I tell you, ever since Mary
came off the line she's been just real meanspirited."

     When the towels were brought, Amy took one, then putting her hand on
Joe's arm, led him into one of the rooms.

     THE CLOSENESS OF HER STIRRED HIM.  SHE SMELLED OF woman, of sweat and
musk, and when she leaned against him, her breasts lay against his arm.

     Her face moved close to his, her lips pressed against his own.  She
flicked her tongue hotly into his mouth, explored, licked, sucked.

     Joe crushed her against him, fired by his need for her.

     "Wait," she panted.  She broke away then and began to undress, now
revealing one nipple, now concealing one, part of the art of seduction, well
learned in her profession.

     "You get undressed too," she whispered.  "Hurry, I can't wait anymore!"

     Joe stripped out of his clothes, and felt the massage of air against his
naked skin.  He reached for her, but she stepped back.

     "What ...?" he said.

     Amy went onto her knees in front of him, then put her hot palms against
his hips.  She took his cock in her long, supple fingers.  "It's so
beautiful," she murmured.  She squeezed it gently.

     Joe groaned.  A silver droplet appeared on the slit of his swollen shaft.

     "Oh, my," Amy whispered.  Her tongue darted out, sending a jolt of
pleasure through him.  The drop disappeared.  Joe groaned again.  "You taste
good," she said.  "I want to taste more."

     Amy took a deep breath, then bent over him, taking his cock into her
mouth.  She moved her lips down the shaft, feeling the soft crown against her
palate, flicking her tongue against the slit, tasting the fluids that seeped
out.  She moved her mouth up to the head, then as far back down on the shaft
as she could, sliding him in and out of her mouth.  Her loins churned with
heat, her juices boiled and bubbled through her bush.

     After a few moments of this, she released his engorged cock and began to
make her way up his belly, raining tiny kisses across his muscled body.

     He grabbed her in his arms, laid her on the bed, then moved on top of
her, feeling her juices, which had spilled over.  He had grown larger in her
eager mouth, his desire more urgent.

     Quickly he lowered his body onto her soft, resilient frame.  She spread
her legs for him, her pink vulva opening in anticipation, begging for the
ultimate invasion.  He slipped his cock into the oiled, velvet sheath.

     Amy gasped as she felt him plunge deep inside her.  She thrashed against
him, making little sobbing sounds as he withdrew, slid in, then withdrew
again.  With a practiced motion she squeezed and massaged his shaft, milked
him for his seed.

     The two locked together, plunging, rising.  The wet sound of flesh
against oiled flesh filled the room with sound.  Amy stiffened and moaned as
the first wave of orgasm swept over her body.  Joe continued unabated,
pounding deep into her welcoming cleft.  Her moans grew in intensity, becoming
enraptured cries as wave upon wave of pleasure consumed her.

     Joe felt himself sliding forward, and knowing that Amy had already
climaxed, made no effort to hold back, but rode with it, melting and pouring
out the end of his cock.  The first enormous gush traveled the length of his
cock and exploded into her velvet smoothness.  She felt him, and gasped with
the final pleasure, staying with him as his seed boiled out of his body.
Finally spent, he fell from her, breathing hard.  Later, when both had calmed
down, Amy spoke.  "Why?" she asked.

     "Why what?" Joe replied, wondering what she was talking about.

     "Your brother," she said.  "Why doesn't he like girls?"

     "I don't know," Joe answered.  "Crazy, I guess."  He laughed at his
private joke.



     The town of Puxico was three hundred miles from Austin, located at what
was currently the western terminus of the Texas Western Railroad.  Like any
boom town, it was suffering from the effects of growing too fast.  Saloons,
brothels, and gambling halls were being built faster than stores, schools, and
churches, so that many of the town's newly arrived residents were less than
desirable citizens.

     Elijah Cline, owner-publisher of the Puxico Gazette, had lamented that
fact often in his newspaper, and today he had just penned another story
expressing his opinion, in which he wrote:


Have we sold ourselves for thirty pieces of silver?  Have we been blinded by
the glitter of gold?  My friends, if we are truthful we must admit that the
answer to these questions is "yes.

The good citizens of this town have watched with dismay as bordellos replaced
boardinghouses, saloons pushed away family businesses, and gambling halls
supplanted churches.  We have suffered an influx of humanity as new arrivals
have come, not to build, but to destroy.  The very dregs of society have found
their way to Puxico.  Our streets are filled with drunken and debased men and
women who have no regard for decency, nor respect for the rights of others.

And what is the cause of this slide toward Gomorrah?  Some might say that such
growing pangs are experienced by any town that is touched by the railroad.
But I strongly disagree with that notion.  Hundreds, nay, thousands of cities
and towns all across the country have watched the railroad arrive and have
benefited greatly from it.  Are we to believe that the good citizens of Puxico
are of such poor stock that they cannot handle what others have handled?

No, I do not believe that.  It is not the railroad that has brought such
distress to our community.  It is the nefarious dealings of one man.  One man
who has burst upon the scene with thousands upon thousands of dollars which he
has spread in such a way as to generate vice and corruption, the better to
gain total and absolute control, not only of our business and economy, but of
our very souls.

He has acquired enough land through distress sales to start a ranch he calls
the "Rocking L."  The Rocking L has become little more than a haven for
desperadoes and outlaws.  We have all seen them, the ill-mannered bullies who
crowd the decent citizens off the sidewalks, and think nothing of making
public displays of their drunkenness and boorish behavior.

It is no secret why the Rocking L would hire such men, for it seems more than
mere coincidence that the herd of cows at the Rocking L ranch is experiencing
a growth rate commensurate with the degree of loss in all the other herds of
the county.  And when neighboring ranchers have made a friendly request to
peruse Rocking L land for cattle that may have "strayed," they are denied that
access by the armed intervention of those same outlaws and desperadoes with
which the Rocking L is peopled.

How did one man come by so much money that he is able to spend it so freely?
Those who have earned money honestly, by the sweat of their brow or the fruits
of their labor, are much more discriminating in their spending and
investments.  It has been my experience that only ill-gotten gains are
disposed of in such a cavalier fashion as is the case I have brought before
you today.

I think it is time that the owner of the Rocking L be thoroughly investigated.
We should know the source of his wealth, the better to be able to judge his
intentions.  And we should unite to pass laws and ordinances that will greatly
inhibit his ability to destroy our town.


     Cline lifted the first copy of today's edition from the platen of the
Washington Hand Press, and held it up, the fresh ink glistening black on the
page.  There was something about a newly printed newspaper, something that
stirred the blood and made him want to shout out in pride.

     The newspaper in Puxico was the third Cline had published.  With a
burning zeal to be a journalist and a heavy freight wagon, he had loaded up
press, type, imposing tones, ink, and paper to come West.  The other two towns
had seemed indifferent to a newspaper.  Here in Puxico, however, he was
actually beginning to make a profit.

