Winchester Justice

APACHE CANYON, ARIZONA, 11 JUNE 1874

Buck Cannon rode had ridden slowly across the sand and rock for almost all of the previous day and had seen no tell-tale sign of Apaches, but he had felt their presence.  Because of that, he had made a cold camp that evening in the hills just east of the Whetstone Mountains.  He had spent a long night, uncomfortable in his blankets and troubled by dreams of the Civil War.  He awoke once, in the middle of the night, and actually longed for companionship and a warm fire.  Even the beans that Manolito had burned the previous night would have been welcome companions.

At first, he had put his loneliness off to the quietness of the night, and later to his delicate wounds from the incident with the bull.  As the night had drawn on, however, and after his dreams had awakened him numerous times, he had forced himself to face his real problem.

On the surface, Buck knew he had been deeply hurt that Manolito would so quickly assist and befriend a man that he knew was Buck's mortal enemy.  What did that say about his friendship with Manolito?  He had explained to Manolito exactly why he hated the Yankee sharpshooter—the man he now knew as Lucas McCain—and why he had sworn to kill him.  Buck had made a vow to a dead friend; sworn revenge to and for Billy Younger.  It was an old oath, to be sure, made in the heat of combat ten long years before, but Buck had made that promise sincerely.  Now, when he finally had the chance to fulfill it, he had hesitated.

Why?

Had it been so much easier to kill men during the war?  He had no doubt that he would have gladly shot McCain down without remorse in battle.  Yet, ten years and a lifetime later, he could not do it.

What is wrong with you? he asked himself, angry that he had reneged on the promise.  Have you grown that soft with age?  Is a sworn oath to a dead friend no longer worth anything to you?  Have all them years since mellowed you that much, or is it simply the fact that you can't murder a man in cold blood?  Or, is it because you believe that two wrongs don't make a right?

The questions had plagued Buck throughout the long night.  Now, with the first gray light of dawn, he knew the answer.  Though he had been hurt by Manolito's seeming betrayal, the truth of the matter was that he could no longer find the hate required within his own heart to murder Lucas McCain.  To shoot an enemy in war was a duty, but to murder a civilian—especially an unarmed one, down on his luck and looking for a lost son—some ten years after the fact, well, that was something else entirely.

Perhaps it had been that the hate that had justified his keeping the war alive in his heart all these years.  He had certainly seen enough things he could use to keep the hatred alive.  Now, when he needed that hate the most, it had deserted him.  Hate was a fickle friend, he conceded, for it had jumped ship even faster than Manolito.

Buck shook his head as he rolled up his blankets and saddled his horse.  Manolito had not deserted him; he knew that in his heart.  Buck realized his hurt over the incident was merely due to his own sensitivity where McCain was concerned.  No, Mano had not turned on him.  Mano had only acted as a rational man should; as he would have on any such an occasion.

Manolito had merely offered aid to a stranger who had needed help.

Manolito did not feel in his heart the war that Buck felt in his own.  There was no way that he could have.  It did not chew at his soul the way it did Buck's.  He knew he could not blame Manolito for not understanding his feelings.  Buck did not understand them himself on some occasions.  There was no way a sane man, who had not been there when Billy Younger was shot, could have possibly understood Buck's desire to kill McCain.

Or what had been his desire, Buck corrected himsilf.  Now, he felt confused, not sure how he was supposed to feel.  Worse, he had no idea of what he was supposed to do.

McCain's sudden appearance, especially considering Buck's thoughts about the war in recent days, had seemed far more than coincidental.  It had rekindled old hurts in Buck's soul with a passion.  Billy Younger's death had been a big hurt, the loss of a  friend at a time when Buck had desperately needed a friend.

Buck suddenly wished that he and Manolito had forgotten the work Big John had sent them to do.  Instead of working, he wished that they had taken that ride into Tombstone.  Had they gone, McCain would never have found them, and they would now be having quite a time in town.  If they had only gone, McCain would have remained out of their lives and in Buck's past where he belonged.

Cold and stiff from a sleepless night, it was an irritable Buck Cannon that mounted up and rode away from the cold camp as the first rays of sunlight exploded on peaks of the Santa Rita range to the west.

A fire would not have been prudent this deep into Chiricahua country, not with renegades out on blood raids along the border.  McCain had managed to find the camp he had shared with Manolito, and McCain was a white man.  Had McCain been an Apache, he and Manolito might have lost their hair.  They had been careless, for if a white man could find their camp, then it would have been far easier for an Apache to do so.  No, he admitted, it had been smarter to play it safe rather than risk an ambush by giving away his position with a fire.

Buck's stomach grumbled as he rode, and he had a powerful hankering for a shave and hot coffee.  Instead, he consoled himself with dry hardtack and a canteen of lukewarm water as he rode, following a meandering arroyo to the northwest.

He was bone tired and he knew it.  His full night of supposed sleep had not been very restful.  Added to the previous nights of sleeping under field conditions, interrupted by the need to rotate defensive watches every few hours, meant he was likely on the edge of being exhausted.  He had only managed a few hours of solid sleep each night for the past week.  In a land that required eternal watchfulness, exhaustion was asking for trouble.

He pulled Rebel to a halt and scratched the horse's ears as he surveyed the long valley in front of him, admiring the way the first rays of the sun lit the high peaks with vermilion.

Why are you out here?  What be you looking for?  Why you bein' so pig-headed, he asked himself morosely.  Riding around out in this place, sulking like a child, while Mano does the proper thing.  Mano's the one helping that sharpshooter look for his lost boy.  Instead of helping, you're actin' just like the greenhorn kid Big John said you were.

His eyes roamed the far hills as he chastised himself in silence.  It was an old habit, this watching of the terrain before moving, born from years of living on the edge of danger from Indians and bandits.  He had learned long ago that it was best to be still and watch before moving, for movement was detected faster than anything else in the desert.

A movement caught his eye, distant, something on the desert to the west.

Slowly, Buck removed the field glasses he kept in his saddlebag and brought them up to study the movement.  The sun was at his back, and there was little danger of giving away his position by a reflection off the lenses. He also had the backdrop of the rocks behind him, eliminating the danger of highlighting himself against the sky.  He brought the glasses up and focused them on the foothills where he had seen movement.

He found the source within a few seconds, a pair of riders crossing a saddleback and heading down into the dimness of a faraway arroyo.  Strange, he thought.  If they were Apaches, there were only two of them.  Apaches usually traveled in greater numbers, and they usually rode single file.  Whoever they were, he might be able to avoid them by following Apache Canyon to the south.

The riders were heading northeast, in the direction of the Rincon range.  It appeared they had crossed the northern tip of the Empire Mountains before emerging onto the flats near the Butterfield road.  The riders were moving in a northeasterly direction. Yet, the more Buck watched them, the more convinced he became that these were not Apaches.

 The pair were riding side by side and both were wearing hats.  The riders quickly disappeared from view as they descended a steep trail into the purple dimness below.  Buck carefully put the field glasses bag in his saddlebag and frowned.

Two riders, most likely white men or Mexicans, and they were heading northeast.

