Upshur: The Challenge

By Otis Morphew

What is it that enables one gunfighter to feel the presence of another in a room full of armed cowboys and other people? Can feel the challenge, though none was verbally issued? Not even the gunman, him self can explain it, other than, it’s just a feeling, a quickening going on inside of them, unexplainable.
At times, nothing more comes of it, call it a kinship, respect, whatever, but unless they communicate, or one has other business, they go their separate ways without conflict, the age-old dilemma being in effect.
The rare ones, those that live by the law, enforce the law, wanting only justice for those in need, are the family men, those able to see no future in the other way of life.
Some, however, have to learn about all of this the hard way, if they can live long enough. These are the ones that love their guns, and their ability to use one, the dangerous ones, giving no quarter, and asking none.
But when two men with the same talent come together, men with two opposite philosophies, only one, or neither will walk away from it. Unless, Bill Upshur’s, “Adage, add-on” Comes into effect, making the Gunfighter’s dilemma a working instrument of fate, it’s self. Two men, well,…one man, one boy, totally opposite in every way, but one, their unbelievable ability in the use of firearms, men separated by only a month, and a thousand miles are destined to meet in a struggle of life and death, one that will take only a fraction of a blink of the eye to settle. One that in all certainty will result in both their deaths, but will happen, never the less.
But what one lone gunman can actually learn during that month long, thousand mile journey to kill a man, very well could be priceless, one never knows. But a challenge can come in many different forms. Hope you like this one.

Thanks, Otis Morphew

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664157088

Otis Morphew

As I have always been a believer in life on other worlds, this is my first attempt at a novel of this kind. Hope you like it! Of course it is of a western genre, as I love the old west, and love writing western novels. Check them out by using Google, Yahoo, etc., type in Otis Morphew and go to my site. Or go to books and type in title. Thanks, Otis

Book preview

PROLOG

Through the ages, every man, who was forced to use a gun in anger, or otherwise, was most assuredly, a gunfighter, in the overall sense of the word,…and the same can be said in the twenty-first Century. However, the word, gunfighter, became synonymous with those using the gun for wages, for repetitional purposes, or fame, or in some cases, just for recreational purposes.

But the latter soon became the synonym for those who were adept at using their sidearm for fame, and an easy way to earn a living, as it did beat hell out of thirty dollars a month, and found. Some of these also used their talents to rob and steal for a living.

In the late 1860’s, Gunfighters became objects of fear, awe, heroic even. But the more they fought with each other for that fame and reputation, the more an old adage came into play. It goes like this, or to this extent… It does not matter how good you are with a gun, how good you think you are,,…somewhere, there is always somebody better, faster on the draw.

The more it was repeated, and actually came to pass, in many instances, the more it became the Gunfighter’s dilemma, among the many, many more that he had. A fear that he would think about, each time he faced an opponent.

Bill Upshur was one of the rare gunmen, he has no reputation, yet has never been beaten in a gunfight. He knows of the old adage, believes in it, has even added to it with, Smarter, or luckier. He believed that he was only as fast as he needed to be, to survive. He respected the law, enforced it, believed in justice for all,…the individual rights of his fellow man. He was a father, husband, provider, and a farmer.

For most of Upshur’s adult life, his friend, U.S. Marshal, Rodney Taylor, was always afraid for him to fight, lest that one, be the One that would take him out and so, at last, sixteen years since they had first met, that day was upon them. That legendary One to be feared was on his way to Paris Texas, and was coming for only one thing, to kill the gunman he had heard about, the also, legendary, Farmer.

Two gunfighters with the same ability were destined to meet, one 36 years old, one only 19, one not wanting to fight anymore, the other anxious to. One believed in the inevitable, one did not.

This is the Challenge.

CHAPTER ONE

Catawba, an unincorporated community in the Northern section of Roanoak County, Virginia. It occupies the Catawba Valley, bound on the South by the North slope of Catawba Mountain, and on the North by several mountains that form the border between Roanoak County and Craig County. At the time, this was the only so-called community in the Roanoak Valley, with it’s surrounding couple of scrubby farms and narrow, deep rutted wagon roads in and out of the village.

The tiny village consisted, at the time, of a trading post and saloon combination. The store boasted that if they don’t have it, you don’t need it. There was a livery barn and stable across the muddy road, and a small eatery beside the saloon, that also subbed as a post office. the rest of the wide, mud-churned, old road through town consisted of several old and dilapidated log cabins lining both sides of the road, some in use by trappers coming into town with their furs, some housing the few hangers on citizens, and business owners.

