Pierre Devereux, a hulking bear of a man, squatted by the water’s edge, filling his canteen. Hearing a hissing sound in the grass, Pierre remained on his haunches, motionless. Without turning his head, he glanced sideways. His hand reached down, feeling for a rock as the rattler was weaving through the grass. Keeping his eyes fixed on the snake, he found a rock and grasped it. "Steady...steady...stay calm...don’t move..." he thought to himself while biting his lower lip. "Those critters are so damn unpredictable." The snake stopped. Without warning, the snake reared up, hissing. Before he could react, the snake stuck him in the leg. He clutched his leg, watching "the filthy varmint," as he called it, slither off into the grass. He clenched his teeth, feeling faint but knowing he had to cut the venom out before it killed him. He limped back to his campsite nearby to retrieve a knife. It was a risk with the venom coursing through his body, but he knew there was no choice. It was this or dying. Before reaching his saddlebag, he fell near the smoking embers of a snuffed out fire. Clawing the ground, Pierre began inching his way to the saddle bag. Stopping, he reached out for it, his fingers wriggling, trying to touch the saddlebag but he was still too far to grab it. He made another attempt to retrieve it by moving closer. Too weak, Pierre then collapsed. He knew death would come soon. "Maybe it’s my time," he thought, still looking at the saddlebag, so close yet so far away.

Hearing a clomping in the grass and a horse snorting, Pierre turned his head to see what it was. His eyes widened then narrowed. He saw a man, much like himself, with gray wavy hair, a full beard, blue jeans and a buckskin jacket. He recognized the unique snakeskin hat band with the long brown and white feather that was his trademark. The man dismounted, approaching Pierre. He knew the man well. The man stood over Pierre, watching the life drain from him. The man did nothing, just stared at him. The eyes peered down at him from under the deep, dark shadow of his hat. He knew the eyes...chilling...the eyes of a demon. Smooth and easy, as if he had done it often, the man removed his gun from the holster.

"Go ahead, end it," Pierre said. Aiming the gun at Pierre’s head, the man cocked the gun. Pierre closed his eyes, "Like putting a wounded horse out of its misery," he thought. Hearing a shot, he opened his eyes, seeing the man jump as the shot bounced off the ground next to him. The man squinted into the sun, looking up in the rocks, trying to make out the form on the ridge. He smiled, "Damn, it’s that woman," he thought. Strange, the man was not angry by her ambush but delighted that it would be so easy to overtake her. Hesitating, ...he then spun around, pointing the gun up at the woman. She raised her rifle higher, taking aim.

"Drop it," she said. Shaking his head, "Fool woman," he thought as he returned the gun to its holster. Looping his thumbs around the front of his gun belt, he stood for a moment, just watching her. Next, he whipped out his gun, about to shoot her as she fired her gun. A bullet went whizzing by the man’s head, grazing him. Startled, he stopped smiling, wiping the blood off the side of his head. "The next one will go through your head." This was not the man’s first encounter with what he called, "That damn sneaky half-breed." Looking at the blood on his fingers, his eyes shifted to the ridge. He began laughing as he replaced his gun in its holster. Walking over to his horse, he grabbed the reins and mounted, still keeping his eyes on the woman as she kept her rifle trained on him until he was out of sight. Both knew they would meet again.

Lowering her rifle, she climbed down off the rocks, heading toward Pierre. Pierre saw the fuzzy form of a woman dressed in a long divided skirt, plaid shirt and a buckskin jacket with fringe. Her tall, willowy frame cast a shadow over him as she came closer. She threw down her rifle, kneeling down beside him.

"Help," he said. She whipped back her jacket, pulling a knife off of her leather belt. He could see her beautiful, dark exotic features under the hat. A long, dark braid fell over her shoulder as she ripped his pant leg open. His eyes were drawn to the Indian jewelry around her neck and wrists. Without pausing, she pierced his flesh with the knife. Pierre was not too weak to yell. She sucked and spat out the venom. Taking out a bandanna from her jacket pocket, she wrapped his leg to stop the bleeding. Returning the knife to its sheath on her belt, she helped Pierre to his feet.

"Lets get you to a doctor," she said, laying one arm around her shoulders as he leaned on her. She picked up her rifle, letting him use it to walk with her. Staggering under his weight, she managed to get him to his horse. Taking the rifle from him, she helped him mount. Taking the reins she led his horse up the rocks to the ridge where her horse was waiting. She never spoke again. Pierre was grateful for her help, knowing without her, he would be dead.

Once in town, the woman left Pierre in the doctor’s office while she went to see the sheriff. Entering the sheriff’s office, she took out of her pocket a worn, crumpled wanted poster and threw it on his desk. The sheriff, who was eating an apple, glanced at it.

"What about him?"

"He’s over at the doctor’s office," she said, slipping her hands in her pockets of her jacket.

"What for?"

"Snake bite," she said. "I brought him in."

"Bounty hunter?"

"That’s right."

Wendell Bergen had the shakes. A constant worrier, it gripped him like steel bands, choking off all reason. While toting around his third straight whiskey, he jumped from one end of the room to the other. Nothing Jarrod said would calm and reassure him. When he was not drinking, he would rub his neck or scratch his hands, annoying the hell out of Jarrod. Wendell sat down, jiggling his foot. Jumping up, Wendell downed his drink, returning to the bar for another. Jarrod grabbed the bottle from him.

"Dammit, Jarrod," he said, slamming his fists on the table.

"That’s enough."

"It calms me down."

"You’re beyond calm, Wendell." Jarrod banged the bottle down on the table. "We have not lost this case yet."

"See, you just said it, and that doesn’t mean we will win."

"What you’re saying is you don’t trust me to defend you." Wendell ran his hand through his curly wheat colored hair. "You’re so consumed with pessimism, you never listen." His wide gray eyes were restless, seeing only the hangman’s noose. Outrageous scenarios crept into his mind as he mounted the steps to the gallows. Fearing the unknown, the dark nothingness beyond his present existence. Most people fear death, but Wendell feared everything except horses. They were his passion and his business. He would not leave them behind. "Wendell, we have a good chance proving you did not kill Roland Hollis’ wife."

