SEPTEMBER 9, 1861

New York, 1861.

Bare-knuckle boxing bouts were illegal in most States, denounced by most of the upper crust of American society as immoral. Reformers in particular, referred to the sport as barbaric, a throw back to the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome. However, there were also those who saw "the manly art of self-defense as a true science and a valid sport. This night, in a New York warehouse, two men squared off, while a large crowd gathered around, making their bets. The bout was scheduled for 25 rounds, boxers of the 19th Century having to go for much longer than their modern counterparts. Each boxer had put up a significant amount of money, a guarantee that each one would show up. Both wore the tights and boots common for boxers to wear of that time period. Each one also wore a sash across their waists, one wore yellow, and the other wore green. Both were bare-chested.

This was a heavy-weight bout. The yellow-sashed boxer was an Irish immigrant. Though obviously strong, he was slightly smaller and not nearly as bulky as his opponent. Though initially scoffed by his slightly larger opponent for being a ‘Mic’ and for the color of his sash reflecting his cowardice for having tried to duck out of this fight, it was soon apparent that the smaller Irish boxer was the superior fighter. Throughout the bout, he would stalk the larger man, remaining in a crouched position, slipping under most of the taller man's blows and positioning and distancing himself in such a way that most of the blows from the larger man that did land on him were either smothered or merely grazed him, without the full power of the larger man behind the punches. The smaller man would then pound away at the larger man's ribs after having staggered the big man with an over-hand right over the larger man's left jab, sending him into the ropes.  For three devastating rounds, the smaller Irish boxer mauled the larger man. By the fourth round, the big boxer's manager and corner threw in the towel. The fight did not last the prospective twenty-five rounds, and some of the patrons in attendance starting hurling things into the ring. Fortunately, the fight's promoters knew they couldn't rely on New York's constables to keep order. They hired bodyguards, armed with clubs, to keep the peace. Within a few minutes, order had been restored as the managers escorted their fighters back to their make-shift dressing rooms.

In his room, the young boxer was being massaged and patted down by his corner man to relax him while his manager, while pointing out some of the few mistakes the boxer had made during the fight, nevertheless congratulated his young prot�g�e'. The boxer said to his manager, who was also his trainer as was the common practice of the time, "I wanted to thank ya. When I arrived from Dublin, I came without a red cent, and then you took me in. Treated me better than me own father." 

"You deserved it, son. I could see it in your eyes, a determination and a raw courage. That's something ya can't teach a man. You can only refine it. It's not a common thing, and so when I saw you in your first fight, I knew I had to take you in." 

"What about your other fighters? They went on to make somethin' of themselves, too." 

"Yeah. But anyone can learn a skill. The determination, the hunger, that's something else.  In all me years of trainin', I taught a lot of young men how to use their fists proper. But in all that time, there was only two that really wanted it, so much that you can feel it. It's the hunger. You are one of those two."

"Who was the other one? He still fightin', too?" 

"Yes. You'll never see him in the ring, though. But he's still fightin'."

Quebec, Canada 1861

The fair was a grand festival, in spite of the tension in the air. Families were in attendance, taking in the food, the festivities, and the shows, and the organizers were certain that they had raised enough funds for victims of a recent cholera epidemic. The tension came from the mixed crowd. Many if the attendees were well to do recent arrivals from England, popularly referred to in the press as the ‘Chateau Clique’. However, also in attendance were an equal amount of Patriots, native-born French Canadians who clung tenaciously to their language, their culture, and their Roman Catholic faith. Both groups usually didn't like each other. However, both French and English Canadians had suffered from the cholera epidemic and so there would be peace at this festival for today, at least, for the crowd, at least. For near one of the tents, a makeshift boxing ring was erected. 

Inside stood a French boxer from Marseilles, having arrived in the Canada’s from that port city of France just five years earlier. He was dressed in the standard tights, boots, and sash in the manner of the American and English boxers of that time period. He was muscular and well built and he had a long, handlebar moustache. Though no longer in his prime, since he appeared to be in his mid-forties, he seemed confident in his abilities and to the English he seemed cocky.

