It was hot. Dust-eating, butt numbing hot as I rode the trail from California into the Arizona territory. Tombstone was planning a big Independence Day shindig that year since eighteen hundred and eighty two was a territorial anniversary. Even though I was still more than a hundred and fifty miles away I'd met up with slower moving groups heading in that direction. The trail was crowded with buckboards carrying weary families, with children whining about the heat. Big, clanking wagons loaded with trade goods and pots were emblazoned with signs for wonder elixirs to cure what ailed the crowds of happy patriots in Tombstone.

As I passed these travelers, I got the wary stares I was used to after too many years of relying on my gun and courage for a living. The mothers shushing their children with that "Lord don't he look desperate" look on their face. The young boys, all bright-eyed, taking in the powerful horse, silver-studded saddle, and, of course, the big, pearl-handled Colt strapped low on my right hip.

I had no plans to celebrate the Fourth in Tombstone. That bastard Earp would be ready for trouble from the crowds with plenty of extra deputies and I wasn't particularly welcome in my adopted hometown these days. I'd visited in May but had to cut my trip short because Wyatt was still pissed about someone plugging his brother Morgan and he had ideas that I was in on it. I was going to hole up in Benson or maybe Fairbank and wait until the excitement was over, then slide into Tombstone quiet-like and take care of my business.

Hell, any place with a saloon and a decent bed would do. I was weary, bone-weary of travel and constantly watching my back. At thirty-two I looked and felt like forty-two after too many years of trouble I'd long since stopped wanting. But it beat shoveling horseshit and busting blisters on a god-forsaken ranch like my brother-in-law out in San Jose. Three weeks out there visiting my sister was enough to convince me that my lot was passing tolerable. Besides, I had no choice-there were just too many folks who weren't inclined to forget the stories. My kind didn't retire quietly and take up sheep herding.

It was getting late-only a couple of hours of daylight left. I wasn't going to make it to Aguila before dark. There was a stage depot fifteen minutes ahead, just a wide spot on the trail but they had food and a man could get a drink of whiskey to clear the dust out of his throat if he was so inclined.

When I arrived at the depot, I got a bottle from the barkeep, sat myself down at a table, and ordered a steak. A handful of cattlemen a few tables away were in high spirits. They seemed like a decent bunch, so the prospects for a little poker to pass the time looked good. One of them, short and bowlegged, wandered over.

"Howdy. Do I know you, stranger?" he asked, looking me over.

He was smiling, so I offered my hand. "I doubt it. Just passing through on my way from California," I said. He looked at my gun belt and the "JPR" carved there. I headed off the next question. "Name's John, John Ringgold," I said.

"Don't know that handle. Ever spend any time in Texas?" he responded. I shrugged.

"Not in a long time-six or seven years ago," I said, truthfully. The man grinned.

"My mistake then. Name's Mike but everyone calls me Stumpy. You want to join us?" he asked, motioning toward his friends. I nodded, picking up my bottle.

We all finished our dinner and were just starting to relax when a new man arrived. He was dusty and rawboned and wore a greasy cotton shirt and baggy trousers. He looked like a prospector, not likely a poker companion. He stood at the bar looking thirsty and watched us for a while.

The prospector was a big man, even taller than me and I'm six foot two. He was mostly bald with a fringe of matted, waxy hair hanging over his ears and onto the collar of his shirt. He had this annoying habit of drawing air in through his nose, real slow, making a low snorting noise before hawking a mess of tobacco juice and phlegm into the spittoon every so often. I was done eating but it was starting to get to me.

I was about to say something when the prospector walked over. "Hey, you boys lookin' to get laid? I got me something I'll share for what's left in that bottle," he said, pointing at my whiskey.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, more curious than interested. The cattlemen were listening, too.

"Well, I got me a little Apache. She's a looker, and a young 'un, too. I been stickin' her and she's a good 'un," the man said, grabbing at his crotch. He grinned and started another of those snorting things, clearing his sinuses. Stumpy glanced at me, looking uncomfortable.

"What do you mean, you got her? Where is she?" Stumpy asked. From his tone, it was clear that he didn't like the prospector any more than I did.