"There, you said it, ‘a chance.' My life is hanging by a thread," he said. "Besides, I couldn’t have killed Anne, I loved her." Wendell returned to the bar, attempting to make another drink. Again, Jarrod grabbed the bottle away. Wendell tried drinking his fears away but they had already made themselves at home. The booze only intensified his outrageous imaginings, sending him out of control, teetering on the edge of psychopathic hysteria.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Go to bed and sleep it off and I’ll see you in court in the morning," Jarrod said, pointing a finger at him.

But Wendell did not appear in court the following morning. Jarrod figured he went on drinking, ignoring Jarrod’s advice. This did not please the judge who called for a recess so Jarrod could locate his missing client. Jarrod gritted his teeth, fuming all the way to Wendell’s ranch, all set with an argument. When he got there, there was no Wendell.

"He high-tailed it out of here at the crack of dawn," said one of the ranch hands.

"Do you know where he might have gone?"

"North is all I know," he said pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Di d he say anything to anybody before he left?"

"Not that I know of. Wish I could tell you more."

"I wish you could too. Thanks anyway."

On the way back to the ranch, Jarrod made, what he knew was going to be a risky and unpopular decision. He would go out and track down Wendell himself. Knowing there was no time for formality, Jarrod defied the practice of the court. He gave Victoria note for Judge Parker, explaining Wendell’s absence as well as his own. He knew Fred and Judge Parker would be livid but knowing Jarrod and Wendell, they would give Jarrod some leeway. Wendell Bergen was already marked as a fugitive from justice and Jarrod got him bail because Wendell was not likely to flee. "Boy, was I wrong," Jarrod thought to himself. Being a stubborn Barkley, he wanted to do it his way. He hurried as Victoria tried to talk him out of pursuing Wendell.

"Will you stop worrying," he said, spinning the chamber of his gun as he loaded it with bullets. "If he didn’t go far, then I should be back tonight or tomorrow."

"Take Nick or Heath with you," she said, while he put the lid on the cartridge box.

"Will you stop fussing, I’ll be fine," he said. "Wendell is not dangerous, he’s just scared."

"Scared people can be dangerous."

"He won’t hurt me," he said, tying the ends of his bed roll. Holding Victoria by the shoulders, he kissed her on the forehead. "I’ll be back soon." Victoria knew one of her sacrifices of love was in these moments when she had to let her sons go their own way.

Roland Hollis burst through the door of Fred’s office. Roland a towering, solid built man with craggy features, glared at Fred with his steely blue eyes.

"What in the hell are you doing just sitting here?" Roland planted his hands on his hips, thrusting his barrel chest forward.

"Are you serious?" said Fred, annoyed by Roland’s rudeness. "And what is your problem now?"

"Why aren’t you after that murderer, Wendell Bergen?" Fred stood up, gazing at Roland.

"What in the Sam hill are you talking about?"

"He left town this morning and that damn lawyer, Barkley went after him."

"This is news to me."

"This is ridiculous," he said. "You people can’t do anything right in this town."

"Now, wait just a minute."

"Never mind your excuses, Fred, I’ll take care of this my way." His mouth moved rapidly under the toothbrush mustache. Before Fred could answer, Roland turned, walking out the door.

As Roland downed his the rest of his beer, he discussed his problem with his foremen. The saloon was noisy with everyone lost in a good time or on the edge of an insult, hot for the fray. Nameless, faceless people, all crammed together, swallowed up in a haze of smoke. Some with a story to tell, hoping someone will listen and remember. Some, just passing through with no purpose or destination.

"You’re a pig! A real pig," No one noticed as Belle, the youngest of the two saloon girls threw a drink at a customer. Both Belle and Thelma looked as gaudy Christmas ornaments. The piano throbbing with gusto, was out of tune and irritating. But no one noticed, no one cared, most were tone deaf. Except one man, whose ears could hear if a branch cracked in the woods in the next county.

"You say a man escaped the law?" Roland looked up at the man with the peculiar hat with the snakeskin hatband and long feather.

"What’s it to you?"

"Maybe I can help," he said, gnawing on a toothpick, his thumbs looped around the front of his gun belt.

"The man killed my wife."

"Is that right."

"Yeah." The man took a nearby chair, plunking it down at Roland’s table, straddling it.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"I just did."

"I need to know more if you want my help," he said, shifting the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. Roland eyed the strange man.

"Why are you so anxious to help?"

"Lets just say it’s my line of work."

"And what is that line of work?"

"Bounty hunter."

"What’s your name?"

"Shelby...Jack Shelby."

"All right Mr. Shelby, I’ll hire you and I’ll double whatever the bounty will be."

"Well now that’s mighty generous, Mr.?"

"Hollis."

"But you know if I bring this man in fair and square, I want the bounty."

"I’ll still pay you." As Roland spoke, another thought occurred to him, looking over at his foreman. "Jim, would you go get those supplies and meet me back here."

"Sure." Roland’s eyes followed Jim out the door. Turning back to Jack, he lowered his voice, both men almost nose to nose.

"You know that slogan, wanted dead or alive...I like dead better," he said picking up his beer glass, twisting it in his hands. "And another thing...there’s a lawyer hot on his trail...kill him too." By this time, Jack was grinning.

Jarrod stopped his horse, taking a swig from the canteen. He tried to take in a deep breath of fresh air, but the air was heavy and stale. Nothing moved but the heat rising from the toasted ground beneath him. He tilted his hat back on his head, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Leaning forward in the saddle, he shifted his weight. As he was looking down, he then noticed some tracks. He dismounted, squatted down, taking a closer look. "Recent hoof prints," he thought. Glancing up, in the distance he saw Nick riding toward him. He stood for a moment as Nick approached him.

"I don’t need a babysitter," said Jarrod.

"Just thought you might want some company," Nick said.

"And that’s the only reason?" Jarrod adjusted his hat.

"Come on lets find Wendell." Nick gave Coco a swift kick, galloping down the trail. Jarrod shook his head.

Night began to fall and Jarrod and Nick decided to make camp before heading into the mountains.

"Not so easy big brother. It looks like Wendell got a head start on all of us."

"There’s a stream back there, I’ll go get some water and you start a fire."

"Whose going to cook?"

"I will, God forbid I’d have to eat anything you cook."

"And what’s wrong with my cooking?" Nick said, planting his hands on his hips, challenging Jarrod.

