Chapter 1

Lewellyn P. Greentree forced the Wednesday afternoon Butterfield stage to stop just where the road began skirting the swampy mud at the north end of Lake Louise southwest of Baker's Field. Convenient tumble weeds, piled higher than a man's head on horse back, shielded his position until the last second. Lou was mounted on the best horse money could buy. The chestnut's long, powerful legs and its deep chest showed it capable of outrunning most animals it was apt to run against out here in the west. Lou'd spent a good penny for the animal, but in his line of business, it paid to own good stock.

Kicking his steed into a fast dash to the center of the road, "Ho now!" he called through the red and white plaid kerchief pulled up to cover his lower face. His horse reared, pawing the air before dropping to all fours. "Stand and deliver."

Lou always worked at keeping a straight face when he said that. He'd heard it was used by some long dead, highwayman, Gentleman Bart, or some such. Lou got a kick every time he used it. He liked pretending to be more of a hard case than he actually was. Gave him status. And if the impersonation put any doubt of his seriousness into the minds of the driver and shotgun guard, he held his rifle ready.

The driver, a lean tall man with salt and pepper hair sticking out from under his Stetson, hauled back hard on his lines and slammed down on the foot brake. Lou could see the leather straps of the team's reins dig into the flesh of the driver's hands as he leaned back and pulled as hard as he could. With some difficulty he brought the six horse team to a prancing stop. That man acted cool, gave a little twist to his mouth, like maybe he didn't take Lou's rifle as seriously as Lou figured he would. Well, maybe it was time to find another opener.

Except for the smirk on the driver's face, so far everything was going just as Lou planned. All he had to do was relieve these men of the strong box under their seat and they'd see the tail end of his chestnut and a trail of dust. He wouldn't be wasting time on what little the passengers might be carrying.

In a blur of movement, the shotgun in the boot was suddenly coming up into the hands of the guard. A head shorter than the driver, the messenger made up in girth what he gave up in height. Didn't seem to slow him down none, though. Damn, didn't the geezer realize bringing his shotgun out was more foolhardy than cautious? Lou could shoot and he wasn't about to let that jasper bring the business end of that shotgun into line with him.

At the blast of Lou's Spencer Repeating Rifle, his horse side stepped right into the wall of tumble weeds he'd just jumped out of, its head jerking up as it shied from the abrupt blast of noise. His bullet caught the guard dead center. Where the third button from the top of his brown flannel shirt had been, a bloody half inch hole appeared. A half ounce of lead brought the man clean up out of his seat, driving his shoulders against the top of the stage. His back arched for a moment, then slowly settled back onto the bench and slumped its way down into the boot. His arms dangled lifelessly over the edge. For some fool reason the damn driver decided to grab for the pistol in his holster. His lackadaisical grin was gone, replaced by a bitter, steel eyed bead lining up on Lou.

Levering his rifle as quickly as he could, Lou brought his own barrel in line. Hell, what was wrong with the man? He should have gotten the message that he was gonna get shot if he pulled his iron. Lou had the man dead to rights already. Was he just plain dumb? Or did Lou's horse acting up a bit from the noise of the first shot give the man some kind of crazy confidence. Not that it mattered in the end. Lou's second shot hit the driver just to the left of his nose, cutting a gaping hole in his cheek and taking off the back side of his head.

Lou's attention moved to the passengers. This whole idea of robbing the Butterfield had gone bad. The way his luck was running, he wouldn't be surprised at some retired ranger waiting inside for Lou to walk up unsuspecting, just itching to throw down on him from inside that coach. Lou nudged his chestnut towards the coach, rifle at the ready. The stage, however, was empty of passengers. Lou took a long, shuddering breath of relief.

Why the old boys up on that boot hadn't simply given him the strong box was a mystery. They sure took stage robbing too seriously for their own good. The way Lou looked at it, there shouldn't have been any need to shoot anyone. Never was his idea to shoot a man. These two just hadn't given him a choice.

Pulling the reins snug and twitching a wrist, Lou signaled his horse to back up. The chestnut was well trained. It obeyed without question. Lou was just about to dismount and grab the strong box from the driver's boot when his ears caught the sound of several horses bearing down on him at a run. Damn again. They'd put a posse out behind the coach. Either the box held a payroll, or Butterfield was tired of putting up with stagecoach robberies. And he'd been the next somebody dumb enough to try and rob it. No wonder that driver was wearing a smirk.