Buck's frown deepened.  The route they were taking did not make much sense for white men.  The trail was very rough in that direction, all steep mountains and saguaro forests.  There was nothing even resembling civilization in that direction for miles.  Of course, the army fort at Camp Grant was in that direction, but it was sixty miles away.  It would have been far easier to take the Butterfield road east all the way to the Winchester Mountains and then ride north, though it would have taken a lot longer to do so.

It might be that the riders were simply trying to remain out of sight, he admitted, and had deliberately chosen a less predictable route.  The high passes of the Rincons were certainly not as visible to watching eyes as the Butterfield road was.

The dust rose again on a distant hill to the west, as the twin riders descended another steep slope into a wash.  It appeared they were going cross the Butterfield road and head toward Rincon Peak, which was still some ten miles to the north.

Buck had left Manolito with McCain in a fit of anger.  He had been contemplating on just going home to join them, for he was tired now, but giving in just went against Buck's nature.  He had never liked surrender.  Here was a distraction that would now keep him from having to ride home with his tail tucked between his legs.

He could head due north to the Agua Verde, cutting across the flats to intercept them.  It was as good an excuse as any to prevent returning home in humiliation.  The longer he could stay away from the High Chaparral, the better the chance that McCain would get outfitted again and ride out of his life.

Besides, the direction these riders were taking would take them right into the heart of Apache country.  It was possible the riders were greenhorns, or perhaps a pair of pilgrims.  Pilgrims riding right into the seat of Cochise's beehive, who might need a lot of assistance if the Chiricahua showed up.  In that direction, the Chiricahua would certainly show up, sooner or later.  Maybe he could catch up, mosey on in, and warn them of the danger.

 Buck knew he could remain hidden from view by following the shallow arroyos that meandered northwest from the Whetstones.  He would be visible for a couple of miles when he crossed the road on his way to the Agua Verde, but it was a risk he was willing to take.  If he moved carefully enough, he would not be too visible.  It was one of the main reasons he wore black.  Though hot in the desert sun, black clothing blended well in the shadows.

In fact, having some company to ride with for a few days might be good, especially if they were not High Chaparral ranch hands.

Besides, he reasoned, I ain't seen Camp Grant in quite a spell, anyway.

Buck nudged his Rebel forward and down the broken trail, using Rincon Peak as a guide.  The horse slipped into the arroyo and took up an easy walk.  With any luck, he would catch up with the riders by noon.

II

TORTOLITA RANGE, NORTH OF TUCSON 

John Cannon was tired and his back ached.  The previous evening, he and his men had ridden hard to get to the ambush site east of the Big Wash, arriving well after dark.  Now, after more than three hours of hard searching in the moonlit desert, they had found no sign of the Army troops that were supposedly waiting for them.  In fact, they had seen no sign of Apaches, either.

It was nearing midnight when John had called a halt to the endless wandering around in circles and assembled his men together in the dim moonlight.

"Sam, I think we're on a wild goose chase," he said, trying not to let his own exhaustion and frustration show.

"I'm afraid you're right, Mr. Cannon," Sam replied.  "If there was an ambush or fight going on anywhere around here, we'd have seen or heard something by now.  I mean, we should have at least heard shots, or seen some dead horses or something.  We've searched all along this side of the Tortolitas, all the way up to the northern wash.  We haven't found anything at all."

"I've been thinking about that, too," John admitted with a grimace.  "You're right.  If those soldiers were in trouble here, we'd have found them by now.  Any chance we might have mistaken that Jones fellow's directions?"

"No," Sam replied.  "I heard the same ones as you.  Up the Pantano to Ritillo Creek, then due north to the Tortolita range.  He was pretty precise, Boss."

John nodded and rested his hands on his pommel as he considered the situation.  The route they had taken up the Pantano Wash had brought them very close to Fort Lowell in Tucson.  The lower elevation of the wash had prevented them from actually seeing the post, however, and at Ritillo Creek they had turned due north into the Oro Valley.  All along that route, they had seen no sign of pursuit, nor any sign of a force of men.  No tracks, no dust, nothing.  That was odd, for if a relief force had been moving from Fort Lowell there would have been signs; the tracks of many shod horses, or perhaps dust in the moonlight.  Other than local ranchers, any help for the Army patrol would have come from Lowell, for it was the closest Army post to the spot where the beleaguered troopers were supposed to be.  Yet, they had seen nothing.

"Think they were pulled off to defend Tucson from another raid?" Joe asked.

"I doubt it," John replied.  "We would have seen something, heard something from Tucson.  I'm wondering how we got so far off the trail.  Where did we mess up, Sam?"

Sam yawned before replying, standing in his stirrups as he tried to infuse a little blood flow into his backside, which was quite numb after a full day (and half the night) in the saddle.

"I don't think we messed up, Mr. Cannon.  I heard Jones' directions, same as you. We came right to the spot he sent us to.  Could be he was mistaken, or maybe he got the directions wrong."

"Well, if we didn't mess up, then Jones must have," John agreed, his voice sounding like gravel in a washbasin.

"Well, he sure told us something wrong," Sam agreed.

"Or maybe he meant to," Joe said, scratching his chin.  The other men heard that and crowded around to listen.

"How's that?" John asked.

"I don't exactly know, Mr. Cannon," Joe replied.  "There was just something about that Jones fella I didn't cotton to.  He was just a little too easy-talking, if you catch my meaning.  Especially for a man who was supposed to be scared of Apaches.  I mean, he just didn't sound all that scared to me.  I was just thinking that, well, maybe he intended to send us on a wild goose chase just to hornswoggle us."

"Why would he do that?"

"Not sure, Boss.  Practical joke, maybe."

"Practical joke?  I don't even know the man.  Do any of you?"

The High Chaparral men quickly shook their heads, admitting they had never seen Chancy Jones before.  John sighed, and removed his canteen, taking a long drink before screwing the cap back on.

"All right.  Then why do you think a man who doesn't know us would take the time and trouble to ride all the way from Tucson to the Rincon Valley just to play a practical joke on us?"

"It was just the feeling I got, Mr. Cannon," Joe said.  "Gut feeling."

"Well, it makes no sense, Joe."

"What's more interesting," Sam said suddenly, sidestepping his horse closer, "is just how this Jones fellow knew where we'd be.  I mean, look at it, Boss.  Jones didn't come out of Tucson headed east, the direction most folks would go to get away Tucson if it was threatened by Apaches.  He didn't mosey around looking for us, either.  He came straight to the Rincon.  He knew right where to find us.  Now, how did he know that?  That north range is pretty big.  We could have been anywhere out there."

"Maybe they told him town, Sam," Pedro offered, shrugging his shoulders.  "It was hardly a secret."

"No, but that's a long way to ride for a practical joke," Sam told him.  "A joke on some fellas he doesn't even know.  If he didn't know us, then how did he know who to ask about where we'd be?  Why bother to play a joke on someone you don't know, especially when it involves such a long ride?"

"Are you thinking that he deliberately lied to us?" John asked.