"You ought to know, you eat enough of it on your beloved outings on the range."

"Hey, It’s not that bad."

"It’s not that good either."

"It’s a darn sight better than Audra’s cooking." Before Nick could protest, Jarrod was gone. Nick began searching for firewood, picking up various twigs when he heard a branch snap in the woods. Easing to an upright stance, he dropped the twigs, whipping out his gun and whirling around.

"Hey, take it easy, I mean you no harm." Nick kept his gun pointed at the man, who kept his hands clear of his gun.

"What do you want?"

"Wondering if you had any coffee to spare...and some information." Keeping his gun out, Nick eyed the man suspiciously.

"What kind of information?"

"Seen a tall, curly headed man on a black horse headed north?"

"No, I can’t say that I have."

"Got any coffee then?" Still aiming at the man, Nick reached down into his saddlebag, pulling out a can of coffee, throwing it to the man. "Thanks, appreciate it." The man disappeared into the woods. Nick stood, still holding his gun. Nick had a sick feeling seeing the strange man with the unusual hat with the snakeskin hatband and long feather protruding.

"What are you doing with that gun and why haven’t you built a fire?"

"Which one would you like me to answer first big brother?"

"All of the above."

"We had a visitor."

"So?"

"He wanted coffee and to know where Wendell was going."

"Damn, I was afraid of this," said Jarrod. "Probably a bounty hunter."

"A guy who looks like he enjoys his work, I’d say," Nick said, returning his gun to its holster.

Jarrod and Nick had been riding most of the day as they pushed on into the mountains. The air was easier to breathe. They discovered Wendell’s tracks and another set of tracks, following Wendell but veering off the trail. Maybe it was not the man Nick had met the previous night. A skilled bounty hunter would stay on a fugitive’s trail, not become sidetracked. Off in the distance they heard gunfire. Nick grabbed his arm, losing control of his horse. Next, he slid out of the saddle, falling to the ground, hitting the side of his head on a rock. Following another gunshot, Jarrod’s horse reared up, throwing Jarrod to the ground. As Jarrod tried to rise, another shot ricocheted off the ground near his head. Jarrod stayed down, playing dead. Stone-still, only Jarrod’s eyes shifted in Nick’s direction. Nick was motionless. Trying to move as little as possible, Jarrod eased his arm down by his side. Reaching his gun, gingerly he slid it out of its holster. Remaining still for a moment, he listened. Raising his head, he looked over at the stack of rock and shrubs. Not seeing anything move, he rose to his knees. Waiting for the next shot...he heard nothing. He then rose to his feet...nothing. Rushing to Nick’s side, he kept his eyes rooted to the rocks. Everything looked deserted and he was alone.

"Nick...Nick," he said, turning his brother over as Nick groaned.

"What happened?"

"Someone tried to kill us."

"Wendell?"

"No but whoever is following him." Jarrod noticed the gash on his head that would need tending. Jarrod touched Nick’s head, trying to get a closer look. Nick slapped his hand away.

"Nick, stop it and let me look," he said. "That looks superficial. Were you hit anywhere else?"

"My arm." Jarrod looked at the blood soaked sleeve of the opposite arm. He ripped the sleeve, leaning over to examine the wound.

"That bullet has to come out." Knowing there was no town close by or a doctor, Jarrod knew he would have to do it to save his brother’s life. "Can you get on your feet?"

"Yeah." Nick put an arm around his brother’s neck while Jarrod eased him up off the ground.

"We’ll have to get out of the open or we’re clay pigeons," said Jarrod. "Can you ride?"

"Yeah, sure, you know me." Jarrod’s brow furrowed, smiling at Nick as Nick leaned on him.

Once Nick was on his horse, Jarrod took off his bandana from around his neck, tying it on Nick’s arm for a tourniquet. Jarrod then mounted his horse, while leading Nick’s horse. He looked over his shoulder at Nick, who hid his pain. "Even as kids," Jarrod remembered. "He always tried not to cry when he got hurt. Hollering was his specialty." But even now, Jarrod worried because Nick was not hollering and cursing.

Jarrod built a fire while Nick rested. Jarrod got some water to heat on the fire, sterilizing a knife. This was not the first time Jarrod had dug bullets out of his brother or tended his wounds.

"Nick...I have to get that bullet out before an infection sets in." Nick rolled his head sideways, looking at his brother.

"Go ahead big brother,"

"Here, bite on this," Jarrod said, putting a small stick between Nick’s teeth. Jarrod took a deep breath as grains of sweat popped up on his forehead. "We could use Eugene right now," Jarrod said thinking about his brother who had decided to become a doctor. Jarrod hesitated, the knife an inch away from Nick’s arm. Jarrod held Nick’s arm steady as the knife went into the wound. Nick groaned, his teeth baring down on the stick. "Easy, Nick." Jarrod probed for the bullet, using the bandana to sop up the blood. A thin river of perspiration trickled down the side of Jarrod’s face, as he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Continuing to probe, Jarrod knew the bullet had penetrated the bone. Jarrod was feeling warm as Nick scratched the ground, trying not to move as Jarrod kept feeling for the bullet. Nick’s whole body contorted in pain, the stick dropped from his mouth and he went limp. Jarrod glanced at Nick. He passed out and Jarrod was relieved. This was not easy for him, causing his brother pain. Jarrod feeling the bullet, gently eased it out into his hand. With the hot water and a clean rag he used for cooking, he cleaned the wound. Sponging more blood from the wound, he applied pressure then wrapped the arm up with a clean bandana. He put Nick’s shirt back on and covered him with a blanket. He then went to the river’s edge, washing out the bandana and cloth and was preparing dinner when Nick started coming around. Hearing him moan, Jarrod squatted down beside him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I’ve been better," he said. "Did you get it out?"

"Yes, but in the future I’ll stick to being a lawyer. I’ll leave the doctoring to Eugene."

"Wise decision big brother."

