The Undefeated

By Barry H. Young

An extraordinary, vivid, haunting and stunning novel magnificently crafted taking you into a time of tragic American history that molded a nation out of exploration and discovery, wanton carnage, savagery, courage and bloodshed.
An overwhelming gripping action packed story of a young man’s grind to manhood through despair, shame, torture, survival and retribution. His early years infused with hate, of a mystic meeting with a spirit from another time and place, of the tragic wasted years fighting hell and horror of the blood lust of the American Civil War.
This is an epic story of the hunter who became the hunted, as the predator giving no mercy, as the prey fighting for his life, of the rise and fall of a savagely persecuted nation of proud people caught in a turmoil by an encroaching world, of a love spurned and re-ignited in hot raw passion amid the death-defying challenge of leading the oppressed to freedom from a ruthless tyrant and the surprise, thrilling climax of revenge and a hate suppressed.
The overwhelming power of such heart gripping action of this magnificent story penned in the poetry and endless beauty of the wilderness of Northern America so vividly described in Barry H Young’s unique style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Horizon Publishing Group
• Release date: Mar 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781921369636

Barry H. Young

Barry H Young is a true storyteller. The award-winning author of short stories, Red Wind, The Snake Trail and The Shadow of the Wolf, lives with his wife Bev and family in the beautiful Thurgoona valley in Rural New South Wales, Australia. Since his youth Barry H Young has researched the early years of American western folklore. The taming of this wild and beautiful land, the stories of the Northern American Indian tribes, the Civil War and the code of the west captured his imagination. Ever mindful of the famous western writers past and present, he humbly portrays his own interpretations of their country’s western history. His novels are packed with absorbing action, terror, haunting mysticism, sizzling romance and heart breaking pathos. His characters, true to the time and to the land, bring life and vitality to the magic of his words. His descriptions of the sweeping grandeur and astonishing lyrical beauty of the unconquered land are pure poetry. His non-fiction work “The Funeral Celebrants Handbook” has achieved International acclaim. Barry H Young is a true story teller who has forged a reputation as Australia’s most prominent author of American Western Frontier novels. Barry H Young was awarded a 0AM - "Order of Australia" for his meritorious services to the community in the Australian Honoring Day of 2008.

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*****

Dedication

For my wife Bev

To my wife Bev

Whose encouragement carried me

through a long journey to its end.

*****

Author’s note

My sincere heartfelt thanks to all those who made this book

that you hold in your hand a reality.

I write of The Horizon Publishing Group and their team of talented professionals who bound my

dreams and imagination to production and marketing stage.

*****

Reflections on

"The Undefeated"

by

Ruth Van Gramberg

Australia’s finest Poet

A land of dusty mountains bare, and sombre silent shadows

Arid tracks and branches gnarled, twisted bodies drooped as gallows

Horse ridden valleys and muddied silt where braves with spears held tight

Faced battles and starvation, tribes destroyed in frightened flight.

Spirits now roam the rocky rims, where once young lovers kissed

And silence wraps in benediction – the women God had missed

Disillusioned, despondent, wasted lives, myriad faces etched in pain.

Carnage, dust, blood, flies and screams, chant an eerie soft refrain.

Demoralized, embattled soldiers, chartered desperate, bloodied schemes

Slaughtered and quartered, scalped or strung, recurring, pitiless dreams

Pioneers, colonists, braves so bold, in desperate, frenzied quest

Screams, choked tears held stringently, as they laid beloveds to rest.

Reflections flicker sullen and black, yet hearken to the ravens cry

As ghosts of creaking wagon-wheels, churn dust where the settlers lie.

A land once alight with campfires bright, wild passions did darkness chase

Now the dead keep watch, whilst the innocent sleep in nature’s tight embrace.

*****

"I sing of arms and men, not of presidents, kings, generals or passing explorers but of those who survived their loneliness, drove the cattle, ploughed the furrows and built their shelters against the wind.

These are the men who built a nation."

Chief Joseph, Nez Perc`e

It is cold and we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death… I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.