"I bought her offn' a man down Eloy way. I got her tied up outside," the prospector said, launching a big wad toward the spittoon and missing by several inches.

The hair on the back of my neck rose and the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach wasn't only because of the spitting. I stood up slowly and looked at the cattlemen.

"What say we go check this out?" I said. Thinking he was going to earn his bottle, the prospector eagerly led the way out the front door and into the fading light. We all followed, including Grady, the old guy who ran the stage depot.

The sun was starting to set, painting the horizon shades of pink and purple and making it hard to see where the prospector was heading until we got close enough to a big oak tree. Crouched at the base of the big tree with her hands tied above her head was a young Apache woman wearing a loose dress made from an old blanket. Her face looked like she'd been kicked-dirty and bruised with dried blood at the corner of her mouth. She was barefoot, way too thin, and scared as hell. Her raven hair was loose and tangled, falling all the way to the ground.

As the prospector walked up, she tried to scoot around the tree, then tucked her head behind a shoulder as though expecting to be beaten. "Well, there she is! She's skinny but she's a hellcat, I'm tellin' you!" the prospector said.

"What happened to her face?" Stumpy asked.

"I had to learn her some manners. The bitch bit me," the prospector said, lifting the foul fringe of hair from his collar to display his damaged ear. "You gotta do it with Injuns-it's like breakin' a horse."

The cattlemen and I looked at each other. Everyone looked like they just caught a whiff of something rank. "Damn. That ain't right," one of the cattlemen said, a guy named Billings. The prospector looked at us, acting confused.

"Untie her," I said. "Look at her hands. She's bleeding." I reached for where the rope was tied to the tree.

"Now hold on. If'n I don't tie her, she'll run away," the prospector said, moving to block my arm.

"Maybe that's what needs to be happenin'," I replied. Instinctively, I reached down and unhooked the loop of leather from the hammer of my Colt that kept the gun secure.

"Hey, I bought her fair and square. Paid sixteen dollars for her."

"Mister, I grew up in Missouri," I said. "Lived there during the war. The main thing it proved was that there are way too many damned Yankees, but it did settle that one question. A person can't own another person."

The prospector looked angry. One side of his mouth curled up a little, revealing stained teeth. "Yeah, but she don't count. She's a heathen Injun. And besides, you ain't the law."

I pulled a coin from my pocket and flipped it at the man. "There's twenty dollars. Now clear out of here. I'm sick of you being upwind of me," I said, resting my right palm casually on the handle of my Colt.

The prospector caught the coin, bit it, and backed up a few steps. "You... just want her for yourself. She's worth mor'n twenty bucks. You wouldn't be talkin' so big neither, if'n it weren't for that six-gun," he said, trying to watch my gun hand and check the reactions of the crowd at the same time.

"You better do as he says," Grady said. "I don't need no trouble at my place." He nodded toward his wife, who'd come out of the depot carrying a scattergun.

The prospector kept backing up until he got to where a big pack of supplies was leaning against a tree. A mule was tethered to it, grazing.

I turned my attention to the Indian woman. As carefully as possible I untied the dirty ropes, which had cut wickedly into her wrists. She just stared at me with big doe eyes, not even cringing as I worked the hemp loose, even though it had to sting. She looked younger up close, maybe in her mid-teens.

"doo n'ldzig da," I whispered. Apache for don't be afraid. She nodded, and looked close to tears. I turned to Grady. "She needs some doctoring. Can your woman look after her?" I asked.

"I don't let Indians in my place," Grady said, scowling. "With Geronimo on the loose again, it could be a trick to check the place out. They killed those troopers up at Cibecue Creek just last summer."

One of the cattlemen nodded, then glanced at the prospector, who was putting the pack on his mule. "That fella is a piece of shit, but he's right about Injuns. They're godless heathens and they'll kill you soon as look at you."

I looked at Grady's wife, hoping for support. She sighed and marched over, handing the shotgun to her husband. "For heaven's sake, Grady. She's a child and she's hurt," she said.