     But now he felt that all he and the other decent citizens of Puxico had
worked for was being endangered by the actions of a very wealthy, ambitious,
and ruthless man who, though only recently arrived, was taking control of the
town and of everyone who chose to live there.  He had made the decision,
therefore, to do what he could to alert the citizens of the town to the danger
that had so recently come into their midst.

     "They say the pen is mightier than the sword," he said to himself as he
looked over his page.  "I guess we're about to find out."

     Cline printed another two hundred copies of the paper, then carried them
out with him, leaving them at locations about town where merchants agreed to
sell his papers for him.  One such place was the Silver Dollar Saloon.  There,
he left a stack of fifty papers, picked up four left over from the day before,
took forty-six cents from a bowl where people left their money to pay for the
paper, then walked back out onto the street to continue his rounds.



     At about the same time Elijah Cline was making his rounds, Peterson and
McCloud were riding up to a house at the edge of town which belonged to a man
named John Minner.  Peterson swung down from his horse, while McCloud remained
mounted.

     The house was small and unpainted, but the front yard was ablaze with
summer flowers carefully planted and tended by Mrs. Minner.  On the side of
the house a garden of lettuce, tomatoes, beans, corn, squash, and potatoes
flourished.

     "That's far enough, Peterson," a man's voice said, and John Minner
stepped through the front door, carrying a long Civil War rifle in his hands.
Behind him, peering tentatively out the door, was his wife, a handsome woman
in her late thirties.

     Peterson stopped when Minner called to him.

     "Mr. Minner, no need of you actin' like that," he said.  "I come out here
to make you a business proposition.  Mr. Lane wants to buy your store, and he
is willing to pay a fair price for it."

     "I know what his offer is," Minner said.  "And I ain't interested in
takin' it."

     Peterson sighed, took off his hat, and mopped his sweating forehead.

     "It's hot, Mr. Minner.  Too hot to be standin' out here in the sun
talkin' about this.  Couldn't we discuss it inside?"

     "No need.  We got nothin' to discuss.  Now you and that fella with you
just get on out of here.  I see you comin' up my walk again, I won't be so
friendly."

     Peterson smiled, and tried a joke.  "Why, Mr. Minner, do you call this
friendly?"

     "I didn't shoot you on sight, mister.  That's as friendly as you're goin'
to get from me."

     Peterson sighed, then started back toward his horse.  He climbed on, then
took the reins from McCloud.

     "Mr. Minner, I wish you had been more cooperative than this.  Our partner
is very anxious to own your store, and I believe he will get it one way or the
other."

     "He don't really want my store at all," Minner said.  "The only reason he
wants to buy it is so he can close it and charge folks a lot more for goods
they'll be forced to buy at his store."

     "Business is business, Minner," Peterson said.



     In Puxico two days later, the homes, schools, churches, stores, saloons,
brothels, and gambling halls were abuzz with the story of two fires in one
night.  John and Mary Minner had been found inside their house, burned to
death.

     Normally, the story of two fires in one night would be front page news.
But because the Puxico Gazette was the other building that had been destroyed
that night, there was no newspaper to carry the story.  And like John and Mary
Minner, Elijah Cline had been found dead in the smoking embers of his rooms,
which were located over the newspaper office.


                                      16


     When Win and Joe Coulter arrived in Puxico, they looked around at a
community where false-fronted shanties and substantial two-story buildings
competed with canvas tents for space along both sides of the street.  The town
was noisy with the sound of hammering and sawing, while half a dozen vehicles
of commerce creaked up and down the street.  So industrious was the town that
two recently burned buildings were already being cleared out, their charred
remains being loaded onto wagons that were backed up to the now-empty lots.

     "You sure this is the right place?" Joe asked, as the two brothers rode
by one of the burned-out buildings.

     "You saw the sign outside of town same as I did," Win answered.  "It said
Puxico, and that's where Finley said we'd find Buford."

     "I'll give the town this," Joe said.  "It sure as hell is a busy little
place."

     "Yeah, it is at that," Win said.  He pointed to the Silver Dollar Saloon.
"What do you say we start our search in here?"

     "That's the best idea you've had all day," Joe said.  "I really need a
drink.  My mouth's got enough dust to plant a field of corn."

     Though it was still mid-afternoon, the saloon was already crowded and
noisy with the sounds of idle men and painted women having fun.  Near the
piano three men and a couple of women filled the air with their idea of a
song, the lyrics a bit more ribald than the composer had intended.

     "Yes, sir, what can I do for you boys?" the bartender asked, sliding down
toward them.  He was wearing a stained apron and carrying a towel he used to
alternately wipe off the bar, then wipe out the glasses.

     "What's your whiskey?" Win asked.

     "Got some Old Overholt.  Cost you two dollars the bottle or ten cents the
drink."

     "Leave the bottle," Win said, slapping the necessary silver on the
counter.

     The bartender put the bottle and a couple of glasses on the bar, and Joe
began to pour.

     "You boys just passin' through?" the bartender asked.

     "Could be," Win said.  "Or it could be that we might stay for a while.
This looks like a pretty live town."

     The bartender chuckled.  "Yes, sir, it's that, all right," he said.  "It
started growin' when the railroad come through here.  Then a month or so ago,
a big investor from the East arrived.  He bought up several smaller spreads
and built the Rocking L, a big ranch just outside of town.  And he started
spreadin' his money aroun' buyin' up old businesses, building' new ones.  He
has caused the town to really boom."

     "Who is this man that's throwin' around all that money?" Win asked,
lifting his glass.

     "A fella by the name of Lane," the bartender replied.  "Some says he's a
carpetbagger, but if so, I got no complaints."  The bartender made a motion
with his hand.  "As you can see, his bein' here sure has been good for my
business."

     "I reckon so," Win agreed.  "Lane, you say?  You sure that's his name?"

     "Well, sir, all I know is, that's the name he's goin' by.  Buford Lane."

     "Buford!" Joe said.

     "Yeah, I know," Win answered with a nod.  He tossed down a drink.

     "You know him?" the bartender asked.

     "Could be that we know him," Win said.  "Is Lane a big man with a puffy
nose and blue eyes?"

     "That's him, all right," the bartender said.  "He's just bought a ranch
and word is he's hirin' hands, if you boys is lookin' for work."

     "We might be," Win said.  "How do we find him?"

     "The place he bought is just west of town," the bartender said.  "You
can't miss it.  It's a two-story white house, with a huge cottonwood tree in
the front yard."

     "Well, as I live and breathe, if it ain't Win and Joe Coulter!" a voice
suddenly said.

     Surprised to be recognized here, Win and Joe turned to see who had hailed
them.  A big, bearded man, with a wide smile on his face, was coming toward
them with his hand extended.  "Never thought I'd run into you two boys way out
here," he said.  "I thought you was going to stay in Missouri and farm."

     "Tom Malloy," Win said, recognizing a man who had ridden with them when
they were with Quantrill.  "How've you been?"