Also in the ring was a barker who called out, getting everyone's attention that passed by.  A crowd gathered, particularly the younger, rowdier men who were in attendance. The barker called out, "Lahdeehs uhn shentailmain! Monsieurs . . . ma'amzelle. I preezent toyoo zee magneefeecent fy-the zee great combatant all zee way from Marseilles! Monsieur Andre Pichot!" The French patrons applauded loudly while the English patrons simply kept quiet. "Een mah hand, Ah 'ave zees grande gold piece! Ah weel geev zees to zee first man zat can last three rounds in zee ring weeth Monsieur Pichot een man to man combat!" The crowd milled around, but there were no takers. 

"Surely, zair mahst be wahn among yoo not lacking een zee qualities of manhood!" Still, there was no answer. Then the barker, listening carefully to the milling crowd, so as to point out who was mumbling to their friends in French and who was mumbling in English, directed his baiting at the latter. "Monsieur Pichot ees an exponent of zee noble art of le Savate zee French art of boxing!"  He then directed his next remark at the English speaking patrons. "Zehre 'ahs been much speculashon as to zee superiority of French boxing over zee Engleesh boxing!" That got the crowd going. "Eet ees no speculashon!  Zee unwilleengness of your fine Engleesh patrons here in attendahnce, obviously steel een zee flower of manhood, attests to zee superiority of le Savate!" 

The French patrons laughed while the young man of the English began falling over themselves, wanting a chance to show up both the barker and the tall, moustached Frenchman standing beside him in the ring. 

Shouts of "let me at ''em" could be heard.

Finally, a huge, powerfully built English Canadian stepped up, taking off his jacket. "I'll take on yer blasted fighter!" 

"Finallee! A man among zee Engleesh!" A smaller man, obviously the English man's friend, took his coat while telling the barker,

"Jake 'ere is the boxing champ of ole' Lankshire an' 'ee once stepped in the ring with the great Thomas Cribb!" 

"Hee steps een, 'ee weel be carried out," the French barker said with a smile, garnering the laughs of the French attendees.

The English Canadian boxer asked, "What be the rules, gov'?" 

"Rules?" Responded the barker.

The small man responded for his friend, "Yeah, rules! Marquis of Queensbury shall it be?" 

"'Marquis of Queensbury?' What are we een here for, to play a mere slappeeng gahm weeth our 'ands? No, monsieur! Zees ees a fight for honor for national pride! No wrestling, no gouging, no forayn objaycts! Beyond zat, eet shahll be a test of skeel between zee two combatants! N'est-ce pas?"

Rubbing the shoulders of his friend, the little man said, "Knock 'is ruddy block off, Jakey boy!"

Slapping his fist into his other hand, the English Canadian responded, "With pleasure!" 

The barker signaled to the man at the corner of the ring to ring the bell as both he and the little man stepped out of the ring. There was no referee for this impromptu demonstration bout. There was only the English boxer, assuming his raised fist fighting stance and the French savateur assuming a very similar fighting stance. However, as the English man stepped forward and shot out his left jab, the French boxer parried it while shuffling back just out of reach. He then delivered a left round kick to the English boxer's lead knee, a round kick to the English boxer's head with the same foot, then a powerful spinning back kick to the English boxer's midsection, sending the huge Englishman to the floor, gasping for air. His small companion rushed into the ring and tried to help his friend up.

"No fair! 'E was kickin' 'e was!" 

"Correct, monsieur!" The barker then addressed his remarks to the crowd. "What yoo 'ahve shoost seen, ees zee classeek expression of le Savate zee French art of boxing weeth zee feet!"

The English patrons were especially dumbfounded. Though there were a few boos from some of the English, many were genuinely shocked and dumbfounded. Not only had the French boxer used kicks to dispatch one of their own, he did so with a grace that was almost ballet-like in its execution. It was actually beautiful to watch, in a brutal way.    The booers wanted to start a riot and constables were on-hand, ready to keep the peace.  However, there weren't enough hecklers to cause trouble and as the majority of the crowd applauded, English as well as French, the hecklers made their departure. The barker escorted the moustached savateur to the inside of the tent after apologizing to the fallen English boxer. "My apologies, monsieur, but yoo do not ween zee gold piece!"