As the night wore on, the night was breezy and cool. Nick did not eat much and fell asleep. Jarrod sat right beside him, sipping his coffee and gazing into the fire, mesmerized by the warmth of the crackling glow and tiny sparks jumping out of the blazing coals. Nick stirred, pulling the blanket up under his chin, while his teeth chattered. Jarrod looked down at him, knowing the night was not cold enough for him to be shivering. Jarrod retrieved his blanket, covering Nick, again sitting beside his brother. Jarrod laid a hand on his Nick’s forehead. Nick was feverish. Jarrod tucked in the blanket around Nick, holding in the warmth around his body. Jarrod leaned back on his saddle, too concerned for Nick to sleep. In time, Jarrod drifted off, only to be awakened by his brother’s emotional flare-up, guessing it was delirium.

"Nick...Nick." Nick grabbed the front of Jarrod’s shirt.

"I’m sorry Father, but I can’t."

"Nick, it’s Jarrod." Nick stopped, trying to focus. The voice was familiar. Nick was still confused as recognition broke over him.

"Where’s Father?"

"Nick, Father is dead." Nick looked into the worried blue eyes of his brother, trying to understand what was happening.

"Dead?"

"Yes, Nick, he’s dead." Nick eyes shifted from his brother while Jarrod pulled Nick’s hand from his shirt. Jarrod resumed his place beside Nick as Nick looked off into the distance for answers.

"I thought he was here."

"It’s the fever."

"It was so real," he looked up at Jarrod.

"What was it?"

"Father was angry with me."

"When was that?"

"I got into a fight." Jarrod smiled. "What?"

"I always thought Father admired your stubborn streak and brawling style." Jarrod looked wistful.

"Why do you say that?" Jarrod looked away.

"Because you were more like him, I guess." Nick had never seen Jarrod like this in an unguarded moment.

"I always thought he admired and respected you because you were college educated and I wasn’t," Nick stared at the fire. Jarrod grabbed a few twigs, throwing them into the smoldering remains of the fire. Watching the twigs ignite, Jarrod grabbed a little one off the ground, playing with it.

"Father wanted me to take over the ranch and I was interested in the business of running the ranch but then I heard about a trial going on in town. Derek Swenson was suing in a land dispute...I guess I must have been about fourteen or fifteen and I remember slipping into the back of the court room to listen."

"And?"

"That’s when I knew I wanted to be a lawyer."

"You didn’t say that Father also wanted all his sons to be college educated."

"He always wanted more for us, you know that."

"You went to college and now Eugene is in college, I just couldn’t do it. I’d had enough of books in school. I liked being outdoors not tied to a desk all day," Jarrod was not offended, he understood. "I came home drunk one night and I thought Father was going to beat the living tar out of me. That was the fight. I told him I didn’t want college, that was fine for you and probably would be for Eugene. So, I guess I figured all those years he didn’t respect me much because I didn’t live up to his expectations."

"You measured up more to him than you’ll ever know." Nick glanced up at his brother.

"I, on the other hand, thought I disappointed him not being more like you. I learned about the cattle drives, fixing fences, roping horses, everything there was to do on a ranch. But it was never enough. Not for me it wasn’t. I wanted to know more, understand more. Some have a need to go beyond the everyday routine of ranch or farm life. I guess that was me."

"So, you’re saying, Father understood too, that we had to go our own ways."

"I can still rope a steer and you can still negotiate a deal, we just made different choices." Both realizing that the past could not be undone they used each other as a looking glass, speaking freely of their souls. They spoke of those who shaped them through the years and the events that occurred they would not forget. For Nick, being detached from reality, meant looking back for himself, hearing voices echoing to him over the years. Voices he could not ignore. Both faced their misconceptions of the past. They realized those feelings belonged in their childhood, stowed away in the trunk up in the attic.

Nick was able to ride but was still weak, peaked and feverish. The morning was misty with drizzle. The sky was heavy and leaden as they waited for rain. Jarrod knew it would be difficult to track Wendell in the rain but his first concern was Nick and taking him to a doctor. Nick never complained except for his usual low growling, signaling Jarrod he was fed to the eyeballs with being weak and injured.

"Take it easy Nick." Nick glared at Jarrod. Nick and frustration did not mingle. Jarrod stopped as both men looked ahead of them. Jarrod and Nick were relieved to see a small town in the distance. Suddenly, the sky broke open and sheets of heavy rain came down on them. Jarrod leaned over to nick, pulling the blanket tighter around his brother. "Hang on, Nick, we’re almost there," Jarrod said, the cool rain pelting his face. Jarrod tried to see through the wall of rain as he galloped through the slippery mud, spraying all around them.

The doctor tended Nick’s wounds as Jarrod cleaned up and dried out near the wood stove. Meanwhile, the doctor cleaned Nick’s wound, putting some salve on it and redressing it. Jarrod stood by, knowing he would have to leave Nick for a while.

"Is he going to be all right?"

"Oh, sure," he said. "Good thing you got him here when you did. Anymore time and gangrene might have set in. And with this weather and his fever, he might have contracted pneumonia. But he’s strong and young." The doctor tied the knot on the bandage. "He just needs to rest for a couple of days," he said, pulling the blanket up over Nick. Jarrod tugged on the doctor’s arm, leading him out of earshot.

"I have to leave but I’ll be back. There’s something I have to do. Can you keep him here until I return?"

"All right."

"And another thing, Nick is stubborn and will jump out of that bed when he knows I’m gone."

"Not likely," he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. He removed his spectacles and began cleaning them. "When it comes to my patients I’m just as stubborn."

"Thanks doctor," said Jarrod. "How much do I owe you?"

"You can pay me when you come back for your brother, that way I’ll know you’ll be back." Nick fell asleep as Jarrod squeezed his arm.

"I’ll be back soon."

As Jarrod anticipated, tracking Wendell in the rain had not been easy. As nightfall loomed up, the rain stopped and Jarrod set up camp. He built a fire, heating some water for coffee. In the distance he heard the howling of a wolf, which was not remarkable. Squatting down, he continued feeding the fire, poking it with a stick. He heard some twigs and leaves crunch as if someone was walking in his direction. Tossing the twig into the fire, jumping to his feet, he whipped out his gun. Cautiously, he approached the woods, staying low, aiming his gun in the area of the noise. He stopped, looking into a pair of large, wide glowing yellow eyes, more curious than predatory. Odd but Jarrod was not afraid. The disembodied eyes floated in nothingness. It did not move or growl, it just stared at him then disappeared. Jarrod sighed, returning his gun to its holster. "Strange," he thought. Maybe it was that Indian legend he had heard about the ghost wolf. It reminded him of the legendary stories his father would tell about the trapper and miner, Johnny Lundee and the ghost wolf. He poured some coffee and sat on a nearby log, thinking about it. He held the cup between his hands to warm them. He was sipping his coffee when he heard a tussling and growling in the woods behind him. He did not move. There was an animal whimper and a crashing as if someone was running away. Only silence remained. Maybe it was not the wolf stalking this night. "One more night without sleep," he thought.