The large Trading post was built by fur trappers and traders in 1857 to serve their needs and to trade with the local Indian Tribes of the area and sometimes, occasional wandering traffic of strangers through town. The post was a low, ancient structure that even in 1885, was still a strong, weather resistant building with it’s many years of earth and grass thatched roofing, still intact, and still dry inside and was said to have only been built in this particular area to take advantage of the, believed healing powers of a sulphur and limestone spring nearby.

This, to say the least, was a dangerously rugged area of valley and mountain range in 1857, and had not changed at all, and until the trading post was built, the fur trappers and traders all had to exist in makeshift, throw together shelters where ever they could find a somewhat natural windbreak during the season, and then to take their season’s work efforts to rendezvous in the Spring.

the Catawba Wateree Indians in the area, had been trading their blankets, corn, and many items of Indian jewelry to the store for whiskey and food stuffs now for many years, and were considered friendly by the French Canadian Trappers. They were largely accepted by the trappers and allowed to raise their teepees, and other structures fairly close to the Trading Post, thinking they would, and could provide some sense of security and protection from the Saxapahaw, who were more so, a warring tribe, murderous at times, depending on the current moods of the elders. But all in all, This was a docile and thriving area, noted so by the few settlers that settled in the remote areas of the valley.

*       *       *

Boyd Lee Cross, a young, nineteen year old Gunman, Hired Killer and already a wanted man for a string of stage coach robberies throughout North Carolina, was thinking of this as he made his way through the dense tree and shrub infested Northern slope of the Catawba Mountain. Stopping occasionally, when he could actually fine a tree-free area large enough to offer a view above the lower landscape of large Pines to scan the valley below, making mental notes at what he saw.

Breathing deeply of the crisp, mountain air, he would wish, for a hundredth time, that he was back in the warmth of some hotel room, in some bustling city somewhere, anywhere. Sighing, he looked up through the ancient Pines at the gray, foreboding image of the very tall, Catawba Mountain and sighed again deeply, to again wonder where he went wrong?

Staring up at the grizzly, fog covered top of the mountain, he unconsciously reached down to feel the bulging hardness still nestled beneath his coat, which he did quite often, perhaps for reassurance, or perhaps for the feeling of safety and courage the weapon provided.

Satisfied, he was about to rein the horse’s head down toward the valley, and buildings in the distance, when he saw, what appeared to be a log structure of some kind, almost completely wrapped in the darkness of trees and well beneath, what he thought to be a large, jutting overhang of the mountain it’s self.

It was all mostly hidden from the prying eyes of anyone not specifically looking for it, he thought, if, in fact, it is a cabin. Whatever it was, it was very well hidden inside the large outcropping of mountain, and deeply imbedded in it’s shade. He estimated it to be some one hundred yards or so upward from where he was. He stared through the vast landscape of large Pines at what he could see of it for a time before spurring the horse upward through the shrub and tree shrouded slope, and after what seemed an hour of dodging heavily loaded Pine branches, and enduring pricks from three to six inch bristles, he cursed graciously when finally coming out onto a well overgrown, but still visible trail upward toward his objective.

Finally on level ground again, he stopped the horse several yards away from the front of the outcropping to stare through the shade at the well built, but unused and quite large looking log cabin. Turning in the saddle, amid the groaning of tired leather, he stared back down the old trail at the maze of trees below, but could no longer see where he had been when he first saw the cabin. Smiling, he breathed deeply of the almost fridged mountain air and turned back to scrutinize the dark structure for a time before gazing up at the large, protruding overhang of mountain, that perfectly provided protection and shelter for the cabin. It appeared to be several hundred feet deep toward it’s rear wall and maybe, a hundred yards wide. The cabin had been built well inside, and beneath the overhang and almost completely shrouded in darkness all the time, depending on where the sun was at any particular time. He also noted that it could be well defended from any sort of attack from Indians, or otherwise, bad element.

Smiling again at the cabin’s obvious craftsmanship, he was suddenly startled, as was the horse, it suddenly shied sideways, almost unseating him. Sudden surprise and fear gripped him as he fought to control the frightened animal enough to rein it some several yards away from where it shied. That’s when he saw the coiled monster of a mountain rattlesnake, it’s some twenty-plus rattles making it’s threatening warning, sounding quite loud in the cool mountain air.