Inside the tent, the barker congratulated the savateur from Marseilles. The barker genuinely enjoyed the French boxer's company, partly because the man was a quiet and easy going fellow outside of the ring. However, it also gave him a chance to speak in his native French to a man who did not have a Canadian accent. "Monsieur Pichot, that was a most magnificent display!" Said the barker as he changed jackets, speaking in perfect French, and not the unwieldy English language, which he actually loathed. 

"It was no great victory," Pichot said. "The man has obviously had no experience with savate, but I have boxed, so I knew what to expect of him. In any case, this month will be the end of my tours. I can settle down with my wife and start raising a proper family." 

"You'll give up the fight game?" Pichot shook his head.  

"No. I could never give up. But I am getting old past my prime. I'd like to spread savate among our people, as a source of pride in our abilities, our very manhood!"

The barker smiled at the prospect. "A saul, a gymnasium would be in order. Ironic, is it not, Monsieur Pichot? A few years ago, savate was relegated to the lower classes of the docks. Street fighters and saloon brawlers who wanted a way to give them an advantage, but wanted to avoid the stiffer penalties for using a fist to strike a man under French law." 

Pichot said, "The art wasn't called 'savate' at that time, but chasson. 'Old shoe.'" He smiled at that. Yes, I would like to open a saul for savate here for our people." 

"Have you ever coached before here in the Canada’s?" Asked the barker as he finished changing, ready to end his work for the day.

Pichot responded, "Yes I had one student. Not too long ago. He picked up very fast. He had a determination in him. And the irony was, he wasn't even French. He was an American."

The Minnesota Woodlands, 1861.

The woodlands of this area were not too far off from the towns where hostilities between the Eastern Sioux or Dakota under Little Crow and the German settlers and American traders were beginning to brew. The lumberjacks of this camp needed an outlet to release their tensions, since they all knew that a Sioux was in Minnesota was coming.

One of the most common past times for these rough and hardy men was the art of wrestling, the most common style being the catch as catch can style, the same style that President Lincoln had practiced while still in his youth in Illinois.

This day's match was a friendly one, as most of them were. Two men, one tall, one shorter, but stocky built, had gripped each other by one arm while gripping each other behind the back of the head with the other hand. A circle was formed by the other lumberjacks, edging them on, while some others were off of the circle, warming up for their recreational bouts.

Midway through their bout, the taller wrestler tried to push the smaller man down, trying to use his strength and size, as opposed to skill and technique, to best his opponent.  However, the shorter man shot in to the taller man, pushing with his legs and driving his shoulder in between the taller man's legs. With a heave, he hoisted the taller man onto his shoulders while pulling on his elbow. He threw the taller man onto his back and then covered him, pinning his shoulder as one of the other lumberjacks fell to the ground

and patted the ground and yelling. "One fall!" The others cheered and the taller

man, in good sportsmanship, smiled to his conqueror and shook his hand. 

They both laughed. "I'll never be so foolish as to misjudge a man by his size again!" The smaller man patted him on the shoulder and they both got up, leaving the circle to get some water while two other wrestlers entered to test each other's skills. "What the hell did you do to me? I thought I had you for sure."

The smaller man answered, "Just leverage, using my weight and yours, to my advantage." 

"Well, friend, if you ever have the time, I'd be more than happy to part with a bit of my pay to learn that."

The smaller man said, "I ain't never really taught much." 

"Never?" 

"Guess I never really had the patience. I did teach once, though. Young fella, told me he had lost his brother."

San Francisco, Chinatown, 1861.

The mah-jong hall was the gathering place of Chinatown's more rowdier crowd. It was also frequented by members of the Triads or ‘tongs’, the Chinese underground criminal organization. As the patrons continued with their bets, the owner of the establishment was being ‘shaken down’ for ‘protection’ money by two very large tong members. In his native Cantonese, one of the tong enforcer said to the owner, "You have been offered a chance to pay your tribute owed us, Wing Ho!" 

The other enforcer said, "We merely seek that which is owed us for the protection the tong provides." 