"Seems like it, Mr. Cannon."

"Why, Sam?"

"Don't know.  But that's what I think, same as Joe."

"He sure had a strange looking rifle," Joe said.

"What are you talking about?" John asked.

"Well, I mean that saddle carbine he was carrying had an oversized lever on it.  I never saw a lever like that on a Winchester before."

"You saw a large lever on his gun?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Yeah, big round ring.  Not long and flat like on a normal repeater."

John shook his head and started to growl about wasting time talking, when something nagged at him.  Something that—

John felt his blood run cold.

"You sure that lever was round, Joe?"

"Yes, sir.  Noticed it right off.  Why?"

            "The McCain boy told me his father owned a rifle like that," John said, and he looked Sam in the eyes.

"McCain?" Sam asked.  "Was that the name of that kid we got out of the Apache camp?"

"Yes."

"McCain?  As in Lucas McCain?"

"His son, Mark.  Why, you know of him, Sam?"

"Sure do," Sam admitted.  "Seen him a time or two.  I came across him once in Claypool.  He was a deputy sheriff there.  Later on, I heard tell he had moved down New Mexico way.  He's pretty famous for using a rifle instead of a pistol.  You’re right, too.  Only one man carries a rifle like that.  But whoever that Chancy Jones fella was, he certainly wasn't Lucas McCain."

"You're sure about that?"

"Absolutely, Boss.  McCain's not the sort of man you forget very easily.  McCain's a big man, and he's tough as rawhide.  No, that Jones fellow wasn't McCain.  He wasn't near big enough."

"Maybe not, " John replied, taking up his reins, "But like you, I'm willing to bet there's only one rifle around made like that.  That has to be McCain's rifle.  And if that is McCain's rifle, then it can only mean that the man carrying it is the man who killed him."

"Somebody killed McCain?" Sam stuttered, incredulous.

"Yes, and I'm betting his name is Chancy Jones," John said.

"Now, hold on a minute, Boss," Sam replied.  "I mean, how could that dude kill McCain?  I saw that Jones fella.  He wouldn't stand a chance against McCain in a standup fight.  And even if he did, it still doesn't explain why he'd ride all the way to the Rincon just to send us on a wild goose chase."

"Because it wasn't a standup fight at all, Sam, and because somehow he found out we rescued McCain's son from the Apache," John said.  "And somehow he found out that the boy was staying at the High Chaparral."

"So, you think he sent us out here so he could get to the ranch unopposed and kill the boy?"

"It makes sense," John said.  "He knew that to hurt that boy he would have to get on the ranch, but first he had to find out where the High Chaparral was.  The easiest way to do that was ask around town.  He probably heard we were out on the summer roundup, and sent a couple of men to watch the ranch.  It's also likely he found out where we were, and came out to decoy us, to send us way out here so his men could go to the High Chaparral and kill that boy."

"But why kill a kid?"

"Because he's a witness to his father's murder," John said, biting the words as if spitting nails.  "And because he found out the only people left to stop him are three ranch hands, and Victoria and Blue!"

John yanked his reins violently as he dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse.  Suddenly, he was no longer tired, but filled with energy, desperate with the need to get home quickly.  As one, the men of the High Chaparral spurred their horses into a gallop behind him without uttering another word.

The small group of desperate men rode silently through the cold moonlit desert, heading south at a killing pace, rushing for Tucson and the road that would lead them to the High Chaparral.  Each man knowing they could not make it before daybreak.

Each man praying they would not arrive too late, and each silently knowing that they would.

III

HIGH CHAPARRAL RANCH

A vicious kick smashed Lucas in the ribs.  He grunted in pain, trying to twist away to avoid the blow, for his hands were tied behind his back, making the kick impossible to deflect.  The twist did not allow him to escape the blow, but it did manage to allow Lucas to avoid the pointed tip of the boot as the small man named Buckeye kicked him savagely.

Instead of simply shooting him, Boyle had ordered some of his men tie Lucas up with rawhide thongs and place him in a corner by the fireplace.  Others had similarly tied Manolito before dumping him, face down, on the floor beside Lucas.  All the while, Boyle had physically restrained the Mexican girl who had cried out when Manolito had been knocked unconscious, holding her with a huge Bowie knife across her throat.  Now he sheathed the knife, but he did not let go of the woman

"Well, well," Boyle grinned, picking the Winchester in his right hand as he pulled Victoria close against him with his left, keeping her hard against his body like a shield.  "You sodbusters sure take a lot of killing.  I saw you shot, mister.  And I saw you fall off a cliff.  And I know that, even if you survived all that, you were left out there without a gun and without water.  Now, you come riding in here, as pretty as you please, just so we can shoot you all over again.  You are the toughest damned sodbuster I ever met, McCain.  You also have 'bout the sorriest luck of any man I ever come across."

Boyle nodded and Buckeye kicked Lucas again, and this time he connected well, knocking the breath out of Lucas.  No ribs were broke, but it hurt.  The small man giggled.

"Look at that, Boyle," he said.  "Sodbuster ain't so tough now, is he?"

"No, he don't look tough now, Buckeye," Boyle admitted.  "On the other hand, he is tied up.  I could just untie him and see if he'd let you kick him like that on your own hook."

Buckeye kicked Lucas again, this time between the shoulder blades.  Lucas arched in pain, gasping as he tried to draw a breath, and glared at Buckeye.

"Go ahead and untie this hombre," Buckeye bragged.  "I'll clean his clock from here to Sunday, and then I'll take his scalp back to hang on my lodge pole!"

"Ha!" Boyle exclaimed sarcastically.  "You'd be belly up before ten seconds, Buckeye.  Best leave him tied up."

"Well, if'n you say so," Buckeye replied, grinning widely.  "But then I can still kick him to death!"

Buckeye kicked again, and though Lucas managed to turn his head, the sole of the boot smashed into his cheek and cut his lips.  There was little Lucas could do but endure it.

"Where's my boy?" Lucas said, muttering through smashed lips.

Buckeye pulled his foot back to kick Lucas again.

"Hold on there, Buckeye," Boyle ordered.  "Don't kick him senseless, least not yet. You'll spoil all the fun."

Boyle released Victoria and stood, moving closer, and he pressed the muzzle of the Winchester against Lucas' nose.

"You see, sodbuster," he said, with an evil grin.  "We gave your kid to the Apaches out there, so's they could cut him up for crow bait.  Figured maybe they'd like one of them small scalps for a change."

Lucas' eye bulged and he tried to sit up, and Buckeye leapt forward to kick again.  Lucas twisted to one side and planted the sole of his own boot into the smaller man's middle, shoving him back into the adobe wall and causing him to fall to the floor.  Boyle laughed and jammed the muzzle of the rifle against Lucas's temple, forcing his face to the terra cotta floor.

"Yeah, we give that little whippersnapper over to them Chiricahua," Boyle taunted, grinning.  "Figured they'd have quite a time with a young white eye boy to torture.  Maybe they'd skin him alive, an inch at a time, so's they could enjoy his screams."