Just as the older woman reached for her, the Apache gasped and recoiled, looking behind me. I whirled as I dropped to a knee. A gunshot rang out and I heard a weird sucking sound as the bullet missed my left ear by inches. Would have been square in the middle of my back if I hadn't dropped. The prospector was cocking his Winchester for another try, but I drew my Colt and fired as soon as the revolver cleared leather. His head snapped back, a neat hole appearing at the bridge of his phlegm-sucking nose.

The prospector's legs staggered for balance even though his brain was already dead, then the back-shooting bastard toppled over with a loud thud, his rifle clattering across the hard ground. I holstered my gun. "I had no choice, you saw it. It was him or me," I said.

Everyone nodded and then we all stood around for a minute not sure what to do. Grady broke the silence. "You can clean up the Indian, Marge," he said to his wife. "But do it in the stables, not in the depot. There's plenty of water and soap and the horse liniment should work on those cuts."

As Marge walked the Apache away, the young woman suddenly veered to where the prospector lay twitching, blood pooling around his head on the baked caliche soil. She stared at him, murmuring softly, cleared her throat and spat in his face. Then she quietly rejoined Marge Grady and they headed for the stables.

"I guess he had that coming, too," Stumpy said. He was staring at me with an odd expression. "That was a fair bit of shooting you did, John. From the hip, from thirty paces."

"If you've got a shovel, I'll bury him," I said, shrugging.

Grady motioned with his head. "There's one in the barn."

As I went to retrieve the shovel, Stumpy slapped his own forehead. "I knew it! I knew I seen you before! It was in Llano County back in Texas like I figured. I saw you shoot a man from the hip, just like that. John Ringgold, hell. You're Johnny Ringo, the gunfighter!"

Marge Grady stopped and stared, looking shocked. The young Apache was looking too, but she just tipped her head a little and took it all in with those big, soft eyes.

Yep, I was Johnny Ringo-at least that was what I was called, especially in pulp novels that glorified my exploits, mainly fabricated. It was a name I couldn't shake, no matter what. As a young man, I loved the notoriety but now it just meant trouble from every kid with a gun wanting a name of his own-and from the kin of every man I was supposed to have shot.

The cattlemen lost their interest in poker and decided to move along, saying they needed to bunk down out by their herd.

It was dark by the time I finished burying the prospector. When I walked into the depot to get another drink Grady met me, holding the shotgun loosely over an arm.

"I don't want any more trouble," I said. "I'm tired and I'm thirsty."

"You're wanted down in Tombstone. For killing Morgan Earp, shot in the back playing pool," Grady said.

I shook my head. "No. I had no part of that and I can prove it. The Sheriff out in San Jose wired Wyatt Earp, telling him I'm coming in on my own to clear myself-that's where I'm going. I've got no price on my head."

Grady thought that over, then nodded. "Okay then. Get your bottle and you can bunk out in the barn. But I want you out of here at dawn, before the morning stage gets here. Your kind is trouble, Ringo." he said.

During the night, I heard a noise outside the barn and went to investigate. It was the young Apache curled in a ball with only her dress for warmth. The desert was chilly at night, even in the summer. I went into the barn and got my blanket. I motioned to the woman to get up, then wrapped the blanket around her and led her into the barn where it was warmer. "sik'az," I said. The Apache word for cold. She lay down on the hay, pulled the blanket closer, and stared at me the whole time.

When I got up in the morning, my horse was already saddled. Grady really wanted me gone, I guessed. I went into the depot for a mug of hot coffee and some grub for the trail. I paid Grady and tossed an extra quarter on the counter. "That's for saddling my horse," I said.

Grady pushed the quarter toward me. "Didn't touch your horse. You better get going."

I was ready to leave anyway. With a little luck, I could make it to Wickenburg by afternoon and that was a fine little town. I knew a man there who might put me up for a day or two. Sipping my coffee, I walked toward my horse. The Apache woman was standing next to it, holding the bridle.

"Why are you still here?" I asked.

She stared at me. "ch'ighah," I said. Go. I pointed southwest toward Eloy where the prospector said he bought her. I knew some Apache words but couldn't speak it properly. She shook her head and held the bridle out. I took it and climbed on my horse. "Thanks," I said, then wheeled to head down the trail to Wickenburg, careful not to spill my coffee.