His heart pounding in his chest, and still in awe at the size of the serpent, had not realized that he had placed his hand on the bulge of his coat again, and the weapon’s ever presence there seemed to quieten his severed nerves some. Leaning on the saddle’s horn on crossed arms, he watched the seven, or eight foot long snake slither away in the dried leaves and underbrush, while his adolescence regained composure.

Not yet a full grown man, but already a seasoned killer, Young Boyd Cross was a lethal, and very deadly gunfighter, having already proven himself on a dozen occasions, yet still not mature enough to control his own confidence enough to allow his opponent to go for his weapon first, leaving himself open to be charged with murder, instead of a self defense possibility. No matter what he did to do so, his opponents could never quite clear the holster before he drew and fired, the anticipation being too great for him. Most would invariably drop the weapon back in the holster as they were shot. Leaving him, a bewildered fast on the draw gunman to face multiple charges had he stayed around to face the law. His reputation had formed almost immediately after his first kill, gaining in strength from that point on.

These memories and thoughts ran through his mind regularly. He knew his mistakes, but thus far had been unable to control his actions. He most always blamed it all on a fear of dying, even though, in his mind, he knew he was faster than any man in the country with a gun. His first dozen fights had made him very sure of that, Now, however, he’ll have to pay the price some day for that fame and reputation, and he just could not quite grasp the realization of that.

Staring back at the spot where the snake had been, he slowly dismounted, thinking he just might have a problem with the reptile before leaving this place. He tied the horse’s reins to a low branch and walked the dozen or so yards to the cabin’s heavily barred front door, lifted the bar off and pushed the heavy it inward before cautiously going inside. Once the dead, musty air of the cabin’s interior hit his nostrils, making it impossible to breathe, he covered his nose and mouth with his hand and backed back out through the door to drag in huge breaths of the fresh, tart, pine scented mountain air. After a few minutes of deep breathing, and coughing, he pulled the bandana up over his nose and reentered the cobweb infested room. Taking a second to look around, he used his arms to sweep the webs aside and turned to remove the window bars from across the windows on either side of the doorway, swinging open the leather hinged, heavy wooden covers before going back outside to wait until he could enter again.

*       *       *

After removing what he could of the thick webs with his arms, he had a much better view of the large room, noting how well thought out the builder’s plan had been. The large, bark-less logs of the walls had been laid into place carefully, and very well chinked all the way around the interior, as the cabin’s dry interior suggested. A large, wide, limestone fireplace, of carefully placed, flat stones, all of different shapes and sizes, and every one meticulously well chinked with precision. It’s chimney, also of rock, rose up through the roof.

Nodding in admiration at how well built, and how well used it looked, even in the almost impossible lighting. Against one side wall was a sturdy looking bed. At first, he thought it was likely a cot of some sort, but looking closer, it was larger, maybe half the size of one of the hotel beds he had slept in, and looked to be made from small, hewn logs, also shaved clean of the bark. smaller sized saplings made up the side rails of the frame and all held together with wooden pegs, instead of wire nails. On further inspection, after removing more of the thickly entwined cobwebs, he noticed that, what appeared to be small, long willow branches, were all weaved tightly together to make up the bed’s top side. He bent and moved the rotten, web covered remnant of blanket aside and pressed down on the willow slats, finding them still intact and flexible, thinking they were still strong enough to sleep on comfortably. At the foot of the bed were the web covered tatters of several more blankets, and they were half covered by a large looking, black bear skin, obviously used for extra warmth, he thought, and the fur was still long and soft.

‘Looks like somebody jumped up and left a bit sudden like’, He thought, as he eyed the items of clothing still hanging from pegs on the wall beside the bed. Adjusting the bandana over his nose, he placed a knee on the bed for support, and leaned forward to remove the bar from the window cover, then having to catch the cover it as it fell from the decayed leather hinges that allowed it to open and close, he grunted in surprise and lay it on the bed, immediately feeling the influx of fresh, cool air from the outside and breathed deeply. He also noticed the sound of, what he believed must be the wind circulating through the deep overhang, sort of like the sounds wind makes in the trees, only different.

Well, that was fun. He said aloud, and straightened to peer at the heavy table and bench. Both had been hued from logs, also pieced together with wooden pegs.