Lucas clenched his teeth and rolled his eyes to the right, staring at Boyle's grinning face even as the bearded man pressed the barrel of the rifle deeper into Lucas's temple.

"I'll kill you," Lucas rasped.

"Sure you will, Sodbuster," Boyle replied.  "Sure you will.  Like you, we thought that kid was a goner.  Then, when we was playin' cards in Tucson, what do we see but your little cur walking down the street with this sweet young thing here."

Boyle moved his eyes to indicate Victoria, and Lucas turned his own eyes to stare at Boyle in surprise.

"Yepper, that's right," Boyle said.  With his left hand, he pulled Victoria back to him, drawing his knife. He fondled her throat with the blade, as he relished the quick beating of her heart against his chest.  "There your runt was, walking down the street with this gal and her friend.  Now, I was all for shooting the rotten little brat then and there, but Chambers, well, he had different ideas.  We asked around the town and we found out this pretty Mexican gal lived out here on this ranch.  Then, we found out that most of the men had gone up north to work a roundup, and that they'd be coming back real soon.

"See, nobody knew who we were, except your boy.  He knowed what we looked like.  And, too bad for him, we knowed what he looked like, too.  So, we knowed we had to kill him."

"Where is my son?" Lucas snapped.  "What have you done with him?"

Boyle tossed Victoria away from him with a violent motion, sheathing his knife as he pressed the muzzle of the Winchester hard against Lucas' forehead.

"Now, that's the interestin' part," Boyle said.  "Chambers figured out that he could buy us a lot of time by decoying those ranch men away up north.  He rode out there and told them that some soldiers needed 'em over by the Tortolitas.  And them idjits just rode off over there on his own word, to save some soldier boys what ain't there."

Leaning against the wall, Victoria's dark eyes widened in dismay.

"That's right, sweet thing," Boyle told her.  "Your men ain't coming back any time soon.  So's we got plenty of time to have a little fun with you."  He looked down at Lucas again.  "Anyway, that give us the time to put the sneak on this place, take out the few guards they had, and catch this pretty little Mexican whore and your boy."

"My son…was here?" Lucas rasped.

Boyle laughed.

"Well, he was, but he ain't no more."

"What have you done with him?" Lucas snapped desperately, straining to break the rawhide bonds, but he was unable to move with the rifle barrel pinning his head to the floor.  His eyes bored into Boyle's with hate, and Boyle responded by laughing even harder.

"Old Sod Chamber's a queersome sort," Boyle said, sneering.  "He wanted to take that kid back out there in the desert where he killed his daddy, so he could kill the boy in the same place.  Bury him out there where nobody will ever find his body.  They rode out of here a half hour before you arrived, Sodbuster, headed northeast.  We was just about to get down to some serious partying with this Señorita when you two rode in.  That's okay, though.  We heard you coming.  Now, I can tell Sod that you are definitely dead, once I kill you.  Because I plan to slit your throat, personal, and then scalp you before you die, Sodbuster.  But first, you're gonna have to watch us take this woman here, over and over.  All of us.  Right here in front of you, knowing you can't do a damned thing about it.  Then, when we're through with her, you're gonna have to watch while we kill her and that wounded kid on the couch.  And once we have their scalps hanging on our belts, then we'll come for you, Sodbuster.  But you're gonna have to watch first.  Watch them others die, so you'll know what's coming for you.  Then, I'm going to kill you, nice an' slow-like, looking right in your eyes the whole while, so you'll know who's doing it.  That it was me, Boyle Collins, who killed you.  I want to look in your eyes as I send you down to hell.  And the best part of it is, you'll die knowin' you couldn't do nothing to save anyone, including your kid."

"Where…is…my…boy?" Lucas said again, through gritted teeth.

"Why, Sod took him north in the desert.  Likely, he's slittin' that kid's throat right now, even as we speak, while you lie here watching us get ready to rut with that Mexican gal.  And that's just too bad, because you can't do squat about it."

Lucas twisted violently left, kicking out with his right leg.  The muzzle of the rifle slid off his head, scratching a furrow as it slid across his temple, then slid off to hit the terra cotta tiles beside him.  Lucas' boot smashed into Boyle's upper right arm, hard, sending the rifle skittering across the room.  It slid to a stop beside the stairwell.

Boyle stepped back, cursing, as he held his bruised arm, and then he kicked out with his right foot.  The boot caught Lucas in the face and spun him half around, and he came to rest on his face as blood pooled on the tiles below him.

"Damn you!" Boyle yelled.  "That hurt, Sodbuster!  Nobody hurts Boyle Collins and gets away with it!  You made me hurt, so now I'm gonna make you hurt.  You're gonna be hurting real bad before you watch us kill the others.  You're gonna get exactly what you got coming.  Pick him up, boys!"

Three men roughly jerked Lucas up onto his feet.  Blood ran from his busted nose and splattered the corduroy of his shirt.  Boyle picked up the rifle and sat it beside the staircase, then put on his leather gloves.  He walked toward Lucas, pulling the gloves tighter as he grinned.

Held aloft by three men, his arms pinned behind him, Lucas could not clear the long hair that had fallen into his face, blinding him.  Shaking his head, he managed to whip the hair out of the way.  He saw Boyle grin again.

"I'm gonna enjoy this, Sodbuster," Boyle said.

            Then Boyle started to beat Lucas methodically as the others held him tight.

IV

CANON SENISA, LITTLE RINCON MOUNTAINS

Mark McCain halted his horse, staring northeast as the sun slowly started to rise over the canyon.  He turned to look back at Sod Chambers.

"You sure my pa was working with you?" he asked.

"I said he was, didn't I?" Sod shot back, moving his horse closer.  "We was both working for the Army.  To find them gun runners.  Of course, his leg got busted up when he jumped into that canyon, but he's safe and sound now in Bisbee."

Mark nodded, then slowly turned his brown eyes to the right to stare at the rising sun, just peeking over the rim of the hills.  His fear suddenly returned, and he tried very hard not to shake as it washed over his body.

Coyani had drawn him a map of Apacheria.  Mark had never been to Arizona before, be he had memorized the crude map the Apache lad had drawn in the sand.  It had included the rough locations for all of the major Indian tribes and bands in the area, as well as the significant white and Mexican towns.  Bisbee had been on the map, southeast from Tucson, almost on the border with Mexico.  Farther south than even Tombstone had been.  The sun was rising on his right.  If the sun was to his right, they were heading north, not south.

Away from Bisbee.

"How much farther is it to Bisbee?" Mark asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, not too much farther," Chambers replied, riding past him.  "Couple of hours, maybe."

Chambers was lying.  Mark was sure of it now.  He was lying about where Bisbee was and he was lying about his pa.  They were going north, into Chiricahua territory, and that meant that Chambers had never been telling the truth.  His pa was dead.

"You sure?" he asked softly, trying not to let his voice break as he fought to control the emotions overwhelming him.

"Sure, I'm sure," Chambers replied.  "Now, come on."