     "Been stayin' out of trouble," Malloy said.  He laughed.  "Or stayin' out
of town when I couldn't stay out of trouble.  Say, did you boys hear about Ray
Kingsley?  He got hisself shot down right here in this very saloon."  Malloy
lowered his voice, then looked around.  "Ever'one's sayin' it was a fair
fight," he said.  "But the fella that shot 'im, this here Buford Lane, purt'
near owns the town from what I can find out, so what would you expect ever'one
to say.  Even if ole' Ray had a chance ... he never really had a chance."

     "What are you doing out here, Tom?" Joe asked.

     "Tryin' to get as far away from all those Yankee carpetbaggin' bastards
as I can," Malloy answered.  "I bought a train ticket, but this is as far west
as the railroad would take me.  So this mornin' I bought a good horse and now
I'm playin' a little cards, tryin' to raise enough of a stake to go on to
California.  Say, what about you two boys?  You want to go to California with
me?  They say it's mighty fine country out there."

     "We may get out there some day," Win said.

     "But we got a little business to take care of here first," Joe added.

     "Malloy!" someone called from a nearby table.  "We're about to deal a new
hand.  You in or not?"

     "I'm in," Malloy said, starting back toward the table and the other
players.  He stopped and looked back toward Win and Joe.  "Listen, if you boys
ever get out California way, look me up."

     "We'll do that," Win promised.



     At another table one of the players started picking up his money.  "Deal
me out, boys," he said.

     "You sure you don't want to stick around for a few more hands?  Your luck
might change," one of the other players said.

     "Not today, I'm afraid.  I'll see you boys later."

     As he was leaving, someone from the bar came over to take his seat and
the game continued, his absence barely noticed by the other players.

     The player who abandoned the game was Mitchell McCloud, and as McCloud
left the saloon he looked over his shoulder toward the bar and the two men he
had heard identified as Win and Joe Coulter.  He was certain Buford would be
interested in this bit of information.



     "You're sure it was them?" Buford asked as he lit his cigar.

     "I was as close to 'em then as I am to that settee over there now,"
McCloud said.  "And I heard 'em talkin' as plain as if they was talkin' to me.
A fella called 'em by name.  Win and Joe Coulter, he said.  And then they
started talkin' like they'd know'd each other for a long time."

     "Well, I'll give 'em this," Buford said.  "They sure don't give up easy."

     "Maybe they're just passin' through," Peterson suggested.  The three men
were in the parlor of Buford's ranch house, having gone in there to discuss
the news McCloud had brought them from town.

     "No," Buford answered.  "if they're in Puxico, they've come for the
money."

     "What are we goin' to do about it?" Peterson asked.

     "Do?  I'll tell you what you are going to do.  You two are going to kill
them," Buford said, easily.

     "What do you mean, we are going to kill them?" McCloud asked.  "What
about you?"

     "They know me," Buford said.  "They've never seen either of you, so it
would be much easier for you to do it than it would me.  And don't forget, you
have as much at stake in this as I do."

     "Not quite as much," Peterson said.  "You've got most of it now."

     "It is not my fault that I have invested my money wisely, whereas you two
have squandered most of yours on gambling, whiskey, and women."

     "Which you let us do, since you now own most of the saloons, gambling
halls, and whorehouses," McCloud grumbled.

     "I'm not your keeper," Buford said.

     "And we're not your soldiers anymore.  You can't just send us out to kill
the way you could during the war."

     Buford looked at the two of them for a moment, then sighed.  "All right,"
he said.  "Why don't I make it worth your while?  I'll give you ten thousand
dollars to kill them, five thousand dollars for each of you.  But you must
kill both of them."

     Peterson and McCloud looked at each other, then nodded.

     "Hell," Peterson said, answering for both of them.  "For ten thousand
dollars I'd kill my own mother."



     When Buford went back upstairs Jessica Moore was waiting for him, lying
naked on the bed.  Her legs were splayed so that she was displaying herself:
open, pink, and glistening through the nest of pubic hair.

     "What took you so long?" she asked.  She put her hand just above her
knee, drew it up the long, fleshy thigh, then let her fingers slide through
the slit, where they lingered for a moment before moving up her stomach,
across her breasts with the taut nipples, then to her lips.  She sucked her
fingers pointedly.

     "It was nothing," Buford said.  "Just a little business to take care of,
that's all."

     "You haven't forgotten, have you, that you have some business to take
care of here?"

     Buford began to get out of his clothes.  "I've never known a woman like
you," he said, as he started toward the bed.

     "Like me?  How like me?"

     "Always ready to fuck.  Are you like that with every man you meet?"

     Jessica smiled.  "No, not with every man.  Just with men who have what it
takes to excite me."

     "You mean this?" Buford asked, grabbing himself now and showing her his
erection.

     "Well, that too," she said.

     "That too?" Buford asked, puzzled by her comment.  "What do you mean that
too?  What else?"

     "Money," she said candidly.  "You have become a wealthy man, Angus
Buford.  And as you have no doubt noticed, I like to fuck wealthy men."

     "You never really let that fat-assed bastard fuck you, did you?"

     "Are you talking about General Bellefontaine?" Jessica asked.

     "Yes.  Did you really let him fuck you?"

     "I let him try," she said.  "But he was old and fat, and he couldn't do
it very well."  She smiled.  "That's why I helped you get the money."

     "You weren't all that much help, All you did was give me the combination
to the vault," Buford said.

     "If I hadn't you would have never gotten the money," she said.

     "What about Win Coulter?"

     "What about him?" Jessica asked.  The smile left her face.

     "Did you let him fuck you?"

     Jessica pasted the smile back on, and reached for him.  "You talk too
much," she said.  She pulled him toward her, then wrapped her legs around his
waist to facilitate his entry.

     Jessica felt him move into her, felt his hands cover her breasts.  As
always, he began without tenderness, without preliminaries, without any regard
as to how she might feel, or what she might want.  That was why she had
adopted an attitude of sexual aggression.  She was able to derive her sexual
pleasure not from anything Angus Buford did for her, but from the control she
was able to exercise over him.

     It had not been that way with Win Coulter.  She had initiated sex with
him, but once it began, he'd taken the initiative from her.  He'd become the
aggressor, and she his willing victim.  With Win Coulter, she had discovered
sexual pleasures unlike any she had ever experienced before, and it had
frightened her.  Frightened her because she knew that with Win Coulter, she
would never again be in control.

     It was the fear of losing control that had made her change her plans
about Bellefontaine's money.  When she returned to San Saba, she went to Angus
Buford and offered to provide him with the combination to the vault.  He
accepted her offer, and the theft went off as planned, though she had not
realized that he was going to kill her brother and the poor accountant.

     Part of her reason for doing this was to get revenge on Bellefontaine,
and in this she had been successful, for Bellefontaine lost everything.  He
even lost his ranches when the courts heard the lawsuits filed by Matthew Pate
and the other ranchers, and ruled that the confiscation of their land for
non-payment of taxes had been improperly handled.

     Bellefontaine left San Saba a broken and discredited man.  So complete
was his fall from the pinnacle that Jessica almost felt sorry for him as he
started the long trip back to Kansas.