‘Guess wire nails weren’t available back then’, He thought. Walking around it, he went on to inspect the several, very old bails of cured furs against the other wall.

Wouldn’t mind knowing what happened here? He breathed, shaking his head. But he didn’t make it back, whatever it was.

He opened the window on that side, as well, again laying the cover on the bails of fur. Looking down, he raised his foot and stomped hard on the ungiving, hard planking of the floor, of which was hardly ever seen in back country wilderness cabins, and he shook his head in approval.

He was quite amazed, even for his usual, don’t give a damn, remaining adolescence, and nodding, spotted the ragged rag covered shelves to the left of the fireplace and went to pull the rag away. There were several large cans of peaches, the labels partially disintegrated and falling off, caned beans, corn and a canister of coffee. Curious, he removed the lid on the canister and raised it to smell the contents.

Too old, even to smell. He said, to himself and replaced the lid. Sighing, he went back toward the front door and glancing above it, saw the old, web covered Musket Rifle, the old powder horn still hung from a peg there. Reaching up, he removed a tin box from the small shelf atop the door’s upper jam and opened it. It was almost full of large, marble size, lead balls. ‘Fifty Caliber.’, He thought, and put that back where it was.

‘If that was his only gun,’, He thought. ‘He might not a had much choice in leavin’, but then, again, th’ place was locked up tight….if he had time to do that, he wasn’t forced to leave.

must be a spare rifle.’. Satisfied, he also spotted four half used candles on that ledge. Grabbing them, he went to the table and lit them, throwing the room into a bit more of a yellow, flickering light, enough to spot the oil filled old lamp atop the food pantry.

Grabbing the lamp, he lit it, thankful the wick had been lowered down in to the oil and would still burn. The added light fully lit up the cabin’s interior, what of it he could see past the thick, hanging abundance of waving cobwebs. that’s when he also saw the old man-made broom against the corner. Grabbing that, he inspected it then used it to clear much of the large room of years of floating, clinging cobwebs, which turned out to be a monumental chore.

It was pretty late in the afternoon when he laid the old broom aside, and decided to tend to his horse before full dark made it impossible to see in the cavern. Going to the open doorway, he stood for a bit to scan the debris covered yard for the cabin’s monstrous host before going on to pull the animal’s reins from the branch and lead it around to the rear of the cabin, where he stopped in surprise on seeing the open-sided stall that had been built on to the cabin’s outside rear wall. He pushed open the swinging gate and led the horse up a low step into the strong looking structure, marveling at the wooden floor, and unsaddled, placing it across a railing alongside other rotting bridals and harness. There was a wooden bin against the wall for feeding and beneath it, on the floor, an old, at one time sack of, maybe oats, that rats and other varmints had made meals of over the years. There was a roof over the stall too, braced up with sapling poles at all four corners.

He admired the five foot tall half wall all round it, thinking he knew why that came about, he saw one of them when he got there. He grained the horse then gazed out through the remaining four feet of open space at the dark cavern, wondering if that could be the nesting place, or home for the large snakes. One that large could lay a hundred eggs at a time, He thought, then shuddered at the thought. Able then to feel the night’s creeping cold air coming in, shuddered again and left, closing and locking the gate to the stall.

Rest of the daylight hours was spent fitting the covers back in place over the windows and barring them shut and then, while he could still see and with added caution, went outside to gather a large armload of dry wood for the fireplace, hoping there was nothing in the chimney to hinder the smoke. He was in luck, though, the fire was crackling nicely as the cabin’s interior began to warm up, and taking the saddlebags to the table, he sat down and pulled the sack of jerky and cold biscuits out, unwrapped them and ate his supper while once again scanning the now, web free interior walls and ceiling. He would have to finish the rest tomorrow, he decided, because eighteen hours in the saddle, and now this, it’ll have to wait.

‘But,’ He thought, again looking at the ceiling. ‘One more thing I got a do before goin’ to bed,…..After I eat.’

CHAPTER TWO

Wilkes County, North Carolina came to be sometime in the early eighteenth century, with Wilkesboro, it’s County Seat, being incorporated in the year eighteen hundred. The town was built atop a low, broad ridge which ran for over a mile along the South bank of the Yadkin River. This was also where, for many years, the famous, much discussed, and visited, Tory Oak, a large tree from which an equally famous Patriot, during the American Revolutionary War, hung loyalist militia leaders that opposed American independence from Britain.. The tree was conveniently located behind the Wilkes County Courthouse.