"Protection?" Asked the owner sarcastically. "When the whites rioted in our new homes, we were left to fight and defend our families alone! The tong was nowhere to be found!  Even though it was your wars against each other that caused the riots!" The first enforcer slapped him down. Defiantly, the owner slowly looked up and said, "It was you tongs, while firing upon each other for control of your 'protection' money that you squeeze from us, that shot and killed a white woman when she was caught in your cross-fire." 

"Insolent dog!" Yelled out the first enforcer as he grabbed the old man by the collar.  "You forget yourself! In Canton, the tong holds sway even over the officials who serve the Manchu rats who sit upon the throne!"

At that point, the first enforcer's companion let out a scream of pain. As the first enforcer released Wing Ho, he saw his companion lying on the ground unconscious. Standing over him was Wing Ho's own bodyguard, a Chinese man in his early fifties. He stood out not by his size, since he was actually of average height for a Chinese. What made him stand out was the fact that his head was not shaven in front, nor did he wear a pigtail, as was the custom forced upon the Chinese by their Manchu rulers over two hundred years earlier. The bodyguard said plainly, "This is not Canton."

The owner took cover behind his desk as the tong enforcer took out his hatchet. The tong enforcer faked a left low kick, hoping to bring the guard's hands down, so that he can come up top with his hatchet upon the guard's head. However, the bodyguard didn't respond to the fake. Instead, he shuffled in and simultaneously blocked the hatchet blow with his left hand, while gripping the enforcer's throat with his right. He then thrust his right heel into the right knee of the enforcer, knocking the tong enforcer off balance and giving him even more pain.

Applying pressure, the guard said, "Drop it." The tong enforcer complied, releasing the hatchet, letting it fall to the ground. Immediately, the guard shot his right shin between the tong enforcer's leg, kicking him in the groin. He then finished the job with a hammer fist strike to the back of the enforcer's head and neck, sending the enforcer to the floor.  To the owner, he said, "I'll take them outside, quietly." 

"Thank you," said the owner, placing his left hand over his right closed fist, the Cantonese gesture of greetings or thanks.

The bodyguard had left both tong enforcers in the back alleys and had returned to the owner's office. "They'll keep coming, uncle Ho." He referred to the owner as ‘uncle’, though they were not related. This was his way of showing respect for the owner, who was significantly older than the bodyguard.

"The tong is a blight upon our people. I will not contribute to their evil by paying them a part of the funds that I worked so hard for."

The bodyguard shook his head. "One cannot stand against a giant alone." 

"The other businesses members of the Chinese-American League will stand with me. 

Law Sifu, we did not leave our homes in Kwangtung Province, to escape the oppression of the Manchus and the barbarity of the Taiping Rebels only to be bled by the tong.”

Law Ming Cheng, the bodyguard, or ‘Teacher’ Law as he was now being called, paced visibly worried. "You now refer to me as 'teacher'. You mean, you wish me to train the young men of the Chinese League?" 

"They will kowtow before you, taking tea with you. Many of them, though having lived here for so long, have not forgotten the respect due upon a teacher. Especially a boxing teacher, such as yourself."

The bodyguard paced even more, looking more worried. "Do they know what this means? It will be another tong war." 

"It will be a war against the tongs, so that we may be truly free in our new homeland as Americans." Wing Ho knew that Law was still concerned. "Has it been so long since you've taught your family's art?" 

"No. There was a student once. Not too long ago. As a matter of fact, I had broken one of our people's most important laws." The owner Wing Ho gave Law a questioning look. "I taught a non-Chinese my family's style of gung-fu. In the short time that he spent with me, he was the best student I ever had."

Recollections from the four mentors of John Reid, various locations, 1861.

The New York boxing coach told his prot�g�e', "Came to me one night. Half of his face was covered up."

The Canadian savateur told the barker, "I assumed that he had scars that he wished to hide."

The Minnesota wrestler told his former opponent, "He was no stranger to it. He had some experience. With Indians, he told me."

The gung-fu bodyguard in San Francisco's Chinatown told the hall owner, "Anyone else, I would have refused, especially since he was a foreigner. But I could see his pain, even through the cover he used to hide his face." 

The New York boxing coach said, "He had a natural feel for it. But he also had an anger."

The Canadian savateur said, "That anger left him open to attack when he first started."

