T
he stagecoach tried to outrun the dusty whirlwind it generated as it careened along the road, two days from Abilene. Grizzled and wrinkled from age and years of throwing his tough old face into the wind, Frank Drummond shifted his cud of chewing tobacco—stretching his left cheek to impossible proportions as he eyed the figure standing in the road ahead. He started to spit an amber stream over his left shoulder, then abruptly changed his mind and aimed it into the soiled can at his feet. If he spit over the side it would blow back into the passengers and that about got him shot once. Drummond turned to yell a warning at his shotgun guard, but Miguel was already alert to the figure waiting for them. The guard held his rifle casually, but the business end accurately tracked the stranger as the stage ground to a stop. The stage settled into the dust, creaking and moaning as the passengers shifted around inside. The eight-horse team stomped restlessly, shaking their harness as the flies caught up with them on the hot day. Both men riding on top of the stage watched warily as the man lowered his head, waiting for the wind to carry away the dust cloud. Slim-hipped and wide of shoulder, the stranger held his forty-pound Texas saddle on one shoulder while his right hand held a new Henry repeating rifle. The man’s typical cowhand dress was a little better in quality than most. The boots looked hand-tooled and solid black. A black gun belt held a Navy Colt in a tied-down holster and the grips were worn smooth with use. The old stage driver knew the signs and knew the look. The Kansas plains of 1870 were awash with castoff and battle
scarred veterans of war—cattle wars and arguments over water and land rights just as deadly. Ranchers were building barbed wire kingdoms, jealously trying to hold huge amounts of rangeland, and men were dying in the process. Hired warriors were common occurrences along the Chisholm Trail and the word gunman, a term idolized by the newspapers and dime novels produced back East, was on everyone’s lips. The dust swirled on past and the man’s grey eyes came up from under the brim of his hat. Drummond saw his face at the same time his eyes caught the glint of the star pinned on his shirt. He had to adjust his first impression—not by much, but enough to bring a smile to his face. “Jesus, Gawd. Matthew Bodine. Thought you were over in the Nation.”
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Matt smiled. He knew these folks. Some drivers, leery of holdups, would shoot first and sort it out later. “Been a while, Frank.” He dumped his saddle on the ground and grinned at the two men on the box. “I could use a ride.” “What happened to your horse? Injuns?” Drummond stood and turkey-necked all around. “Gopher hole. Half a day south of here.” “Nice day for a walk.” The accented voice of Miguel Franco was soft and musical. Matt glanced at the Mexican, noting the familiar way the man handled his weapon. “Not really.” He tossed his saddle