During the Civil War many Wilkesboro residents remained loyal to the Union, while most others leaned toward the Confederacy’s movement to free the slaves, and most likely was the reason the town was raided by the Union soldiers in early eighteen sixty five, making a shambles of much of the town.

Wilkes County was also the home of a thousand acre farm owned by the very wealthy, Jonathan Cross and family of whom, the elderly Jonathan was very much involved in both, Government, and Wilkesboro politics. A highly respected, very rich and dominant Farmer, the farm located only ten miles out from the town it’s self. He was also the father of two beautiful daughters, and three strapping, highly head strung sons of whom, he had very little control over. Always in some sort of trouble, mostly misdemeanors, but they always seemed to cost him money to drop the charges.

However, as much as he loved all three to them, and was strongly against it, he admittedly realized they were old enough to make their own decisions and now, were insistent enough to want to join the war effort, enlisting in the Confederate army in eighteen sixty one, the start of a very long and bloody conflict.

Wilkesboro was also the home of the famous pre-war abolitionist, John Brown, famous for his raid on Harper’s Ferry, October sixteenth through the eighteenth, and initiated a slave revolt in the Southern States by taking over that arsenal. It was believed this initiated the beginning of the Civil War.

*       *       *

Young Boyd Cross, a forth son, was born to Jonathan and Prudence Cross in October of eighteen sixty-five, a somewhat life saver for the two elderly, heartbroken, and very lonely parents, who now that the girls were both married and living in town, were beside themselves with grief and missing the three boys more than ever. As it would turn out, however, Boyd, the result of both an unintended and surprising pregnancy, but none the less, joyously accepted, turned out to be the one thing that would keep them united as a family, especially after finding out their first three sons had perished in the war’s ending skirmishes.

They were heartbroken to the point of lavishing all their dreams and hopes for a future onto the baby Boyd, continuing full throttle as he grew into a toddler, until at the early age of six he began to repel their constant manipulations, always there to stop him from touching anything, never letting him go out of doors unless one or both of them were fussing over him. this unnecessary confinement of sorts led to his almost hatred of them, though he didn’t know the meaning of the term. But as he grew and began his home schooling, the meaning of it did become evident in his vocabulary as his young life became unbearable at times. This all by the time he was thirteen years of age.

He became rebelliously uncontrollable quite often after that until suddenly, he became prone to running away whenever possible, many times to be found beside some lake fishing, or hiking up some mountain, but at other times, by the age of fourteen, at the Wilkesboro Livery stables and Blacksmith shop, which was operated by the younger brother of two sisters and three older brothers. The eldest of which being one Henry Berry Lowry, Farm hand and Militant, that had led a resistance in North Carolina both during, and after the war’s end, and later to form a group of men, soon to become known as the Lowry Gang. The gang also consisted of his two brothers, Stephen and Thomas Lowry, two cousins, two brother-in-laws, two escaped slaves and three others of unknown relations. They would go on to terrorize communities in North Carolina and West Virginia.

The youngest brother, Nathan, wanted nothing to do with what Henry and the others were planning and instead, bought an already profitable Blacksmith shop in Wilkesboro, later adding a large livery barn and stables while the Lowry gang was busy becoming wanted outlaws. The gang would continue their actions on into, and during Reconstruction.

Republican Governor, William Wade Holden legally declared the Lowry gang as outlaws in eighteen sixty nine, offering a twelve thousand dollar reward for their capture, dead or alive. But that only spurred Lowry to respond with even more revenge killings. Henry and his gang would continue on for several more years of destruction and murder.

*       *       *

Nathan Lowry continued his own prosperous enterprise during the war’s deadliest months, surviving the famed Union raid, believed by some, that he had to have had help from above. He was not overly distraught at his older brothers’ actions, neither, and only pretending to grieve for them when in the presence fo his parents, who were vastly devastated.

Nathan had very few friends in town, or for that matter, in the entire county, be believed because of his brothers’ unlawful ventures. This was likely why he had no problem becoming friends with the young, fourteen year old Boyd Cross, who was an avid horse lover, and very unhappy at home.

