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Joe Thatcher eased his roan gelding to a halt on the bald backbone of the ridge. No soil covered the ground below them just the windswept sandstone and a few gnarled plants. Sweat trickled from his brow as he looked down into the ravine. He could still see the swirling of dust marking his pursuit. They were far enough behind him but he was still not safe. He looked grimly down at the rifle hanging in his saddle scabbard, "If only I had more cartridges!" He thought. The Winchester that was Thatcher's pride, never missed its mark, it was smooth and accurate and got him out of trouble more times than he could count. This, was not one of those times. The rifle was empty, and his six gun that he gripped in his cold wet hand had only three housed rounds. He knew by the way that the wound in his gut was searing, he would have to seek refuge and wait out his pursuers. He spotted a small cave opening in the cavern wall.
Dismounting, he carefully led his horse into the rock alcove. Swiftly, Joe took off his slicker and brushed it along the ground to disguise any tracks they might have made that would lead them to this cave. He knew he couldn't be more than a few miles from Fort Smith. Likely his pursuers would ride straight through and seek him out there. For now all he could think about was rest, and the pain knawing at his blood soaked gut. He fought the urge to let his body drift into a light sleep; he had to stay alert, and focused. As he heard the horses approaching, Joe gripped the clammy colt revolver tightly and waited.
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