Chambers was going to kill him.  Mark knew that now.  The certainty of it shocked him to the core.  His pa was not alive.  Chambers had lured him out here just to finish off the last person who could identify his father's killer.  Worst of all, Mark realized he had ridden along willingly, believing the lies his father's killer had told him.

He had wanted to believe Chambers.  He had wanted for his pa to still be alive.  His need to believe had blinded him to the truth,  and had made him do just what his pa's killer wanted.

His pa was still dead.

The weight of that reality came crashing in on him once more, causing his shoulders to sag and his heart to ache beyond meaning.  His eyes misted as he sat there, broken-hearted once again, and an overpowering emotional anchor threatened to drag him down into the depths of despair.

He could not fight a grown man.  It was likely he could not even get away from one.  Without his pa, why should he even go on?  There was nothing left to live for.  Everything he had ever loved had already been taken from him.

Perhaps it would be best just to do as Chambers wanted.  That way, when Chambers killed him, at least he could rejoin his pa.

Mark's thoughts suddenly turned to Victoria Cannon.  He had left her and Blue alone with Chambers' men.  If Chambers had been lying to him, then he had been lying to the Cannons as well.

Which meant that if Chambers meant to kill him, then…

A dreadful certainty hit him again.  There had been no Apache attack on the High Chaparral.  It had been Chambers and his men, faking an Apache raid so they could arrive and seem to save the day.  Even now, as Mark waited for Chambers to kill him, what were those men doing to Victoria and Blue?

There was nothing he could do for his pa now, but there was still something he might be able to do for the Cannons.  Something his pa would have wanted him to do.  He might be killed in the process, but Mark suddenly knew he could not just die without a fight.  He had to try to get away, to try to get back to the High Chaparral and warn Victoria and Blue.

Mark gathered his courage up and then stood in his stirrups, pointing north.

"Hey, look!  Indians!"

Chambers whipped his horse around abruptly to look north, and Mark yanked his own horse's reins, pulling them hard over as he slapped with his heels, spurring away to head south at breakneck speed.  He let the horse run full out as it headed south for the High Chaparral.

Sod Chambers cursed loudly and vehemently as he dismounted.  Somehow, the little brat had figured him out!  He had even pulled a sneaky trick to try to get away, and the ruse had gained him a good head start.  He had to hand it to that McCain kid.  He was a smart one, but wouldn't do him any good.

Chambers knew he might be able to catch the boy if he rode after him, but there was no use in tiring his mount out needlessly.  A man who lived in the desert learned to do things the easy way, without wasted efforts, and no horse was faster than a bullet.  They were a long way from the High Chaparral already, far enough to kill the kid and bury him here, among the chaparral and lonely saguaro.  No one would ever find the boy's bones out here.  Boyle had made a good point.  Why wait any longer?

He suddenly regretted leaving the Winchester repeater with Boyle, but at this range, it would not have been as good as what he had with him.  He reached back and pulled the Sharps rifle from its saddle scabbard, jacked a .45-70 cartridge into the chamber, and lifted the twenty-two inch barrel.  Taking a bead, he released the set trigger.  A moment later, he squeezed the firing trigger.

The .45 caliber bullet slapped into Mark's horse just below its left shoulder as he ascended a slight rise. The horse tumbled, and Mark had a flashing vision of blurred sand and rock as he and the horse rolled end over end in a cloud of dust.

After a moment, it was quiet.  Stunned, Mark tried to get up off the sand and run, but he could not move.  His realized his left leg was trapped, and he was pinned to the sand under the body of the dead horse.  Around him, he heard the rifle shot echo off the far hills, the sound clear and distinct in the early morning air.

Mark looked back the way he had come and his eyes widened in horror as he watched Sod Chambers slowly walk toward him, calmly jacking another round into his Sharps carbine.

V

HIGH CHAPARRAL RANCH HOUSE

Lucas McCain lay on his back and blood was salty in his mouth.  He knew his left eye was black, swollen from the fist that had smashed it, and the wound on his forehead, made by Chamber's bullet, had reopened, bleeding profusely.  He was not sure if his nose was broken, and a tooth was loose on the left side of his mouth, but he was still conscious.

His ribs ached fiercely, for Boyle had worked him over good, stopping only when his own fists had begun to hurt from the beating.  Perhaps it was the reopened forehead wound and the profusion of blood it brought, for it had covered Lucas in blood and made him look far worse than he really was.  Whatever the case, Lucas had been grateful when they had dropped him to the floor again, thinking him unconscious.

Gasping for breath, he lay in his own blood on the floor.  Trying to rest, and desperately trying to figure out what to do, he saw Manolito's eyes flutter open.  Manolito immediately looked at him and winced, but said nothing, seeming to size the situation up instantly.  He remained silent, listening as he watched Lucas bleed.

"Get them vittles in here, woman!" Boyle yelled.

"You heard the man, slut!" Buckeye's voice added.  Victoria gasped a second later, and there was a loud sound as she slapped him.  The other men laughed as Buckeye backed away, firmly aware that she did not want his hands where he had put them.

Victoria stared at them defiantly.

Lucas saw Manolito's eyes snap toward the sound of his sister's voice, but lying on his stomach he could only watch.

"Leave her alone!" Manolito yelled.

"Well, looks like that bean-eater you whacked on the head is awake, Buckeye," Boyle said.  "Didn't I ever teach you how to pistol-whip a feller, Buckeye?  You went and done it all wrong.  If'n you hit them hard enough and crack a few skull bones, why they don't never wake up to sass you again.  Looks like you need some more practice."

"Naw, I'm tired of beating up hard-headed ranchers," Buckeye replied.  "I was promised a hot meal and a woman, and I want my belly full before I start dippin' into this pretty treasure here.  So, darlin,' how about fixing them vittles afore you and I go upstairs and I show you what it's like to bed down with a real man."

"No!  I will fix you nothing," Victoria snapped back.  "Nada!"

Buckeye laughed uproariously.

"Whooee!" he yelled.  "She's a sassy one, Boyle!  She's got spirit.  I like me sassy women.  I want to have her first.  Come on, honeypot, why don't you and me go in that room over there and see what we can do about fixin' some of them across-the-border relations?"

Victoria turned her head away from Buckeye, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

That made Buckeye mad.  He grabbed her chin and turned her face to look at him.

"You'll be begging me afore I'm through with you, woman!" he yelled.  "And you'll scream 'cause you'll love it, too!"

"I would rather die," Victoria said calmly, staring at him with fire in her eyes, "than to have you touch me.  You are killers.  Murderers.  Banditos!  I would be dead before I let you touch me that way again."

The men laughed again, slapping each other on the back.

"Well, that wouldn't be the first time for ol' Buckeye, honey," Boyle laughed loudly.  "He took him many a dead Mexican gal before they grew cold on him.  Buckeye ain't particular.  He'll get in them skirts sooner or later, sweetheart.  Sometimes he gets to hankering after them dead ones so bad, we gotta leave town afore he starts diggin'.  Even the skeletons ain't safe."

The men continued to laugh uproariously at Buckeye's expense, and Buckeye  grinned back at them.