It was during that time that Nathan, who was quite adept with a firearm, was excited when Boyd showed an excitement at sight of his several gun collection, after of which led to young Boyd’s education into the inevitable life of a gunman. He had practiced with Nathan for hours on many occasion for the next three years until Nathan, who was no slouch with a peacemaker realized that Boyd had become amazingly fast on the draw, faster, by far, than he was, and almost as accurate after the draw.

He also realized, as it became evident, that he had unwittingly made a mistake in teaching the youngster the way he did, because Boyd’s entire character had also changed. He had become quite arrogant, noticeable by the way he strutted around after strapping on the gun rig he had given him. Nathan, soon after, became overly worried that the gun would likely get the boy killed much sooner than later, and began trying to dissuade him from wearing the weapon outside of the stables area, but to no avail.

This would become his worst fear, when a week later, the seventeen year old Boyd Cross out drew and killed a notorious gambler and gunman outside one of the three saloons in Wilkesboro, plus, when H. C. Sebastian tried to arrest him for inciting and forcing a gunfight, he was shot in the shoulder for his effort.

Nathan, having heard the shooting, was not overjoyed, nor surprised when a wide eyed, chalky faced Boyd came rushing into the Blacksmith shop scared and not knowing what to do. As Nathan got the whole story of what happened from him, he knew, that by shooting Sebastian and resisting arrest, Boyd would likely have no chance by giving himself up now and so, explained to him that his life had now changed dramatically, he was a wanted criminal. He also explained to him that if he did not want to be hanged for killing the man, he would have to leave Wilkesboro for good.

He helped the boy saddle a good horse, telling him not to even try to tell his folks goodbye, as that would be the first place the posse would go. He gave him a sack of beef jerky, ten silver dollars and wished him good luck, telling him he could never come home again, not to trust anyone, make no lasting friends, as they would only want the bounty money that by now was surely placed on his head and lastly, to be prepared for those wanting the reputation that he would now soon to make. He hugged him, helped him mount the horse then regretfully watched young Boyd Cross leave Wilkesboro on the run for the last time.

*       *       *

Boyd had just dismounted and tied the horse’s reins to the low Pine branch when he heard the wrestling of pine needles and dead leaves, at first thought to be the wind stirring them and paid no mind until he heard it again. Too late, because when he turned to see what it was, the very large, monster of a rattlesnake was striking at him with deadly precision. He reached for the gun on his hip, but the snakes poisonous, and quite long fangs were already planting themselves into his upper chest. Screaming from the searing pain, and the fear of an inevitable death as the venom raced through his veins, he fell to the ground as the serpent struck him again and again until he thought his heart would burst before the poison killed him.

NOOOOOO! He awoke then, trembling mightily, then realizing that he was sitting up on the log bed, clutching at his left arm and shoulder, that was numb and very painful from having slept on it for the entire night, and on into the morning. His screams still echoed in his ears as he shakily looked around the dark room.

Still trembling, he continued to stare at the almost empty room’s interior, finally able to recognize the familiar furnishings in the dimming light from the last of the dying embers in the fireplace and satisfied finally, that he was still alone, and realizing that it was his shoulder and arm that incited the nightmare, breathed deeply of the cool smoke scented air in the dark room and relaxed back onto the bed to stare up at the ceiling, remembering how very real the nightmare had been.

He could still smell the lingering smoke of lightly charred rafters, from having held the burning torch’s leaping flame to the ceiling, burning away the remaining cobwebs, along with any dangerous spiders and otherwise biting insects that might be lingering there. Nathan had shown him how to do that, he remembered, had explained that by holding the flame too close to the rafters could result in a fire, but by holding it just out of reach of the rafters, the flame would clear any and all webbing and insects that were hiding there. Said it would make it safer to sleep at night, not having to worry about having some venomous black widow spider for breakfast while he slept.

Folding his arms beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling while remembering all that, even thought about his parents, how much he did love them, without realizing it at the time. He wondered how they were, and feared the worse, knowing their usual state of mind over the loss of his brothers. His brothers were dead, his sisters married with kids of their own and rarely came home to visit. He could imagine how they were doing, especially now. They had no one left but each other. He sighed heavily, wishing he had not done what he did to hurt them. They had been in their late fifties when he was born, he thought, they could even be dead now and he wouldn’t know it, because he couldn’t go home.