The Minnesota wrestler said, "It often blinded him."

The gung-fu bodyguard said, "But he learned to harness his anger, control it, and eventually, he became its master."

The New York boxing coach said, "He never complained about the pain."

The Canadian savateur said, "If anything, I had to tell him to tone everything down."

The Minnesota wrestler said, "He was very intense."

The gung-fu bodyguard said, "That also could have been a weakness. But he turned that side of him into a strength."

The New York boxing coach said, "He learned how to do things that it normally takes most athletes years to develop."

The Canadian savateur said, "Through hundreds of contests."

The Minnesota wrestler said, "He was gifted. It was almost as if-"

The gung-fu bodyguard said, "He had little time to waste. Had he stayed longer-"

The New York boxing coach said, "He could've been even better. In any case-"

The Canadian savateur said, "He was at least on a par as a senior practitioner who's had twice the training he had."

The Minnesota wrestler said, "I dunno. Wish I could've helped him more."

The gung-fu bodyguard said, "He had the physical skill, but the pain never left him."

The New York boxing coach said, "Whatever it is that's inside of him-"

The Canadian savateur said, "Inner demons-"

The Minnesota wrestler said, "He hid them. Maybe that's what the mask was for."

The gung-fu bodyguard said, "He did show what a man could be capable of, if he had the motivation. Or the pain."

The New York boxing coach said, "Anyways, that was a few years ago. Later on, I read a story in the papers about a boy in Texas.

The Canadian savateur said, "Lost his brother-"

The Minnesota wrestler said, "Be about his age. Never told me his name-"

The gung-fu bodyguard said, "But it made sense that that would be him. John, may you find peace in your journeys."

The New York boxing coach said, "Good luck, John."

The Canadian savateur said, "I hope what I taught was useful to you."

The Minnesota wrestler said, "Maybe he's using that now to help others. Don't know how, but maybe he is."

*****

A saloon, any saloon, was considered an improper domain for ladies during the 1860's. Only dance-hall girls and women of questionable character frequented saloons of the Old West. Samantha Calhoun may have had no intention of frequenting Horse Creek's saloon, especially since most of its patrons were among the worst dregs west of the Mississippi. However, she had been asking questions as to the whereabouts of her friends and brother and that got attention. At twenty-five, she was a beautiful young woman.  And of course, she was obviously half-caste.

The men of the town, many of them mercenaries and soldiers employed by Fort Bartholemew and on leave, had caught wind of Samantha. The men from the fort had been trained to observe blind obedience, and as such, often times they lacked the ability to take any real initiative to further Cavendish's cause. In short, when it came to their jobs, they really didn't know how to think for themselves. As for the mercenaries, they were paid to stir up trouble and to occasionally spy on nearby Fort Laramie. A girl searching for friends who might be held in the mines was actually NOT an unusual thing. A lot of men were held captive there. As a matter of fact, a half-breed Indian girl on such a search should have been beneath the notice of these men except that Samantha, with her long black hair and lavender eyes was very beautiful.

They grabbed her off of the street after chasing her down and cornering her. They then decided to have fun with her. There were four of them, escorting her to the saloon against her will, laughing, and enjoying themselves as she struggled to break free. She even called out for the townspeople to help, but it was not in anyone's best interests to stand up for a half-breed Indian girl.

A balding, medium-sized, "soldier" from Bartholemew slammed some money onto the bar and called out, "Barkeep! Get us some right fine 'firewater' fer the lady here!" 

His companions laughed while Samantha shouted out, "No, let go of me!" 

"Barkeep, she ain't too used to settin' down and socializin' with us common white folk, here. See, she's the wife of a chief!" His friends laughed at that remark. However, there were a few patrons who couldn't stomach what they were doing. Though they dare not say anything to stop it, they were in no mood to sit around and observe it. Some of the patrons left. The bald man continued, "One of the wives, actually, since them Injuns can’t satusfy theselves with jest one squaw! She's Princess . . . Rain In The Face!" 

His friends put their hands to their mouths rapidly while making whooping sounds, mocking the war whoops of Indians. They then laughed. The bartender poured a glass. "Naw. She don't want just a shot. This here's a real honest ta goodness Injun princess!" To one of his friends who held her, a heavyset man, "Hank, give her the bottle!" 

