Chapter One—“Get Off Our Land!”

     For the next few weeks, I rode…north. Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself as I rode, but I was empty, very empty. Empty to the point of not really caring about much of anything. I’m not the suicidal type—that’s a copout—but I did go to bed at night with a prayer on my lips that maybe, just maybe, the good Lord would find it in his mercy to take me home to Him so I could be with my Julie. Or Robin if she didn’t survive the Indian onslaught. I’d lay there and frown…what if they are BOTH up there? Which one would I choose? Well, I decided to let the Lord sort that out, and figured Robin probably wouldn’t want me anyway. And concluded I could never turn my back on Julie. I would sigh…and think of Robin. Then close my eyes and feel a little guilty. It’s not that I didn’t think of Julie; I did, all the time…well, at least all the time that I wasn’t thinking about Robin. Melancholy …because I could never have either one again. Empty. Hoping the Lord would take me home…
     I took my time as I headed north. I still had quite a bit of money left over from what I had “borrowed” from the drummer and gambler at the beginning of this story. Still, it wouldn’t last forever so I was half-way searching for a nice place to settle down and find a job.
     I topped a hill and spread out below me was a lovely valley with a river meandering at an angle through it. The valley was spread out like a baseball field, with mountains running down the foul lines and a barrier of white capped peaks probably 50 miles in the distance. It was as pretty a valley as I had seen, with water, grass, and a lot of livestock that I could see on both sides of the river. When I say “river,” it wasn’t the Mississippi; in fact, it probably wasn’t deeper than a man could ride a horse through. But it was wider than a stream and it no doubt provided good water for whoever lived here. To continue the baseball field allusion, the river started well beyond the foul pole down the left field line, obviously having its origin in the mountains to the west. It then made a sharp right turn in left center field, crossed the infield just to the left of second base, wound over the pitcher’s mound, and then past home plate a little ways up the first base line. I subsequently learned that the region was called Clearwater Valley, named after the river.
     In one of the bends of the river nestled a little town. It didn’t look huge, but maybe I could find a good meal, a hot bath, and a soft bed there. And the more I looked at the valley, the more I decided that, if anybody was hiring, then maybe I’d stop here awhile. And if I liked it enough, I might stay for good. I thought I was far enough away from Rogersville now that maybe the law wouldn’t find me. I hoped so. I’d hate to have to deck another lawman and run again.
     There were some trees in the mountains and I wound my way through them, heading towards home plate. I was near the floor of the valley when Ol’ Paint started limping.
     “What’s wrong, boy?” I asked him, and he just shook his head and then stomped his left front hoof. I dismounted at the edge of a small clearing and kneeled down to see what the problem was. I lifted Ol’ Paint’s hoof and discovered, unsurprisingly, a rock wedged in his shoe. It shouldn’t take too long to clear that up. Before I could start, however, I was slightly interrupted.
     “Get off our land!”
     I glanced to where I heard the command—it was behind me—and saw a young woman standing about 20 yards away. I did a quick inventory. She was pretty. Raven black hair down to her shoulders, which could have used a brushing, but all in all, gave her a rather wild, sexy look. Her eyes were green, her lips were full, her curving eyebrows matched her hair, her skin was tanned, she had curves in all the right places and legs long enough to have some fun with. I reckoned she might be 20, she might not. She was dressed in men’s clothing—a red and black checked woolen shirt that she had rolled up to her elbows, jeans that had seen better days, and boots that didn’t have much heel left on them. She didn’t look like white trash, but it didn’t look like she was going to be the belle of the ball anytime soon, either. At least not dress-wise.
     Her most outstanding feature, however—or at least the one I was immediately concerned with—was the double-barreled shotgun she had pointed in my direction. Held very steady. I had no doubt she knew how to use it. And she probably would if I came to deserve it. Which I had no intention of doing if I could help it.
     I took all that in with a two-second glance then went back to Ol’ Paint’s problem. “I’ll be gone in just a moment. Horse has a rock in his shoe.” I pulled my knife from the holster on my left hip and started trying to work the rock loose. It was stuck pretty good.
     I heard her cock the shotgun. “You can do that down the hill, mister. The horse won’t die. Now go, or you and that horse won’t have to worry about that rock or anything else any more.”