Weary but determined, he picked up Wendell’s trail. Galloping along, he heard a shot echo nearby, striking him in the side. He clutched his side, trying to hang on without slipping out of the saddle. Losing control of his horse, another shot rang out, grazing him on the forehead as he fell off onto the ground. His horse galloped away before stopping as Jarrod lay still on the trail. Nothing moved but the wind through his hair. Everything was quiet. A giant shadow stretched over Jarrod. Squatting down and grinning at his prey, Jack turned Jarrod over, to face him. Grabbing Jarrod by the chin, he looked into his face. "Nice looking fellow and still breathing...but not for long." Standing up, Jack cocked his gun, leveling it at Jarrod’s head. Shutting one eye, Jack began pulling the trigger when he heard growling nearby. He swung his rifle around, pointing at the wolf. "You again." The wolf stood solid, rooted to the ground, hunched with his grizzled fur upright like quills, ready to spring. His lips stretched and his teeth bared in a gruesome sneer, his devilish eyes wide and glowing with animosity. Taking aim, he began squeezing the trigger.

"I wouldn’t," a voice shouted from above. Glancing up, he saw the half-breed woman he came across a week before. "More likely he’d tear you to pieces before you could fire."

"You ain’t seen the last of me, squaw," he said lowering his rifle.

"That may be but I could kill you now for trespassing." Dropping his arms down by his sides he wandered back up into the wooded hillside, where he had stashed his horse. She watched as he rode off further into the woods, disappearing. Lowering her rifle, she ran down the hillside, through the woods and into the clearing. Still surveying the woods, she squatted down beside Jarrod, examining him.

"Mahican, stay." Mahican obeyed, sitting beside Jarrod, guarding him until the woman returned. Like his mistress, Mahican, was also vigilant, watching for trouble. He remembered the man wearing the hat with snakeskin hatband and the feather jutting out, ...he tasted his blood. Blood as cold as ice water. Peering down at Jarrod, he sniffed his neck and whimpered. Hearing a noise, his head shot up seeing his mistress return, dragging a litter. "Come, Mahican, we have work to do," she said throwing her rifle aside. She managed to roll Jarrod onto the litter, covering him with blankets. She pushed the dark hair out of his eyes, inspecting the scratch on his forehead. She liked what she saw so far. She then attached the litter to Mahican, who dragged it back up the hill to the cabin. The woman followed behind, her rifle ready. The wolf stopped at the front door. She leaned her rifle against the wall inside the door as she heard moaning. Jarrod’s eyes began to open. Squinting, he looked up at the woman who was untying the leather straps on the litter. Stooping down beside him, she laid an arm around his shoulders, holding him close. "Come, I have to get you inside." Jarrod succeeded in getting up off the ground despite the pain he was feeling. Leaning on her, she guided him into the cabin, laying him down on her bed.

"Who are you?"

"Fiona Lundee," she said. "You have been shot and I need to see the wound." She helped him with his shirt. His shirt was soaked in blood. "I will wash this later." She helped him strip down, then looked at the wound. Glancing back up at him, she said,

"That bullet needs to come out. If it moves, it could break a rib and worse, puncture a lung." Jarrod marveled at her knowledge of anatomy and medicine. He looked worried, could he trust her even though she might know what she was doing. She cut up some bandages and bound his wound. "You rest," she said, easing him down on the bed. "I will go get your horse, he couldn’t have gotten very far. I will leave Lakota Mahican with you."

"You mean that wolf? What does that mean?"

"My friend the wolf."

Letting Mahican in to guard Jarrod, she took her rifle and left.

"That was you last night." The wolf cocked his head. With his ears pointed up, looking at Jarrod, he tried to make sense out of his human friend.

Fiona boiled some water and sterilized her instruments. Bringing them over to the bed, she set them down, laying a towel underneath Jarrod. Jarrod watched her, fascinated by the beautiful woman. She did not speak, which to him was strange for a woman. "Some you can never shut up," he thought. She scrubbed her hands in the sink, wiped them clean and returned to Jarrod. "Bite down on this." She shoved a piece of rawhide between his teeth. Jarrod had bullets taken out before but this one was worse than the one he pulled out of Nick the day before. As she probed the wound, Jarrod gritted his teeth, the muscles straining in his neck. Perspiration dotted his forehead as he gripped the blankets. Every muscle tight as sailor’s knots. As she reached the bullet, she hit his rib bone and he groaned. "I don’t mean to hurt you but it’s better than bleeding to death." She threw down the knife. Next, she pulled out some tweezers. Reaching in, she grasped the bullet, pulling it out and dropping it on the table. Jarrod fell unconscious as she sewed up the wound then dressed it. She washed his face, cleaning the blood off his forehead. She covered him up, letting him rest. She cleaned up and began making dinner.

Hearing moaning, she sat down in a chair beside Jarrod, wiping his face with a cool cloth.

"I have to get out of here," he said trying to rise.

"I don’t think so," said Fiona, pushing him back down onto the bed. "You rest." As he slept, she watched him, captivated by the handsome man. She saw plenty of men in town and a couple who were kind to her but none that sparked her interest until now. She never needed a man to provide for her. That she could do herself. What she wanted was to love and be loved. But being a half-breed made a normal life impossible. People spat at her feet, calling her names until she grew a thick skin. Forced by prejudice, saying nothing to no one and living in seclusion was the only way for Fiona to survive in a world as an outcast. It hurt not having the choice to live her life as she had envisioned. Like her only friend, Mahican, he too was a misfit, abandoned by his pack when his mother died. That was when Fiona found him and raised him from a cub. Mahican had an unspoken bond with Fiona. He would look at her with warm eyes the same way she looked at Jarrod.

She made some broth for Jarrod, hoping he would eat something. He tried, but was too tired. So they talked as she quilted. She could not take her eyes from him.

"Your name is familiar," he said.