When I got thirty feet, I noticed that the woman was trotting alongside my horse. I gave the animal a little kick and we broke into a trot, but after a hundred yards the Apache was still with us. I stopped, pointed at her and then at me. "dah," I said, which meant no. "ch'ighah bik, ih." I was pretty sure that meant go home.

The woman shook her head and looked like she was going to cry. I got off my horse and pulled some of the food from my saddlebag, including a big chunk of cornbread. I handed them to the woman along with a couple of dollars. "You're free. Go to your own people," I said.

She stood there, holding my gifts. "I don't have any people," she said.

Shocked, I stared at her. "You speak English?" I asked.

She nodded. "The missionary taught me at the reservation."

"You've got to have a family, where'd you come from?" I asked.

She blanched, and tears welled up in her large eyes. "There was no food so we went to the mountains to trap. The traders came but didn't pay. They killed," she said, speaking slowly, pausing between sentences. "All but my sister and me. They took us and sold me to the one you killed. He was a bad man. Now I stay with you." She looked up at me.

"I can't take care of you," I said. "I've got places to go."

Now the tears were running down her cheeks. Grady's woman had done a decent job of cleaning her up. The cut on the Apache woman's mouth didn't look too bad and the bruises looked better than before, the swelling almost gone. Her hair looked clean and was combed, pulled back into a long, thick ponytail that hung almost to her butt.

"Aw, hell. I can take you as far as Wickenburg. There's an Indian Agent there. Maybe he'll know what to do with you," I said.

She smiled, then wiped her cheek on her dress. "I won't slow you down. I'm strong," she said. She looked at the cornbread. "Can I eat this?" When I nodded, she tore into it like it was the first meal she'd had in a week. It occurred to me that it probably was. I got the rest of the packet of food from the depot-more cornbread and some cold beans in waxed paper-and gave it to her since she was finished with the first batch.

"What about you?" she asked. I grinned.

"I'm fine. Big dinner last night. We'll get more grub when we get to Aguila."

The cornbread looked pretty dry. I handed the woman the rest of my coffee, which she drank without stopping. I waited for her to finish eating, then climbed back on my horse. She grabbed the edge of my saddle blanket, ready to run alongside. I shook my head.

"We can move quicker if you ride," I said, and reached down for her. I took a hand and swung her up behind me. She was light, like a child almost. She put her arms around my waist and rested her cheek against my back. I could feel her breasts, firm and pointed, pressing against me through her dress and my shirt. Her legs were thin but they looked sleek and strong tucked tight against my thighs.

"What's your name?" I asked. My voice sounded a little huskier than I expected. Hell, her nipples were rubbing against me as we rode, and it felt pretty good.

"De'nzhone' Doole'," she said. "It means Beautiful Butterfly. But the missionary called me Sarah."

"Your Apache name suits you better but it's a mouthful. How about I call you Dooley?" I asked. I felt her nod, her cheek rubbing against me, then she hugged me tighter.

"How old are you?" I asked after a minute.

She thought about it. "I was born before the first snow. Then fifteen summers," she said.

"This sister of yours. Is she older or younger?"

"Younger-two years. Her white man's name is Maria," Dooley said.

Damn, I thought. She was probably having a pretty tough time of it, too. "Was she still with these men when they sold you?" I asked.

Dooley nodded. "Their leader said he would keep her. He made Maria... lay with him. I heard her crying in the night. But I could do nothing."

"How long ago was this, and where were they heading?"

"The men said they would trade along the Salt River. Then to the reservation at San Carlos," she said, and paused. "They didn't know we understood them. I told Maria it was better that way. I last saw her... eleven days ago."

I tried to think the way they would. "That'd put them up around Apache Junction by now, probably," I said. Hell, I didn't have anything better to do and had some time to kill before I could go to Tombstone anyway. Out San Carlos way was as good as any place.

We rode for a while in silence. "I was thinking, Dooley. I haven't been to Apache Junction in a while. Why don't we just mosey over that way and see if we can't find Maria for you?"

Dooley was quiet for a moment. "You would... do that? Yes, please. I... I'll do anything. Maria is not well," Dooley stammered. She was crying again.

"No problem. Like I said, I've been wanting to head over that way. We'll need to cut south before Wickenburg, then east."