     Jessica then came to Puxico to claim her share.  It had been her
intention to take the money and go somewhere to start a new life, but Buford
told her that he had very little cash remaining, having invested it all in
land and business deals.

     "Give me six months and you'll have your share three times over," he
promised.

     Under the circumstances, Jessica had no choice.  She accepted his offer.
In the meantime, she planned to protect her interest by doing everything she
could do to make him sexually dependent upon her.

     And right now, as he groaned and thrust and grunted above her, she knew
that that part of her plan was working perfectly.


                                      17


     At the supper table in Kathy's Restaurant, Joe ordered a second piece of
pie.  "What about you, Win?" he asked.  "Don't you want some pie?"

     "I had a piece already," Win said.

     "Well, yeah, so did I, but what difference does that make?"

     Win laughed.  "It means I'm full.  I can't hold another bite."

     "God, Big Brother, I never knew what a poor appetite you had," Joe said,
smiling in anticipation as a second generous slice of apple pie was put before
him.  Win stood up.

     "Aren't you going to wait around?" Joe asked.

     "And watch you eat?  No, thank you," Win answered.  "I think I'll go over
to the stable and check on the horses.  If we're going to go out there, we
need to do it tonight, before anyone gets wind of what we're about."

     "Good idea.  I'll be ready to go soon's I finish this."

     As WIN STEPPED OFF THE BOARDWALK IN FRONT OF THE restaurant, a bullet
suddenly fried the air just beside his ear, hit the dirt beside him, then
skipped off with a high-pitched whine down the street.  The sound of the rifle
shot reached him at about the same time, and Win dropped and rolled to his
left, his gun already in his hand.  That was when he saw the rifleman standing
on the porch roof of the general store, just behind the "Dunnigan's Finest
Selections" sign.  The would-be assailant was operating the lever, chambering
in another round, when Win fired.  Win's shot flew true, and he saw the rifle
drop to the ground as the ambusher grabbed his throat, then pitched forward,
turning a half-flip in the air to land flat on his back.  A little puff of
dust rose from the impact of his falling body.

     Another gunman appeared in the street at that same moment, firing at Win.
But Win, with the instinct of survival, had rolled to his right after his
first shot.  As a result, the gunman's bullet crashed harmlessly into the
wooden porch in front of the cafe.

     From his prone position on the ground, Win fired at the new gunman and
hit him in the knee.  The gunman let out a howl and went down.  He was still
firing, however, and Win felt a bullet tear through the crown of his hat.



     Inside the restaurant, Joe had just finished his pie when he heard the
shooting.  He didn't have to ask what was going on.  He knew instinctively
that his brother was involved, and he stood up and started for the door,
checking his own pistol as he did so.

     WIN THREW ANOTHER SHOT TOWARD THE GUNMAN, BUT as his attacker was lying
in the street now, he made a more difficult target.

     "McCloud!  McCloud!  Are you dead?" the gunman lyIng in the street
shouted.  There was no answer.

     Not knowing if there was anyone else after him, Win got up and ran three
buildings down the street, bending low and firing as he went.  He dived behind
the porch of the barbershop, then rose to look back toward his attacker.

     His attacker had also managed to get out of the street, and now he fired
at Win.  The bullet sent splinters of wood into Win's face, and Win put his
hand up, then pulled it away, peppered with his own blood.

     "Listen to me!" the gunman shouted.  "This here fella is a murderer!
There's wanted posters out on him all over East Texas!  I'll give a thousand
dollars to anyone who helps me kill the sonofabitch!"

     "You do your own killin', Peterson!" someone shouted back.  "A thousand
dollars don't mean shit to a dead man!"

     Win stared across the street, trying to find an opening for a shot, but
Peterson, as he now knew the man's name was, had managed to crawl behind a
wooden bench.

     Suddenly Win smiled.  Peterson had improved his position by getting out
of the street and behind a wooden bench, all right, but it was in front of a
dressmaker's shop.  And what Peterson didn't realize was that the large mirror
in the window of the dressmaker's shop showed his reflection.

     From across the street, Win watched in the mirror as Peterson inched
along on his belly to the far end of the bench.  Win took slow and deliberate
aim at the end of the bench where he knew Peterson's face would appear.

     Slowly, Peterson peered around the corner of the bench to see where Win
was and what was going on.  Win cocked his pistol and waited.  When enough of
Peterson's head was exposed to give him a target, Win squeezed the trigger.
His pistol roared and bucked in his hand.  A cloud of smoke billowed up, then
floated away.  When the cloud cleared, Win saw Peterson lying face-down in the
dirt with a pool of blood spreading out from under his head.

     Win heard someone running toward him then, and he swung around ready, if
need be, to take on someone else.  When he saw that it was Joe, he smiled in
relief, then stood up.  Joe joined him, and the two brothers, with pistols
drawn, moved to the middle of the street, then looked around with experienced
eyes, searching the roofs and corners of buildings for any more adversaries.
They saw several people looking at them from positions of hiding, but no one
seemed threatening.

     "You people!" Win called out, putting his gun away and taking out a piece
of paper.  "These two men were wrong!  I am not a wanted man!  This paper is
signed by the governor of Texas, and it is a full and unconditional pardon.
There's no future in anyone trying to take us on.  You're either going to wind
up dead, like these two ... or if you get lucky and kill us ... you will have
risked your lives for nothing!"

     "Even if you was wanted, I ain't lookin' for no bounty from a Yankee
governor," someone said.  Win recognized the voice as the same one who had
refused Peterson's offer of a thousand dollars to help kill him.  "I'm comin'
Out, mister, and I ain't plannin' on doin' no shootin'."

     "Come ahead," Win said.

     When the first man came out and nothing happened, an other came out, and
another still, until soon the street was once again filled.  Only this time,
they weren't as much pedestrians as they were spectators, for the crowd
divided into two groups, half gathered around McCloud's body and the other
half around Peterson's.

     The sheriff came toward Win and Joe, holding his hands out in front of
him to show that he had no intention of going for his gun.

     "I saw the fight," he said.  "Those two men attacked you, and you had no
choice but to defend yourselves.  But if you don't mind, I'll just have a look
at that pardon you're carryin'.  If it's real, I'll start sendin' out wires
tomorrow to make certain any dodgers as might be out on you are pulled."

     "And if it isn't real?" Joe asked.

     The sheriff stopped in his tracks and a flicker of fear passed across his
face.  Joe laughed.

     "My brother was teasing you," Win said, holding the pardon out for the
sheriff's examination.  "As you can see, this is real."

     The sheriff looked at it for a moment, then handed it back.  "It looks
genuine, all right," he said.  "I'll do what I can about getting the dodgers
pulled."

     "Thanks," Win said.  "By the way, Sheriff, do you know either of these
men?  You have any idea why they would try to kill me?"

     "I reckon they were after the reward money," the sheriff said.  "They
probably didn't know about the pardon."

     Win shook his head.  "No," he said.  "That couldn't be it.  They weren't
after any reward money."