He sighed again, picturing the large farm house with it’s many rooms. seeing himself as a kid again, his father, when home, chasing him through the many rooms as they played. he saw his sisters there, and their future husbands, all sitting socially and listening while his father bragged on the brothers he had never known. He wished he had known them. He thought of all this and lastly of Nathan Lowry, the Blacksmith. He was a good friend, he thought with a sigh. His thoughts then went to the different towns he’d had to leave on the run, the men he had called out to kill.

‘Why had he done that?’, He wondered, but down deep, he knew the answer. He couldn’t bear to see someone else strutting around with a gun on, thinking he was the toughest man alive, even though he knew that he was guilty of the same. He was also much afraid of being shot by such men, even though he knew they were no match. Truth is, he never really wanted to go so far as to instigate a fight with any of them, so why did he inevitably force them into drawing on him? He did that every time without knowing why, then hating himself when it was over, and fearing for his life when he had to outrun a posse hell bent on hanging him.

‘I’m not a coward.’ He thought. ‘Am I?…I don’t think so.’, He sighed again, recalling the surprise, and then fear on the faces of the dozen men he had left dead in the past two years, their fleeting terrified look when they knew they had been beaten, and were going to die. He had hated it to see their lifeless bodies in the blood-soaked dust of the street, or the sawdust floor of some smoke filled saloon.

Running a hand through his shaggy head of hair, he reached and pulled the saddle bags closer and removed the last of the jerky and cold biscuits. Finished eating, he stood and stretched his young muscles vigorously then to look around the much cleaner interior of the cabin before nodding his satisfaction, and almost at the same time, felt the soreness in his back from seldom used muscles.

‘If this sort a thing was liken to a regular job working for a living is all about,’ He thought quickly. ‘Think i’ll stick to holding up stage coaches.’

He buckled on the gun-belt, pulled the Colt to check the loads then dropped it back into the holster. ‘Got a go down to th’ store,’ He thought. ‘If there’s one in that village worth a damn.’

‘Surely, there is.’ He sighed, thinking how much he hated the idea of seeing more people, especially trappers with their fur clothing, and bristles for a face. ‘besides,’ He thought. ‘They were always unwashed and had oily skin.’ But he was out of grub and had no choice. He pulled on his heavy coat, grabbed his hat and went to open the door. Glancing back at the lamp, he went back to blow it out, looked at the fire in the fireplace, and figured it would go out on it’s on without any problems.

He grabbed the bar and lifted it away from the door and opened it wide, but as he did, he fleetingly glimpsed the coiled, very large and long length of startled Mountain Diamondback Rattlesnake as it suddenly hissed loudly and lifting almost half it’s length into the air as, without warning, it instantly began it’s deadly strike.

Also startled, an instant, horrific fear sweeping up his adolescent spine, and without any realization of it at all, except a fear for his life, his hand swept the Peacemaker from the holster and fired as the snake was striking, the bullet’s abrupt sudden impact almost removing the serpent’s entire head, stopping it’s forward momentum and tossing that length of it’s body back out of the doorway. He quickly fanned the gun with his left hand, sweeping the hammer back, and fired again, completely severing the snake’s dangling head before it’s body as it hit the ground, the horrendously loud concussions of thunderous noise had erupted inside the confines of the cabin, ear splitting noise that also filled the outside air as it began to quickly dissipate in the distant Pines of the sloping hillside.

He watched, wide-eyed as the headless length of the snake fell across it’s own uncoiling length. still unbalanced, and as he fired the second time, he was also thrown a step backward. He caught himself and stood, breathless, to watch the reptile’s length begin it’s writhing and thrashing, whipping about in the dry needles and leaves, it’s tail, still rattling it’s warning and was loudly slapping the cabin’s log wall and open doorway.

Suddenly realizing that he was holding the Peacemaker, and his breath, exhaled loudly, only to suck in the brisk mountain air in quick gulps. Weak kneed, he leaned against the door’s wide jam, holstered the gun and watched the large serpent’s last throes of ebbing life for a time and then, on legs that would barely hold his weight, pushed away from the doorway, still watching the snake. It had all happened in a fraction of a second and he shook his head, still not quite believing that he was still alive, or that his nightmare had actually been real.

‘A warning.’, He thought. ‘But how?’. He shook his head again, thinking that it must be true, impossible, being a dream, but somehow true.