Chief Joseph, Nez Perc’e

*****

The Main Players

The Lieutenant, Bounty Hunter, Fugitive, Pathfinder: Caleb Stanton

The Tyrant Cattle Baron: Jackson Buckmaster

The Traitor Major: Edwin Dewhurst

The Beautiful Socialite: Katrina Kate Buckmaster

The Physician: Dr Remington Champness

Lion Slayer: The savage Apache

The Gunfighter: Drago

The Mystic Spirit: The Old One

The Irish Sergeant: Sergeant O’Reilly

The Indian Chief: Chief Iron Eagle

Soldiers Of Fortune: Tom Tee Hall

Skip Taylor

Cameo appearance: The great Apache warrior -

Victorio

*****

Prologue

A young man dark of skin with hawklike features, tall, narrow-waisted and broad of shoulder moves silently across the field in cat-like motion. A deer, skinned and dressed is draped across his wide muscled shoulders.

His dark eyes anchor upon a distant cabin and the western sunlight catches their sparkle as they sight two figures standing together, one raising a dainty arm in welcome.

His stride lengthens as the warmth of the day gives way to the chill of the descending mist.

‘Caleb, about our boy,’ said Katrina. ‘We must send him East. It is time.’

‘East! Time! Katrina, what is this folly? East is too far away and time is today.’

‘He has to learn, Caleb’.

‘Learn, Katrina? What else is there to learn? What else does he have to know? You have taught him words, the scriptures, he recites Keats, Wordsworth, Scott and Magellan, Drake and Genghis Khan are his heroes - from me he knows the way of the land, to saddle a bronc, to herd cattle, to brand a cow, to hunt the deer, to use weapons, make a fire, throw a rope, mend a bridle and grease a wagon wheel. He knows how to fix a broken leg, doctor a sick calf, even how to use a plough and sow corn!’

‘Hush, Caleb. That is not enough, there is much more to learn. He knows what is on the next page before I turn it. He must go East to the University. He has such a fertile mind, he must learn of things other than what we know’.

‘But Katrina, I would miss him! Who would tend the herd - hunt the deer - catch the silver trout and split the pine?’

‘And I, Caleb, cannot bear to be without him. To place his plate before him - to mend his clothes - to wipe his brow when illness comes - to listen for his step on the porch when the day’s work is done - to hear the music of his voice and to see such wondrous love in those deep black eyes’.

‘But - but - Katrina!’

‘No Caleb, we must! He will return to us a man of scholarship, wizened in the thinking of others and the ways of the world - a man ready to fulfil his destiny’.

‘His destiny Katrina’.

‘Yes, Caleb, to fight for the rights of the people, his people confined to the reservation that is his destiny’.

‘But Katrina, how do you know this?’

‘Because Caleb, he is the son of the great Apache Chief Victorio’.

*****

Part I

Chapter 1

The cut of the icy wind that swooped from the white-fleeced mountain peak matched the mood of the gathering that stood facing each other, divided by the width of the rutted street.

‘Get on with it Drago, storm’s brewin’.’ The speaker sat astride a giant white stallion that pawed the ground, then backed snorting its displeasure at the tight hold that cruelly wrenched its jaw.

The sky rumbled as the blue vastness gave way to swooping charcoal clouds. A sudden gust of wind tilted a wide brimmed sombrero, exposing thick black hair dusted with flecks of grey.

Swarthy features that had seen the sun and wind looked hard and long at Drago, then eyes as black as coal changed their direction to take in the rumbling heavens.

Looking down again the horseman spoke through thin lips. ‘Be quick, Drago, time’s a wastin’

The one addressed as Drago idled stiff-legged to the centre of the street. He ground his heels into the uneven surface and, gaining purchase, stood waiting. A cruel smile iced the corners of his mouth set in a face of ivory coloured skin. Empty soulless eyes searched the group of men that returned his insolent languid stare. He was lean, gaunt, a compelling presence of smouldering venom.

The wind sliced the group of men who huddled together, hats pulled low, collars turned up, and hands in pockets.

A lone tumble-weed rolled across the prairie and came to rest on a fence post like a miniature tree.

All watched but not a word was spoken.