     "Why do you think that?"

     "Because I heard this one offer a thousand dollars to anyone who would
help him kill me," Win said.  "And even if the dodgers were still in effect,
the reward was only for five hundred dollars.  Why would he be willing to pay
double that?"

     The sheriff shook his head.  "You've got me," he said.  "But then, I
don't really know these fellas all that well.  They came into town the same
time as Lane did.  As a matter of fact, I think they even worked for him.  I
know they always seemed to have money to spend.  Not as much as Buford Lane,
but enough to visit the saloons and whorehouses about every night."

     "They worked for Buford?" Joe asked.

     "Buford Lane, yes, they worked for him," the sheriff said.  Win and Joe
looked at each other.

     "So much for our surprise, Little Brother," Win said.  "He already knows
we are here."


                                      18


     It had just grown dark enough to light the lanterns when a rider galloped
into the front yard on a horse that was lathered from its exertion.

     "Damn," Buford said, walking over to the window to pull the curtain to
one side.

     "What is it?" Jessica asked.

     "I'm not sure.  But something sure as hell is up."  Buford took his
pistol belt off the hall-tree and strapped it on.  Then he put on his hat and
stepped outside.  Several of his ranch hands, drawn by the galloping arrival
of the rider, were also drifting toward the front yard to see what was going
on.

     "Mr. Lane," the rider called.

     "Yes," Buford replied from the dark recesses of the front porch.  He came
out of the shadows to stand on the steps so he could be seen.

     "I come to tell you," the rider said.  "That is, I thought you might want
to know."

     "Know what, man?"

     "Your two friends?  Peterson and McCloud?  They was both killed this
evenin'," the rider said.

     "Kilt?" one of the ranch hands said.  "How?"

     "They was killed by a stranger, a fella named Coulter, I think it was."

     "Coulter!" Jessica gasped from the shadows behind Buford.  "Win Coulter?
He's here?"

     "Go on back inside, Jessica," Buford ordered.  "This doesn't concern
you."

     "Oh, yes, it does concern me," Jessica said.  "Don't forget, I'm the one
who got Win Coulter involved in the first place."

     "I'm not likely to forget.  But that was before," Buford said sternly.
"Now I'm telling you, go back inside!"

     Jessica started to speak again, but the snarling anger in Buford's voice
frightened her, so she said nothing more.

     Buford looked around at the men who had gathered, mostly from curiosity,
in the front yard.

     "Men," he said.  "The ones who killed Peterson and McCloud are
bushwhackers!  Their names are Win and Joe Coulter, and during the war, while
riding with Quantrill, they burned nearly a hundred farmhouses, almost always
killing the innocent men and women they found there.  I fought against 'em
during the war, so now they're after me.  I'm goin' to be askin' for your
help."

     "I don't know, Mr. Lane," one of the men replied.  "I'm the first to
admit that the war's over, and I ain't holdin' it agin you none that you
fought for the Yankees.  But if there's some sort of a grudge still goin' on
between you and these here brothers, don't know as I've any right to mix in."

     Buford knew that the man had fought for the South in the war, seeing duty
at Antietam, Gettysburg, and elsewhere.

     "Slater, these boys aren't like you and me.  We were honorable soldiers
in an honorable army.  These boys were little more than outlaws, using the
flag of the Confederacy as a means to rob, kill, and burn."

     "He might be right, Slater," one of the other hands said.  "You seen
their pictures on the posters.  Hell, we all have.  They were without honor.
There's no way you could call such men real soldiers."

     "Still, whatever's goin' on between you, it ain't our fight," Slater
said.

     "I'd be willing to pay one hundred dollars to any man who would make it
his fight," Buford offered.

     "Do you mean one hundred dollars a man?" one of the cowboys wanted to
know.

     "That's what I mean.  One hundred dollars to each and every one of you,"
Buford said.  "Plus a bounty of five hundred dollars for each of the Coulter
brothers, payable to whoever actually gets one of them."

     "Five hundred?" Slater asked, astounded by the figure.

     "For each brother," Buford said.  "And since there are two of them,
that's a thousand dollars."

     "Yahoo!  Let's go!" one of the men shouted.  "Let's go get the bastards!"

     At the shout, several of the men hurried out to the stable to saddle
their horses.

     It took nearly ten minutes for those who were going to get saddled and
ready to ride.  Finally they were ready to go, and Buford stood on the front
porch, lighted now by the flickering torches carried by the riders.  "All
right, men," he said.  "You know who you are after and you know what it's
worth if you succeed.  Go find them!  And when you do, bring them back to me."
Buford paused to take a deep breath, then added, "Dead!"

     Several of the men let out a yell and nearly two dozen horsemen started
out at a gallop.



     The riders galloped until their blood cooled, their enthusiasm waned, and
their horses grew tired.  Then Slater realized they were just running with no
sense of direction or purpose.  He pulled up, and because he was at the front
of the pack, the others came to a halt with him.  "What is it?  What's goin'
on?" someone asked.  "Yeah, why did we stop?"

     "Well, hell, fellas," Slater said.  "We can't just go runnin' aroun' out
here like chickens with our heads cut off.  We got to have some idea of what
we're doin' and where we're goin'.  Else we're just wastin' time and wearin'
out horses."

     "Well, what now?" one of the other riders asked.  "I mean, I ain't
flatterin' myself that I'm the one who'll get the thousand dollars.  But I
ain't ready to just give up on the hundred we'll all get if somebody else gets
them."

     "We gotta have someone in charge," Slater said.

     "You do it," someone called.

     "Yeah, Slater, you take charge.  For a hundred dollars, we'll even listen
to you."  The others laughed nervously.

     "All right, then," Slater said.  "We're going to divide up.  About three
or four of you go with each group.  That way we can spread out and cover more
territory."

     "What do we do if we find them?" someone asked.

     "If you find them and you kill them, then your group can divide up the
thousand dollars among you," Slater said.

     "Yeah, yeah, that's for me," someone said.  "I'm for killin' the
sonsabitches and takin' the money."

     Within a moment there were as many as five small groups, fanning out in
all different directions.  Now that they had a sense of direction and purpose,
their enthusiasm returned.



     Win and Joe Coulter saw a little group of men coming after them.  They
were sitting calmly on top of a large round rock, watching, as four riders
approached a narrow draw.  The draw was so confined that the riders would not
be able to get through without squeezing down into a single file.  It was a
place that no one with any tactical sense would go into, but these were not
men with a sense of tactics.  These were cowboys, fired up by the promise of a
hundred-dollar reward just for searching, and another thousand for bringing in
the Coulters dead.  There wasn't one of them who wouldn't pull the trigger on
Win or Joe if they had the opportunity.  Because of that, they were men who
could be easily lured into a trap.  Win stood up so he could clearly be seen.
"Win!" Joe hissed.  "What are you doing?"

     "Setting the trap," Win replied easily.

     "Look!" one of the approaching riders shouted.  "There's one of them!"

     "They're up there!"