"You might be thinking of the legendary Johnny Lundee."

"You are related?"

"I’m his only daughter," she said. "And my mother was Shawnee."

"I heard a lot about your Father."

"He was a Scotsman, down from Canada."

"He finally hit it big in gold rush."

"He did, but it didn’t change him, he continued trapping and living off the land the way he always had and the way I’ve had to," she said. "This was his home. He left it to me and the land."

"Don’t you get lonely?"

"There’s nothing I can do about it." Jarrod knew what she meant. "You haven’t told me your name."

"Jarrod Barkley."

"Weren’t you that lawyer that defended that Basque sheep herder?"

"How did you know about that?"

"I hear things." Looking at him, she had never known these feelings. Like someone leaving a dark cave and coming out into daylight. It was a new feeling. She always believed, as if it was a deficit, that for some reason she was incapable of loving anyone. Everything was different now and she liked the feeling.

"You keep staring at me."

"Am I? I didn’t realize. It’s just that you’re the most attractive man I have ever seen," She could not believe what just passed. "You sleep now," she said, squeezing his arm. She liked the feel of his firm arm. Leaning over, she turned down the lamp and sat with him. "Am I the same person? Have I changed because of this man?" She wondered.

As she made breakfast, Jarrod tried to get out of bed.

"No you don’t, get back in there," she said, shoving his feet back under the covers.

"I feel fine."

"I have to change your dressing." In the kitchen, she had made a poultice. Cleaning the wound, then applying the poultice she then changed the bandage.

"What is that?"

"Old Shawnee remedy to ward off infection."

"Where did you learn about medicine?"

"During the Civil War, I trained as a nurse, assisting the doctors in surgery."

"You are amazing." She turned away. How long she waited to hear that. "Why didn’t you continue?"

"Why do you think?" she said. "In the war there was no time for men to wonder whether it was a half-breed caring for them. They know better now."

"There’s another world out there."

"I’m sure but it doesn’t include me," she said, tying the knot on the bandage. "You need to eat something."

"I need to get out of this bed."

"Where’s the fire?"

"I’m looking for someone."

"That can wait until you’re better."

"You don’t understand."

"Men, always the goal is important, whatever it may be," she said fixing him some oatmeal and corn bread. "I have to go into town, so Mahican will keep you company." She handed him the bowl.

"I feel much better."

"That wound will just open up and start bleeding again," she said shaking her head.

After returning from town, she worked in her vegetable garden. Coming around the corner, she saw Jarrod, hanging onto the front support of the porch.

"And what are you doing out of bed?" Jarrod had no answer as she brought him back inside and sat him down at the kitchen table. Spread out on her kitchen table were wanted posters. While she made coffee, Jarrod glanced at the posters, fixed on one in particular.

"Oh, no." Fiona spun around.

"What?"

"This man, he’s the one I’m looking for. I’ve got to find him." He then thought for a moment. Looking over all the wanted posters on the table, he then looked up at Fiona.

"Yes, it’s what you think it is. I’m a bounty hunter. Aside from trapping, it’s how I make my living." Jarrod did not utter a word. "I never killed anyone though and the last man, I even saved his life." Jarrod avoided her gaze. "How else can a half-breed make a living?" Jarrod had no answers. "Don’t look like that...I don’t want you to look like that?"

"What do you care?" Fiona went back to the stove. She hesitated before saying anything.

"I care because I love you."

"You don’t even know me."

"I know more than you think." Jarrod’s side began to ache as he rubbed it. "What if I help you find him?"

"You can keep the bounty."

"I don’t care about that," she said. "Who is this man?"

"He’s my client."

"I’ll help you track him."

"There’s another man looking for him."

"The same man that tried to kill you."

"You know him?"

"I haven’t had the pleasure and I hope I never do except to put a bullet in him," she said. "He’s tried in the last week to kill you and another man I brought into town."

"He may have been the one that shot my brother." She covered his hand with hers, "Don’t worry, between me and Mahican, you have two of the best trackers," she said. "We’ll find him."

Fiona kept to her word, she and Mahican escorted Jarrod through the mountains and no one was more useful than Fiona. Admiring her strength and courage, Jarrod would watch her as she tracked, and he too was feeling something strange. Unlike Fiona, the feeling was familiar. A wave of contentment but more than that it was a passion that had been locked away somewhere within. Since his wife’s death and other love affairs broken by betrayal, Jarrod made his career the attraction of his life. He, like Fiona wanted to love again but was afraid of being hurt. It was easier to court women he was not interested in, avoiding the trap of falling in love. Yet, this time, Fiona was genuine, nothing phony or deceitful. A natural woman.

During the nights, by the fire, she would tell stories, a gift her Shawnee mother bestowed on her. He would laugh, welcoming her sense of humor. One evening, in the middle of one of her stories, she stopped to listen.

"What is it?"

"Shhh." Mahican stood up, growling. She rose, grabbing her rifle. Her eyes scanned the woods behind them. Jarrod pulled out his gun. Again, Mahican’s grizzled fur rose in spikes. His nose trembled and twitched as he bared his teeth. His eyes solid, fierce and glowing. Fiona took aim as Jarrod tried to see what she was watching. Both Jarrod and Fiona heard a gun being cocked, next a flash of gunfire as Fiona pushed Jarrod away. She fell to the ground, out of the way of the gunfire, discharging her rifle. Both heard a low guttural sound as if someone had been hit. Mahican made a dash for the woods, running low to the ground.

"Mahican." Mahican stopped, trotting back to them. Fiona, scrambled along the ground to Jarrod. "Are you all right?" She asked, leaning over him.

"Yes, thanks to you." Jarrod rose up leaning back on his elbows, looking straight into Fiona’s face. He had never been this close. His eyes probed her face as she brought her lips closer to his. "What is making me want to kiss him?" she thought as he pressed his lips to hers.

"I want you to know that is the first time I have been kissed by a man. Really kissed." Jarrod pulled her closer, kissing her again.

When Wendell returned to camp, he thought about where he would go from here as he threw dirt on the fire. Suddenly, his old friend panic set in as Jarrod, Fiona and Mahican appeared. He did not know what to do now. He tried going for his gun, but Fiona had her rifle out and aimed at him. Jarrod dismounted, approaching Wendell.