A tall slender man moved from the huddle and strode mid-street, he too scuffing the ground to find firm footing. The fixed, sleepy smile of Drago became a sneer as his bottom lip curled exposing tobacco stained teeth.

A black-gloved hand loosened his six-gun.

‘Drago, this ain’t your play,’ said the slender man. ‘Let Buckmaster do his own dirty work.’

The sneer widened on the ghostlike face of the one called Drago as the dark sky growled and day became night.

Thick swirling clouds blotted out the mountains that cradled the town. The ground shook as the tormented clouds burst into thunder and exploded into flame zigzagging in a flash of light that lit the sky into dazzling colours of orange, mauve and blood red.

As the final splash split the heavens in a sweeping mass of scarlet cloud, Drago’s hand streaked to his holster.

Caleb Stanton watched in horror as his father lurched backwards. His spurs dug in the mud, holding his weight and then with a mighty effort propelled his body forward. On tiptoe he drew his six-gun and fired. He fell to his knees and raising his face to the rain fired aimlessly into empty space.

The black-garbed figure of the reed-thin gunman, Drago stood motionless, his boots embedded in a pool of black slush that lapped the laces. His tongue darted in and out like the fangs of a rattler as he licked the raindrops trickling into the corners of his smirking lips.

A young boy ran to the body lying in the mud, a cry of anguish was swept away by the slicing wind. He knelt in the slush beside the still figure.

‘Pa, Pa, it’s me, Caleb.’

Jake Stanton’s eyes opened, fluttered, and endeavoured to focus on the slim figure that swayed above him. Through a dark veil clouding his vision, he made out his son.

He tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come.

‘Caleb, why isn’t yaw’ at school?’ his voice fading.

‘Pa, Pa, please-please don’t leave me!’

The young boy placed his hand to his father’s chest, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood that seeped through his fingers and made pink puddles in the rain-drenched soil.

With aching heart he looked into his father’s face. The eyes that sought him were glazed, vacant, clouded in a far away look.

"B-o-y, I – I,’ his words now drowned in blood as he died.

Caleb held his father in his arms. The words spoken by his mother came flashing back to him ‘Them that live by the gun die by the gun.’

* * *

No one spoke! No one came forward from the group of men who huddled closer together from the bite of the wind and the fear that gripped all. They cowered, eyes averted from each other, men who his father had died for answering their plea for help, heads lowered, wind blown, wet and defeated. And mid-day the mournful wail of the wolves and the yapping of the coyotes was fresh on the mournful wind.

The man astride the giant white stallion braced the wind and stood in the stirrups to gain height and authority. His eyes were piercing black daggers - his voice gloating and commanding.

‘You lot, let thet be a lesson ta ya,’ I’m sick of playin’ games with th’ likes of ya’, I’ve made ya’ a fair offer for ya’ land, them who takes it well an’ good. Them thet don’t, I’m givn’ ya’ notice, I’m runnin’ my beef on ya’ land. Now get back ta ya’ homesteads!’

A distant rumble of thunder announced its surrender. A shaft of sunlight broke through an opening in the clouds restoring the day and suddenly a fine mist descended from a tortured sky and there as if coaxed by the healing sun was a brilliant rainbow. It hung in the sky in dazzling hues of gold, rose, purple and pink then faded in a rush of blood red.

Caleb brushed the tears from his eyes - their focus clear, he took in the mocking figure of the man who had gunned down his father.

Drago stood, motionless, enjoying the aftermath of the kill - his kill - his boots now drowned in a pool of mud.

Caleb reached for his father’s six-gun, its pearl handle that he admired so much, now splattered with mud. Out of Ma’s sight - Pa, sometimes allowing him to hold it. Like those times, it felt light in his hand, his long slender fingers balancing its weight as though it belonged there. Suddenly on a gush of wind his Father’s words came racing back to him ‘Son, don’t ever be defeated, always be the last man standing’

Caleb felt the razor-sharp wind in his face. It suddenly fanned the smouldering hate in his heart.

Caleb raised the six-gun, cocking the hammer and aiming low like his Pa had taught him. He eased off the trigger the muzzle spouted bright flames of fire.