He gave the strong box under the driver's seat a quick, whistful look. Just wasn't time to go for it. This fool idea was really turning sour. Turning his horse's head hard, he spurred the animal into a spin so tight the chestnut was forced to bring its front feet clear of the ground, lower its haunches, and make the turn on its back legs alone. As soon as he had the horse turned, Lou drove his spurs into the horse's flanks and gave the animal its head. In three long strides, the horse was in a dead run.

Tumbleweeds and mesquite, barren land and nothing much else stretched in front of Lou. He could see and be seen for miles if he stayed on the road. Without cover, he had only one recourse. He needed distance, pure and simple. That posse was too damn close. All Lou wanted now was distance put between himself and the whole damn bungled mess.

Just before the blast of the first shot reached his ears, the bullet came singing past his shoulder, making a whipping noise as it went. Lou knew the air was full of slugs, but the sound of their passing was lost in the blaze of guns going off behind him. Wasn't any doubt they were there, though. Christ! If he didn't do something, he was going to get shot!

He had to take to the brush. Weaving back and forth through the chaparral and rocks would make hitting him a lot harder. Give him a chance, at least. Turning off the road, the horse took about six jumps and put its right front hoof smack into a squirrel hole. The next thing Lou knew, he was heading for dirt with just enough time to turn his face to the side so his teeth weren't knocked out. As soon as he stopped plowing tumble weeds loose from their roots, Lou scrambled to his feet, but it was already too late. Six riders circled him. They might not have been as good a shot as Lewellyn P. Greentree, but they were close enough it didn't matter. Everywhere he looked the muzzle of a gun pointed dead at him. Could have been cannons, from Lou's point of view. They were that close. Without a chance in hell, he put his hands over his head and stood real still.

"Now that's right smart of ya, mister," a graveled voice remarked. "Lot smarter than killin' Jeb and Pete."

"Can I plug him, Slim?" another of the posse asked. From the look of him, he'd prefer shooting over bringing Lou in. Run down boots and worn out duds made it a good bet the man had never worked a day in his life. Not in a while, anyway.

Lou set his eyes on the man with the paunch. A badge marked Slim as the man in charge. The deputy said something Lou couldn't quite catch over the ruckus his chestnut was making. Nobody could hear him the way that horse had set to screaming.

Lou's whole body jumped at the sound of a pistol discharging close behind him. Expecting to feel the bite of a bullet, Lou realized someone had taken his horse out of its misery.

"Thanks, Reb. Gall darn horse screamin' makes my trigger finger itch." Slim hunched forward over his saddle horn, as if to get a closer look at Lou. "Don't want any more killin's, do we?"

"Much obliged, Deputy," Lou smiled.

Three weeks later Lou was almost healed from the pistol whipping the posse gave him. Seemed Jeb and Pete were close drinking partners with several members of the posse. With Lou's six feet two inches and strapping build, most men backed down from a one on one with the blonde outlaw. The twinkle in his blue eyes, clean shaven chin, and smiling mouth might look affable, but Lou was a man to be reckoned with when his back was up. Of course, six to one odds gave the posse plenty of confidence. He still sported a few yellowed bruises on his cheek and neck, but he was plenty healthy to stand in front of the circuit judge.

The trial wasn't much to talk about. They'd pretty well caught him red handed, after all. Slim came and got him up that morning, early. Sun wasn't hardly up. Through the open door on the other side of the bars, the sky still had that cold, purple blue of pre-dawn coloring it. They fed him, but damn little. Couldn't have said what it was. Next thing he knew they'd cuffed him, shackled his ankles together and took him upstairs to the court room. Why they'd bothered to get him out of the hard metal bunk so early was hard to figure. The judge didn't get there until damn near ten o'clock. They kept him all fettered up tight on a hard slab of wood bench the whole time. Lou recognized the man the deputy had called Reb, sitting with his back leaned against one wall of the court. With all those guns pointing at him, Lou hadn't been memorizing faces, but at least two, maybe three others of the posse were sitting in the room as well. Wasn't much of anybody else turned out for the morning's festivities.

When the judge finally showed up wearing a black robe and sporting a long handled mustache, Lou was ready for the whole damn affair to be done with. He'd bungled bad. Killed two men he hadn't meant any harm to, but they were deader than last week's bacon. Didn't matter that he'd only fired after they'd drawn on him first. Whatever they were going to do to him, he wished to hell they'd just get it done. His butt end was getting sore from sitting on hard wood so long.