"Wendell, you’re coming back to Stockton with us."

"I can’t Jarrod."

"You have to, you have no choice."

"Jarrod, I’m scared."

"I know but there is no solution for you here," Jarrod said. "You can see that can’t you?" Fiona came and stood beside Jarrod.

"No," Wendell was not looking at Jarrod or Fiona but what was behind them. All turned to see what was in back of them. Mahican began to growl, crouching low, ready to spring.

"Call off your damn wolf."

"And if I don’t?"

"Don’t challenge me squaw, now it’s my turn."

"What will you do?" As Jarrod was about to reach for his gun, Jack shot him. The bullet stung him, leaving only a scratch. Jarrod grasped his wrist, dropping his gun.

"That takes care of you, lawyer."

"Is this just about bounty?" Jarrod asked.

"Someone is paying me double the bounty and I get the bounty too when I bring him in...and kill you, lawyer," he said, then turning his attention to Fiona. "Now, call off the wolf."

"Mahican, stay." Mahican looked at her puzzled as if trying to warn her that he was the enemy. She returned a knowing look the wolf seemed to understand.

"Now, squaw, you drop the rifle and no Indian tricks." Fiona’s mouth tightened into a straight line, a slow fire burning in her eyes. She could not risk Jarrod or Wendell being shot, which was Jack’s intent. Disgusted, she threw down her rifle. All of them humored Jack, knowing Nick was behind him. "Now, then this is more like it. It sure did pay to get up this morning."

"Now, you just hold it right there and throw your gun down." Jack turned around, aiming his gun over his shoulder at Nick when Mahican, leaping up, knocked Jack out of the saddle and onto the ground. While struggling with Mahican, Fiona dived onto the ground, grabbing her rifle. Jack pushed Mahican off him and was about to shoot the wolf when Fiona fired at Jack, killing him. Wendell went snow-white and wobbled on his feet as Jarrod caught him.

"Easy Wendell." Nick was not looking much better when he saw Mahican. "It’s all right Nick, Mahican is tame." Fiona looked at Nick.

"Are you sure Jarrod?"

"He saved your life didn’t he?" Fiona said. Nick nodded.

Meanwhile, Fiona gazed down at the man and the hat with the snakeskin hatband and the feather protruding. His passing was strange, a man void of any feeling leaving behind a black soul for hell. He would not be the last of his kind. There would always be more to replace him.

Along the way, they met up with the posse and Fred took Wendell into custody. Returning to Stockton with Wendell in tow, Fiona got the bounty.

"Why don’t you come out to the ranch for dinner."

"Thanks, but I better be going."

"You can’t leave."

"I don’t want to leave you but I must. It’s the way it has to be for both of us," she said, noticing Jarrod’s disappointment. "Letting go is what I have to do." She then kissed him, nothing resistant, letting her spirit sore for the last time. Cradling his face between her gentle, strong hands, she said, "At least if I never love like this again, I’ll always remember this one time in my life." She mounted her horse, still staring at Jarrod like the first time when he caught her doing it. She said nothing more as she urged her horse onward. She never looked back, her lips trembling as she tried to hold back the tears.

Jarrod watched as Fiona and Mahican walked away. The sadness was different now, not from betrayal but knowing love and losing it. A loss he would never become used to as the need was fierce and chaotic. The San Francisco fluff with their frills could not compete with a real woman. Time would settle the emptiness within but nothing would remain unchanged and before long he would meet a woman who would make him as happy as Beth and Fiona once had.

Jarrod dove back into his work, still trying to clear Wendell and trying to forget Fiona. It was not an ordinary love that troubled him. But at the same time, Wendell was not managing incarceration while his mental stability seemed to be deteriorating. He was hysterical, rocking on his bed, sick to his stomach vomiting all day except when he was in court with Jarrod. He was making Jarrod’s defense more difficult. Everyone in Stockton was fond of Wendell and pitied him but had faith that justice would prevail and that Wendell being in Jarrod’s reliable hands was enough.

Roland Hollis, strode aimlessly around his living room, puffing on a cigar, thinking. His spurs jingling as he walked with heavy, purposeful and angry steps that the room itself seem to shake. Standing still, Roland chewed on his cigar.

"I hear Jarrod Barkley is investigating your wife’s murder." Billy said.

"So? What’s it to you?" He slid his hands into his pockets while the cigar was embedded between his teeth.

"Well," Billy said, gazing at the floor then at Roland. "Since I know you were the one who clobbered your wife with the poker, I figured we could make an arrangement." Roland stared at the young cowboy with the straw-colored hair, then resumed gnawing on his cigar.

"You don’t fool around, do you kid." Billy snickered at the remark, self-satisfied.

"No, I guess not," he said, slipping a hand into his back pocket and leaning to one side.

"I can admire your resourcefulness, opportunity knocks and you open the door." Roland walked over to the table in back of the couch, laying down his cigar in the ashtray. He glanced down at the gun lying in its holster on the table. Yanking it out of the holster, he aimed it at Billy, who did not react in time as Roland, without hesitation or thought, pulled the trigger. The shot was deft, sure, and quick, instant death, just the way Roland preferred it. Roland heard running outside and frantic knocking at the door. Rushing to Billy, he removed Billy’s gun, laying it in his outstretched hand. He backed off as the door flew open.

"Mr. Hollis, what happened?"

"He pulled a gun on me."

Before heading back to the ranch, Heath and Nick spied a stray calf, stuck in a muddy gulch, near the stream. Heath threw Nick a rope to pull the calf out of the gulch. Looking around, Heath saw something beyond the gulch, in the stream. Leaning forward in his saddle, he still could not make it out and dismounted. Walking down the slope to the stream, Heath moved closer. In the water, floating facedown, his clothes rippling with the undercurrent, was a man. Meanwhile, Nick managed to get the calf out of the gulch, slap him on the rump and send him on his way.

"Heath, what are you looking at?" Heath turned the man over, noticing the bullet wound in his chest. Nick could not see what it was through the trees and thicket.

"Nick, you better get the sheriff."

"What for?"

"It’s Billy Jackson...he’s dead."

"What?"

As Jarrod was leaving to go home, he decided to stop in and visit Wendell at the jail. Fred, hearing Jarrod come in, met him in the office. Fred appeared distracted.