     "Come on!  Let's get them!  Let's get the sonsabitches!"

     The riders galloped through the draw, bent on capturing or killing the
Coulter brothers, or at least the one they had spotted.

     A couple of the men in front thought that Win made an easy target, so
they pulled their pistols and began shooting.

     Win could see the flash of the gunshots, then the little puffs of dust as
the bullets hit far short.  The spent bullets whined as they ricocheted on by
him, though none of the missiles came close enough to cause him to duck.

     Almost casually, Win pulled two homemade torpedoes from his saddlebags
and lit the fuses.  His elevated position allowed him to, quite easily, drop
the blasting charges at each end of the draw.  The first explosion went off
about fifty yards in front of the lead rider.  It was a heavy, stomach-shaking
thump that filled the draw with smoke and dust, then brought a ton of rocks
crashing down to close the draw so the riders couldn't get through.

     The second explosion, which was somewhat less powerful, was tossed behind
the riders, bringing the rocks crashing down into the draw behind them, and
closing the passage.  Win chuckled.

     "It's going to be a while before those boys are able to dig themselves
out of there," he said.

     Win and Joe scrambled down from the rock, then wriggled through a fissure
that was just large enough to allow them to pass through.  They had left their
horses on the other side, and now they mounted, leaving the trapped cowboys
behind them.

     They rode no more than a quarter of a mile before they saw the next group
of riders.  Attracted by the sounds of the explosions and the gunshots, they
were hurrying over to see what was happening.

     "There they are!" one of the riders shouted when he spotted Win and Joe.

     "Get them!" another yelled.

     Win and Joe headed into a mesquite thicket.  The limbs slapped painfully
against their faces and arms, but on the positive side, the thicket closed
behind them, hiding them from view.

     "Joe, lead my horse and keep going!" Win shouted.  He hopped down and
gave the reins to Joe, who continued to ride.

     After Joe rode off, Win squatted behind a mesquite bush and waited.

     In less than ten seconds, their pursuers came by.  Win waited until the
first three had passed before he made his move.  Then he reached up and
grabbed the fourth rider and jerked him off his horse.  The man gave a short,
startled cry as he was going down, but the cry was cut off when he broke his
neck in the fall.

     The rider just ahead heard the cry, and he looked around in time to see
what was happening.

     "Hey!  They're back here!" he called.  The rider had been riding with his
pistol in his hand, so he was able to get off a shot at almost the same moment
he yelled.

     The man was either a much better shot than Win had anticipated or he was
lucky, for the bullet grazed the fleshy part of Win's arm, not close enough to
make a hole, but close enough to cut a deep, painful crease.  The impact of
the bullet, plus the effort of unseating the rider, caused Win to go down and
he fell on his right side, thus preventing him from getting to his gun.  The
shooter had no such constraints, however, and he was able to get off a second
shot.  This time his bullet hit a mesquite limb right in front of Win's face,
and would have hit Win had the limb not been there.  Win knew now that the
first shot had not been a lucky accident.  This man could shoot.

     Win rolled hard, not only to be able to get out of the line of fire, but
also to be able to reach his gun.  As he pulled his gun up in front of him,
though, he saw that it was filled with dirt.  He couldn't pull the trigger--if
he did, the thing might explode.

     The cowboy, seeing that Win's gun was clogged, smiled in triumph and
raised his pistol for a slow, carefully aimed shot.  Win braced himself for
it, staring helplessly at the big black hole in the end of the barrel.

     Suddenly another shot rang out and Win saw the shooter grab his chest,
then pitch backward off his horse.  At that moment Joe rode up, the gun in his
hand still smoking.  He turned toward the other two riders, and they, suddenly
realizing that the odds were now even, fired once, then turned and galloped
away.

     Though the shots were just thrown in the direction of Win and Joe, one of
them managed to clip the reins to Win's horse, and the animal, suddenly free,
bolted away, leaving Joe holding a severed piece of rein in his hand.

     "Damn!" Joe said.

     "Never mind, I'll take this one," Win shouted, leaping onto the horse of
the man Joe had just shot.

     With both brothers mounted, they began tracking Win's horse down, only to
discover that one of the other groups had already found it.  The cowboys had
dismounted, and were giving their own horses a rest.  One of the riders was
taking a drink from a canteen, another was leaning up against a rock holding
their horses, the third was examining Win's horse, and the fourth was standing
a short distance away relieving himself.

     Win and Joe dismounted and sneaked up closer on foot.  "It's got to be
one of their horses," one of the men said.  "It sure don't belong to Lane."

     "How do you know?"

     "It don't have the Rocking L brand."

     "Hell, what's that mean?" one of the other men asked, laughing.  "Half
the animals on this ranch don't have the Rocking L brand.  And them that do
has it burned across another brand."

     "You sayin' Mr. Lane rustles?"

     "Let's just say he throws a wide loop."  The others laughed.  "Hell, we
all do," he went on.  "Else we wouldn't be workin' here.  Why do you think he
pays us double what any other rancher pays?"

     "Arnie, what the hell you doin' over there anyway?" one of the men asked
of the one who was relieving himself.

     "What's it look like I'm doin'?" Arnie answered.  "I'm watterin' the
lilies."

     "Goddammit, you been pissin' for five minutes.  At this rate you could
hire yourself out as a fire engine."  The others laughed.

     Arnie came back toward the others, buttoning his pants.  He nodded toward
the horse.  "What do you say we backtrack this horse and see if we can find
which one of them Coulters it belonged to?"

     "Hell, what difference does it make which one it belonged to?"

     "'Cause I figure whichever one it is is most likely dead or wounded now.
Probably wounded."

     "Why do you think wounded?"

     "'Cause if he was dead, we'd know it by now.  Whoever kilt him would be
whoopin' and hollerin' to beat bloody hell, claimin' the extra five hundred
dollars.  And if he wasn't wounded, we wouldn't have his horse."

     "All right, so if we find him, what about the other one?"

     "I figure they'll be together.  One brother ain't goin' to leave the
other.  This way we got us a chance of gettin' 'em both."

     "You want both of us?  We're here," Joe said, suddenly stepping out into
the clearing.

     "Goddamn!  Where'd you come from?" Arnie asked, surprised by the sudden
appearance.

     "I'll ask the questions," Win said.  "Where's Buford?"

     Both he and Joe had the drop on the four men.

     "We ain't tellin' you nothin'," Arnie growled.

     Win squeezed off a shot, and a little mist of blood sprayed out from the
side of Arnie's head.  Arnie let out a yelp of pain, and interrupted his draw
to slap his hand against the source of his wound.

     "You son of a bitch!" he shouted in pain and anger.  "You shot off my
ear!"

     "You've got one ear left," Win replied calmly.  "I'll let you keep it if
you answer my question.  Where is Buford?"

     "I don't know!" Arnie grumbled.

     Win popped off another shot, and the bullet took away the lobe of his
other ear.

     "He's back at the house!" Arnie moaned in pain.  "That's all I know!"