Dooley nodded, and hugged me tight. I started to whistle a little, feeling better about myself than I had in quite a while.

We made Aguila by noon. It's a nice enough little town and I got a good lunch. I was starving, since Dooley had eaten my breakfast. The innkeeper wouldn't let Dooley inside, so I brought her food out to her and she ate it perched on the edge of the wooden sidewalk keeping an eye on my horse.

Attitudes about Apaches were pretty hard in those parts. Things had been fairly calm after they put Cochise on the reservation for good in 1872, but then a couple of years ago Geronimo started raiding again. The US Cavalry had thousands of troopers hunting for him but they hadn't come close to catching him yet. The only saving grace was that Geronimo hated the Mexicans more than he did the whites.

The trail toward Apache Junction would take us through a whole lot of nothing for a couple of days, so I went over to the general store for supplies. I bought the normal things-flour, salt, beans, coffee, dried eggs, and a little bacon. I got a box of .45 cartridges for my Colt and a box of .44s for my new Winchester '73 repeater that I had got off the dead prospector. I figured I had it coming since he almost shot me with it. Then I poked around in the dry goods, thinking that with a needle and thread I could fix the holes in Dooley's dress. I found some other things I liked better and took them up to the counter.

In the middle of toting everything up, the old woman clerk picked up one of my selections and frowned. It was a simple blue gingham dress, almost like a long shirt with wooden buttons down the front.

"This for that Indian out there?" she asked. I nodded. She walked to the window and eyed Dooley, then walked to the table and traded the dress for a smaller size.

"That's... six dollars and fourteen cents, for everything. Darned fool thing buying real clothes for an Indian if you ask me, but at least that dress will fit her," she said, shaking her head.

When I walked outside, I gave Dooley her new outfit-the dress, a pair of cotton bloomers, and some moccasins. Her feet were tough, but we were going into some hard country and they needed covering. She looked like I'd handed her the crown jewels.

Eyes shining, she stepped into those bloomers on the spot. They came almost to her knees. Then she turned a little and pulled the old dress over her head before slipping into the new one. I've got to admit that I got a pretty good show even though I wasn't staring or anything. Dooley didn't look nearly as skinny without her dress on. She was lean but muscular in a womanly sort of way and her breasts looked as good as they felt rubbing against my back. Firm cones of tawny flesh topped with dark nipples, they'd poked out proudly from Dooley's slender chest.

"Thank you, John Ringgold," Dooley said.

"Just plain John is fine," I said, looking around. I'd learned that using my whole name was dangerous. Dooley slipped into the moccasins, then rolled up her old dress and tucked it under her arm.

"You look very nice, Dooley," I said. "That dress is right becoming to you."

She smiled broadly, checking herself out in the reflection of the general store window. Inside I could see the old woman who had surely seen Dooley changing clothes on the sidewalk. She was shaking her head and fanning herself with her apron.

"We better get going, Dooley. We got a long ride ahead of us."

We stopped about an hour before sunset, just long enough to set up camp and get settled while it was still light. When I came back from gathering firewood Dooley had arranged rocks into a fire ring and was clearing the site in her old dress. The new dress and the bloomers were folded neatly on a big flat-topped boulder. I must have looked disappointed.

"I didn't want to get them dirty," she explained.

I made a dinner of biscuits and beans, and we were quiet while we ate. I felt a little uncomfortable and couldn't think of much to say. It must have been mutual.

Dooley sat cross-legged on the ground and studied me as she ate her third decent meal of the day. The regularity of the meals was starting to suppress the urge to wolf her food, but she still ate as much as I did. After dinner, I got out a bottle and had a couple of drinks. Most nights I'd have finished the bottle and slept right where I was but tonight I didn't have the urge.

I got up and laid out my bedroll, then rolled out a spare blanket a few feet away. Dooley watched me. When I stretched out for the night, she moved her blanket closer. I looked at her with what must have been surprise showing in my face.

"It will be warmer this way," she explained. She stood, pulled the old dress over her head, and rolled it into a makeshift pillow. She was naked as the day she was born. The flickering light from the fire played over her taut body. Her black hair, loose and shiny, waved around her like a cape as she moved. Dooley put the rolled dress on the side of my bedroll, then curled up next to me and pulled her blanket over both of us. Warmer was right. Dooley's body was throwing off heat like a little furnace.