Caleb felt the recall as he heard his shot slam into flesh. Drago’s evil smirk widened in amazement and slowly in pain slid from his face. His killing weapon slid from his fingers both gloved hands clutching his shoulder. He didn’t go down, just stood and stared in surprise at the young boy with the smoking six-shooter in his hand - his face a contortion of pain and disbelief.

‘Go down, you murderer!’ shouted Caleb. ‘You killed my Pa!’

Again Caleb pointed the six-gun. As he worked the trigger, a thousand green lights exploded before his eyes from a blow to his head, then nothing as he sank into a deep dark abyss.

* * *

The word went around. ‘It’s a Jake Stanton Town *** Steer clear.’

Trail hands, drifters, even gunslingers gave it a wide berth. Caleb had heard the expression many a time even before he was as tall as a barnyard gate. Notwithstanding his keen memory of what had gone by in his fifteen years of life, he was hard put to remember the many towns the Stanton family had called home.

Some of the bigger towns came easy like Warwick where the herds of cattle were driven down the rutted dust strewn main street on their way to the saleyards the street seemingly reaching forever.

* * *

Then there was the Los Alamos where Caleb could recall being cuffed by Ma for gawking at the painted ladies who hung over the balconies of the many saloons.

The smaller towns, or the hick towns as his father referred to them, came to memory only because of an event that took hold in his mind. Like the event what happened in the town of Debney Flats that was without water for sometime longer than a week. A rancher by the name of Rafferty had dammed the stream at the base of his overstocked range to water his thirsty cattle. Caleb recalled his father saying firmly and not bothering to repeat himself. ‘No Caleb, ya’ can’t come along this time.’ When he made it back bloodied and all, Caleb knew why, but the water ran again and he had the usual task of patching up Pa for Ma couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

Then there was the time that his father was hired to rid a mange town of the Talbot twins.

Seems they terrorised the town by their boisterous doings putting fear into folks and forcing the shopkeepers to move on. Vivid in Caleb’s memory was how his father had faced them in the main street, which was more like a rough cattle trail.

The Talbot twins were the oddest critters Caleb had laid eyes on. Tall and skinny like leafless spruce trees in winter; so thin, in fact, that after he heard his Pa, call them ‘riff-raff’ his bullets perforated their bellies and came out the other side.

Jake Stanton liked the big towns.

‘This town’s alive and jumpin’,’ Caleb would hear him say.

‘Just another town to me,’ the laconic reply from Ma, then always sounded the lecture.

‘Seen too many of them, Jake. When we goin’ ta settle down? It’s no good for the boy.’

* * *

The hustle and bustle of the main strip always excited Jake Stanton - the raucous laughter - the off-key beat of the honky-tonk pianos and the tinkle of coins that emerged from the smoke-filled saloons - the false shop fronts that stretched both sides of the rutted thoroughfare - the painted signs that advertised their wares - the wagons and the herds that rutted the earth and churned the streets into a dust bowl when the hot northerlies blew and a river of mud when the winter rains came.

Caleb’s mother was always voicing her displeasure at their many moves. Lately the moves seem to come more often and so did the arguments. In no uncertain manner was her distaste of Jake Stanton’s profession voiced. Never in Caleb’s hearing, were the many altercations and curses that were always to end in tears and broken promises.

Molly Stanton hated the life, the endless travel without cause. The uprooting and re-establishing a makeshift home, always someone else’s, never hers.

‘Bad for the boy,’ Caleb would hear her wail, ‘he needs a home, tied down in one place, somethin’ to own, to call ours, to cement our roots, not always movin’ on, one stinking town after another. How many have you cleaned up now Jake? Always doin’ someone else’s dirty work.’

She’d go on and on, her drones filling the night, sometimes to first light.

‘Always movin’ on when you’ve cleaned up the town, then another not knowin’ when you’ll get yours. Jake Stanton, you’ve set a bad example for the boy, them that live by the gun, die by the gun!’

* * *

‘Come on, boy, can’t be much further.’ Jake Stanton said as he tickled the rump of the scraggy bay with his whip.

‘Land looks good, pastures well grassed, cattle well beefed.’