     I ignored her and kept picking at the rock.
     She pointed the shotgun up in the air and let off one barrel of it. “The next one saws you in half,” she said to me.
     I’ll admit, I jumped when she fired that gun. But I didn’t believe she would kill me. It wasn’t in her eyes. I flipped the rock out of Ol’ Paint’s shoe, then stood up and faced the woman.
     She had the shotgun pointed at me again. “You don’t hear very good, do you,” she said.
     “I hear just fine. Are you going to use that second barrel?”
     “I will if you don’t get off my land.” Her finger tightened on the trigger.
     I looked at her then leaned against Ol’ Paint, my elbow crooked against the saddle. “Go ahead.” It was pretty obvious that I was calling her bluff. If it was a bluff. Frankly, the way I still felt, I didn’t care one way or the other.
     Her lips tightened. “I’m warning you, mister.”
     I just stood there and looked at her.
     She sighed, and lowered the shotgun, setting it by her side, holding it by the barrel, butt end on the ground. “Will you please leave our land?” She gave me a look that would have melted Antarctica, if I had been Antarctica. “Is that good enough for you?”
     “Almost.” I thought I’d teach her a lesson in manners.
     I drew my gun, fired, and her shotgun exploded. She cried out and took a step back, dropping the now-useless shotgun. She flicked her right wrist back and forth, no doubt to relieve the tingling she must have felt from the impact of the bullet smashing against the gun. But she recovered quickly and she wasn’t happy.
     “Ohhw! You….! That was my best shotgun!”
     I holstered my weapon. “The moral of that story, lady, is watch out who you point your gun at. Unless you really intend to use it. I don’t cotton to people threatening me for nothing.”
     “You’re on our land!”
     “You’ve said that three times now. What’s the crime in passing through?”
     “You’re a gunslinger and you work for Jim Perry. Or Gail Sanders.”
     I mounted Ol’ Paint and glared at her. “I’m not a gunslinger and I’ve never heard of Jim Perry or Gail Sanders. Get your facts straight. The next fellow you run into might not be as nice a guy as I am.” I kneed Ol’ Paint and we started off down the hill.
     But she called after me. “Who are you, mister?”
     I stopped. “I’m just a drifter who doesn’t work for Jim Perry or Gail Sanders and who especially doesn’t like being threatened with shotguns.” Then I did cast at glance at her, and gave her a wry smile. “Regardless of what they look like.”
     “Ohw!” she said, and picked up a rock and threw it at me. She missed, but it was close enough for me to catch. I did. “I don’t like rocks thrown at me, either. If you ever do that again, I’ll turn you over my knee and spank your butt till you won’t sit down for a week.”
     “You wouldn’t dare! I’ll kill you if you ever even touch me.” she shouted, her fists curled at her side, flexing them, rage written all over her face.
     Instead of answering, I took a roll of bills out of my pocket, found one, reached into my saddlebag for a piece of string, tied the money around the rock and tossed it back in her direction. “Here. Buy yourself another shotgun.”
     She didn’t move. “I don’t want your money!”
     I headed my horse down the hill and didn’t look back. “Suit yourself. Oh. And go brush your hair.”

     Kelly Atkins stood there and watched him disappear from sight, her hands on her hips, her blood boiling. Go brush my hair…Ohw! The nerve of him. Then she frowned, idly running a hand through her hair to straighten it some. I wonder who he is. I’ve never seen him before and he doesn’t look like one of Perry’s thugs. And, wow, I’ve never seen anybody move so fast with a gun. One moment it was in his holster, the next moment…She glanced down and saw the rock with the money tied around it. She picked it up, and untied the string. Her eyes got huge. Holy Moses! 50 dollars! I could buy the best shotgun or rifle in town with enough shells to last for two years…
     Kelly looked back to where he had disappeared, trying to be angry again, but it wasn’t quite coming off. Still she tried. Spank my butt, will he. I’ll kill him if he tries, I’ll kill him deader than a doornail, I don’t care if they hang me from the highest tree. But then she frowned. A bit of a warm flush was coming over her and it felt pretty good. Well, maybe I wouldn’t kill him TOO dead…