Chapter 1

It was a good day, but then again it was a shitty day, for me anyway. And that was about the extent of things from my point of view. In fact I didn't really have a point of view, yet. I'd been cheerfully riding around on my horse, Red, and I'd called myself deer hunting. Whitetail deer hunting in fact.

That was then though and this was now. I'd set up my camp just before sunset, warmed up a can of Ranch Style Beans and a can of Wolf Brand Chili in the same pot, and filled my stomach with what I liked to think of as dog food chili. No, it wasn't what you would call a delicacy, but it did make a meal and I thought it was all right, especially since I was out hunting and staying a couple of nights outdoors.

Just before the sun set I put up my two man tent, unrolled my sleeping bag, and boiled a last pot of coffee for the day. If I'd had a couple of beers I'd have downed them, but I didn't. I hobbled Red and put a scoop of oats into his nose bag and did the same for George, my pack mule. Just before I went into my tent I removed the nose bags so they could graze during the night.

I hadn't picked out a great camp site but it was in the edge of some hardwoods and there was a small clearing beside them. Red and George could have the night to find most of their own meal.

Once it was fully dark I made my way into the tent, shucked my clothes, and slid into my sleeping bag. I didn't fall asleep right away and to encourage myself to drift off I spun a yarn in my head until I was asleep.

I woke to birdsong, got up, pulled on my pants and boots, and made it outside to water a bush. Funny though, the trees seemed more numerous today. After watering the ground I dug around in George's packsaddle and brought out the bacon and eggs I had in there. After stirring up and mending the fire I put the bacon in a cast iron skillet, cooked it, and then cracked a couple of eggs to fry.

I'd eaten breakfast and packed up my gear again before I finished the pot of coffee I'd made. Rinsing the pot out in a nearby stream was my last chore before tying it on the packsaddle and mounting Red to ride off.

I had my Marlin 336c in 35 Remington in a saddle scabbard on one side and my Ruger #1 45-70 in one on the other side. Of course I wore a Ruger Super Blackhawk in 44 mag on my right hip and a Colt diamondback 38 special in a shoulder holster under my left arm. Hell, I love firearms, so sue me.

It was early in November, the first deer season of the year in North East Texas and I had on long johns, bluejeans, Carhartt overalls, and a Carhartt canvas coat with a wool liner.

The night had been a calm one except for a few too close for comfort seeming lightning strikes. The thunder was tremendous but thankfully no rain developed.

Here I was ready to leave, but somehow things just didn't look right. In the first place I was in among a lot more trees than I remembered from the night before. What the hell? It didn't seem like a big thing.

Things got more confusing when I tried to retrace my path to where my truck and horse trailer were parked. Try as I might I couldn't find the paved road. I came across a road of sorts later, but it was only a dirt road and it didn't even look like one of those I was familiar with. It had never been covered with iron ore gravel at all and it looked more like a trail which had been worn out of the woods by previous travel. Still, it was the only road I saw and it was heading in the general direction I thought it should so I followed it.

Other things I saw gave me an odd feeling too. For instance, I passed several small farms with log cabins being the main marker. I did pass one very large example and it had a big log barn too, but I ignored them and kept riding.

After about three hours of riding I came upon a small town, or what I assumed was one. The roads showed more work but they still seemed to be just dirt roads. Mostly they seemed to be trails across pastureland that had been worn into place after constant use.

The buildings were mostly of frame construction and even the local bank was frame built with wooden siding. There wasn't a brick building in sight.

I'd just finished dismounting and tying George up to a hitching rack in front of a Saloon and I was about to tie Red up too when shooting broke out inside the bank. Suddenly four men came rushing out with two of them carrying large canvas bags. The shooting seemed over now, but as they rode away an obviously wounded man ran out of the bank screaming about it being robbed and calling for someone to stop them.

Hell, I couldn't resist. I was back on Red and after them in seconds. I knew I would catch them too. Red's official name with the AQHA was Joe Sea Bob. He was an AQHA registered quarter horse, and the Sea in his name was from his grand-sire, Seawolf. The Bob was from his sire, One Bob Won. Both these worthies were triple A rated racing quarter horses, and though Red wasn't a rated racehorse he damned sure had the breeding to give him speed, and early speed at that.

I put my heels to him and we were off, and gaining ground fast. Naturally the others were looking behind them and suddenly two of them turned and fired their pistols my way. I nearly laughed at them since there was no way in hell for them to hit me with a pistol fired from the back of a running horse, especially at the current distance, unless it was just a lucky shot. Hell, at that time I considered my luck to be as good as anyone's so I didn't even slow down.

Just then we rounded a slight curve in the road and I pulled Red to a stop, dismounting, and pulling my Ruger #1 from the saddle scabbard as I did. I hit the ground in the prone position and looked though my scope. I'd last sighted it in for a thousand yards and that distance was merely because I'd had the room at the time and I wanted to see if I could even get on the paper. I'd been well pleased with the results.

I was pleased again when the rider I'd been aiming at fell off his horse promptly, just shortly after I fired. I felt so good about it I did it again with the same results. My third try was a clean miss and so I wised up and tried for the horse on my next shot. It was a magnificent hit, and the horse stumbled and fell at once. I shot the other one and got it too. Now all the robbers were on the ground and afoot at best.

Suddenly I heard horses pounding up behind me. One of them stopped beside me and the gentleman who dismounted was wearing a badge. He waved the others with him onward and then spoke to me.

"Howdy mister, I'm Cleet Gorsham and I'm the marshal. That was some good shooting and I appreciate the help. Let's go see what the rest of the boys came up with," he said.

We both mounted and rode down to the scene of the excitement though most of it was over now. The first man I'd shot was deader than shit and the second one was too. I actually felt more sorry for the two I'd shot the horses out from under. They were still alive, but only barely. One of them had both arms and legs broken and they were obviously compound fractures because bits of bone were sticking out everywhere. One jagged end had even ripped a hole in his pants. The other one had both arms broken and from the way he was trying to squirm it was apparent his back was broken too because he wasn't moving from the waist down no matter how he tried to wiggle.

The marshal took one look at him, walked over, and put a bullet in his head.

"Clem," the marshal yelled, "Go back to town and send the undertaker out here with a wagon and send a buckboard to take the live one to the doctor."

The marshal walked over to the horses I'd shot then and gave them the coup de gras too.

After introductions all around the marshal said, "Well Jake, you shore made our day go easy. We really appreciate it. Lessen I'm wrong, two of those boys had paper out on 'em. After we get 'em back to town I'll pull out my stack of posters and we'll look closer." he said.

I hung around until a wagon and buckboard came up. The other men loaded the wounded but still living one on the buckboard and then piled the three dead ones into the wagon after removing everything of value from them.

The marshal presented me with the proceeds of the valuables search, or at least all of them I could carry. He had the rest piled on the wagon with the bodies.

"Ain't no need to hold out their things to sell for their funerals. The bank pays for that and always has. You get to keep everything they had on 'em except the bank's money. He said.

The buckboard and wagon took off for town then and another smaller wagon came up. I soon discovered it was a private contractor who came out in case he was needed. The posse, I guess it was, fished the tack off the two dead horses and piled it in the wagon after Old Johnny made a deal with me to haul it back to town for fifty cents. Old Johnny even unhitched his mule and pulled the dead horses off to the side of the road.