‘Hope the cabin’s liveable,’ lamented Molly Stanton.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Caleb heard his father say in his soft patient voice.

‘Jake, ya’ sure it’s our land, legal like?’ came his Ma’s anxious query.

‘Yep, we’ve got a title, ain’t we?’ replied the ex-lawman.

Caleb felt his heart race. With wide eyes he took in the vast sweep of lush pasture that reached as far as he could see. A twist of smoke stained the pure blue of a wide sky that spiralled from a cabin, a speck on the horizon.

They had come far, the wagon groaning under the weight of their lean possessions. Caleb leant against a food cupboard that had seemed to travel with them forever, from place to place.

‘Shouda’ left some of our belonging,’ ventured Jake Stanton, ‘the bay’s making’ hard going’ of it.’

‘No! not this time!’ The elation in his mother’s voice was a delight to young Caleb. ‘It’s all we’ve got, Jake, and thet will be set down and stayin’, in a place we can call ours, a home.’

Jake Stanton felt the parchment against the beat of his heart that nestled safe and secure in a vest pocket.

The title was inscribed, one thousand acres the feint outline indicating a placement of land north east of a town called Blind Bight.

* * *

The word had come the Cheyenne were on the warpath, causing havoc, raiding isolated homesteads, driving off herds and attacking wagon trains. A family travelling across the Great Plains, one of the many dreaming of owning their spread had been set upon by a rampaging Cheyenne war party.

Jake Stanton had come across the burnt-out wagon, a smouldering heap of twisted metal and grey ash.

A spinning wheel stood forlorn and lonely and beside it a woman’s horribly mutilated body.

Strung from a cottonwood by the ankles swayed the body of a man, clothed only in long johns.

Stanton felt his stomach turn as he tried in vain to shoo the green-backed flies that swarmed on the pool of blood that still dripped from the scalped head of the corpse.

As he cut down the butchered body he noticed a parchment protruding from the bloodstained long johns. It was a title to a parcel of land in Arizona.

The names on the title were Frank and Mary-Lou Houston. Caleb tipped back the brim of his hat and scratched his forehead - the tracks of the wagon had come from the west, heading east. Why? pondered Stanton

Had they given up on the land? Was it worthless? Or hadn’t they made it - turning back?

He had heard how many had returned back east, their dreams shattered by the harshness of the seasons, building shelter, carving out a living, the hardship of tilling the land and the abject loneliness daunting hope and future.

But what did it matter? It was a parcel of land and he Jake Stanton, had the blood stained title in his hands now. Here was a chance to own something. On his meagre thirty dollars a month, how could he ever own a shack let alone a land holding? It was what Molly wanted - what she had dreamt of and constantly harangued him, her own home and a place to bring up the boy.

Jake Stanton looked hard and long at a distant mountain peak. Must be it he thought, the map showed the land lie at the foot of a low mountain range shaped like a sombrero. They passed other homesteads just specks on the horizon. Dots of red, brown and white showed as cattle grazed amongst the lush grass and Caleb appraised the cattle that were sleek for the grass was dense and sweet.

‘Look Pa, there’s the fork in the trail where the two creeks meet,’ shouted Caleb his excitement building. ‘Jus’ like the map shows.’

‘Yep, Caleb, thet’s it alrightee, the start of our spread. Look at the grass, boy, it’s wavin’ to us, greetin’ us, like.’

‘Never mind the grass, it’s the cabin I’m wantin’ to see’, questionably parried Caleb’s mother peering into the distance with arms raised, hands shading her eyes.

From a hollow in the forked trail emerged a wagon hauled by matching rib-packed sorrels. The wagon was loaded to the gills and was driven by a burly ruddy-faced man who wore a battered Stetson. At his side sat a sour faced woman and peering out behind an assortment of household comforts were the faces of two wide-eyed snotty nosed children. Reluctantly the driver jerked the sorrels to a halt and waited for Stanton to take the the left fork.

‘Howdy,’ said Jake Stanton. ‘Be obliged if ya’ could set us in the right direction of the Houston homestead.’

From behind beady eyes, the heavy-jowled driver of the wagon viewed Stanton with casual interest before he spoke.