"Naw, Boyle, they wasn't dead when I first caught 'em," Buckeye exclaimed.  "It's just when they was with me, they was so awed by my studly ways, why, they just up and died out of the sheer pleasure of it."

"More'n they died of pure disappointment when they saw what sort of tackle you had," Boyle replied, and the men broke up in another round of back-slapping revelry.  "It's like ol' Buckeye to take a Derringer to the skirmish when a cannon is called for."

Buckeye cursed silently and moved to grab a bottle of wine he had found.  Victoria watched him walk off, then turned her eyes toward Boyle.  As long as the men were cutting up this way, they were not concentrating on beating her brother and Mark's father.

"Fix us some grub," Boyle told her tersely.

Victoria crossed her arms and looked away.

"I said fix us some grub, woman!"

Victoria did not move.  Boyle stepped forward and shoved her against the wall, staring at her with ferocious intent.  Victoria slowly moved her obsidian eyes upward to lock onto his, and her own eyes were black ice.

"Vaya al infierno," she said coldly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Boyle growled, and someone across the room began to chuckle.  Boyle whirled around to stare at Manolito, who looked up from his prone position, his cheeks dimpling as he grinned.

"What did she just say?" Boyle yelled.

"Nothing, Senor," Manolito replied in his best peasant imitation.  "She simply told you to 'go to hell.'  I must say I agree with her sentiments."

Buckeye lunged forward and kicked Manolito in the ribs, even as Boyle turned back to Victoria.  The smack was loud like a pistol shot as he back-handed her, the blow hard enough that she spun halfway around before falling against the wall and sliding to her knees.  Victoria held her face as tears flooded her eyes, but she did not cry out.  Angered, Boyle reached down and grabbed her by her long hair, pulling her to her feet painfully as he shoved her against the wall.  He drew his knife again and pressed it against the hollow of her throat.

"You'll go first, whore," Boyle muttered menacingly.  "No woman talks to Boyle Collins like that!  Now, do like I said or I'll slit your throat here and now!"

Victoria's eyes had filled with tears from the slap he had given her, and she could barely focus them, but she proudly held her chin aloft and stared at him.

"No."

"Leave her alone!" Manolito yelled angrily, and Buckeye kicked him in the ribs once more.  Manolito doubled up in pain, and his cry brought a similar shriek of alarm from Victoria, who struggled to break free and go to him.  Boyle responded by grabbing her by the throat and slamming her back into the wall. Victoria's eyes glazed a bit as her head struck the stucco wall.  Boyle looked between her and Manolito, and he smiled with an evil realization.

"So, that's the way it is, is it?" he asked maliciously, holding her head against the wall.  "That's the lever to control you with, eh?  So be it.  Buckeye, I want you to stop kicking that Mexican cur.  Instead, I want you to draw your gun and shoot him, right now."

Buckeye nodded and slapped his hand to the butt of his gun.

"No!" Victoria screamed, and Boyle held up his hand.

"Hold on, Buckeye!  Don't shoot him just yet.  Our hostess just got a whole lot more cooperative.  Look here, woman, now you do just like I say and you do it right when I say it.  You hesitate, even one moment, and I'll have these fellas beat that Mexican to death right before your eyes.  You savvy?"

Victoria's eyes slowly moved up to look in Boyle's.  Her face fell, a mask beginning to crumble, and a tear slid down a cheek, bright in the lamplight.

"If I do what you say," she said, stifling a sob, "will you leave them alone?"

"Well, do like I say and we won't kill 'em," Boyle replied.  "At least, not yet."

"I will fix the food," she said at last.

"And you'll go upstairs with me when I tell you to, and pleasure me, with no fighting?"

Victoria did not look at him.  Her jaw tightened, but her her eyes fell to the floor and she nodded silently.

"She really gonna go upstairs without a fight?" Buckeye asked, his jaw hanging open in surprise.

"Oh, she'll go, Buckeye," Boyle replied with a grin.  "As long as we keep those three alive.  She'll do whatever you want her to do.  Of course, I kind of like for a woman to scream and fight a bit, adds a little excitement.  So long as those three on the floor are alive, though, she'll comply to keep us happy.  Won't you, darlin'?"

Victoria hung her head and did not reply.

"I thought so," Boyle said, releasing her.  "Now, you fix us some grub.  And after we eat, I'll take you upstairs to see if you can be broke."

"Like ridin' a bronc!" Buckeye teased, gulping his wine.  "You'd best take a quirt and a spur, Boyle!"

"He ain't been throwed yet," another man added in.  "He'll get her saddle-broke, proper-like."

"You must let me see to my brother and the man you have beaten," Victoria said softly.  "They need care, and water."

"Won't do 'em any good," Boyle replied.  "What they need water for?  It'll just leak out of 'em.  What does letting you nurse maid them fellas get for us?"

"My cooperation.  You do wish cooperation, no?  It is a very low price, is it not, for men who wish to be with a real woman?"

"Lordy," Buckeye exclaimed, licking his lips.  "Listen to her, Boyle!  I ain't never had no woman actually cooperate before.  Hell, let her give 'em the water."

Boyle stared at Victoria a long moment, considering.  He knew he could not trust her, for she had given in too easily, considering her fiery spirit.  Still, as Buckeye had pointed out, they all wanted to be with this woman.  Boyle himself wanted to take her several times, and have her willingly accept him.  That would be something he had had done only in his dreams.  Willing surrender from a real lady, with no fighting and no money changing hands.  As long as the men lived, she would do anything he wanted, and Boyle had a lot of things in mind for her to do to him.  Best of all, her own brother and that sodbuster would have to watch as he took her upstairs, knowing what was going on.  They would have to listen to the sounds through the door.  Knowing that she was doing it willingly, to save their lives.  It would be the bitterest pill he could force them to swallow, and somehow the sheer cruelty of it excited him even more than the woman.

"Fine, get 'em some water," he growled.  "Then fix us that grub, and be quick about it.  No more delays.  I don't want you too tuckered out to howl and scream when we have our little rodeo upstairs.  I prefer me a buckin' bronco, sweetheart."

The men laughed as Victoria pulled away from Boyle, stepping quickly into the kitchen.  Boyle followed, watching as she opened a cabinet and removed a clay pitcher, dipping it into a barrel of water beside the pantry.

"They will need bandages," she said.

"Fine," Boyle replied, but his eyes were elsewhere on her body. Victoria opened a drawer and began pulling a wad of gauze from the drawer.  He did not see the small knife that lay in the drawer.  She gathered it in her palm amid a handful of gauze.  It was a very small knife, something John had once referred to as a patch knife, used before the advent of metallic cartridges to cut wads for the bullets men had once used in muzzleloaders.  It was old and antiquated now, and she had kept it in the drawer because it was a convenient thing to cut bandages with.  Not quite three inches long, the blade had a small  handle made of deer horn.  Victoria gathered up the gauze, then took the pitcher and a cup and went back into the living room.

"Manolo," she muttered softly, kneeling beside Manolito.

"Victoria, do not do it," Manolito told her after he drank, his eyes pleading.  "You are a Montoya!  Do not cooperate with them."