     Win lowered his pistol.  "All right," he said.  "Take your guns out of
the holsters and empty the loads onto the ground."

     The men did as they were directed.

     "You," Win said, pointing to the man nearest his horse.  "Bring my horse
over."

     The man obliged, and Win took the reins from him, then looked at the
other four horses.  "Let go of their reins," he ordered.

     Again his instructions were followed.

     Win fired a couple of shots into the dirt near the horses.  The animals
reared up in fright, then galloped off, their hooves clattering loudly on the
rocky ground.

     "Hey!  What'd you do that for?" Arnie asked.  "It's a long walk back."

     "It's going to be longer," Win said.

     "What do you mean?"

     "Take off your boots."

     "What?  Are you crazy?  I ain't givin' you my boots."

     "You can walk without boots or crawl without feet," Win said dryly.  "And
I don't give a damn which it is."  He cocked his pistol again and aimed it at
the feet of one of the men.

     "No, wait!  Arnie, shut up!  This crazy sonofabitch will do what he
says!" one of the men shouted in alarm.

     "All right, you can have the boots," Arnie said.  He sat down and began
pulling off his boots.  The others joined him.  Joe collected the boots, then
walked over to the horse Win had borrowed.  He tied the boots to the saddle of
that horse, slapped him on the rump, and set him running.

     "Goddammit!  Horse, come back here!  Come back here, horse!" one of the
men shouted at the galloping animal.

     Win and Joe mounted their own horses.  Then Joe looked at the four
bootless men and laughed.

     "You boys walk just real careful now, you hear?" he teased.  "There's not
only rocks and cactus needles out there.  You might also want to look out for
rattlers.  I hear tell they like stinkin' feet."  He wrinkled his nose.  "And
believe you me, you boys do have stinkin' feet."

     Joe laughed uproariously at his own joke as he and Win rode away, leaving
the four cursing cowboys behind them.


                                      19


     When Buford saw Slater riding into the front yard later that night, he
hurried out of the house to meet him.

     "Did you get them?" Buford asked.  "Did you kill the sonsabitches?"

     "Not yet," Slater replied, swinging down from his horse.

     "Where are the others?  Are they still looking for them?"

     "I reckon some of them are.  Leastwise, the ones that ain't been killed
yet," Slater answered.  He started toward the bunkhouse.  "That is, the ones
who ain't got enough sense to know better," he added.

     "What are you talking about, the ones that ain't got enough sense to know
better?  And what the hell are you doing back here?  Why aren't you out
looking for them?"

     Slater stopped and looked back toward Buford.  "I told you when all this
started that it wasn't my fight."

     "But I'm paying you to make it your fight," Buford said.

     "A hundred dollars, hell, even a thousand dollars ain't enough money to
get yourself killed for.  They're your problem, not mine.  And if you want to
find them, my advice is just to hang around here.  They seem pretty determined
to get to you.  More'n likely they're going to show up right here.  And when
they do, I don't want to be nowhere around."

     "You son of a bitch!  You work for me!  You can't just walk away like
this!" Buford shouted angrily.

     Slater turned his back to Buford, and started toward the bunkhouse.  "Oh,
no?  Watch me walk away," he called back over his shoulder.

     "You cowardly bastard!" Buford shouted.  He pulled his pistol and shot
Slater, hitting him in the back of the head.  Slater went down, dead before he
hit the ground.

     "My God!" Jessica gasped.  She had been watching the entire scene from
just inside the front door.  "You just shot your own foreman!"

     "The sonofabitch was a coward," Buford growled.  He punched the expended
cartridge out of his pistol and replaced it with a new one.  "Get back inside
and stay out of sight," he ordered.



     As it developed, Win and Joe had enjoyed a front-row seat to the shooting
from their position on a hill about fifty yards from the house.  Their
inclination was to go up to the house and settle it now, but they had already
encountered so many of Buford's men that they didn't know whether there were
more back here waiting for them.  The brothers' caution was well served when
they saw four men running from the bunkhouse, drawn to the scene by the
gunfire.

     "Son of a bitch!" one of them shouted, looking at the man on the ground.
"This here is Slater!  Slater's been kilt!"

     "What happened to Slater?" one of the men asked.

     "I killed him," Buford said calmly.

     "You kilt him?  Why?"

     "Because the son of a bitch needed killin'," Buford said as if that were
explanation enough.  "Now, you men get rifles and take cover.  When the
Coulters come riding in here they'll be easy targets, and the offer I made to
the ones who are out looking for them goes for you too.  I'll pay one thousand
dollars to see both Coulters dead."



     It was no more than half an hour later when Win and Joe got an unexpected
break.  Some of the cowboys who had been out on the range searching for the
two brothers were now coming back to the ranch.  They were tired, hungry, and
frustrated over not yet having won any money, and they rode boldly and noisily
right up to the ranch.  Unfortunately for them, they made no effort to
identify themselves.

     Those who had remained behind were so nervous that they were jumping at
every shadow.  They had completely forgotten about the ones who were out on
the range, and were totally surprised to see a large body of men ride up on
them.  It was too dark to see, and they had been made too edgy by the
circumstances to exercise the proper caution.  One of them put into words what
all of them thought.

     "Oh, shit!  Look at that!  The Coulters have rounded up an entire army!"

     A rifle shot rang out from one of the ones back at the ranch, and it was
returned by the approaching horsemen, who thought they were being fired at by
the Coulter brothers.  Their return shot was answered by another, and another
still, until soon the entire valley rang with the crash and clatter of rifle
and pistol fire.  Gun flashes lit up the night, and bullets whistled, whined,
and thunked into horseflesh, or buried themselves deep into the chests of some
of the hapless cowboys.

     "Joe!" Win shouted.  "Now's our chance!  Let's go!"

     As the guns banged and crashed around them, the two brothers sneaked out
of their hiding position.  They mounted, then rode north for a couple of
hundred yards in order to get out of the line of fire.  Win had no intention
of getting either one of them shot by accident.

     Then, during the confusion of the firefight, Win and Joe made plans as to
how they would get into the house.

     "Look there, maybe we can use that," Joe said, pointing.  "That gully
winds around all the way up to the barn."

     "Yes, but even if we get the barn, we will still have fifty yards of open
territory to reach the house," Win said.

     "What if I go alone?" Joe suggested.  "I'll burn the barn."

     "Burn it?"

     "Yes.  Once it catches fire, it will create a big enough distraction to
let you get into the house without being noticed."

     Win smiled.  "Little Brother, that is a brilliant idea," he said.  "All
right, do it.  But be careful."

     Joe nodded, then took a deep breath and started running up the gully,
keeping his head low.  Win watched him until Joe disappeared in the dark.

     Shortly after Joe disappeared, the ranch hands discovered the fact that
they had been carrying on a gunfight with themselves.  After much calling and
shouting, the shooting finally stopped.

     "You dumb bastards!  You were shooting at us!" someone called.

     "Well, you come ridin' in here without a word.  What the hell were we to
think?"