I am unbeatable. He said aloud. Not even a snake’s as fast as me. He laughed then, thinking with pride, that he had known that all along. The men he had killed had all been noted gunmen with reputations and not one of them had fully cleared leather before he dropped them.

Then why am I afraid so much? He asked loudly, and walked outside to stare down at the still moving nervous reactions of the dead snake before peering through the shaded area in front of the cabin once more for it’s mate. Nathan had also told him all about rattlesnakes, that where there was one, there most always was another. Told him to never think that the one you kill is the only one, men had died before believing that.

Damn. He breathed, thinking there could possibly be another one of similar size lurking out there somewhere, and no telling how many more.

He picked up a thick portion of dead branch, using it to move the heavy carcass across the yard’s debris and into the trees before coming back to pull the heavy door shut. dropping the bar in place, he hesitated, remembering that Nathan had also told him that rattlesnake meat was edible. ‘I’m not yet that damn hungry.’, he thought, shaking his head. He turned and painstakingly picked his way around to the rear of the cabin, hearing the greeting from his horse as he approached the stall.

Pausing again, he took the time to peer into the shaded darkness of the cavern’s rear interior beneath the jutting overhang, thinking that he would need to check it all out farther back to it’s rear wall, maybe tomorrow, he decided, or the next day. looking down at the area of rock floor closer in he noted, that except for the debris that nature had blown in, it was entirely vacant of all, but a half-standing remnant of an old corral. He opened the gate and stepped up into the stall.

The time spent at the old cabin had kept him busy trying to make it somewhat livable again, and during that time, he had not really taken notice of how tired he was, but he did notice as he lifted the heavy saddle onto the animal’s back and tightened the cinches. Sighing, he shook his head and fitted the bridal over the horse’s head, slid the Henry into the boot and led it out of the stall to cautiously go back on around to the front of the cabin. Having seen no sign of the other such anticipated predator, he mounted and reined the horse out of the shade of the protruding overhang into the brighter areas of sunlight, allowed on the rare, but privileged spots of the debris ladened foreground by the large Pines’ heavily loaded branches. Urging the animal onto the unused, overgrown trail, they continued on down the slope through the thick maze of ancient Pines and thorny thistles.

Mid afternoon found him on the verge of exhaustion by the hanging branches, and bleeding in spots from the thorn bearing shrubbery. He was angry from all the abuse, and unable to quickly calm himself, cursed his own inadequacy and angrily jerked the horse’s reins hard to break out onto the deep rutted, still very muddy wagon road leading into the scarcely populated village of Catawba.

He was not at all impressed at sight of the small, log, makeshift dwellings lining both sides of the wide, and only road through town. Shaking his head, he nodded at several shaggy haired, bearded men standing in front of the half decent looking eating establishment, appropriately called, Mama’s Grub. Nodding at them in passing, and almost choking on the heavy whiff of greasy smoke that whipped down at him, continued on tie up in front of Rudy’s Indian Trading post and under that sign, another that read, If I ain’t got it, you damn well don’t need it, all written in an unschooled fashion. Next, and part of the same structure was the saloon, with a sign of the same miss spelled wording that read, My Saloon, too

He dismounted and climbed the steps to the prematurely sagging porch, stopped to peer across the street at the corral and wagon yard. The livery barn stood slightly apart from the corral, and he spent another few long seconds studying the several more rugged looking, blanket wrapped Indians in front of the barn, paying some better attention to the taller, heavily bearded and armed man as he came out to stand with the others and watch him. Looking beyond the livery barn, he could see a dozen or so Indian teepees positioned in the tall trees.

Breathing deeply, he walked on inside the store where he paused to scan the, quite a few shelves of canned goods and condiments, bins loaded with both, Irish and sweet potatoes. bins of un-shucked ears of corn, wooden barrels of flour, bins of fresh garden cucumbers and other vegetables, cotton sacks of salt, sugar, coffee. Against the rear wall, on wooden pegs were hundreds of hardware items, mining tools, trapping supplies, traps, repellents, blankets, quilts and eating utensils. Even several saddles draped across home made saw-horses. there were many more items displayed around the walls.

Looking back, satisfied that the outside sign was truthful enough, he went on toward the long, thrown together counter of long, smoothly sanded, foot-wide pine planking making up the three foot wide counter, and all sitting atop four fifty gallon sized wooden barrels. He then noticing the wall behind it, seeing the large display of Rifles, handguns