The judge sat behind a big wooden desk set on a platform so he looked down on the rest of the court. A young, pimply faced clerk handed him a ream of paper. He ignored Lou. Looking over his papers, he shuffled and read, humming noises coming from his throat every once in a while. Finally he set the papers down. Pulling wire rim glasses off their perch at the end of his nose, he gave Lou a once over. That judge peered down from behind his fancy wooden bench without the least bit of sympathy.

"Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?"

"You got the wrong man, Judge. It was my twin brother did the shootin'." Lou raised his cuffed hands with a shrug of innocence. Seemed to Lou the place could use a little lighter manner.

Glaring bullets, the judge slammed his gavel on the bench. "Have you anything I want to hear, before I pass sentence?"

"No your honor. I ain't." Lou tried to swallow the dry taste in his mouth enough to even get that much out. Didn't seem the judge appreciated a good joke. For that matter, everybody in the whole damn county took things more seriously than he'd bargained for. Robbing coaches wasn't like shooting little old ladies on their way to church, for Christ sake.

"In that case, I sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead. You will be transported to the army fort in Tejon and hung as quickly as it can be done.

"Sheriff, get this man out of my court." The judge's gavel smashing down on that desk of his finalized the whole proceeding.

Lou would have been a sight better off staying around Flagstaff and clear away from this neck of the country. If that damn fool shotgun messenger hadn't taken it into his head to save the strong box, things wouldn't be in this sorry state. As it was, the future of Lewellyn P. Greentree didn't look to be real promising.

When they'd dumped him none too gently back in the cell in the basement of the courthouse, Lou was a bit mystified by one fact. "Say friend," Lou asked the cowboy in the next cell. They hadn't gotten much chance to talk before this, as the deputy brought him in only last night late. From the puking the man did most of the night, Lou figured him for celebrating too hard. "Do you have any idea why they didn't just hang me here. Why spend all the money to transport me up to that fort?"

The drunk, his nose so red it looked like a beacon light, his cheeks a mass of red veins and blotches, scratched his dirty brown hair and appeared to ponder Lou's question deeply before answering. "They hung a young boy here few years back 'long with five horse thieves. The rustlers had it comin' alright, but seems the boy were innocent 'a any wrong doin'. He'd came on 'em on the trail. Got an invite to lunch just afore the law caught up with the rascals. The owner of Rancho Tejon were a bit put out about her. Seems the kid were someone he thought well 'a. Since that time they've taken to sendin' their hangin's up to the fort. Where the army can see everythin' is done proper.

"From what I heard Slim tell 'bout yer case I wouldn't be thinkin' there's any promise there, though. Slim and that posse got ya dead ta rights pardner."

Lou couldn't argue that point worth a damn, not even with some half hung over jasper. He lay down on his bunk the rest of the day pondering on the error of his ways. He wished he'd stayed the hell out of this country. And that was a fact.

Not long after breakfast of cold, dry biscuits and a slice of greasy, also cold bacon, the sheriff pushed Lou up into the stagecoach. He was a barrel of a man, his belly so big his gun belt had to be cinched up underneath. By damned, if Lou weren't all chained up that lout would play hell treating him that way. The deputy they called Slim was already lounging on the opposite bench. Lou eye balled the man taking him to the army fort a bit closer than before. He was a slight looking character except where his belt went around him. Lou wondered if liking food was the most important requirement of lawman work in California. The sheriff, and every deputy he'd seen since they'd locked him up, had a gut hanging over his belt. By the size of this deputy's stomach, Lou figured he'd enjoyed a whole lot better breakfast than what they'd given him. One look at his face and Lou knew there wasn't going to be a lot of conversation on this trip. His beady black eyes looked smug as hell. They were narrow on his face, and his long nose seemed to get in the way of his looking. He tilted his head back a bit, kind of looking down the side of that nose at Lou. The expression on his face left nothing to the imagination about how he felt about this particular job. He was sure going to enjoy this ride. It was written all over him. And, he'd do it at Lou's expense. The sheriff leaned inside the coach and gave his shackles a sharp yank. Whether to make sure they were secure or just to get one more jab at him, Lou wasn't certain. "Don't take no sass from this trash, Slim," the sheriff advised the guard.