‘Cabin’s yonder,’ a tired voice said and a flabby hand pointed. ‘Over the south rim there, but if I was yu’ I’d turn right back frum where ya’ cum’ frum’.’

‘Why?’ asked Jake Stanton, ‘looks good cattle country ta me.’

‘Yer, land’s good, but Buckmaster, he wants it all.’

‘Who’s Buckmaster?’ enquired the ex-lawman.

‘A cattle baron, a no-good bastard, runnin’ ten thousand head, maybe more - run outa’ land an’ now wants more’, came the angry retort. ‘Offers the homesteaders a pittance an’ them that won’t sell, well he jus’ runs his cattle over their land.’

‘Why don’t th’ homesteaders gang up on him?’ asked Stanton.

‘Haw! Haw! Sum’ hav’ tried, got a beatin’ fere’ their trouble, like me, my ribs not yet back inta place, an’ my barn, burnt in the dead of night.’

‘Must be somethin,’ this Buckmaster,’ said Stanton shruggin his shoulders.

‘Him an’ his bunch of gun-hawks,’ replied the heavy-jowled driver. ‘I’m getting out, an’ like I sez’ if I was yu’ I’d be keepin’ on going.’

Without another word he cracked his whip across the rumps of the scrawny sorrels, which, broke into a gallop.

* * *

Stanton guided the wagon winding its way through lush grass a good horse’s withers high, then through a deep dark pine forest. The only sound was the groan of the wagon wheels and the plop of the roan’s hooves that sank in the soft carpet of pine needles.

Suddenly there was light as they came to the edge of the pine forest. Jake Stanton took in a deep breath and felt his heart give a belt. He looked in awe at the immensity of the valley before him. Reaching out was a vast ocean of green and gold grass and winding streams, silver in the sunlight, crossed the valley floor. He heard again the despairing voice of the departing homesteader.

‘I’d keep goin’ if I was yu’.’

Stanton gritted his teeth. This was beautiful land, his land, a place worth fighting for.

His thoughts were interrupted by an urgent shout.

‘There’s the cabin!’ said Molly in rare enthusiasm, raising her arm and pointing ahead.

Stanton urged the bay forward. They passed by a pasture of corn whose green-tipped heads hummed in the breeze. A bed of over-ripe pumpkins lay rotting on the vine. A crumbling path interlaced with meadowsweet and dock weed led to the cabin. A lonely clump of violets in purple bloom grew by the steps that led to the porch.

‘Not much,’ muttered Molly Stanton despondently.

The cabin had been crudely constructed - built by someone in a hurry. The walls were an assortment of pine and oak, the gaps packed with river mud. The roof was sod from which weeds and a single sunflower grew. A chimney made of stone protruded from the roof. It had a lean to one side, bent by the icy southern winds. Behind a shutter that hung from one hinge was a window of real glass

‘Be-Jesus there’s a mite of fixin’ ta do,’ Caleb heard his father say in a muffled voice. On one side of the cabin was a lean-to that gave shelter to a pile of chopping wood. On the other side a shelter held up by two sticks was for the tools.

Inside a coal-oil lantern stood forlornly on a crude wooden table. Four kegs turned upside down acted as chairs. With distaste Molly scuffed her toe in the dirt floor.

‘I’ll set ya’ a proper floor out of timber,’ snapped Jake before his wife could utter a word.

On the rear wall, on each side of a pot-bellied stove, were built shelves made of cross-sticks.

"Must have been in a hurry to leave,’ mumbled Molly, eyeing the pots that still hung from old horse- shoes wedged into the wall.

Against the other walls were shakedown beds.

‘It’ll do,’ she sighed, we’ve known worse. Well don’t jus’ stand around you two, there’s work ta be done, now lets get to it.

*****

Chapter 2

Caleb hated the town of Blind Bite. Its atmosphere of fear and gloom was like a creeping quicksand that sucked all life from living things, swallowed and drained all spirit and hope.

It was a town of ramshackle buildings and shuffling folk whose sorrowful faces mirrored their burdens.

