Chapter 1

Kraven sighed in relief as he swung down off of his big stallion in front of the building containing the marshal's office in Nome. He had just got back from dropping the remains of Francis "Bulldog" Tyler off at the morgue. Tyler had escaped from Tok jail, and after killing one and sodomizing another fbi officer, had headed for the high lonesome in the interior of Alaska.

When the FBI had asked for someone who knew how to find Francis, the Marshal's Office had contacted Kraven. Two years in those very mountains just out of highschool, alone and pitting his wits against nature for months had hardened the young man. The scum that hid out in those same mountains had taught the young man some hard and brutal lessons.

Kraven had worked for five years after his stint in the mountains as a headhunter. Basically he went after the worst of the worst. The ones they didn't want back, alive anyway.

Grabbing the saddlebags off the back of his charcoal black stallion Grim, he threw them over his shoulder, not noticing the extreme weight of the bags. Brushing the few strands of light brown hair that had escaped his braid out of his eyes he walked into the building.

Kraven never gave his appearance any thought; hell what use was their in the mountains? At five nine he was a fireplug of a man. He was built like a barrel with a blocky slab-shouldered appearance. His arms and legs were muscled enough to make him appear slightly pudgy, untill you looked close at the bands of muscle moving under the skin. Long brown hair and a three-day growth of beard, along with being dressed entirely in buckskins gave the twenty five year old man the appearance of one of the old mountain men that had once roamed the lower forty eight. Men with names like Preacher, Puma Buck, Audie, Lobo, and a hundred other salty old boys...

"Hey Kraven. Good to see you. Is everything okay?" The light lilting voice firing staccato questions at him was Maureen Nantucket, all six feet four of willowy, red headed Irish of her.

Kraven went to wave, and only then discovered he held his Winchester in his left hand. And it was held ready to get into action. Blushing slightly he walked over to where the thirty something was busy typing, and grinning, at him.

"Fine Maureen, and you?" His voice was rusty and deep with a slow southern drawl that evoked visions of plantation houses and honeysuckle in most women that heard it.

Maureen nodded and grinned. "Doing fine dear lad, but I've been here waiting for you a week now. What'd you bring me laddie?"

Kraven couldn't contain his grin and chuckle at Maureen's eagerness. In addition to being a Marshal in her own right, she was a financial wizard who ran most of the retirement plans in Nome, for a very small fee.

Sitting the saddlebags down with a thump that shook her entire desk he winked at her. "Gold this time Maureen. Found me a large vein while waiting for Francis to get tired of that cave he was in. Dug me a piece out while waiting on him."

"That's despicable. Not only do they hire mercenaries up here, but the bastards are prospecting on government time! I should have you shot!" Kraven looked over towards the screaming Man with a distinct Brooklyn accent. He was a tall, handsome thin man with black hair, who was currently almost purple in rage as he glared at Kraven.

"Bet or fold Yankee." Was stated in a calm and even tone, as Kraven's now free right hand fell to the butt of his revolver in a fast draw rig buckled around his waist.

The Yankee blinked. This barbarian merc obviously didn't know who he was dealing with, and didn't have sense enough to be afraid. "Do you have any idea who I am?" Yankee screamed at Kraven as he rushed up, shaking his finger in Kraven's face and spraying him with spittle.

The right fist that hit Yankee seemed to come strait from hell on the bullet express. The leather clad fist of Kraven hit the loudmouthed New Yorker right on the point of the chin, and knocked him over one of the other desks to land unconcious on the floor.

When Kraven looked up he was surprised to see everyone gaping at him. "What?"

"Th that was Gordon Schofield a supervisor sent from Washington to see why we keep hiring you." Kraven looked over at Paul Severe, the man who hired him to hunt scum all through the interland of Alaska.

Kraven looked at the grizzled older man, who was now pale. "If he'd been polite I'd of been a little nicer."

One thing everybody knew was to be polite around Kraven. He was polite to everyone, and just expected the same. The marshals had dragged him out of the high lonesome, and given him a purpose, but they knew he was a hair trigger to reverting back to his old attitude. In a word vicious.