"It'll be my pleasure." Hank took the bottle. Sarcastically, he offered the bottled to her. "Ma'am?" 

"No!" She screamed. Hank then poured the bottle on her as she tried to resist. The men laughed. 

However, across the room, a tall Mexican vaquero wearing a huge sombrero on his head and a serape across his shoulders, slowly called out, "Senor, jew ahhre destoorbeeng my dreenk." 

The men turned in his direction and the bald man, feeling challenged and angered said, "What did you say?" 

The vaquero stood up, flinging aside his serape, revealing how well armed he was. "Aye seh, senore. Jew ahhre very load weeth the indio. Jew ahhre destoorbeeng my dreenk."  The bar patrons moved out of the way, giving everyone room in case a gunfight would ensue. 

"You fancy this here Injun squaw greaser?" One of the men held Samantha while the other four squared off against the vaquero, all ready to draw their guns.

"She ees just another indio to me. But yoo men, I theenk yoo do not know how to handle her. She ees like a horse. She needs to be broken gently. Jew men . . . ahhr not gentle." 

"Really," said the bald man as the drawing of guns seemed imminent. 

The bartender then called out, "Now hold on, fellas! Your bosses promised me no gunplay when I opened up! God damn it, I cain't have me no payin' returnin' cuss'mers if they keep gittin' shot!" 

The bald man shoved the bartender aside, annoyed. "Git outta the way! Awright, how
'bout it, greaser! You real big on talk! You willin' to settle this with yer hands?" 

"Take it outside!" Pleaded the bartender, remembering the fight that Justin Calhoun previously took part in. It cost him a window, some tables, some chairs, and several broken drinking bottles and glasses. 

"Shaddup! W'ere already doin' you a favor!" Shouted the balding man as he and his companions began undoing their gun-belts and placing them on the bar. "I git enough a bein' told what ta do at the fort!" He then directed his remarks to the vaquero. "Now muchacho, let's see ya talk big with yer fi-." He tried to sucker punch the vaquero with a wide right, but the vaquero stepped in with his left foot while striking out with his left hand, the kind of ‘defensive stop punch’ that could be found in both Western boxing and Southern gung-fu styles such as Wing-Chun or Hung-Gar. The balding man's nose was immediately broken as he slumped to the floor, holding his bleeding face as his eyes started to tear up from the intense pain. 

The next man tried a right punch, but the vaquero simply leaned back and delivered a right sache' kick, a side kick to the inside of the man's left knee, the type that could be found in Savate, the French science of kicking. The vaquero's full body weight was behind the kick and the second assailant's knee snapped. He dropped to the ground, yelling out in pain, "God damn it, son of a bitch!" 

The third assailant was already on the vaquero, tackling him, both of them crashing to the ground. The bald man was still holding his nose when he yelled out from behind his clasped hands, "That's it! Pound that greaser son of a bitch!" However, the vaquero was still able to cover his face, preventing the third assailant from being able to effectively land a blow. The third assailant, who had mounted the vaquero, then tried to hold the vaquero's hands, so that he can open him up for a head butt. However, the vaquero, who was on the floor on his back, leaned forward, placing his own head into the assailant's chest, preventing the assailant from head-butting him. The vaquero then put his feet near his own butt, then with a push of his legs, the vaquero arched his back and shifted his weight to the left, causing the assailant to lose his balance and throwing him to the left, a classic wrestling move. The vaquero, now on top, then delivered a left elbow to the assailant's face, then immediately rolled off of him and got back up on his feet, careful not to stay too long on the ground, since the assailants friends may still be able to join in if they have recovered from their injuries. Fortunately, the other two were still on the floor, in pain. The third man got up off of the floor and charged the vaquero. Using the assailant's momentum against him, the vaquero grabbed the assailant's right elbow while encircling the assailant's waist. Putting his hips into him and bending his knees, the vaquero tossed the third assailant onto a nearby table, breaking both the assailant's left arm upon his landing and the table. 

The bartender, frustrated over the damage, said to himself, "I told 'em to take it outside!"  