The shopfronts were devoid of clapboards that identified their trade. The locals knew through familiarity. The old buildings were weathered beyond hope and care - the new a clutter of hastily built structures of adobe and stone some with false fronts devoid of paint.

It was a like a hillock of rubbish that rose above the land, the only relief the surrounding grasslands and a white-coated mountain that stood over the town to the west grumbling its discontent.

The timber schoolhouse stood dead centre in a large allotment ringed by a post and rail fence.

Two outhouses, one with a perilous lean, stood lonely and aloof.

Schoolmarm was short and stout, not old, not young, but somewhere in-between. Her face was highlighted by red cheeks that glowed so brightly that they made one miss the odd-shaped glasses perched defiantly on a blob of flesh that was her nose.

Her dark brown hair was arranged in a bun on the top of her head, not a strand out of place. Her no-nonsense manner made Caleb feel instantly at ease, for, as a veteran of countless schools, he found this the best way.

The attainment of knowledge was a delight that fed Caleb’s curiosity. He valued the hours under

Schoolmarms spell. He was in awe of her vast wisdom and her clear way of explanation, always a story that had a beginning and an end. She acknowledged Caleb’s interest with special attention particularly in the studies that fascinated him.

An added excitement in class was the presence of Katrina.

The daughter of Jackson Buckmaster, the hated cattle baron, lit Caleb’s day with her delicate yet majestic appearance.

Her hair was as black as midnight held in place by a crimson quill, crowned her finely chiselled features.

Her crafted beauty was illuminated by deep set green eyes that sparkled emerald when a smile

lit her dimpled cheeks. Her heart-shaped lips were ruby red against the soft amber of her skin.

She was slim, almost dainty, with just a showing of her maturing womanhood as developing breasts teased the exquisite silk of her blouse. Her ivory teeth flashed as she tendered an enquiry of Schoolmarm in a voice sweet and soft.

Caleb caught her frequent glances as Katrina arrested his and soon in a warming of hearts they sought each other’s company. Perhaps it was, that they had been judged as different by the other students - she, the daughter of a powerful wealthy cattle baron who threatened the livelihood and lives of the homesteaders and he the son of a law-dog. She who resided in a magnificent mansion and he in a log cabin with a dirt floor.

It was a bond that developed their friendship. The deliverers of cruel taunts to Katrina were sent scurrying by Caleb.

Each day Caleb would wait expectantly for the sight of Katrina, who, would arrive in a buggy of grand proportions. It shone bright red with blue upholstery and moved noiselessly on greased wheels, whose spokes glistened silver in the sunlight - it was a fine example of exquisite craftsmanship. A spirited sorrel pranced between the painted shafts and whinnied at the tug of the reins that signalled the message to halt.

An old Vaquero placidly steadied the sorrel allowing Katrina to alight, her eyes searching for Caleb.

She hurried to meet him, her voice laughter on the honey-suckle scent that hung on the morning breeze. Their precious moments were few but filled with fullness of heart as they shared their dreams and aspirations - the school-bell that sounded the end of the school-day was hardly still on the wind when the old Vaquero turned the sorrel and buggy into the school-yard and whisk Katrina away.

Fall came, and with it the happiest moments of Caleb’s life. The days dawned warm and still and lingered until the sun sank behind the distant peaks. Caleb idled away the hours with this delightful child of God.

Katrina had welcomed Caleb to her secret dell, a natural spring at the river’s bend that gushed water into a small lake. It was a place for dreaming. Golden willows drooped as if to drink at the water’s edge whilst ferns and green-tipped rushes drew the coolness to the dell. A white butterfly gave wing flitting from flower to flower. They sat on a moss-edged rock and watched a catfish jump and dive, its gills shining brown and copper in the filtered sunlight. Rabbits scurried to and fro and a bullfrog croaked its annoyance at their disturbance.

Their laughter matched the tinkle of the water and even the bluebirds, oblivious of their presence, trilled in unison with the orchestra of natural sounds. The dell became their secret place, its sacredness ordained by the very being of their togetherness. The sharing of their dreams, her sadness and constraints on her life built a union of souls far beyond that of a casual childish friendship. She had never known her mother, who died while giving birth, then was raised in the household of her father by her mother’s faithful servants - an elderly Vaquero couple.