     "Do you think the Coulters would've come ridin' in like that?  Goddamn,
you've done killed Andy and Deekus.  And Tony's lyin' back there somewhere
gut-shot!"

     "Yeah, well, you kilt Frank."

     "Too bad we didn't kill all of you, you dumb bastards!"

     "Holy shit!  Look at the barn!  The barn's on fire!" someone called.

     Win looked toward the barn and smiled.  Joe had made it, and now flames
were climbing up one corner, licking against the dry shake-shingle roof.

     "What the hell!  How'd that get started?"

     Win made his move then.  Running low and crouched over, he darted through
the darkness, unseen, to the side of the house.  He moved through a grape
arbor to the back of the house, then slipped inside through the back door.

     "Get some buckets!  Get some water on that!"

     Inside the house, Win was able to use the ambient light of the burning
barn to pick his way through the downstairs.  When he reached the parlor he
got the shock of his life.  He saw Jessica, looking through the window toward
the burning barn.

     "Jessica!" he gasped in surprise.  "What the hell!  What are you doing
here?"

     "Win!" Jessica said, turning toward him.  Her face registered shame and
fear at having been discovered by him.

     "She is with me," Buford said from behind Win.  When he turned, he saw
the big man holding a gun and smiling evilly at him.  "Drop your gun, please."

     Win held his pistol for a moment longer, then dropped it and looked back
at Jessica.  "Are you his prisoner?" he asked, though even as he was asking
the question he knew that she wasn't.

     Buford laughed.  "My prisoner?" he said.  "Tell him, my dear.  Are you my
prisoner?"

     Jessica stared at the floor.

     "I guess she's just a little too embarrassed to tell you that she warms
my bed.  I mean, being as we aren't married or anything."

     "Still following the money, I see, Jessica," Win said.

     "Win, you don't understand," Jessica said, her voice racked with guilt.

     "You're right, I don't understand," Win said.  "Buford I understand, but
not you."

     "Actually, I'm using Buford as a first name out here," Buford said.  "I
prefer to be called Lane."  He laughed.  "However, there really is no need for
you to remember that, since you won't be alive long enough to use it."

     Buford made a motion toward the door with his pistol.  "Now step
outside," he ordered.  "Step outside and call to your brother.  He is the one
who set fire to the barn, isn't he?  A clever ruse that, burning the barn to
give you the chance to sneak into the house.  Tell him to give himself UP."

     "My brother will never give himself up."

     "Not even to save your life?"

     "Bullshit, Buford.  Do you really think he doesn't know you are going to
kill me anyway?  No.  He will do exactly what I would do.  He'll stay out
there in the dark and watch you kill me.  Then he'll kill you.  If he can't
kill you tonight, he'll kill you tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day
after that.  But I promise you, he will kill you."

     "Get out there," Buford ordered, pushing him from behind.

     With Buford shoving him along, Win stepped through the front door and out
onto the porch of the house.  By now the porch was well lighted by the fire
from the burning barn, but none of Buford's riders saw them come out, since
they were now involved in a futile effort to put out the burning barn.

     "Call to your brother," Buford hissed.  "Tell him to show himself."

     "If you're going to shoot me, you sonofabitch, do it and get it over
with," Win growled.  "I'm not going to call my brother for you."

     "Very well, then you shall have your wish.  I'll shoot you now."

     From behind him, Win heard the double metallic click of Buford's pistol
being cocked, and he waited for the bullet to come crashing into the back of
his head.

     "No!"  Jessica suddenly screamed, her scream coming on top of the sound
of a gunshot.  Win whirled around at the same moment, and saw that Jessica had
jumped between Buford and him just as the gun had gone off.  Now she was
staggering away from Buford, her face racked with pain, her chest covered with
blood.

     "You stupid whore!" Buford roared.  He pointed his gun at her, and was
about to shoot her a second time.  That gave Win the opening he needed, and he
closed the distance between himself and Buford in an instant.  He grabbed
Buford's arm, forcing the gun up just as he fired a second time.  This time
the bullet went harmlessly into the roof of the porch.

     Buford was so surprised by the sudden move that Win was able to snatch
the gun from him.  But since he was unable to bring the pistol around into
firing position, Win did the next best thing.  He brought it crashing down on
Buford's head, dropping him to the porch deck like a sack of flour.

     "Hey, it's Coulter!  There he is, up on the porch!" one of the few
remaining cowboys shouted, and they started across the yard from the burning
barn.  Suddenly, from behind them, another gun roared, and Joe jumped out from
behind a wagon.

     "Hold it right there, boys!" he shouted.  "Drop your guns, all of you."

     By now Win had managed to bring the pistol around so that he too had the
drop on the four remaining cowboys.  Realizing they were covered, front and
back, they had no choice but to do as they were told.

     "What do we do now?" one of the men asked.

     "Well, you can do one of two things," Win replied.

     "What's that?"

     "You can die for this sonofabitch or"--he paused for a moment--"you can
figure that too many of you have already died for him, and you can get on your
horses and ride away."

     "I don't know about the rest of you boys," one of the men said.  "But
this one ain't too hard for me to figure.  I'm gettin' the hell out of here."

     "Me too," one of the others said.

     Moments later, nothing remained of the four cowboys but the sound of
receding hoofbeats.

     Buford, who had been temporarily knocked out, was now coming to.
Groggily, he sat up, rubbing the bump on his head.

     "Keep him covered," Win said to Joe as he walked over to examine Jessica.
She was breathing her last.

     "Win," she said.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't know it would turn out like this.
Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?"

     "There's nothing to forgive," Win said.  "You just saved my life."

     Jessica coughed, and bubbles of blood frothed from her lips.  "Hold me,
Win.  Hold ..."  Her head flopped to one side and the gasping breaths and
bubbles of blood stopped.

     "Damn," Win said.  He laid her down on the porch, then stood up and
looked down at her.  "Damn," he said again.

     "What do you want to do with Sergeant Angus Buford here?" Joe asked.

     "Shoot the son of a bitch," Win said disgustedly.

     Joe cocked his pistol and put it to Buford's head.

     "No, wait a minute!" Win suddenly said.  He looked at Buford with a
sardonic smile.  "Sergeant Buford, I seem to recall one of your calling cards.
I think it might be very appropriate right here."



     Fifteen minutes later, Win and Joe rode away from the house, a burlap bag
full of money hanging from Win's saddle pommel.  Behind them, the barn was
fully engulfed in fire, and its bright light cast flickering shadows upon the
bodies of the half a dozen men and one woman who had been killed there that
night.

     "No, wait!" Buford was screaming.  "Don't go!  You can't leave me like
this!"

     Angus Buford's big frame, back-lighted by the burning barn, was standing
on a wagon tongue.  Around his neck was a rope, the other end of which was
tied to the high branch of a cottonwood tree.  Already, flames were licking at
the wagon.  It was only a matter of time until the tongue, weakened by the
fire, would snap in two.

     "You bastards!  You bastards!" Buford screamed in terror and anger.
Neither Win nor Joe looked back.