The fourth man was still holding Samantha. The vaquero slowly walked over to them. "Now, senor, I believe you have my woman." The fourth man still was wearing his gun-belt. 

He panicked and drew his gun. "Go to hell!" Having loosened his grip on Samantha, she then seized the moment and shoved the man, causing him to both miss his shot and making him stumble into one of the saloon patrons who had stayed to observe the fight.

"Son of a bitch!" Yelled out the patron, who immediately landed a right cross on the fourth man's face. It wasn't too long before a full-scale barroom brawl was underway. 

The bartender, safely behind the counter, was again frustrated.  "I told 'em to take it outside!" 

Samantha tried to get away. However, the vaquero grasped her by the wrist.  She tried to struggle free, but the vaquero's grip was too strong. He pulled her with him and they both left the saloon out the back as Sheriff Newsom and his deputies entered from the front to restore order. Upon passing the bar, the vaquero and Samantha could both hear the bartender mumble to himself, "I told 'em to take it outside."

The vaquero led Samantha as they ran through the alley. Once he was sure they were clear of the trouble, the vaquero stopped. Samantha was breathing heavily as she said, "Okay mister. If you think I'm just going to give myself to you, you're wrong. You can force me, but you'll have to kill me first!" 

The vaquero reached into his pocket. In perfect English, without the accent, the vaquero said, "I've no intention of doing that, miss. After all, you gave me the excuse I needed to get in with their leader." Samantha looked at him suspiciously. He continued. "I know you don't have much reason to trust me, but maybe this will ease your fears." He gave her a bullet. 

"A silver bullet?," Samantha said as she looked at it closely. She had heard rumors of a masked man who used silver bullets. He was supposedly some kind of vigilante who occasionally would work in an official capacity for the government. Of course, that was all some kind of legend. At least, that's what she thought until now. 

"Miss, how long has it been since your friends disappeared?" 

"A few days ago. They have my brother and a friend of mine working in the mines. It's around the time when the troubles started happening between the soldiers and," She hesitated. 

"Your people?" He said, understanding. "The whites think that they want war, but that's not the case! They're only fighting to protect their hunting grounds and now with the kidnappings." 

"You believe that the kidnapped Sioux are here, not at Laramie?" 

"I've tried to tell some of my relatives, but they say the trails lead to Laramie. Also, there's one more thing." 

"What is it?" 

"They say that the trading post here has always treated them fairly, because . . ." 

"Because why?" 

"Because they give the Lakota warriors guns, guns that they can use to feed their families in order to hunt the buffalo and for use in protection against their enemies, the Crow and Pawnee." 

The vaquero, who was in reality the Masked Man in disguise contemplated the situation. "The soldiers at Fort Laramie had given gifts to the Indians before, guns had been among them." 

Samantha interjected, "They've always given the Indians the more obsolete models, single shot muzzle loaders. The ones they've received from the traders at Bartholemew are breech-loaders. And they're repeating rifles. The traders asked the Lakota chiefs to make sure their warriors keep it a secret as to who was supplying them." 

"But you're a Lakota. That's why you know." 

"Half. I wouldn't have said anything, but with the troubles brewing and my brother prisoner in the mines." 

"Understood. I know it must be rough for you, being in the middle." 

"No matter what happens, I'll lose loved ones on both sides if it comes to war between the Teton Lakota Nation and the United States." 

"Maybe it won't have to come to that." He offered his hand to her. "If you'll trust me."   Maybe it was the way that he offered his hand to her, the feeling of both strength and gentleness that she felt from him. Perhaps too, it was something that she saw through his disguise, in his eyes. There was a sadness, a loneliness that she felt in him, which he did his best to hide in order to appear as strong as possible, in order to win the confidence of those he tried to aid. In any case, she took his hand. "We'll get you to someplace safe and then I'll pay a visit to the mines. If your brother's there, I'll find him, along with the rest. I promise." As he held her hand, Samantha felt her heart skip a beat. She felt guilty. He was a stranger and after all, she and Jedidiah were in love, or so she thought. And he was also prisoner in the mines. As for Joshua and Sheriff Lom Trevors she still hadn’t found them.