She knew her father to be a strong and forceful man whose actions were in step with the beat of an ice-cold heart.

Caleb had dared to hold her hand but once, her slender fingers returning his touch.

A red robin had hurtled to the banks of the lake from the beak of a hawk that hovered in the sky.

Tears welled in her eyes as tenderly she held the crippled fledging in her cupped hands. Caleb gently took it from her and set the wing. Carefully placing it back into an overhanging branch, he turned to find her reaching for him. Caleb’s hand went to her exquisite face and wiped the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Then wondrously he felt the nectar of her trembling lips daring to still them with his own.

‘Caleb,’ she stammered her cheeks pinking, ‘You made the robin well, it can fly again.’

‘Yes, I have a way with making wounds well again,’ replied Caleb shyly.

Her happiness glowed. She stood on tiptoe and unashamedly kissed him on the lips with heartfelt thanks.

* * *

It was just as the morning slipped away and the afternoon began when Buckmaster made his move.

‘Rider’s coming Pa, there by the dead cottonwood near the river crossing.’

‘Yer, ‘Yer’ I see em boy,’ bring my rifle. Tell ma ta cover me from the window with the shotgun, an’ Caleb, you keep out of sight.’ Jake Stanton leant nonchalantly against the hitching rail, his Winchester cradled in his arms.

He squinted into the sun counting four - no five - riders coming fast, not sparing their horses.

They reined to an abrupt halt, lather-streaked mounts snorting in a cloud of dust and raised voices.

One look and the ex-lawman knew their kind. They were men of hard talk, hot tempered, brutal, with a cruel and ruthless need to kill - men with guns to hire - but men who knew how to use them.

He saw the leading rider’s secret glance at the shadow in the window. A muffled whisper came from a dark-faced rider who spotted Caleb by the well.

A hollow-chested rider sporting a pale face that had never seen the sun looked hard and long at Stanton. Jake Stanton felt his nerves tingle. It was an evil face wearing a week’s stubble and eyes heavy hooded but unable to hide the whites strangely specked with red dots.

A voice like a hoarse bullfrog came from white-flecked lips.

‘Whatya’ doin’ here - this ere’ spread belongs ta Buckmaster, took it over from a scumbag called Houston, who gave up and left - ya’ trespassing.’

‘Thet so,’ came the nonchalant reply from Jake Stanton. ‘Got me a piece of paper thet says I ain’t, which means it’s you and ya’ kind are doin’ the trespassing.’

Suddenly Jake Stanton read the tell tale signs he had seen so many times before. The sallow-faced rider transferred the reins of his buckskin to his left hand, freeing his gun-hand to hover over his holster. A snakelike tongue darted in and out over spittle-stained lips.

The mark of a gunman was upon him. Stanton faced a cold killer who would shoot first and without warning.

From the cabin window came a high-pitched voice of Molly, which shattered the silence.

‘This ere’ shot gun - seen it once, scatter a dozen buck rabbits plum on twenty feet - each ways - wud’ ya’ like sum?’

The creak of leather sounded as riders shifted nervously in their saddles.

‘Ain’t wurth th’ trouble Drago,’ said a pox faced rider. ‘There’ll be another time.’

A grunt came from the hate-filled face of the one addressed as Drago, followed by a throaty croak. ‘Mista, or whatever yu’ call ya’self - the boss, Buckmaster, he needs dis’ valley, best land fere’ miles - ya got a choice - ya’ get or we’ll jus’ move our cows in.’

Without another word the black-garbed rider cruelly jerked the bit of his dappled grey and jabbing his spurs into its flanks headed off, his companions without hesistation following in his wake.

* * *

Buckmaster’s angry glint in his eyes matched the tightening of his rugged features and the recoil in his tone of his voice.

‘Damn it ta hell, I told ya’ ta send them packin’ - we got rid of thet laze-about Houston an’ his brood and now we got squatters.’

‘But boss, he’s got a proper deed,’ whined Drago. ‘Held it up fere’ us ta see.’

‘Is thet all thet