"If I do not, they will kill you, Manolo.  And Blue.  And Senor McCain."

Lucas blinked and turned his good eye to look at her as she said his name.

"They will kill us all, anyway," Manolito said.  "Do not help those escoria!"

Victoria said nothing, checking the back of his head.  Satisfied, she dipped the cup in the water and held it to Manolito's lips.  He drank softly, then looked up at her. She avoided his eyes and moved to Lucas.

"You know my name?" he asked.

"Si.  Your son lives.  He told me of you."

Victoria dipped some gauze into the water, then leaned over him, sponging the blood from his left eye.

"He's alive?" Lucas asked.

"Yes, but he has ridden off with the leader of these men."

She ran the gauze over his face again, the warm water removing some of the blood caking his face. Lucas opened his good eye to look at her.  She was truly a beautiful woman, even under duress.  There was a bruise forming on her cheek where Boyle had belted her, and Lucas felt a seething hatred build in his chest as he looked at her wound.

Victoria continued rinsing and washing his face, building a small used pile of bloody rags on his chest.  As she leaned over him to wash the far side of his face, Lucas felt something fall from her hand and come to rest between his elbow and his body.  He looked up to see her black eyes resting on his. There was instant understanding between them as she held his eyes a moment, then looked away.

She dipped another cup of water and Lucas drank gratefully, then she gathered the bloody bandages and stood up.

"Okay, you've seen to them hombres," Boyle bellowed.  "Now get back in the kitchen where you belong and fix us some vittles.  Buckeye, you go along with her and keep an eye on her.  I don't want her picking up no butcher knives or trying to poison us or anything like that."

Lucas rolled onto his back and slowly released the object caught between his left arm and his side.  It slid quietly down between his arm and his side, coming to rest on the floor.  It was above the reach of his hands, so he rolled to one side, groaning as if in pain, then scooted up a bit before rolling back over onto his back.  His hands felt the unmistakable feel of the knife.  It was very sharp, and it cut him slightly as he tried to close his fingers around it, but he managed to get a grip on the stag handle. After a few moments, he managed to turn the blade so that it pointed up, sharp edge coming to rest on the thongs binding his wrists.

The men ignored him for the most part, laughing and joking as they drank their wine.  The smell of cooking food permeated the house, and Lucas felt his own stomach growl.  He rolled back onto his right side as he worked the knife, sawing at the thongs.  He suddenly noticed Manolito watching him.

"This is not exactly the homecoming I had hoped for," Manolito said.  "We must do something."

"I'm working on it," Lucas whispered softly.  "I have a blade."

"Victoria?"

Lucas gave him a barely perceptible nod as he struggled with the knife.

"I knew she would not give in so easily," Manolito said with satisfaction.

Lucas felt the thongs loosen and he strained against them.  He felt them come free and he quietly slipped them from his hands.  The men were eating now, enjoying their meals, smacking lips and eating with their fingers.  Victoria moved among them, serving them coffee, and many fondled her, grabbing at her legs and buttocks as she passed.  Victoria did not stop them, but only looked at the floor submissively as she went to each one, pouring their coffee.  She looked up only for an instant, her black eyes meeting Lucas' single open eye, and Lucas nodded to her very slowly.  Her eyes widened slightly, and he moved his eyes toward the staircase.  Victoria's eyes slowly followed his, coming to rest on the Winchester that lay propped against the stairs.  Victoria quickly looked at the floor again, continuing to pour coffee.

"You are all such big strong men," she said suddenly, boldly lifting her skirt with her free left hand, and holding the coffee pot in her right.  She gave them a flash of her legs, flexing one calf suggestively, before dropping the skirt to the floor again.  "But which of you gringos is man enough to tame a woman like me?"

All around the room, the men stopped whatever they were doing and stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment.  Victoria laughed at them.

"Do not look so surprised," she said, looking around demurely.  "Surely you must know that a woman gets lonely, too.  My man has been gone for several days, and now several men ride into my house.  Strong men, men who are not afraid to take what they want.  Any woman would be stirred by such men.  So, which of you will be first?"

One man dropped his plate to the floor, and for once even Buckeye was speechless.  Boyle sat on the steps, a plate in hand, food halfway to his mouth, staring at her in shock.  A hunger burned in his eyes, and it was not for the food.

"I'll be first," Buckeye offered, standing up.  "I'm kinda anxious to see how well you can dance on your back, lady."

"You wish to find out?" Victoria teased, suddenly looking him right in the eye.  "I can do many things, Señor, but I cannot wait forever.  I have need a of a man now, at this moment.  It has been too long.  Which of you is loco enough to be the first?"

"I told you I was," Buckeye bellowed, loosening his gun belt, and Boyle suddenly growled at him.

"The hell you are!  Hold it, Buckeye, I get her first."

"Boyle, I got first rights.  I spoke up first!  Come on, honey, let's you and I go upstairs and see the elephant!"

"I said I get her first," Boyle said menacingly, moving his right hand toward his gun butt.  Buckeye quickly realized his mistake.  Boyle Collins scared him, and he wanted no part of the man.

"Sure, Boyle, sure, you can have her first," he said defensively.  "I don't mind being second at the trough."

Victoria laughed again, showing her white teeth as she twirled around the room, boldly staring at the men in suggestive ways, shaking her hips to hold their attention.

"No, no no," she teased, tossing her head and smiling at the men around the room.  "One of you is not enough.  Oh, no. I need all of you."

"That's exactly what you're gonna get, lady.  That's for certain," a man guffawed.  "All of us.  One right after the other, until we're tired of the whole thing."

Victoria waltzed over to Boyle and sat boldly in his lap, grinding her hips suggestively as she held the coffee pot in her right hand.  Her left hand began caressing the back of Boyle's neck.

"No, one of you at a time will not do," she said, her voice husky, as she stared around the room with lust-filled eyes.  "I want all of you.  All of you at once."

There was a sudden silence in the room, broken only by a gasp from Manolito.

"Hermana," he gasped.  "No!"

"Yes," she said boldly, her eyes flashing at him.  "I will have satisfaction now!  All of them!  All of the men at once!"

"You…uh, you'd do that?" Boyle asked, incredulously.  "All of us at one time?"

Victoria smiled and stood up from his lap, giggling.  She stood before him, her left hand resting on her cocked hip, her right holding the coffee pot.  Licking her lips, she raised her eyebrows.

"Si.  All of you.  And there is no need to go upstairs.  We are here now.  There is a big floor.  Let us begin.  Or is that you only fight with women?"

The men looked at each other, not sure what to say or do.  None of the women they had ever raped had wanted them to do it, much less willingly turned the tables on them.  This was something new altogether.

"You are shocked?" Victoria said incredulously, and then she laughed again.  "Oh, what a deadly bunch of banditos you are!  Such cut-throats.  Such tough men!  All  afraid of one woman!  Afraid to be men, even when she asks you to!"

Boyle startled to unbuckle his gun belt.

"Wanna bet?"

"Good!" Victoria said.  "At least one of you is a man.  But I will have all of you!  There is one thing that you must do first."

