Chapter 1

My father was a wimp, a pussy, or whatever deragutory name you want to call him. He was raised in the North East by a farmer, and while he did learn to farm he never learned to take up for himself. It was pitiful really. His father owned a large farm and they were well to do. Still, even going to school the other boys often kicked my Dad's ass and he'd always run home crying to his mama.

I don't guess there was any other way he could turn out. His father was a church going man and he stressed Tom shouldn't lower himself to fighting with the other children. Tom didn't have to lower himself, the other boys did all the lowering required by knocking him down and kicking his ass.

Grandpa finally got sick of seeing Tom all stove up and he let his farm hands know which boys had given Tom the business and also told them about the dollar they'd get for making things right. Soon enough Tom didn't have much to worry about. After the biggest bully in school gave him a minor whipping Grandpa raised the ante on retribution and five dollars bought the bully two broken arms and a couple of black eyes that were real beauties. He also had to have a nut-ectomy for the testicle that was severly ruptured in the fracas. This changed the attitude of most of the bulliess toward Tom. They pretty much spent the rest of their schoolyard careers in mortal terror of getting crossways with Tom.

Tom was left out of the loop for the details and wrongly thought his mild mannered ways were the cause of everyone trying to get along with him afterwards. He finished school, was set up on a small farm by Grandpa and he showed his real talent there. His crops paid off handsomly and before he turned twenty-one he had plenty of money to catch a beautiful wife. They had a baby, me, almost right away and the farm kept doing well.

Everything rocked along nicely for the next fifteen years. I'll admit I started the one room school as a pussy in the making myself. Yes, I was wimpish from the getgo, but Tom, my father, harkened back to his own youth and gave me advice from his own experience. The trouble was his experience didn't mean shit since he never cottoned to what had stopped his harrassment. Luckily for me, I'd taken after my mother more than after Tom, my Dad.

My mother was a tall woman along with being a beautiful one and it was obvious from the start I was going to be tall myself. Tom wasn't so tall, but he was broad and muscular and the chores I was assigned tended to make my muscles bulge a little in their own right.

My first three years in the one room schoolhouse were basically a repeat of Tom's, but something happened after the forth grade since I had a little growth spurt. Starting with my fifth grade year I was taller and broader than most of he boys in school at any grade level.

I'll never forget the day Wilbur Frankston, three years older than me, thought it would be fun to give me a dose of shit. Wilbur wasn't a small boy, but he wasn't in my league at all. He picked a fight with me after he'd spent the day bragging about the lessons his father had paid for from a real fighting man.

Too bad for Wilbur his lessons hadn't included sizing up your opponent and at that they had come from a drunk who did most of his fighting against other drunks.

Wilbur started the fight in a boxer's stance intending to pepper me with left jabs and then really let me have it with a wicked right hand. Poor Wilbur didn't have a wicked right hand and in fact he didn't have much of a left jab. I just lowered my head, charged into him, knocked him down, and then beat the ever loving shit out of Wilbur. I broke his collar bone and blacked both his eyes, knocking two of his front teeth out in the bargain. Wilbur also had the indignity to have the whole episode seen by Mrs Jenkins, the school marm.

She sent him home at once and told him not to come back before his father and mother came by to see her. The word was Wilbur got a beating after his father got the lowdown on him starting the fight. Turns out that was it for Wilbur's schooling and the word around town was Wilbur was getting most of his education from a mule's ass while he was busily plowing some of his father's land.

Hell, I was doing plenty of plowing myself by now and I was also involved in cutting and gathering hay almost daily. It didn't strain my big frame and it even made me bigger.

Ah, the leisure of youth. It all came crashing down around my ears soon enough. Once this year's crops were in my Dad sold the farm, bought two Connestoga wagons and loaded us up for a trip to Texas to stay. The war was just now over and it was said us yankees had it made if we'd just move down south and take over. Maybe, but I remembered no battle in the civil war had ever been won by the North in Texas. Still, it was Tom's decision and I dutifully spent my time packing and repacking the wagons until they suited my mother.

We weren't involved in a wagon train or anything similar. We did go along with four other families and there was one man who'd been that way before and he was putatively our leader. I didn't really care about the details. I was armed and dangerous now. Tom had looked around and bought weapons for all of us. My mother had two peperbox pistols she carried on her person and Tom had bought me a double holster with a 44-40 for each one. He also bought a Henery rifle for himself and one for me.

The best thing he bought was plenty of ammunition. He turned me loose to practice up and I did it. It didn't take long to learn to use the Henry but the pistols were another thing. Not only did I need to learn to hit what I was shooting at, I realized, whether Tom did or not I'd have to be able to get the pistols out fast. Hell, it was fun to practice and I did plenty of it. Mostly I practiced my fast draw, but I actually shot enough rounds to get good with my aim too.

Dad, Tom, was expecting a lot more trouble on the way than ever came about. We did have one incident where four of the former rebels tried to hold us up on the road. We'd been traveling for about a week before it came. Our wagons happened to be in the lead that day and I was driving the first in line. I had already noticed I couldn't get my pistol out with any speed from sitting in the wagon's seat so naturally I had one in my lap.