"Fred what’s wrong?"

"Huh?"

"Fred, what is it?"

"Follow me." Jarrod followed Fred into the back, where the cells were.

"Oh, no." Closing his eyes and turning away, Jarrod shook his head. Wendell sat on the floor against the wall, a belt tied around his neck, strung up to the bars in the window above him.

"Suicide?"

"What else?"

"I don’t buy it, Fred." Jarrod walked over to Wendell, squatting beside him and examined him. His mouth was slack, the eyes were wide and terrified, frozen in time. His last expression revealed more to Jarrod than anyone would realize.

"Wendell was too frightened to die," Jarrod said. "He would not have killed himself."

"Jarrod, he was acting nutty since he came back. No telling what he was capable of."

"Look at his face, Fred, that’s not a man at peace with ending it, that’s a man scared to death."

"This is for a coroner’s inquest to decide," Fred said, as Jarrod noticed the bruises on Wendell’s neck. "Why it always has to be my jail, I’ll never know."

"Fred, these marks on his neck were not made by the belt."

"What?"

"Look," Jarrod said, pointing to a pattern of small bruises. Both men looked at one another. "He was choked to death not strangled with this belt." Jarrod rose to his feet. "Did you leave Wendell alone at anytime?"

"Yes, and he was alive when I left."

"When?"

"About a half hour ago. There was a commotion at the saloon."

"Fred!" Nick appeared, stopping, standing stone still upon seeing Wendell. "What happened to him?"

"Murdered, Nick," said Jarrod.

"What did you want?" asked Fred.

"I was going to tell you about another murder."

"Who?" asked Fred.

"Remember that kid, Billy Jackson, worked for Hollis, always getting himself liquored up?"

"Yeah."

"He’s the one. Heath found him in the stream. Gunshot to he chest." No one said another word.

Jarrod was not a welcomed sight in Roland’s house. Locking horns with Roland Hollis was a reckless prank for anyone but that did not worry Jarrod. Jarrod persevered, pressing and prodding.

"Are you accusing me of murder?" Roland asked, shifting the cigar between his teeth.

"I can’t very well do that until I have proof."

"Wise man."

"That doesn’t mean I don’t suspect you."

"Why are you digging, Jarrod? Your client is dead." There was a silence as Jarrod stared at Roland.

"How did you know he was dead? I just found out and no one else knew either." Roland ripped the cigar out from between his teeth, glaring at Jarrod.

Jarrod stood, tapping a pencil on his desk. Taking a deep breath, he then sighed.

"Look, why don’t you come join Heath and me for the poker game in town," Nick said.

"You two go ahead, I have work to do."

"You’ll be lonely with Mother and Audra gone and Silas visiting an old friend."

"Just the way I like it, thank you very much."

"Ok, can’t say I didn’t warn you." Jarrod chuckled, then resumed his work.

Nick, all wound up, chatted away as Heath listened while they rode into to town. All of sudden Nick stopped.

"What’s wrong with you? A minute ago I couldn’t shut you up," Heath said.

"I’ve got to go back to the house."

"You forget something?"

"No."

"What then?"

"Go on without me."

"No, I’ll go with you."

Jarrod rubbed his eyes, then rolled his aching shoulders back. Hunching back over his paperwork, he stopped for a moment thinking about Fiona. Diverted from his work, Jarrod then rose, leaving the room for a cup of coffee.

The door to the terrace clicked and opened a crack. Roland eased inside, shutting the door softly. Coiled around his hand was a heavy piece of rope. The kind used to rope horses and cattle. Hearing footsteps down the hall, Roland ducked behind the curtains near Jarrod’s desk. Jarrod walked in, setting down his cup and saucer. Roland crept out from behind the curtain. Jarrod stood, looking over a brief, tapping his pencil on the desk, tap...tap...tap. The action annoyed. Roland raised up his arms behind Jarrod, the rope taut between his hands. Moving closer to Jarrod, Roland pulled the rope so that it was stiff. Lunging for Jarrod, he wrapped the heavy, prickly rope around Jarrod’s firm, smooth neck, pulling it tight. Struggling, Jarrod tried to pull the rope away from his throat but failed. He then jammed his elbow into Roland’s ribs, disabling him temporarily as he moved away. Roland lassoed Jarrod before he reached the door, yanking on his neck, he brought him closer. Taking the ends of the rope and crossing them, he tugged on them as if he were making a grotesque bow. Jarrod gasped, still struggling. Roland backed away, dragging Jarrod with him, the rope still around his neck. Roland, flipped Jarrod onto the desk, facing him. Jarrod tried to push Roland off as Roland’s whole weight was pressing on Jarrod Looking into Roland’s demonic eyes, he knew he would be dead. Jarrod, was clawing at Roland as he was trying to breathe. Jarrod raised his arms overhead, searching for anything on the desk to use as a weapon. The cup and saucer went crashing to the floor. Jarrod could feel the rough rope digging into and chafing his neck as he gulped for air. He found the brass letter opener with his right hand. Trying to grasp it as it almost slid away from him. Seizing it, Jarrod brought the letter opener up in the air and without delay, plunged it into Roland’s back. Roland stiffened in a gruesome seizure, his eyes rolling back in his head. Releasing Jarrod, he fell back onto the floor, landing on his side. Jarrod rose up from the desk, coughing, trying to gulp air. He stumbled over to the terrace door. He opened the door, leaning against it he wheezed as he took in some air. Removing the rope from around his neck, he let it drop to the floor. He walked a little further, still coughing when Nick rushed over to him.

"Jarrod, are you all right?"

"Yes," he said, his voice hoarse as he rubbed his sore neck.

"Nick, is Jarrod ok?"

"Yeah." Jarrod leaned on Nick as Nick brought him back inside. Nick could feel Jarrod still shaking.

"He’s still alive," Heath said. Nick squatted down beside Roland. Jarrod leaned against the desk, still holding his throat, trying to swallow.

"All this because of that damn tramp," he said.

"Did you kill her?"

"Yes and I’d do it...." He never finished his words.

Jarrod took a ride the next day, going far enough that he thought he might go farther, back up to Fiona’s cabin in the mountains. He missed her and the wolf called Mahican. He would always remember the music she brought into his life. Maybe he would not return this time but he would return someday.

The End