After a minute, she moved closer. She rolled on her hip, one leg hooking over my thigh. She nestled her face against my shoulder and sighed. I was still on my back, hands linked under my head-my normal position when sleeping on the ground. I was wearing all my clothes except my boots. I'd found over time that out in the open like this it was wise to be ready to move fast against the threat of varmints, human and otherwise.

When Dooley didn't move again right away I started to wonder if this was just how Apaches sleep, to ward off the cold. In truth, she was generating enough heat all by herself to avoid the need for a campfire. Then one small hand traced its way down my chest and started to fumble with my belt buckle.

"Dooley, you don't have to..."

"You don't want me?"

"Lord, it's not that. But you've had a rough time of it. I don't want to feel like another one of the men who did all that to you. And I don't want you doing something painful just because I've helped you some."

Dooley let go of my buckle. Her hand slid lower, finding ample evidence of my attraction for her. "I want to give myself to you," she insisted, her fingers exploring.

"You're too young to know that, Dooley, it's the gratitude talking."

"No. In better times-if my people had more food and horses-I would be married with young ones by now. I'm a woman."

Dooley reached up, tugged my right arm free, and took my hand by the wrist. She guided my hand to my hip, then between her legs. Her honey pot appeared to be the source of a lot of the heat I'd felt, and it was wet with desire. I could feel the small mound of soft hair, tangled and damp. The movement shifted the blanket causing the warmed air beneath to waft up to me, sweet with the intense young scent that surely confirmed what she said and washed away my objections.

I leaned into her, my free hand finding the back of her head. Her hair, thick and soft, seemed to be everywhere. I pulled her closer and kissed her and those full, moist lips responded with the hunger she'd lavished on that first chunk of cornbread. Her small tongue darted across my lips and her mouth opened to mine.

The fingers of my right hand discovered Dooley's tight young slit and slid into her easily, tracing her slick juices to the source. She rolled onto her back, her slim thighs opening completely. I rolled with her, and my mouth migrated across her cheek to the warm spot behind her ear, then down the muscled smoothness of her neck. Her hand found the top of my head and pressed me lower as she arched her back and thrust her chest at me. The dark tips of her breasts were swollen and the nipples distended. My mouth found the closest tit and drew it in, working the firm, resilient flesh with lips and tongue.

A long moan oozed out of Dooley, and she started to rock her narrow hips involuntarily. I was working two fingers in and out of her sex in a steady rhythm, fingertips stroking the incredibly soft, feathery flesh along the top of her vagina.

My cock was as hard as it gets, and the head was caught in the folds of my long johns. Suddenly, sleeping in all my clothes seemed a bad idea. Dooley apparently read my mind. She resumed her fumbling with my belt, more effectively this time. She opened my pants and tugged them down over my hips. She spent a minute trying to figure out how the bottoms of my long johns worked, then finally shoved them to my knees with the pants. Having gone as far as she could that way, I was forced to disengage my fingers from her cunny while she crawled to my feet and finished undressing my lower body.

I moved over on the bedroll to make room for her. By now I was pretty warmed up and not worrying about needing the blanket. Dooley crawled up to me and flipped onto her back, spreading her legs wide again. I lowered myself onto her trying to be gentle. She wrapped her arms around my back and brought her knees up, hooking her heels inside my thighs. I hiked my shirt up as far as I could get it and her skin felt fantastic against my chest, especially those firm titties.

My mouth found Dooley's again and I set my tongue to exploring, while my hand reached between us and found my cock. I wiggled the head up and down against the wet center of her until I felt it slip into her a little, all warm and friendly.

"You sure about this, Dooley?" I asked, not sure I could stop one way or the other. She nodded, and started to kiss me again. Her hands moved to my shoulders and urged me up, into her. I obliged, my manhood fighting to fill her empty place. It was a tight squeeze and I loved every inch of progress as I shoved until I was pressed deep into her. Dooley's cunny was hot and buttery soft and seemed to be sucking at my cock. I pulled back, drove into her again, and she gasped, still hugging me tight.