Boyle was practically drooling now.

"What's that?" he asked, his mouth watering, his eyes glazed with lust.

"Die," Victoria replied sweetly, and she tossed the pot of scalding coffee into Boyle's face.

Boyle screamed and clawed at his eyes as the scalding coffee splashed squarely into his face.  The other men jumped back as the hot black liquid splashed among them, scrambling to get out of the way.

Victoria tossed the empty coffee pot at them and whirled, her skirts flaring, as her hands latched onto the Winchester by the stairs.  Whirling back, she saw several men yell in surprise as they realized she had a weapon, and then she tossed the rifle to Lucas McCain.

Lucas exploded to his feet the second she threw the coffee into Boyle's eyes, coming up fast and moving as Victoria threw the rifle at him.  He dropped the patch knife and dove into the rifle, catching it in mid-air before somersaulting against the wall.  Lucas tucked and rolled, and came up in a kneeling position beside the front wall.

Victoria had so captured the attention of the men that no one noticed Lucas until she tossed the rifle to him.  Now, they desperately clawed at their pistols in fear.  Their guns, hanging loose in half-removed gun belts, made them slow.

 Too slow.

Lucas brought the muzzle of the Winchester in line with them as his hand slipped inside the lever of the rifle.

Gunshots exploded loudly in the close confines of the living room, and Lucas worked the lever as fast as he could.  The successive blasts sounded as one continuous roar.  Men staggered and spun about the living room as .44 caliber slugs plowed into them.  They stumbled into each other and fell like so many rag dolls as the bullets caught them.  Buckeye caught two rounds as he pulled his pistol, pitching him straight back into the wall.  He slid to the floor, leaving a trail of gore on the adobe behind him.

Boyle knew everything had gone bad as soon as he heard the roar of the rifle blasts.  He swiped at his burned eyes, clawing for the gun that was almost out of reach, the half-buckled gunbelt hanging far too low.  His hand found the gun butt and he pulled, and Lucas shot him three times.

Slugs puffed dust as they stitched a pattern across Boyle's chest.  He staggered back against the stairwell with a surprised look on his face, then collapsed across the stairs.

Lucas flipped the rifle in his hand by its lever, a powerful loud click-clack echoing in the aftermath of the gunshots as the motion ejected the last cartridge from the weapon in his hand.  He moved forward and knelt over Boyle a moment.  Satisfied, he began pulling .44-40 cartridges from the man's belt and loading them into the rifle.  He looked up at Victoria, where she knelt beside her brother.

"Which way did they go, ma'am?" Lucas asked as he thumbed the cartridges into his rifle. The barrel was warm to his hand.

"I am not sure, senor," Victoria replied as she hugged her brother, then quickly began to untie him.  "They left on two horses, going north I think."

Lucas nodded as he finished loading the rifle, grabbed another handful of the cartridges and stuffed them in his shirt pocket.  He stood slowly, surveying the carnage in the room, and turned for the door.

"That was some thing you did, ma'am," he said.  "Distracting them like that."

"He is a good boy, Senor McCain," Victoria replied in the ringing silence.  "I must see to my own family, but you must see to yours.  Go!  Save him!  Do not wait!"

"Obliged, ma'am," Lucas said, and he strode out of the door and into the first gray streaks of dawn.  Lucas leapt onto the nearest saddled horse, pulled it loose from the post, and slapped his heels to the mount.

A gun blast caused Lucas to pull up short, to spin around and raise his rifle, only in time to see the man called Red stumble and fall from the windmill.  Manolito stepped out on the porch, the smoke still curling from the Colt in his hand and he waved at Lucas.

"Go on, vamoose!  I will follow you shortly," Manolito said with a grin.

Lucas nodded, and spurred the horse.  In a moment, he was across the yard and through the gate, heading north.  His right hand held the reins as his left slapped the flank of the horse with the rifle, urging it to move faster.  A minute later he was obscured by a cloud of dust as he galloped out of sight.

"Manolo!" Victoria cried as she held Manolito tight.  Tears streamed from her eyes as she held her brother, and Manolito hugged her.  For once, though his eyes were smiling, Manolito was not joking.

"You saved us all, Victoria," he said softly.  "You did very well. You even had me convinced for a moment.  Where in the world did you learn to talk like that?"

"Blue is hurt," she told him.

"Badly?"

"I do not think so, but he has lost much blood.  I must see to him."

"Yes, let us see to him," Manolito agreed.  He started to follow her into the house, when a sudden thunder caused him to pause.  He looked toward the gate as a herd of horses and men came screaming through, halting in the yard amid a great cloud of dust.  He grinned as he recognized his bother-in-law.

John Cannon leapt from his horse with his gun in his hand, his blue eyes deadly as he ran up to Manolito.

"Victoria!  Is she all right?"

"She is fine," Manolito told him, and John stepped quickly into the house.

"My God," John exclaimed looking around.  "Victoria?"

"John!" she yelled, and Manolito did not have to be in the room to know they were holding each other.  He could hear her sobbing as she finally let go of her emotions.

Sam Butler holstered his gun and dismounted, walking up to Manolito and nodding.  Sam looked tired, but his eyes were concerned.

"What happened, Mano?"

"Many bad men have met justice," Manolito replied, staring into the rising sun.  "Thanks to my sister.  And a man with a Winchester."

Boots thundered on the porch as John Cannon stepped from the house, his wife in his arms.  His eyes were relieved and he looked tired, but he was all business as he looked around.

"Reno!  Pedro!  Get inside and help Victoria with Blue!  Joe, you see what you can do about cleaning the place up.  The living room is a mess.  Sam, keep the rest of the men saddled, we're about to ride.  Except I want you to cut out four men and leave them inside with Victoria.  I won't leave her or my son alone again."

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, and he moved off to set things up, pausing at the door long enough to whistle in surprise before stepping inside.  He looked back at John in shock.  John rubbed at his gray sideburns a moment, then looked up as Manolito began untying his horse.

"Just where do you think you're going?"

"To help a friend," Manolito replied.

"Manolito, just what happened in there?  Who killed all of those men?"

"A Senor McCain happened," Manolito replied with a grin, stepping into the saddle.  "Victoria will explain it all.  It was she who put the rifle in his hands."

"These men are the gun-runners?  McCain's alive?"

"Very."

"He was here?"

"Only moments ago," Manolito said, nodding.

"Then all of those gunshots we heard, the rider we saw tearing out of here, they were--?"

"Yes, that was Lucas McCain," Manolito told him.  "The leader of these men has taken McCain's son into the desert, to kill him.  McCain has ridden to try to stop him.  Now, I must go and help him if I can."

"You're not going alone.  We're going with you."

"John, who is this man?" Manolito asked, his eyes curious.  "Who is this man that shoots a rifle in this manner?  I have never seen anything like it."

"Looks like you just met the Rifleman," Sam said from the doorway.

Manoito looked at him a moment, and then kicked his horse into motion before John or Sam could say another word.  A moment later, he was racing through the gate, fast on the trail of Lucas McCain.

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